by Cheryl Holt
Though it was ridiculous to believe, it seemed that their paths were destined to cross. He should have been on a plane to LA, but instead—for some inexplicable reason—he'd remained in Gold Creek, and he was standing on her porch, and worrying over what he should do with her.
He'd purchased the newspaper so he could shut it down. It had been a business deal, a problem solved, a thorn in his side that was swiftly plucked out. To his chagrin, he hadn't considered the human part of the equation.
She and an elderly woman—Marge Beasley—had worked at the paper. They were now both unemployed because of him. And Amy had two dependents to boot.
How could he fix what he'd done? Should he fix what he'd done?
He didn't know her and didn't owe her anything. The world was a tough place, and he suspected it wasn't the first hard knock she'd suffered. He wasn't the ruler of the planet, and he had no responsibility for her well being.
Still, he was the ultimate heel. He should at least have had the courage to inform her of who he was and why he was in Gold Creek, but he was too much of a coward.
"David?" On hearing his fake name, she scoffed. "Really? It's David?"
"Yes, why?"
She studied him. "You don't look like a David."
"What do I look like?"
"I can't decide, but definitely not David. It's too boring to suit you."
He snorted and reached over to open the door. "Show me around."
"Are you expecting me to take you to my apartment?"
"It's up to you."
"You swear you're not an ax murderer?"
"I'm not. I swear."
"Oh good. I'm so relieved."
He eased her across the threshold and into the foyer, and she strolled along, describing the hardwood floors, the hand-carved molding, the window sills that had been painted over. He could see the craftsmanship, could envision how superb it must have once been before his family had begun its neglect.
They clomped up the stairs, passing the second floor, then the third. The final steps were very steep, leading them up to the attic and into what was her home. There were only four rooms, but they were comfortable and bright and casually messy.
He thought of the differences between this cozy, snug residence where she lived and the sparse, contemporary twenty-room mansion in LA where he lived. He suspected that she was probably much happier than he was.
He entered and immediately banged his head on the sloped ceiling.
"Ouch!" he griped, rubbing the spot where he'd almost knocked himself out.
"Ooh, watch it," she said. "I forget how short I am—and how tall other people are."
He was huffing and puffing from the steep climb, but also from the elevation.
"How can you stand all those stairs?"
"You get used to it, and the view is worth it. Let me show you."
She walked over to a window seat and slid onto the cushion on her knees. He joined her, their sides touching, their noses pressed to the glass.
"Oh my…" he breathed, being particularly awestruck and feeling silly that he was.
He could see forever, the entire town, the canyon, the road meandering down to the main highway. Far off in the distance, some of the highest peaks in the Rockies poked at the sky, and it was a bold, spectacular vista that moved him in ways he didn't comprehend.
"This is why I keep living here," she murmured, "even when I bump my head sometimes."
She turned and grinned at him, and he turned, too.
It was very quiet, her eyes sparkling with mischief, the sun shining on her hair. They could have been the last two people on earth, stranded at the top and looking down on all of it.
The strangest sensation swept through him. It was a combination of elation and guilt and nostalgia for all the things he didn't have in his life. Friends. Companionship. Joy.
He could date any woman he wanted. The wanting was the tricky part, for he was never attracted to any of them, and his interest always waned before any relationship could form.
He had a family, especially his siblings whom he'd like to know better, but their cold upbringing by bitter, miserable parents had guaranteed that they couldn't be civil.
Amy had family and community and contentment, and they seemed to come easily to her. Why were they so difficult for him to find?
He drew her to him, and a frown creased her brow. She'd guessed what he was about to do, but obviously, she wasn't sure if she should let him.
"Remember," he asked, "what you first said to me when we met yesterday down by the diner?"
She swallowed, her dismay evident. "Kiss me?"
"Yes."
"I didn't mean it."
"I know, but I think I should."
"I think you shouldn't."
"I never listen to women."
He slipped an arm around her waist so that her lush torso was pressed to his. She was all tempting curves and soft angles, no sharp edges or stark lines. He was reminded of the fertile nudes that artists used to paint, the ones that hung in men's private clubs and saloons. On contemplating how she might appear without her clothes, a wave of violent lust shot through him.
He felt as if a wild animal had entered his body, and he could barely keep from tossing her onto the cushion for a bout of rough, quick sex. The urge was so strong and so unusual—he was never overwhelmed by anything—that he almost could have been bewitched by some ancient spell.
He bent down and touched his lips to hers, and the moment was so sweet that they both sighed with pleasure as he pulled away.
"See?" he said. "I was right."
"About what?"
"I was supposed to kiss you, and I'm positive I should do it again, too."
"You're very forward for a guy who claims his name is David."
"Imagine what I might be like if my name was something else."
"I tremble just from considering it."
He chuckled and dipped down, and this time, it was no swift, innocent embrace.
He wanted more of her, he wanted all. Gripping her tightly, he lifted her to him, her knees off the cushion. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands in her hair. The disorderly curls were like a talisman leading him to his doom.
He'd been goaded to madness by her, so aroused and so…provoked that he was frightened by the potency of his drive to possess her. He never lost control, never fell head over heels. He was too impassive, too detached. Yet he was awash with the need to strip her naked, to impale himself as fast as he could get her onto her back.
There was no predicting what might have happened—he was that titillated—but she was wiser than he.
As his fingers slithered to her breast and caressed her nipple, she laid a palm on his chest and eased him away. She slid to the floor, looking tousled and unnerved and adorable.
"I can't do this with you," she said.
"It's just kissing."
"I know, but you'd like it to be more than that."
"I don't want anything from you," which wasn't exactly true. He wanted things he couldn't describe or identify.
"Liar."
"Okay, maybe I want a few things."
"They all involve me taking off my clothes."
He shrugged and grinned. "I wouldn't necessarily think that was bad."
"Of course you wouldn't; you're a man."
One with no conscience and no scruples.
She was right to be wary. She was right to push him away.
He shifted so he could stare out the window again, to the town that was his history, his legacy. For a long while, he gazed out at his domain, and he could sense her quietly, patiently watching him. Finally, he stepped to the floor, too. He felt young and stupid and completely out of his element.
"Let me give you some money," he said.
"For what?"
"To help with the rent on the first."
She scowled. "Don't be an asshole."
"I feel terrible about your job, and I'd like to assist you if I can."
<
br /> "You don't need to save me, and I don't need rescuing."
From his vantage point, she was in absolute dire need of rescue, but what did he know about anything?
He was rich and lucky and entitled. He always had been and always would be.
"Give me your phone number," he said.
"Why?"
"So I can call you, you dipstick. Why would you suppose?"
She scrutinized him, her pretty green eyes distressed and astute. Ultimately, she shook her head. "That's not a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because I have a great life, and there could never be a place for you in it."
Well… No beating around the bush with her.
He hardly knew her and suspected she was a whirlwind of trouble, but on her refusing to gush and fawn over him, he was incensed. And he was suffering from the weirdest impression, as if he was…was…heartbroken by her rejection.
"I'm sure you're right." He struggled to keep his voice steady. "We probably shouldn't see each other again."
She went to the door and opened it. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
They stood, smiling. He traced his fingers down her cheek, loving how smooth her skin was, how rosy and soft.
He should have said something more, something profound, but he couldn't decide what it might be. Eventually, she'd discover who he was and what he'd done to her. What would she think of him then?
He left without another word, raced down the long flights of stairs, and as he stumbled out onto the grand front porch, he felt as if he'd dodged a bullet.
CHAPTER THREE
"What did you say?"
"I said that you could have made a little effort."
Amy stared at Pamela and rolled her eyes.
They were in the only restaurant in town that had any food worth eating. It was located on the ground floor of the lone hotel that had survived the bad economy. There were six rooms for rent in the place, which gave an indication of how many visitors ever stayed over night.
There were a dozen tables, half of them filled with customers. Chad hadn't arrived yet, and Amy was wondering why she'd bothered to come. But with Pamela, the answer always was: if Amy didn't behave as Pamela demanded, Pamela would complain forever. It was easier to relent and get it over with.
Pamela was attired like an heiress, like a millionaire's trophy wife. She was slender and glamorous and decked out in her best jewelry. It was one of her slickest attributes, her ability to convince men to shower her with diamonds. Amy had no idea how she managed it, just as she had no idea why she hadn't inherited any of Pamela's mercenary tendencies.
"I'm here, aren't I?" Amy fumed. "It's what you wanted. Don't whine about how I'm dressed, or I'll leave."
"Well, honestly, Amy, you look like you stepped out of a low budget punk rock catalogue."
Merely to aggravate Pamela as much as possible, Amy was wearing everything she was certain her mother would loathe: a short flowered skirt, torn stockings, denim jacket, clunky hiking boots, dangling earrings, and bright red lipstick that didn't match any of her clothes.
"Don't you take any pride in your appearance?" Pamela nagged.
"No."
"Wouldn't you like to make Chad jealous? Wouldn't you like to have him wishing he hadn't dumped you?"
"No, I don't want to make Chad jealous, and he didn't dump me. We didn't know each other long enough to be considered a couple, and if anyone dumped anyone, I dumped him after I caught the two of you in bed together."
Pamela waved a breezy hand. "You always were so overly dramatic."
Amy rolled her eyes again and studied the wallpaper, the chandeliers. The owners had moved up from Denver, had invested money to provide the old charm it had had in the previous century when miners in Gold Creek were swimming in cash.
The décor was quaint and inviting, and she'd like to grab Lucas Merriweather by his haughty, snobbish arm and drag him through the refurbished rooms so he could see what his buildings could look like if he'd ever expended an ounce of effort.
She sighed, hating to think about him. It had her thinking about her lost job, her morning with David or whatever his name was, their fabulous kiss on the window seat of her apartment.
"Where is Rick?" Pamela said.
"Rick?" Amy had to focus a moment to realize to whom her mother referred.
"I told you to bring him with you."
"And I told you that he was busy. Why would I force him here to meet a jerk like Chad? It might make him wonder if my family is crazy."
Amy flashed a telling glare that Pamela ignored.
"You have to get over Chad, Amy."
"Believe me. I'm over him."
"He was all wrong for you."
"I agree."
"I saved you from yourself. You should be grateful."
"Grateful? To find my mother sleeping with my boyfriend?"
"You just insisted he wasn't your boyfriend. Not in the true sense of the word."
"That's semantics so you can justify your behavior."
"You have the worst taste in men, and you never understood how to get what you want from them."
"What should I want from a man?"
"See? You don't have a clue, which is why there was no hope for you with Chad. We should talk about Rick, too. It's obvious you're in way over your head again."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence."
Amy gazed around the restaurant, deciding she'd give anything in the world to vanish. Maybe if she murmured a fervent enough prayer, God would strike her dead and put her out of her misery.
She'd met Chad when he'd first arrived in Gold Creek. He'd stopped by the newspaper office, asking about some articles Amy had written on the historic downtown area.
They'd gone to dinner a few times, had gone to the movies. The choices for socialization in Gold Creek were extremely limited, so it had been refreshing to run across a single man who actually had money to pay the bill when the meal was over.
However, his overbearing tendencies had been instantly apparent, so she wouldn't have continued with him for long. The reason she'd caught him in bed with Pamela was that she'd been researching Lucas Merriweather, and she'd discovered that Chad was the developer who was buying the property.
She'd rushed to confront him at the house he'd rented, only to stumble on her naked mother lying on top of him.
Just then, Chad Paltrow hustled in, and of course, every head turned as he swept by. Dressed in a suit that had to have cost thousands of dollars, he exuded wealth, power, and success. He was good looking, and he knew it. At age thirty, he still had all his brown hair, and his face had some lines, but they enhanced his charisma rather than detracting from it.
But his handsome features couldn't mask his greed or cunning, although he hadn't gotten rich from any great business acumen.
He was a trust fund baby, having inherited his fortune from his dad who'd built ski resorts all over the West. Yet he liked to act as if he'd earned every penny through strenuous endeavor and brilliant strategizing.
"Sorry I'm late," he said as he walked over to Pamela and kissed her on the cheek.
"Don't worry about it. Amy and I were chatting."
He didn't bother to greet Amy, but he pulled out a chair, sat down, and leaned over the table. His eyes were ablaze with a salesman's zeal.
"You won't believe who I bumped into out in the lobby." He was stern, whispering.
"Who?" Pamela asked.
"Dustin Merriweather."
"What's he doing in Gold Creek?" Amy inquired.
"He's scoping out the properties he intends to sell me. I guess his brother, Lucas, is busy, so Dustin is taking care of it."
"Isn't that sweet?" Amy smiled a fake, sickly smile.
"He's with a gorgeous woman who has to be an actress or model. Her name is Chantal."
"I've heard of Chantal." Pamela gushed as if she might swoon. "She had a spread in Vogue last month."
Chad pointed a condemnin
g finger at Amy. "I invited them to join us for supper, so you need to split."
"If he's coming in, I'm staying. I have a few questions for him."
"You're not staying." Chad gestured with his thumb toward a rear door through which a waiter had disappeared. "Hustle your ass into the kitchen and see if there's a back exit you can use." Amy didn't budge, and he barked, "Now, Amy. Go."
"Screw you, Chad. You're not my father or my babysitter. You don't get to order me around."
"You either go on your own, or I'll drag you out," Chad threatened. "You're not skewing this deal for me with a bunch of attitude."
At their being on the edge of a quarrel, Pamela was panicked. In any dispute she always sided with the man.
She shifted forward, whispering, too. "Amy, don't cause a fuss. Just do as he says. We'll talk about it later."
Amy didn't know what might have happened—if she'd have obeyed Chad like a whipped puppy—but any decision was averted by commotion at the door. The hostess hustled in, heads turned again, and frantic murmuring commenced.
Chantal entered like a queen, and diners were agog at the sight. She was six feet tall, striking and slender, with straight black hair that hung to her butt. Her riveting, violet-colored eyes swept with disdain over all of them.
Everyone stared. Everyone but Amy. She was gaping at the man with her, a man who was just as fascinating and just as mesmerizing.
Rick. David. Dustin Merriweather.
The rat!
How could he trick her like that! How could he toy with her! He had to have been aware of who she was all along. He'd probably been laughing the whole time. And what a pitiful reporter she was! She'd been loafing in her apartment and kissing the enemy, but too stupid to realize it.
A horrid thought occurred to her: He'd offered her money to smooth over the loss of her job. Was he the one who had bought the paper? Was he the one who had shut it down and blithely tossed her and Marge out of work?
Of course, he was! Who else would have done it?
She was livid.
Pamela frowned. "Amy, isn't that…Rick?"
Amy started to mutter, "Of all the dirty, rotten, lowdown, sleazy, creepy—"