by Cheryl Holt
If it actually was Matt, he'd still be in his hiding spot, expecting her to return to her table. She wanted to catch him before he wondered where she was.
She crept up to the building on the corner and peeked around it. Halfway down the block, Matt was leaned on his car, a camera resting on his hip. He was facing away from her, so he didn't see her. She approached until she was directly behind him.
"What are you doing?" she barked, hoping to startle him.
She thought he might jump with surprise or annoyance, but that kind of reaction would be too predicable. He spun slowly and grinned that grin of his, the one that always floored her, the one that always had her grinning too.
"How did you see me?" he said.
"Sunshine reflected off the lens. It made me look right at you." She had sensed his presence too, but she wasn't about to admit it.
"Aren't you a sneak?"
"And aren't you a lousy spy?"
"I'm not spying," he insisted.
"You're lurking between some parked cars and snapping secret photos. That certainly sounds like spying to me."
"You had me fired but—"
"I didn't have you…fired. I had you reassigned."
"I won't stop watching over you just because you don't want me to."
"How chivalrous you are!" she sarcastically retorted.
"Hey, if any of your boyfriend's enemies track you down, it's not as if Ted will be of much help."
"Andrew's enemies?" she scoffed.
"He's a criminal who's about to have all sorts of dubious characters on his ass. Don't you read the financial section of the paper?"
"No."
"With all your money, I assumed those would be your favorite articles."
"Would you quit harping about my money? You're using it as an excuse to change the subject."
"What subject was that?"
"You're hiding in the shadows and taking pictures of me."
"Yes, I am."
"Why?"
"I'm planning to show them to somebody who's interested in seeing them."
"Who?"
"That's for me to know and you to find out."
She threw her hands up in the air. "You are the most irritating, exasperating, outrageous—"
He moved like a panther, stepping in, trapping her against his car. He was all male, big and broad and handsome, and he looked so good and smelled so good.
The noises of the street faded away. The passersby might have disappeared. There was only him and her, and she couldn't imagine how she could have decided to stay away. She was so delighted to be with him again that she could barely breathe.
"You," he fumed, "slept in my arms all night, then crept out of our motel room without a goodbye."
"Oh. Sorry about that."
"Is that how you rich princesses do it? You drink too much, you flirt and toy and tease when you shouldn't, then you slink away so you don't have to face the consequences?"
"You're too much for me. I don't know how to handle you."
"You got that right." He leaned down, his lips an inch from hers. "Don't you ever—I mean ever—treat me like that again."
"I won't."
"I let you get away with it once, but if you ever try it again, I'll chase you down and drag you back."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Monroe."
"You're used to having your own way, but I think you might have finally met your match."
"I think I might have too."
He closed the distance between them, his mouth capturing hers in a steamy kiss. He wasn't concerned that they were in the middle of the lunch rush in downtown Denver. It was like a scene out of a romantic novel.
She was bent over the hood of his car, his torso wedged between her legs. He kept on, the kiss intensifying, until they were both panting with desire and excitement.
"You, little lady," he murmured as he drew away, "are driving me crazy."
"It's my goal in life."
"And you're about to get exactly what you deserve."
"Tough talk, Monroe."
"It's not talk. It's a promise."
He was smiling, his beautiful blue eyes alight with humor and something more. When he looked at her, she felt unique and exceptional, as if she'd been created especially to make him happy.
"Let's go for a ride." He straightened and pulled her off the hood.
"To where?"
"Who knows? We'll simply drive and drive until we stop."
He reached over and opened the passenger door so she could climb in.
She stared up at him, then down the block to the café where her mother was still sitting at their table. Jacquelyn was egotistical and oblivious, but even the most blatant narcissist would eventually note that Brittney hadn't returned.
"I should tell my mother I'm leaving," she said, but without any enthusiasm. "I don't want her to worry."
"To hell with your mother. Let's just go."
Brittney gazed at him, at Jacquelyn again.
His request was more than a suggestion that they sneak off. If she did what he was asking, she was throwing away her entire world. Life as it had been up until that moment would be ended, and nothing would ever be the same.
Her engagement to Andrew would be over, and the most frightening thing was that she didn't care. Ever since Matt had crossed her path, he was all that mattered to her.
She didn't know what would happen with them, didn't expect that they had a future together. Most likely, they would have a wild fling until they came to their senses and called a halt.
Then where would she be? She had no idea.
Her faltering relationship with her mother would be irrevocably ruined. Brittney had spent so many years trying to accommodate Jacquelyn. If she left with Matt, Jacquelyn would never forgive her.
Jacquelyn thought Andrew was the perfect spouse for Brittney. With her having selected someone so eminently suitable, Jacquelyn viewed Brittney as the sane child, the responsible child, who understood her place, her duty to the family name, and who would behave accordingly.
But Brittney didn't want to behave accordingly. She'd always exhibited immense self-control, had been a model daughter in the misguided hope that her mother might notice her, that her father might be proud. Yet it had been a fruitless quest.
For once, with Matt Monroe egging her on, she wanted to make all the wrong choices and do all the wrong things.
Later on, she could pick up the pieces—after it all came crashing down around her shoulders. And she had no doubt that was how the whole debacle would conclude.
She took a last, nostalgic glance at her mother, then smiled at Matt.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go."
He winked. "That's my girl."
He shoved her into the seat, slammed the door, and they sped away.
* * *
"I just realized this is the second time you've run off with me—with only the clothes on your back."
"It's becoming a habit."
"It definitely is."
Matt pulled into his driveway and shut off the motor.
"Where are we?" Brittney asked.
"My house."
"You actually live somewhere?"
"Very funny."
"I never pictured you having a real life. You seem to pop in and out like an apparition."
He leaned over and kissed her.
"I have a real life and a real home."
"Amazing."
"Don't be a wiseass."
He slid out of the car and went around to the other side, steadying her as she climbed out too.
She studied Ken's decrepit house. It was one of the old brick ones that extended for miles and miles across central Denver. Ownership had once been a sign of middleclass prosperity, but over the decades, the glint of the area had definitely faded.
Now, the neighborhood was full of retirees with pensions that never stretched far enough, with young couples who were just starting out. Yards were strewn with kids' toys. The grass wasn't ver
y green. Lawns weren't mowed when they should be.
When she peered out at the mess, what did she see? He'd been in two of her family's mansions: the one in Denver and the one up in Gold Creek. He knew the style to which she was accustomed.
Ken had always kept track of her, so they had photos of her eating at a café in Paris, attending a fancy party in New York City, strolling on a beach in Thailand. She was used to extravagance and luxury and being waited on hand and foot.
What would she think of Matt's circumstances? How would she fit in with Ken and Jeremy?
To his disgust, he caught himself feeling ashamed of his situation, which was stupid. After Ken got what he needed from her, Matt would take her back to her obnoxious mother and her criminal-banker boyfriend, and he'd never see her again.
He didn't care what she thought. He didn't care if she stared down her snooty, rich nose and found him lacking. He'd never had an ounce of the luck she took for granted. He'd never had a ruthless, grasping, industrialist ancestor to shower him with more money than he could spend in a million years, and he refused to be embarrassed over how he'd managed to scrape by.
Geez, in light of how things had been for him as a kid, he was currently living like a king, and he wouldn't apologize for it.
"Come on." He steered her toward the porch. "There's somebody I'd like you to meet."
"Who?"
"My father-in-law, Ken."
She stumbled. "You're married?"
"No."
"You were married?"
"No. I hooked up with his daughter, Emily, when I was a teenager." He felt like an idiot. It was hard to explain his fond and enduring relationship with Ken. "He's not my father-in-law. It just seems like he is."
"Wow." She grinned. "You have a home and a family."
"A kid too."
"A kid!"
"I have a son named Jeremy."
"How old is he?"
"Twelve. He's nothing like me, though."
"Good."
"You'll like him."
"If he's nothing like you, then I'm sure I will. Who is his mother? This Emily woman?"
"Yes."
"Is she here?"
"No, she died in a car wreck when she was twenty. She was with my brother, Michael." A wave of emotion bubbled up. He still missed his brother, and the loss hit him at the most unexpected moments. "They were killed by a drunk driver."
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"It was a long time ago," he said, eager to push the topic away.
He eased her to the door, but she scowled and didn't move.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked.
"Ken knew your parents before you were born. He was always interested in you. He wanted to see how you turned out."
Her scowl deepened. "That is really, really weird."
"Not for Ken. He doesn't have much of a life. He's bored, so he amuses himself by poking his nose into other people's business. He watches soap operas too."
She considered, then shrugged.
"All right. Introduce me to this oddball."
"I'm going to tell him you called him an oddball."
"Don't you dare!" she hissed, and she laughed and buried her face against his chest.
It was such a tender gesture, and his immediate reaction was to wrap an arm around her shoulder, to pull her closer.
It seemed as if they were a couple, as if they were dating or together or something, and he didn't care to be holding her when they went inside. He had no desire to be impaled by Ken's shrewd, knowing gaze.
"It'll be fine," he insisted, casually sliding away from her. "You'll like him."
"And how about your son? Will I like him, too?"
"Like I said, you'll like him even more than you like me. He's extremely normal and well-adjusted."
"He couldn't possibly be. Not if you're his dad."
"You're full of it today, aren't you?"
He opened the screen door and entered first. She followed. After being out in the bright sunshine, the room was very dark, which hid the rundown appearance.
"Hey Ken," Matt called. "Where are you?"
"In the kitchen."
Matt led her to the rear of the house. Ken was at the table, his usual perch in the middle of the afternoon. Fresh air blew in the window so he could breathe more easily. He snatched up his inhaler and stuffed it in his pocket. Out of sight. Out of mind.
"I brought someone with me," Matt told him.
Ken stared at Brittney, then shook his head. "I'll be damned."
"Brittney," Matt said, "this is Ken Scott. Ken, this is Brittney Merriweather."
"Hi, Ken," she replied.
"Aren't you pretty as a picture?" Ken responded as Matt muttered, "Ken, the poet."
Ken pointed to the chair opposite. "Sit down, honey. Take a load off."
She assessed him, realizing there was more happening than a peculiar visit with an aging, ill man.
"Have we met before?" she asked Ken. "You look so familiar."
"No, we haven't met, but I've been hoping you'd stop by. I'm so glad you're finally here."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Talk to me."
Andrew grabbed his phone, expecting to hear his secretary's voice, so he was momentarily startled when he heard Jacquelyn Merriweather's instead.
"Andrew?"
"Jacquelyn? This is a…surprise."
In the six months of his engagement to Brittney, he'd interacted with Jacquelyn on exactly two occasions. Shortly after he'd proposed, he and Brittney had flown to Santa Fe to meet Jacquelyn and had spent three tension-filled days in her home. By the time they'd left for New York, Brittney had been a nervous wreck.
A few weeks later, Jacquelyn had travelled to New York unannounced. She'd invited him to dinner, which he'd understood was her way of checking him out.
He'd known how to impress her. He had made the arrangements, had wined and dined her to such an extravagant degree that her head had to still be spinning.
After their encounter, she'd told Brittney that she highly approved of Brittney's choice. Andrew considered it a point of personal pride that he was about to be the favored son-in-law.
"Is Brittney with you?" Jacquelyn asked.
"I'm at my office, Jacquelyn. Brittney isn't here."
"Oh, of course not. But is she staying with you? She usually uses the family apartment when she's in New York, but I just spoke with the maid there, and she claims they haven't seen her."
"I had a message from her a few days ago." He'd been hiding out with his uncle and his lawyers and not about to return any frivolous phone calls. "She said she was coming, but she never arrived. I simply assumed she was still in Colorado."
"Hmm…"
"What's wrong?"
"Probably nothing."
"Tell me."
"She …ah…we were at lunch, and she walked off in the middle of the meal. She never stopped by the mansion afterward, so I figured she went straight to the airport."
"Well, she's not in New York. Not that I'm aware of anyway."
"I'm sure she's fine," Jacquelyn murmured, convincing herself.
"I'm sure she is too," he agreed.
"I was curious…"
"About what?"
"You did hire security for her. Was there something I should know about that?"
An awkward pause ensued as she waited for details that would never be forthcoming. He wasn't about to mention stock fraud or grand juries or death threats.
He and his uncle had discussed fleeing the country, creating new identities and vanishing into thin air, but he didn't have the means to abscond.
Over the years, he'd squirreled away money in secret bank accounts, but he'd burned through it, trying to conceal his situation from investors. He was broke, and if he took off, he wouldn't have a fiscal cushion to soften the blow. He wasn't about to live like a pauper, so marriage to Brittney remained his only viable option.
"I'm a wealthy and important man," he said by way of clarifyin
g Brittney's bodyguard.
He couldn't confess that he'd retained Talbot Security for himself—not for her—so there would be a team on the ground if he'd visited her in Colorado.
"My husband was rich and important too," Jacquelyn countered, "but he never had protection."
"Times have changed, Jacquelyn."
"He's only been dead a year. I don't think they've changed that much."
"I like to be cautious."
"So your hiring of security was normal procedure?"
"Yes."
"Is there any specific reason why someone might have taken her?"
"Taken her?" he scoffed. "Are you serious?" If anyone was about to be kidnapped, he was the one who would be snatched by some deranged crackpot. "You're worrying over nothing. She's probably gone off somewhere to be by herself."
"She does that occasionally," Jacquelyn mused. "I might speak with her brothers, though, to get their opinion."
"I wouldn't bother them. With all the wedding plans, she's been under a lot of stress. She needed a break."
"That's no excuse to disappear without a word."
"We shouldn't assume she disappeared. There has to be an explanation for where she is. She might be trying to call us right now."
"You'll let me know if you hear from her, won't you?"
"Absolutely." At the last second, he remembered to say, "And you must notify me immediately if she shows up on your end."
She hung up without a goodbye, leaving him with the distinct impression that he'd provided all the wrong answers.
* * *
"Who was on the phone?"
"My mother."
"Your…mother? Doesn't she realize we're on our honeymoon?"
"She wouldn't consider that fact to be relevant."
Amy peered over at Dustin.
They were lounging on the patio of the family's villa on the island of St. Martin's in the Caribbean. They were tucked away on a private bay, so they had the beach to themselves.
The Merriweathers owned houses everywhere, their joint view being that they would never be so common as to check into a hotel for the night.
When they travelled, which seemed to be constantly, they headed for spots where they owned property, where the maids kept the rooms in perpetual readiness in case a family member arrived unannounced.