“DAPHNE, darling, what happened to your hair?”
Daphne’s mother, sipping her morning Earl Grey, stared at Daphne’s head. Next to her at the breakfast table was Daphne’s father, eating toast while reading the paper. Her sister Iris was studying her manicured nails and Gordo, as usual, was answering his always-ringing cell phone.
“Gordon here.” He frowned, listening. “Then we’ll paper them with discovery…”
He’d been showing up every single morning these past three weeks, ever since the Maiden Falls debacle, determined to woo Daphne back to engagement status. There’d been dinners, a night at the theatre and talks—or, as Gordo called them, negotiations.
But through it all, she’d refused to put the ring back on.
As with most disagreeable things, the rest of the family simply pretended not to notice, but they sure as hell had ol’ Gordo there night and day, as though his permanent presence would change Daphne’s mind. But she’d been doing a lot of thinking these past three weeks as well as meeting with her personal lawyer. As to the former, she’d decided why great-great-great-great-granddad Charles hadn’t been as happy after striking it rich. All those millions cost him his truest self, buying more headaches than happiness. Which reaffirmed that she didn’t want to live the rest of her life pretending to be someone she wasn’t.
As for the latter, well, it’d taken these past few weeks for her lawyer to research the fine print of her trust, and also unearth some enlightening facts about the recent Post article.
“My hair,” she answered her mother, “is back to its natural state. Curly. Just like my life is going back to its natural state.”
Her mother looked up. Her father lowered his paper. Iris stopped her manicure inspection. Gordo hung up his cell.
Daphne rolled back her shoulders. “I was just advised that there have been some things going on underneath the table that have been kept secret from me.”
Gordo frowned.
“Andy,” Daphne continued, “is not personally responsible for the Post publishing libel. And he can’t be sued individually because he didn’t put the spin on that story, either. That means, in plain English, Andy Branigan didn’t say or do anything wrong. The evidence is clear that he never meant that story for publication. In fact, he tried to protect me. In fact…”
She swore she could hear Belle whispering again, “You and that man are meant for each other.” God, Daphne just hoped Andy still felt that way. Hoped it wasn’t too late.
“Andy loves me. And I love him.”
She paused, pulled the ring out of her pocket and set it in front of Gordo. He stared at it, his face ashen.
“You’re a good lawyer, Gordo. You taught me something very important. No consideration, no contract. Our deal is closed.”
She smiled, feeling better than she had in weeks. Three, to be exact. “That’s all,” she said. “I’d stay for breakfast, but I have a life to catch up on.” And a man to sweet-talk, if he’ll let me.
She walked away, ready to be Renegade Remington again.
ANDY TOSSED the foam basketball into the plastic hoop on the wall between his and another reporter’s cubicle. It helped him think to play foam basketball, which he’d been doing a lot over the past three weeks, ever since the fiasco at the Inn at Maiden Falls. He was back at the Post, finishing yet another fluff piece on zoning violations in metro Denver. But on the side he’d been researching Jo Sutherland, which had become a fascinating journey because not only had he discovered the whereabouts of the long-lost diamond-dust mirror, the “Lady of the Lake,” he was also on the verge of finding the last in a string of Belle’s living descendants.
His boss Frank, damn near groveling to make amends after the Renegade Remington story, had promised to run the “Lady of the Lake” story in the Post, and Andy was mulling over how great it’d be as one of the stories in his Colorado history book…when and if he ever got around to writing it.
Phoomf.
Andy bounced the foam ball off the wall, missing the hoop.
With all the nonstop jabbering on this floor, it was almost impossible to hear oneself think, much less hear the phoomf of a foam ball hitting a wall. What was with the sudden quiet?
He looked behind him.
There stood Daphne.
His heart wrenched as he looked into those hazel eyes, remembering how they sparkled when she laughed or turned soft when they’d made love. She was dressed down, jeans and work shirt. Her hair back to that curly mass that didn’t seem to know which way was up.
Hardly the Daphne he’d last seen at the inn, dressed in that insane pink number, responding numbly to reporters’ questions. No, the woman who stood before him now was his Daphne, the wild-at-heart girl he’d fallen in love with three weeks ago.
But appearances, as any jaded reporter knew, could be deceiving.
Besides, what was really important at this very moment was for him to clear the air finally. Face to face. Explain how the publisher himself gave the go-ahead on that damn interview, how another writer rewrote Andy’s words, how he’d never meant to hurt her….
How Andy Branigan was a different man these days.
Around the office, his buddies ribbed him that he’d gone from sweet-talkin’ to no-talkin’. Maybe that’s because he spent a lot of time pondering if a man’s regrets stayed with him from this life into the next.
“Please, sit,” he said, his voice low, raspy, like someone he’d never heard before. Well, hell, just being near her was disturbing enough without trying to talk.
“Thanks,” she said, and he swore she looked almost grateful. What? That he’d offered her a seat?
He looked around. Like there were any available. Desks, chairs, even the floor were littered with everything from books to gym bags. Some joker had even dragged in a Stop sign. Newsrooms were worse than dorm rooms.
Andy stood. “Here,” he said, offering her his chair.
“No, really…”
“I insist.”
She did, setting down her camera case and he noticed her hand. No ring.
“Out taking pictures?” He gestured toward the case. No ring?
“May’s perfect for driving into the Rockies, maybe stopping at Georgetown or Leadville, taking some photographs. Thought you might like to join me?” A blush raced to her cheeks and he realized that despite their external niceties, she was about as uncool inside as he was.
“I jumped ahead,” she said, looking apologetic.
“Sorta.” Like about a mile.
“I thought you’d betrayed me,” she blurted. When he started to speak, she held up her hand, which he noticed was shaking. Daphne, nervous? Why? But before he could ask, she continued.
“I was just advised this morning by my attorney that the interview was not only downloaded without your knowing, but that another writer revised it.”
More like mucked it over, big time. “That’s correct,” he said quietly.
“And you could have reprinted the original interview at any point during the last few weeks, made a lot of money, but you didn’t.”
“Protecting you was more important than some damn check.”
Her smile was so sweet, so—dare he think it?—loving, damn if he wasn’t having trouble breathing.
“So, I was thinking,” she said softly, although Andy knew every reporter in a ten-foot radius was straining to hear every single word. “Let’s go for a ride. I’ll take photographs of the places you want to write about. Let’s start your book on Colorado history.”
“Together—for only that?” Okay, just because he’d gone from sweet-talkin’ to no-talkin’ didn’t mean he’d lost the talent for opening mouth wide and inserting both feet.
With a shy grin, she waggled her fingers. “I’m not engaged.”
One of the guys in the back of the room whistled, another yelled, “Go for it, Branigan!”
He made a mental note to strangle them later. Barehanded.
But right now, he had to know something.
He crouched down next to her chair and drew close to her ear. “Thought you were up for a hefty trust fund if you married Mr. McCormick,” he whispered.
She shifted her head, gave him a look, then leaned forward, her lips nearly touching his. “I’ve requested half of it be given to Mrs. Allen’s Halfway House,” she whispered, her breath warm and sweet against his lips. “The other half is still held in trust.” She winked. “I have a good lawyer.”
Then she kissed him. No, not just a kiss. She seared his lips with hers, jolting him with enough voltage to char the whole damn planet, carrying on as though it was just the two of them, alone.
Hardly alone.
In the background, Andy heard the typing of reporters’ fingers wanting to be the first to turn in the story of Renegade Remington and her Sweet-Kissin’ Man.