Sweet Talkin' Guy. Colleen Collins

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      “What do you mean no rooms? I’ll pay double, triple what anyone else is paying!”

      Partially blocked by an oversize potted palm was the antique registration desk. If he craned his neck a bit, he caught the rump of a woman leaning over the desk, a pair of cargo pants ending mid-calf, her feet tucked into a pair of lime-green heels.

      “The Inn at Maiden Falls is booked ahead for months,” murmured the voice he recognized as the portly hotel manager. She’d intervened earlier after the young desk clerk had realized his room wasn’t ready, wouldn’t be for several hours. The manager had apologized, offered him a complimentary gift certificate to the inn’s five-star restaurant, the Golden Rule, or one of the local restaurants.

      He’d picked Pete’s Pizza down the street.

      “And the problem is?” said the female voice, tapping a high-heeled foot against the polished hardwood floor. “Surely someone would appreciate not only having a complete refund, but extra money for a side trip or maybe a honeymoon suite in a, uh, better located hotel.”

      “The inn is located in one of the most beautiful spots in the country—”

      “I didn’t mean that. I meant a hotel in the city, close to museums, shopping centers. A suite in Denver’s Brown Palace, for example.”

      “Perhaps you and your husband should go to Denver, check into the Brown Palace.”

      “I just arrived from Denver! I want to stay here!”

      Spoiled. Andy avoided those types like the plague. They always wanted guys to blow big bucks on them for dinners, theater, overpriced frothy cocktails. But rare to find a spoiled princess alone, desperate to pay two or three times the already substantial price for a room.

      Andy had a nose for news stories, and this definitely smelled like an interesting one.

      He knocked off the second cookie while ambling closer. Leaning against a settee, he checked out the woman.

      Slim and toned. Pretty calves. Tight ass. He imagined her in one of those thong numbers, treading an exercise machine, sweat trickling down her pink, moist skin.

      He shifted a little to ease the sudden tightness in his groin.

      He stared at her high-rise pants. He always appreciated a flash of flesh, but it was still a bit cold in the mountains to be wearing anything that exposed skin. Plus snow from last week’s storm still dotted the ground—hardly the kind of terrain to navigate in neon skyscrapers. Wearing heels in a mountain town was like wearing flip-flops to climb Mount Everest.

      She obviously hadn’t planned for this trip.

      She gestured as she spoke and he caught the pink Rolex on her wrist. And on her ring finger, a diamond that could double for a search light.

      Engaged. Rolling in dough. Why run away to this inn? Why not hop in her Jag—or Lexus or Mercedes—and scoot down the highway to some private, exclusive spa?

      The manager explained there was a boarding house in a neighboring town.

      The princess almost-bride huffed and turned her head enough for Andy to catch her profile.

      He stared at the impertinent nose, flashing hazel eyes, red-slicked lips. Reminded him of the young Katherine Hepburn. He wondered if just like the movie star, underneath this woman’s steel spine smoldered a passionate heart…

      Her eyes caught his.

      Their gazes held for a moment before she looked away, returning to her discussion.

      He’d seen this lady before….

      The hair looked different—curlier—but she was definitely familiar. Andy quickly sifted through his memory, flipping through a catalog of images from his various assignments. No, she was too well dressed to be one of the contemporary cowgirls he’d recently written a piece on. And although her haughty air was similar to the ballerina he’d interviewed last year, she’d had a bit more meat on her.

      No, he hadn’t written or interviewed her, but he’d definitely seen her somewhere.

      Bam!

      “Renegade Remington,” he said under his breath.

      He crossed his arms over his chest and eyed the privileged daughter of one of Denver’s bluest-of-the-blue-blood families. Their name was everywhere. The Remington Wing of the Children’s Hospital. The Remington Theater Arts Complex. Even the recently christened Remington Avenue that ran adjacent to the Denver Country Club.

      Ah, yes, the Denver Country Club and the scandalous photo of Daphne Remington. Andy flashed on the picture of her being tugged out of the pool, a crimson dress molded to a shapely body. Funny, she’d slipped below the radar after that…reemerging in tasteful society stories, often pictured on the arm of G. D. McCormick, high-profile lawyer and up-and-coming gubernatorial candidate.

      Weren’t they supposed to be getting married soon? That explained the boulder-sized ring.

      Andy felt a tingling on the back of his neck—an electric warning that he’d stumbled on a hot lead. A runaway heiress story, a runaway almost-bride story…maybe both?

      It smacked of that Julia Roberts surprise wedding escapade, one he and the guys at the paper wished they’d broken.

      This was that kind of story. A “Runaway Renegade Remington” escapade. Not only was the family name known in Denver, but all over the country thanks to the parents’ upper-crust jet-setting and their philanthropic donations.

      This was the kind of hot scoop national magazines and television stations paid big bucks for. The kind of moola that could propel Andy out of being a reporter in the trenches and give him the means to research and write the book of his dreams—the definitive book on Colorado history he’d wanted to write since he was a kid.

      Daphne was tapping her diamond-heavy hand on the polished wood of the registration desk. “Well, I can’t believe you’d turn down such a good deal.”

      “In the future, please make your reservation ahead of time and we’ll happily accommodate you.”

      The woman didn’t sound very happy at the prospect, however.

      Daphne pivoted on those skyscraper heels and minced to the door, a leather purse slung over her jean-jacketed shoulder.

      No luggage.

      That cinched it. Daphne Remington had definitely traveled here on a whim.

      Oh yes, baby, this was one hot scoop.

      As the front door clicked shut behind her, Andy followed, thinking how Frank would beg for this story, but Andy would have already made some sweet deals elsewhere.

      Hot scoop? Andy chuckled to himself. More like molten.

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