by Cheryl Holt
They froze, both shocked by the abrupt, intimate positioning. The air seemed charged with electricity, a powerful chemistry flowing from him to her.
He felt it too, and he was as disconcerted as she was. A frown marred his brow. He studied her eyes, then her mouth, giving her the distinct sense that he was thinking about kissing her. Which was crazy. But still, she was certain the notion was raging through his head.
Would he dare? Would she let him?
She laid her palms on his broad chest and shoved hard. Thankfully, he stepped away without argument. With the extra space between them, the frenetic atmosphere diminished, but it didn’t vanish altogether.
If he was a magnet, she was metal. She had to grab onto a nearby shelf to keep from rubbing up against him and purring like a contented cat.
“I don’t want you here,” she said.
“I realize you don’t.”
“I don’t want you following me. I don’t want you watching me. I don’t want you providing your unbearable brand of security.”
“All right.”
He grinned as if it was all a big joke, and his disregard ignited her temper so that she was positively rippling with fury. She couldn’t remember when she’d last been so incensed. She couldn’t remember when she’d ever felt so alive.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she seethed.
“I’m not laughing,” he insisted, but he was. Evidently, he thought she was hilarious.
“You’re incredibly impressed with yourself.”
“I definitely am.”
“Well, I’m not, and I don’t need you prowling the halls and making my blood boil every two seconds.”
“Your blood’s boiling? Am I having that much of an effect on you? What would dear old Andrew think if he knew?”
“Shut up.”
“Your wish is my command.” He made an insufferable motion over his lips as if he’d turned a key in a lock.
“Go away,” she ordered. “Go away and don’t come back.” She yanked open the door. “If I catch you sniffing after me again, I’ll call the police and have you arrested.”
“May I say something?” he asked.
“No, you may not.”
He spoke anyway. “Your fiancé signed a contract with Talbot Security that authorizes us to be here. If you call the police, they’ll just release me.”
“That may be, but before you’re set loose, I’ll have the extreme pleasure of seeing you in handcuffs for a few minutes.” She flashed a satisfied smile and pushed him out onto the porch. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” he responded and off he went.
He loped down the stairs and out to the driveway. For such a large man, he was particularly graceful and light on his feet, moving with the natural ease of a dancer or wide receiver.
He disappeared around the corner, and she shuddered with relief. Feeling as if she’d dodged a bullet, she headed off to rejoin her mother.
* * * *
“Do you have her?”
“No.”
Matt pressed the phone to his ear as he shifted on the seat of his restored ’66 Mustang. It was the only item of value he’d ever owned.
He was parked across the street from the Merriweather mansion, the front windows in full view, the drapes open. Through his binoculars, he could peer down the long yard as Brittney entered the living room and flopped onto the sofa.
“But you met her?”
“Yup,” he replied.
“What’s she like?”
“Pretty, snooty, unhappy. Much too thin. She looks like a damned Sri Lankan refugee.”
“Why is she so skinny?”
“Because she’s miserable—but she doesn’t realize that she is.”
“Will she go through with the wedding?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say yes. Her mother seems intent on it happening, and I can’t see Brittney bucking the woman’s authority. Mrs. Merriweather is a tyrant, and I doubt Brittney has ever stood up to her.”
“So what’s your plan? Why didn’t you grab her when you had the chance?”
“Give me a few days. I’m betting I can convince her to leave with me of her own accord. We wouldn’t have to resort to any harsh measures.”
“You’re counting on the old Monroe charm?”
“It hasn’t failed me yet. The sparks are flying between us, my man. If I can’t persuade her to run off with me, nobody can.”
A resigned sigh wheezed in the phone. “Okay. You can have a week, but that’s it. If you haven’t finished it by then, we’re doing it my way.”
“Like your idea is better,” Matt scoffed.
“One week.”
“Yeah, yeah, one week. I heard you the first time.”
He hung up and chuckled to himself.
Poor Brittney Merriweather. Poor little, unloved rich girl.
She was already wary of Matt, and she had every reason to be suspicious. After he was through with her, she would never be the same again.
He liked her more than he’d imagined he would, but he hated wealthy people, and he had to remember that fact. If he left her sad, if he left her life in shambles, she had the money to buy herself some therapy and get over it.
Whatever was coming toward her, it couldn’t be stopped. Some things were meant to be, and this was one of them. It was like a bad train wreck that couldn’t be avoided, and he wouldn’t suffer an ounce of guilt or regret over what he was about to do.
CHAPTER TWO
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“About what?”
“That you’d hired security.”
“I told your mother.”
Brittney bit down the terse response that was begging to spill out.
She was on the phone with Andrew. He was in New York, and she was in Denver, trapped in wedding prep hell and having to deal with her mother every waking minute.
When she’d flown to Colorado, she’d planned a two week trip, where she’d arranged to interview caterers and florists. Fourteen days was such a short amount of time. She’d thought she could tolerate Jacquelyn for the brief interval, but she was already feeling as if she couldn’t breathe and longing to escape her mother’s clutches.
She was angry with Andrew for being in New York, for waiting twenty-four hours before he’d returned her call. She was angry with herself for traveling alone to Denver, for not bringing Andrew to serve as a barrier against Jacquelyn’s constant barbs. She was angry at her brothers for not visiting her.
They both knew she was in the city, but neither of them would stop by the mansion while Jacquelyn was in residence. Their rift with her was that horrid.
Brittney was particularly furious with her brother, Dustin. He was getting married over the weekend, in a small, private ceremony up in the high country.
She’d been invited, but didn’t see how she could attend.
Jacquelyn had adamantly insisted that Brittney ignore the event as she, Jacquelyn, intended to do. Brittney was in an untenable position, caught between her mother’s snobbery and her brother’s unshakeable resolve to marry a woman their mother loathed.
If Brittney went to the wedding, her mother would never forgive her. If Brittney stayed away, her brother would never forgive her.
She was incensed over her mother’s arrogance and how it had split the family apart. Jacquelyn was such a cold and callous person. She’d never exhibited any maternal tendencies toward her three children, and her attitude hadn’t softened as she’d aged.
With Brittney’s father having passed away, she felt that everyone should be trying extra hard to get along, to get closer. But instead, everyone was fighting more than ever.
“Mother never mentioned the security guard,” she peevishly said to Andrew. “He showed up with no warning.”
“I’m sorry. I assumed she’d inform you.”
“I don’t need him watching over me.”
“Well, I hope to fly out there next week, and if I can make it, I’ll be more comfo
rtable if we have someone local in place.”
“Why?”
“I always have security.”
“I never noticed.”
“That’s because they’ve been discreet. I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Why would I worry? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I simply like to be cautious.”
In the background, people were speaking to him. He pulled the phone from his ear, his hand over the receiver, and there was a lengthy period where he was distracted.
Her temper flared, and she was confused by her bad mood. He was an international financier. He had more important problems than the petty details of their wedding or Brittney’s stupid spats with her mother.
She knew that fact and understood that fact, but often, she seemed to be an afterthought, which left her wondering why he was marrying her.
He claimed he was madly in love with her, that he’d fallen for her the moment they’d met. She claimed she was in love too, but she wasn’t. Not really.
She would never let herself be swept away by potent emotion for a man. She didn’t think she was capable of that sort of powerful sentiment. In her turbulent childhood, spent at lonely boarding schools because her mother had refused to have her at home, she’d learned to tamp down her feelings.
Life was easier when there were no wild swings up and down. And she’d seen too vividly how passion had driven her parents to extreme displays of rage and trivial acts of revenge.
Brittney had resolved to avoid such drama at all costs. She wanted constancy and patience and serenity, and Andrew provided them in spades. He was always the same: charming, affable, and pleasant. He would bestow the contented existence she’d persistently sought, but had never found.
She was just irked sometimes—like now—when he was so preoccupied. It didn’t help that he was forty and she was twenty-six. She’d convinced herself that she liked him being older and more mature, but occasionally, he treated her as if she was a young and foolish girl, as if he was her father rather than her fiancé.
When he was together with her and her mother, he had more in common with Jacquelyn than Brittney, and Brittney was still figuring out how she felt about that.
“Andrew?” She was determined to snag his attention, but he didn’t answer. “Andrew!” she repeated more irritably.
“Yes, darling,” he eventually said. “What is it?”
She gnashed her teeth. She hated it when he called her darling. It sounded so outdated and pretentious.
“You’re terribly busy. I’d better let you go.”
“No, no, I always have time for you.” Even though he wasn’t actually interested, he asked, “How are the preparations coming along?”
She’d attempted to discuss them with him once, but he’d insisted he would be fine with whatever she chose. She hadn’t raised the topic again.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “It’s difficult for me, being here by myself with my mother.”
“I know.”
“I make a decision, but she immediately counters it. My opinions don’t matter.”
“Would you like me to speak to her?”
“No,” she scoffed. “I can deal with my own mother. I just need to vent.”
And for you to listen to me.
“I’ll try to join you next week,” he said. “It will be easier for you if I’m there.”
“Do you think we could—“
“Hold on,” he interrupted. There was another exasperating pause, and when he finally returned, he hurriedly explained, “I have to go. I’ll call you tonight.”
He hung up before she could say goodbye.
She stared at the phone, then hit the off button.
This would be her life with him. Conversations cut short. Broken plans. Inattention. Her husband would be focused on the world and money and his lucrative ventures and everything but her.
She’d allowed herself to be caught up in the idea of marrying, but she was growing terrified that what he would bring to the union was not what she wanted.
The notion panicked her, and she refused to consider it.
It’s bridal jitters, she told herself. It was the fact that she was feeling overwhelmed and hadn’t had a moment to absorb what she’d set in motion.
Wedding fever was in the air, with the Merriweather siblings tying the knot left and right.
Her brother, Lucas, had gotten married at Christmas. Her brother, Dustin, was marrying in a few days. Was that why she’d been so eager when Andrew had proposed?
She’d been given the chance to marry too, and she’d jumped at the opportunity. She couldn’t change her mind, couldn’t back out. She had to calm down and behave like the sensible, centered woman she was.
She took a deep breath, let it out, then proceeded to the front parlor to find her mother. As she walked down the hall and entered the foyer, her mother was out on the verandah and waving to someone in a van that was pulling out of the driveway.
“Brittney,” Jacquelyn said as she came inside, “there you are.”
“Who was that?”
“The caterer.”
Jacquelyn went to the stairs as if she’d climb to her room.
“Where’s he going? I thought we were meeting with him at one o’clock.”
“We rescheduled.”
“You talked to him without me?”
“Yes,” Jacquelyn admitted without an ounce of shame, “and I hired him. The food will be fantastic.”
Brittney was roiled by a flood of anger so potent that little red dots of fury darted through her vision. Her head was pounding so hard that she wondered if she was about to suffer a stroke.
“Mother!” she snapped like a petulant toddler.
Jacquelyn was already on the fourth step. From her higher vantage point, she glared down at Brittney like an imperious queen.
“What is it?”
“Stop this.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop planning my wedding for me. I swear to God, if you don’t knock it off, I’ll send you home to Santa Fe, and I’ll finish up without you.”
Jacquelyn scoffed. “As if you could manage an event of this magnitude without my assistance.”
“Don’t stand there and insult me.”
“I’m not insulting you. I’m simply stating the obvious. You have no skills that are relevant to this situation. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
Jacquelyn spun away and continued climbing, and Brittney watched her until she disappeared. There were a thousand comments she might have hurled, but what was the use?
Her mother was miserably unhappy and—as far as Brittney could tell—had never enjoyed being a parent or a wife. She’d hated her husband and her children. The manner in which she’d just spoken to Brittney was how she’d always spoken to Brittney. The caustic exchange was nothing new.
Typically, Brittney ignored the truth, but for once, reality was crushing her. She might have been five years old again, hovering in her mother’s shadow, yearning to be noticed. The strongest urge swept through her, the same one that had rattled her every second since Jacquelyn had arrived in Denver: to run away, to run and run and run and keep on running forever.
She turned from the stairs, and to her great embarrassment, Matthew Monroe was down the hall, audaciously leaned against the doorway to the front parlor. His arms were crossed over his chest, giving him a bored air of superiority.
He had to have heard every despicable word her mother had spewed. Brittney should have been outraged, but instead, she was extremely ashamed.
Jacquelyn’s antipathy was a well-kept secret, like having an alcoholic in the family. Lucas and Dustin were tired of her antics and had quit dealing with her. Brittney was the only one who still tried, the only one foolish enough to pretend that her mother was normal and they had a normal relationship.
On realizing that the disgraceful truth had been revealed, Brittney felt stripped naked, as if she was posed in the foyer without
any clothes.
For an eternity, they stared, not speaking. He assessed her, his striking blue eyes digging deep, prodding at all her old hurts and insecurities. She saw understanding in his gaze, she saw compassion and sympathy. Gad, she saw pity.
How dare he pity her!
Incensed beyond measure, she whirled away and marched outside, hurried across the wide porch and down to the sidewalk. She started walking, not sure of where she was going, but she didn’t care. The blocks passed in a blur, the neighborhood gradually altering. The houses grew smaller, the traffic increased.
She didn’t think about any of the issues plaguing her. Not her approaching marriage that had her so distressed. Not her fiancé who had her worrying that he wasn’t the man she needed. Not her mother lurking like a black cloud back at the mansion. Not her brothers who were congregating up in the mountains for Dustin’s own wedding.
She didn’t know how long she continued. An hour? Two? By the time she slowed, she had no idea where she was. She was in shorts and sandals, and she had rubbed a raw blister on her heel.
Desperate to get her bearings, she halted and gaped around like a blind person.
A car rumbled up, idling at the curb, and when she glanced over, she was stunned to find a classic red Mustang and Matthew Monroe behind the wheel.
“Get in,” he said. He pushed open the passenger door.
She wanted to refuse. She wanted to be bitchy and rude and tell him to go screw himself, but her burst of temper had flamed out.
She was tired and thirsty and hungry and…sad. She’d like to hop on a plane and fly to a tropical island where no one knew her, where no one expected anything from her. She’d pick a location that was hot and sunny and lay on the beach for a week. Maybe then, she’d feel better. Maybe then, she wouldn’t be so out of control.
She slid into the car, and he hit the gas and took off. He had loud music playing, a bluesy band with lots of bass so it was impossible to talk, for which she was grateful. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
He jumped onto the Interstate and headed west. Very quickly, they were out of the city and ascending into the foothills. She wondered if he had a destination in mind or if he’d simply drive and drive and they’d never return to Denver. At the moment, with her emotions in such turmoil, it was a refreshing notion.
