Marry Me

by Cheryl Holt

  "I don't think you are. Not anymore. Under all the bluster, you might be okay."

  "High praise, indeed."

  He chuckled and glanced out the window. It was a cloudy, snowy night, and he couldn't see the stars so there was no use wishing. What would he have asked for anyway?

  He had everything a man could ever want: wealth beyond imagining, the best houses and cars and clothes and belongings. He had everything but someone like her, someone kind and trustworthy and loyal, someone who would like him no matter what.

  He pulled her to him and kissed her, and she didn't complain. She joined in with a joy and verve that were typical of how she bustled through life.

  His hands were everywhere, as if desperate to imprint her shape and size into his memory so he would never forget.

  You can come back, a voice taunted in his head. This doesn't have to be the last time.

  Fleetingly, he was excited by the notion, but as swiftly as it arose, he shoved it away.

  He wouldn't return. There was nothing she had that he needed. It was ridiculous to keep postponing his departure simply because he'd been amused by her.

  Eventually, he drew away, and he snuggled her to his chest again. They lounged together, their legs entwined, their hearts beating in unison. It was a perfect moment.

  Finally, she said, "Are you leaving tomorrow?"

  "Yes."

  "Will you ever be back?"

  He took a deep breath, let it out. "No, I won't ever be back."

  "So I don't have to waste away, wondering when you'll show up next?"

  "You can waste away over me if you want to. I'm extremely vain; I'd like to picture you desolate over the loss of me."

  "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of moping."

  "I figured you'd say that."

  Irritation rippled through him as he realized that he'd love to have her sulk and yearn after he left. It was his conclusion with every woman. He never missed any of them, but they always missed him.

  Wasn't that the funniest ending? For once, he was anxious to be missed, and she couldn't care less about him.

  "I have to go," he said.

  "Chantal must be in a state by now."

  He swatted her on the rear. "You are jealous."

  "Just a little." She grinned up at him. "She's lucky to have you."

  "Like a bad rash maybe."

  She laughed and slid to the floor. She grabbed his wrist and tugged him to his feet, too.

  "Call me sometime," she urged. "Or email me at the paper."

  "I won't."

  "It wouldn't kill you to keep in touch."

  "I know, but there's no point is there?"

  "I suppose not." She smiled, almost seeming sad.

  The door was so close, but he couldn't walk to it. He was glum and confused and certain he was making all the wrong choices again, but she saved him from himself. She held out his jacket, and he stuffed his arms in the sleeves.

  "You don't even have a hat, you silly man."

  "I'm an LA boy, through and through."

  "And it's winter in Colorado."

  She went to a hook on the wall and retrieved a wool scarf. As if he was a young kid, she wrapped it around his neck and tied it under his chin.

  "There." She patted his chest. "You're leaving with something of mine, so if you ever do come back, manners dictate that you stop by to return it."

  "You shouldn't count on me."

  "I won't." She opened the door. "Stay warm LA boy."

  "I will."

  "Goodbye."

  She rose on tiptoe and initiated a kiss of her own. Then she eased him into the hall and shut the door. He stood, listening, until he heard the lock click.

  The first time he'd visited her, he'd fled, feeling as if he'd dodged a bullet. This time, as he trudged down the stairs and out into the cold snowy night, he felt as if he'd lost his last friend.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Can we spend a day or two in Denver?"

  "You can if you want. I'm heading straight to LA."

  Chantal bit down a caustic retort.

  Dustin's brother, Lucas, was in Denver, and Chantal was dying to meet him. The first step toward marriage would be an introduction to his family. Dustin would be a hard catch, and she would have to use every trick in the book to drag him to the altar.

  Plus, the Merriweather's main mansion was located in the city, in the neighborhood where the timber barons and mining moguls of the previous century had built monstrosities to their inflated egos.

  Dustin had mentioned that his brother was considering selling it to the historical society, and if Lucas was determined to part with it, she and Dustin could buy it after they were wed. Or maybe they could ask Lucas to give it to them as a wedding gift. It could be their base when they came to Colorado in the winter for skiing.

  She was vividly imagining the parties they could have, the LA and New York guests they could invite. It would be like an event in a historical novel, where the richest, wittiest, most fascinating intellectuals, artists, and sophisticates traveled to a country house for a lengthy stay.

  But she couldn't persuade him to show it to her. Nor could she wrangle an introduction to any family members. She'd been hinting all morning and felt as if she was talking to a deaf person.

  She glared up the stairs. A boy had gone to get their suitcases, but he'd never come down. Breakfast was over, their belongings packed, Dustin's rented SUV idling out front, and she couldn't wait to leave.

  She was exhausted from the lousy service and from having to deal with idiots who were so backwoods that they didn't understand they should fawn over her.

  "I hate this place," she grumbled. "I can't believe this is what passes for a hotel with these people. I don't know how they keep it open."

  "It wasn't so bad."

  "Are you kidding me?"

  He glanced around, checking the refurbished floors, the chandelier hanging over the wide foyer. "I like it. It's quaint. The owners did a good job in recapturing the building's old glory."

  "There's no elevator. The hot water ran half the time. Room service never answered."

  "They never claimed to be a five-star accommodation."

  "I wouldn't even give them one star. I'd give them a minus five."

  She scowled. He was dressed in his typical jeans and leather jacket, but he had a wool scarf wrapped around his neck. It was some ridiculous homemade, knitted thing.

  "Must you wear that scarf?" she snapped.

  "Yes, I must."

  "Couldn't you stick it in your bag, just till we get in the car?"

  He spun on her, his blue eyes blazing. "Is there some reason you're being such a bitch?"

  She gasped. He'd asked the question right out loud, not attempting to lower his voice. A housemaid was scurrying by, and when she heard him, she snickered.

  "What did you say?" Chantal fumed at him.

  "You're being a total bitch, and I got tired of it an hour ago."

  She was on the verge of dishing out a tongue-lashing he'd never forget.

  After he'd crept out at midnight, she didn't know where he'd gone, and she was hardly in a position to inquire. Whenever he'd returned, he'd kept his door locked so she couldn't traipse in and tantalize him with a bout of morning sex.

  He'd left her a message through the switchboard to meet him in the dining room, to be prepared to leave by nine. She'd had to slink down and join him at his table as if she was a business associate, as if they hadn't come up to the mountains for a romantic getaway.

  But if she said one wrong word, it would be the end for her.

  She forced a smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was being a grouch."

  "It's a long drive down the mountain to Denver. I'd rather not have you fussing all the way."

  "I won't. I'm just so eager to hit the road. The delay is making me irritable."

  He went to the desk to find out about their bellman when the kid thumped down the stairs. Dustin only had one duffel ba
g, while Chantal had five suitcases. She'd packed for several days of socializing and travel. Not certain where they might wind up, she'd brought both evening and hiking clothes—not that she'd have hiked—and stylish winter gear that would have looked fabulous in Aspen.

  His thrift, compared to her ostentation, made her feel as if she'd missed an important clue about him. She was so sure she had him figured out, but obviously, she had much more to learn.

  They huddled in the lobby as the bellman loaded their SUV. She was wearing her fur, and she was about to expire from overheating when he came back in and pronounced the car ready.

  Dustin tipped him, and she took Dustin's arm and they strolled outside. But the sight that greeted them was so odd she couldn't fully absorb what was happening.

  Amy Dane, the annoying mouse from the restaurant, was picketing on the sidewalk. A pair of young girls and an older woman were with her. They were carrying signs and chanting, Save our town, shut Merriweather down.

  A car drove by on the street, and the driver honked and honked in support.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake," Chantal seethed. "What next?"

  Dustin stiffened, his gaze narrowing as if he was trying to bring the scene into sharper focus.

  "I will kill her," he muttered. "I will absolutely kill her."

  He marched away from Chantal, abandoning her as if he'd forgotten she was present. She watched—fascinated and agog—as he stormed over to Amy Dane. He looked like a tornado approaching.

  Chantal had never seen him exhibit much emotion. He was always on an even keel. Never exuberant. Never sad or weary. Just constantly the same: sardonic, sarcastic, slightly bored. She didn't know he was capable of getting this angry, but Ms. Dane was too stupid to realize that she should be afraid.

  "Hello Rick, David, Dustin," she said, grinning.

  "What are you doing?" He was so furious, he was practically wheezing.

  "We're protesting your plans for Gold Creek."

  "How dare you embarrass me like this," he hissed.

  "How else can we convince you that you shouldn't sell out to Chad Paltrow?" She pointed to her companions. "These are my sisters, Jess and Jen."

  "Hello," they chimed together, and one of them added, "I met you last night."

  He was at Ms. Dane's house? When he'd walked out on Chantal, he'd gone to visit Amy Dane?

  Chantal felt as if steam was coming out of her ears.

  "And this," Ms. Dane continued, "is Marge Beasley. You remember who she is, don't you?"

  "Thank you for giving me my job back." Ms. Beasley scowled at Dustin, her lips pursed with disdain. "Now man-up and leave our town alone. We were fine for a whole century when you Merriweathers ignored us."

  Clearly, Dustin wanted to shout at them or shake somebody, but how could you yell at an old lady and some kids?

  He flashed a tight smile at the ragtag group. "Would you excuse us for a minute? I need to talk to Amy."

  "I don't have anything to say to you," she declared.

  "Well, I have a few things to say to you." He took her picket sign and handed it to one of her sisters. Then he clasped Ms. Dane's arm and led her away.

  "You're a bully," she charged.

  "You don't know the half of it," he choked out.

  She struggled and dragged her feet, but she couldn't slow him down. He proceeded to the corner and pushed her against the brick wall of the hotel, a palm on either side so she couldn't escape.

  He was much taller than she was, and as he loomed over her, the air seemed to sizzle from his being so close to her. Any second, Chantal expected him to press himself to the exasperating woman as if they were…lovers. As if they were sexually involved. Were they?

  When Chantal had first seen Ms. Dane in the restaurant, she'd leveled an absurd charge about Dustin, intimating that he was sneaking around on Chantal while she'd loitered—bored out of her mind—in her hotel room. Had Dane meant he'd been with her?

  Chantal had discounted Dane's remark, but she couldn't discount it now. There was a chemistry between Dustin and Amy Dane that was potent and electric and completely visible to anyone who bothered to notice.

  They were having a heated, whispered discussion, and Chantal tried to read their lips, but she kept getting distracted by their body language. If Dustin had leaned down and kissed Amy Dane, Chantal wouldn't have been surprised in the least.

  "You are insane," Dustin vigorously complained.

  "No more than you are," Ms. Dane replied.

  "I warned you to stop harping about this."

  "I guess I didn't listen." Ms. Dane smiled a pert, obnoxious smile that brought a dimple to her cheek. "You poor baby. Don't you hate it when a woman refuses to obey your every command?"

  How did she speak to him like that and get away with it? If Chantal ever uttered a word that was even remotely similar, she'd never hear from Dustin again.

  He straightened and glared down at Dane, and he looked as if he was debating whether to hug her or spank her. Then he whipped away, grabbed her, and escorted her to her sisters.

  "Amy has decided," he advised them, "that the picket is over."

  "I have not," Ms. Dane insisted.

  "She has," Dustin repeated.

  Chantal thought Ms. Dane might argue, but she simply shrugged. "He's leaving anyway, so there's no reason to continue. We made our point."

  "Are you angry with us?" one of the girls asked. "Amy figured you might be."

  "No, I'm not angry with you." He shifted his irate gaze to Ms. Dane. "Now your sister? She's crazy, and she drives me nuts with her ridiculous stunts. She needs to knock it off."

  "Don't feel bad that she doesn't listen to you," the girl said. "She never does what we tell her, either."

  "I can believe it."

  He gathered up their signs, went over to the SUV, and tossed them in the backseat on top of Chantal's suitcases.

  He gestured to Chantal as if she was a pet dog, urging her to climb in. Chantal skirted the irritating group, slid into the passenger seat, and slammed the door as hard as she could. Even though it was shut tight, she was able to hear Ms. Dane simper, "Your girlfriend is really pretty. Is she nice?"

  Chantal was certain she'd been insulted, and she nearly leapt out to give the little urchin a piece of her mind, but she didn't. She braced, expecting Dustin to defend her, to put Dane in her place, but he didn't.

  "Goodbye, Amy," was his sole comment.

  "Remember what I told you about my scarf," she said. "If you come back to Gold Creek, you have to return it to me. It's just small town manners."

  The scarf? The ugly scarf on his neck was hers? Chantal wanted to strangle both of them.

  "I'm throwing it in the garbage at the first opportunity," he childishly spat, but he didn't take it off.

  He rounded the SUV and yanked open the driver's side door.

  "You have a temper," Ms. Dane hurled as a final taunt.

  "It only flares when I'm speaking to lunatics."

  "You're not quite as handsome when you're angry."

  "And you're not quite as interesting now that I've learned you're a complete whacko."

  He jumped into the car and slammed the door much harder than Chantal had. He gunned the motor, and they sped off, and he was silent and raging the entire way to Denver.

  * * *

  "She was pestering Merriweather," Chad hissed. "Again!"

  "He's a grown man," Pamela calmly replied. "I'm sure he'll survive."

  "She was picketing at the hotel! It was the last thing he saw as he drove out of town."

  Pamela tamped down a grin and peered out the side window of the car to hide her expression. She was glad that Amy was brave enough to put Merriweather's nose out of joint. Few people would dare, but Amy had managed it, and Pamela was delighted to know that he'd been offended.

  She'd suffered through the supper with Dustin Merriweather and his rude, beautiful mistress, Chantal, and she wouldn't give two cents for either of them.

  Chantal wa
s a conceited witch, feeling herself too marvelous to carry on even minimal conversation with Pamela whom she'd obviously deemed too lowly for courtesy.

  As to Dustin Merriweather, he was rude, too, and obnoxious in his belief that, socially, he was far above Pamela and Chad and shouldn't have to fraternize with them. Chad was so set on himself, so used to being the center of attention, that he hadn't noticed Merriweather's condescension. But Pamela had noticed.

  She'd spent her life trying to fit in around snobs like Chantal and Dustin Merriweather, and occasionally, she wondered why she bothered. They were all so shallow, but then, so was she. In their view, wealth was what conferred status, and while she'd flirted on the edge of several men's fortunes, she'd never gleaned any significant cash for herself. She had a small insurance trust fund from Husband #3 and that was it.

  She wasn't getting any younger, and sometimes, she worried that Chad might be her last chance for financial stability. The prospect was so darned depressing!

  They pulled up in front of the diner where she was meeting Amy for morning coffee. Chad reached in his coat, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to Pamela.

  "Give this to Amy," he said.

  "What is it?"

  "It's money so she can take the twins and move away."

  "How much is in there?"

  "A thousand bucks."

  Pamela nearly scoffed. A person wouldn't get far on a thousand dollars, but Chad was clueless about the lives of normal people. He'd have no idea that you couldn't uproot, then replant yourself on such a paltry amount.

  "I heard that the new owner at the newspaper reopened it," Pamela told him. "If she's back at work, she won't agree to leave."

  "Dustin Merriweather is the new owner."

  "Oh."

  "Her job there is just one more way for her to aggravate him. It's one more way for her to screw up my real estate deal. The paper only has a couple of employees; I can't figure out why he kept her on."

  "She's reliable."

  "Reliable? Are you kidding me? She's a trouble-maker and an idiot."

  No, she's not, Pamela murmured to herself.

  She was proud of Amy, proud of her independence, proud of how she wasn't afraid of anything. As opposed to her mother, Amy was able to support herself without needing some man to cough up cash for the rent.