by Cindi Myers
“That is strange,” Angela agreed. “I didn’t even know he had a job. But he’s a nice guy.”
“Wait a minute.” She studied Tanya more closely. “Have you dated him?”
Tanya shook her head. “Not me. Divorced women with kids do not attract party guys like that. But I’ve seen him around. I can’t believe you haven’t. You’ve been here, what, almost three years? And I’ve only been back in town a few months.”
Angela nodded. “Yeah, but if he doesn’t buy chocolate or hang out at the theater, he’s not on my radar. Though maybe I should expand my horizons a little.”
“This fund-raiser might be the excuse to get to know him better.”
“Maybe.” Flirting with a guy over the phone was a long way from starting a real relationship—something she’d successfully avoided for three years now.
“Not interested in settling down?” Tanya sighed. “I can’t say it worked out all that well for me. Of course, I did get Annie out of the marriage. But she’s about the only high point of an otherwise wasted seven years.”
It wasn’t that Angela was opposed to love and marriage and happily-ever-after—at least in movies, plays and books. But in real life she felt safer remaining on her own, rather than getting her heart stomped on when she didn’t live up to some guy’s idea of Ms. Right.
In any case, Bryan probably had his pick of women if he was the type of guy who filled this town. The best she could hope for when they met was more mild flirtation and fuel for her private fantasies. And that was more than enough until she found a man she could count on to be there for her. Always.
“BRYAN, MS. KRIZOVA is here to see you.”
Bryan startled, awakening from an expense-report-induced doze. He leaned forward and depressed the intercom button. “Tell her I’ll be right there.” Anticipating this appointment had gotten him through a morning filled with dull meetings and even duller reports. He smoothed his tie, buttoned his jacket, then went out to greet his visitor.
February was one of the busiest months at the ski resort and the lobby was packed. As Bryan scanned the cavernous room, he quickly ruled out anyone dressed for the slopes, as well as two mothers with young children and all the men. That left a hefty brunette in a wine velvet dress, black leather boots and a low-slung black leather belt at the front desk, and a petite blonde in gray tweeds by the fire. Neither was the bombshell Angela’s voice had led him to expect, but the blonde had definite possibilities.
He started toward the blonde, but froze when a familiar voice spoke behind him. “Mr. Perry?”
He turned to face the brunette, smiling to cover the sudden sick feeling in his stomach. This was the voice that had wowed him over the phone, all right, but this was not the woman he’d pictured. “I’m Angela Krizova,” she said, offering her hand.
He took it, the dulcet tones of her words rolling over him. Her hand was warm and soft, and up close he could see she had jade-green eyes and a generous mouth. In fact, everything about her was generous—overly generous. He swallowed hard. Angela Krizova was, well, fat. Definitely not the woman of his dreams.
She withdrew her hand, looking amused. “Not what you expected?” she asked.
He cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment at allowing his feelings to be so transparent. “Excuse me?”
“I asked if I was not what you expected. Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
She turned to survey the lobby and he closed his eyes, collecting himself.
“Nice place you have here,” she said, the same sweet, velvety voice wrapping around him. “I haven’t been here since it was redone.”
He opened his eyes again, half hoping to see the woman of his fantasies. Nope. Angela still stood before him, larger than life—or at least larger than he’d expected. He realized she was studying him, waiting for him to speak. “Let me show you around,” he said.
He led her through the lobby toward the restaurant decorated in dark wood and light stone. “The Atmosphere Restaurant and Bar has a sundeck with a fire pit right at the base of the ski slopes. We also have the Cirrus Lobby Bar. And down this hallway is our business center and indoor heated pool and spa.” He started to feel more comfortable. He’d given this same talk so many times he could practically say it in his sleep. Which was just as well, since while his tongue was otherwise engaged, every other sense was focused on the woman beside him.
Now that he’d recovered from his initial shock, he felt a little ashamed of his reaction to her. Yes, she was a big woman, but she wasn’t ugly. She had thick, lustrous dark hair that fell past her shoulders; expressive eyes, high cheekbones and a Cupid’s bow mouth; and her curves, though generous, were in all the right places. Some people might even say she was voluptuous rather than fat.
“May I see the ballroom where we’ll be holding the fund-raiser?” she asked.
“Of course.” He paged the catering manager and asked him to meet them there. Then he led the way into the ballroom and pressed the switches that flooded the room with light. “We can set up tables in any one of several configurations,” he said as they walked farther into the room. “The raised dais at the end can be used for speakers or a band or you could showcase silent-auction items there.”
“We can put the silent-auction items opposite the entrance and have tables set up along the sides. We’ll definitely want room for dancing,” she said. “And will there be a coat check available?”
“Yes, we can arrange for that, no problem.”
“That would be perfect.” Her smile, in conjunction with that killer voice, would have stopped any conscious man in his tracks.
Bryan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the scent of Angela’s subtle floral perfume wrapped around him, further dazzling his senses. Forget the two-dimensional fantasies he’d conjured earlier. The flesh-and-blood woman before him had his expectations—and his libido—in a tailspin. Was he merely responding to the novelty of a plus-size siren, or was there something else at work here?
A stocky man with closely cropped black hair bustled into the room. “I am Marco Casale, the catering manager,” he said.
“Marco, this is Angela Krizova. She’ll be working with you to arrange the community theater fund-raiser.”
Marco took one of Angela’s hands in both of his and fixed her with a dazzling smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Krizova,” he said. “You perhaps do not remember me, but we spoke several months ago regarding a special order of chocolates you created for a wedding I catered.”
“Of course I remember.”
Marco’s eyes glazed slightly as Angela’s voice worked its magic, and Bryan felt a completely unexpected pinch of jealousy in his gut. He hadn’t realized quite how much he’d enjoyed being the focus of Angela’s attention until he had to share it with another man.
Marco moved in closer, still holding her hand. “We should meet privately sometime soon to discuss the menu for your gathering,” he said, his Italian accent more pronounced than usual. “I have some special dishes I have been saving.”
“That’s great. Why don’t you fax her a menu?” Bryan clamped his hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Don’t let us keep you. I know you have a lot of work to do.” Their eyes met in the kind of mute challenge men engage in when physical dueling would be crossing the line into outright incivility.
Marco was the first to blink, and with obvious reluctance released his hold on Angela and backed away. “I will call you,” he said to Angela, before sending a last withering look toward Bryan and leaving.
Angela watched his departure, the dimple to the left of her mouth deepening as her lips curved in a hint of a smile. When she and Bryan were alone again, she turned to him. “I almost forgot this,” she said as she opened her purse and took out a small, gold foil box.
“What is that?” he asked, watching her untie the ribbon that secured the box lid.
“I brought samples.”
“Samples?”
“Of my chocolates.” She s
elected a truffle from the box and held it up for his inspection, the shiny pink lacquer of her nails contrasting sharply with the velvety blackness of the sweet. “Dark chocolate raspberry,” she said, and offered it to him.
He popped the confection into his mouth and was instantly rewarded with the smooth sensation of melting chocolate, the bitterness of the cocoa and the sweetness of the raspberries in perfect harmony. “Delicious,” he mumbled.
“I’m glad you like it.” She licked the tip of her index finger, where the heat of her body had melted the fragile chocolate. The innocent, unself-conscious gesture sent a jolt of arousal straight through him, rocking him back on his heels. Then she smiled at him and said in that voice, “Would you like another?”
Could I survive another? “Maybe you could leave them for me to enjoy later,” he said.
“Of course.” She replaced the lid on the box and handed it to him. “How long have you been working for the hotel?”
“Not very long.” The last he’d heard, the oddsmakers in town had given him three months before he cried uncle and fled to his former slacker ways. He’d passed that mark two weeks ago, but they still treated his new career as a passing fancy, something he was bound to give up on sooner rather than later.
“And what did you do before that?”
“Different things,” he hedged. Of course, if she was really interested, five minutes spent talking to any of his friends would give her the full, if not necessarily flattering, picture of his past. He’d arrived in Crested Butte seven years ago this month, intending to spend the rest of the winter snowboarding before heading to New York or Chicago or Dallas to put his hotel management degree to use.
As soon as he’d pulled onto Crested Butte’s snow-packed main drag and seen the funky shops and even funkier people, he’d gone into a kind of trance from which he’d only recently awakened. “How long have you had your candy shop?” he asked, anxious to change the subject.
“Three years,” she answered. “The first night I was here I tried to buy chocolate and the only thing I could find was a two-month-old Hershey’s bar. I knew then I’d found my destiny.”
He was amazed she’d known so quickly what she wanted to do, while it had taken him years to figure it out. She had an air of confidence and serenity he hadn’t seen in most of the more conventionally beautiful women he’d dated.
“Is something wrong?”
The question made him realize he’d been staring at her. He looked away and reminded himself of the reason they were standing here in the first place. “How many people do you expect to attend?” he asked.
“About a hundred and fifty. We’re charging fifty-five dollars each or a hundred dollars a couple for tickets. There will be a silent auction as well as food, a cash bar, music and dancing. And chocolate, of course.”
“Of course.” He returned her smile. She had a great smile, one that radiated her enjoyment of the moment. “It sounds like fun.”
“I hope you’ll join us,” she said. “There’ll be a lot of local people there.” They left the ballroom and started toward the front lobby. “Have you seen any of our productions?”
He admitted he had not. Until recently, theater tickets weren’t part of his budget or his scope of interest.
“We’re rehearsing now for I Hate Hamlet,” she said. “We’re always looking for volunteers and it’s a great way to meet new people.”
“Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Our next rehearsal is tomorrow night. We meet at the Mallardi Cabaret, upstairs from the Paragon Galleries, at Second and Elk. You ought to stop by.”
They paused near the front desk. “Thanks for the chocolates,” he said. “It was good to meet you.”
“Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you.” She gave his hand an extra squeeze on the word pleasure. Struck dumb, he stared after her as she sashayed across the lobby and out the door. Several heads turned to watch her departure. She may not have been skinny, but Angela definitely had style.
“It looks like Ms. Krizova’s been sampling a few too many of her own creations.”
He turned and saw the hotel receptionist standing at his elbow. Rachel was about his age, slim and stylish and part of the crowd of young people who frequented the clubs around town. He usually enjoyed talking to her, but the catty remark about Angela rubbed him the wrong way. No matter that he’d thought much the same thing when he first laid eyes on her. Half an hour in her company had given him a different impression entirely. “Did you need me for something?” he asked.
She arched one carefully plucked eyebrow at his brusque tone. “The Chamber of Commerce called about a donation for the Al Johnson Memorial Ski Race,” she said. “Mr. Phelps said you’d take care of it.”
“Sure.” He took the memorandum from her and turned toward his office.
“Some of us are meeting up at LoBar tomorrow night,” she said. “There’s a new band playing, so we thought we’d check them out. Want to come?”
Even an hour ago, he would have jumped at the chance, but now the invitation held little attraction. “Sorry, I’ve got other plans.”
She leaned toward him, her tone flirtatious once more. “What are you doing that’s more fun than going out with me and my friends?”
“I promised to stop by the community theater group.” He cleared his throat. “It’s business.”
She looked toward the door Angela had exited. “Uh-huh.” Then she turned back to him, her smile brighter than ever. “Too bad. You’d have a lot more fun with me and my friends. Nobody in that theater group is really your type.”
His type. How could she be so sure what his type was when he didn’t even know himself? He glanced at Rachel again, taking in her trim figure, glossy hair and dazzling smile. She was the sort of woman he usually dated. The type most men preferred. All he had to do was turn on the television or pick up a magazine to know that. Angela must have put him into some chocolate-induced trance to have him thinking otherwise.
“Of course she—I mean the theater group—really isn’t my type.” Carl had encouraged him to foster connections between the hotel and the community, so that’s what he’d be doing.
“It’s just business,” he said, and retreated to his office.
Chapter Two
Angela settled into a front-row seat at the Mallardi Cabaret, home to Crested Butte’s Mountain Theatre group, and pulled out her copy of the script for I Hate Hamlet. Around her, other cast and crew members congregated, sipping coffee, discussing the latest snowfall totals, their plans for the upcoming Al Johnson Memorial Ski Race or bemoaning the number of weeks until softball season began. Angela smiled, reveling in the homey familiarity of the scene. Once upon a time she’d dreamed of being a professional actress, but the daunting reality of competing for professional jobs in Los Angeles or New York had convinced her she was better off sticking close to home. She didn’t make her living on the stage, but outside her candy shop, her life revolved around the dusty velvet seats and greasepaint-scented air of community theater.
She opened the script and turned to her lines for the scene that was first up on the rehearsal schedule. She played the agent, Lillian Troy. Lillian’s claim to fame was that she had once had an affair with the late John Barrymore. Angela’s friend Tanya played Felicia, the glamorous girlfriend of the male lead, Andy, who was played by local heartthrob Austin Davies.
At that moment, the man himself crossed in front of Angela. Dressed casually in jeans and a fleece henley, his hair perfectly styled, his jaw perfectly rugged, Austin was the very picture of the leading man. He was a nice enough guy—vain without being obnoxious, over-confident about his abilities at times, but a decent actor.
He smiled at Angela and she nodded, then ducked her head and pretended renewed interest in her script. She wasn’t interested in being overly friendly with Austin. The truth was he reminded her a little too much of Troy Wakefield, the leading man in the community theater group she’d belonged to in Broomfield, Colorado, where
she’d lived before moving to Crested Butte. The man she’d been engaged to for fifteen minutes.
Okay, more like fifteen days. Same difference for all she’d mattered to Troy. Old news that really didn’t concern her anymore.
She looked around to see who else was here. She spotted Tanya on the far side of the stage, running over her lines with Alex Pierce, the older man who was playing Barrymore’s ghost. Though tonight she was dressed like everyone else in jeans and a sweater, Tanya’s costume for the play was a short, tight, sparkly cocktail dress that showed off her perfect figure. With her red hair teased into waves that tumbled about her shoulders, she’d be the picture of the glamorous femme fatale.
Angela, meanwhile, would be stuck in a frumpy tweed skirt, no-nonsense sweater set and makeup designed to make her look thirty years older.
Just once it would have been fun to play the glamour girl, but she’d never been given the opportunity and probably never would.
“All right, places everyone.” Tanya called everyone to order. “Let’s run through the séance scene.”
Angela, Tanya and Austin gathered center stage around a white-draped table while Alex waited in the wings for his cue. Scripts in hand, they began the run-through of the scene in which the three friends try to contact the ghost of John Barrymore.
But instead of the late, great actor showing up on cue, the door to the theater opened, letting in the sounds of traffic on Elk Avenue below and a man in a dark overcoat. “Um, sorry,” he called as he pulled off his gloves. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Bryan! You came to see us after all.” Angela didn’t try to hide her delight. And she couldn’t ignore the way her heart sped up at the sight of him.
Tanya gave her a speculative look, then turned to Bryan. “Why don’t you have a seat down front,” she said. “We’ll take a break when we’re done with this scene. Angela, I think it’s your line.”
Angela forced her attention back to the script, trying to forget about the man seated only a few feet away and to put herself back into the character of the sixty-year-old woman recalling her glory days.
