by Cheryl Holt
He had to see her and talk to her and…what? He'd been hoping he'd answer the question before he arrived, but now, here he was in town, and she appeared to have left. He'd figured Pamela would know where she was, so he'd stopped by Chad's house, but it was vacant, too.
Then, he'd had lunch at the diner, and he'd asked his waitress about Amy. She'd claimed Amy and Marge had moved away, but she had no idea where they'd gone.
He trudged to his SUV and sat in it for a few minutes as if waiting for something to happen, thinking their affair might end differently if he stayed there long enough.
Finally, he headed up the hill to the old mansion and clomped up the stairs to the attic.
He didn't have to knock. The door was wide open, and it was easy to see that the apartment was empty. He entered and walked around, moping, in a state of shock.
In the weeks he'd been in California, he'd received an odd bit of comfort from envisioning her puttering around, cooking supper, loafing in the window seat and gazing out across the canyon. He couldn't imagine that she wasn't here anymore. He felt as if she'd…died. The loss of her vibrant presence was that intense.
The refrigerator was in the kitchen. He peeked in it and was surprised to find a rude note. Someone had ripped a piece of paper out of a spiral notebook. With a marker, that person had written, SCREW YOU!!!, in big black letters, then put it on the top shelf where the milk used to be.
He was curious as to whom the message was directed. Himself—if he ever came looking for her? The landlord? The construction workers who would tear out the walls?
He grabbed the note, folded it, and stuck it in his pocket as he plodded down the stairs. Briefly, he flirted with the notion of tracking her down. It was a small town, and she and Marge had lived in it for decades. He could knock on doors until he found a neighbor with pertinent information.
Or he could contact Chad, get a phone number for Pamela and speak to her. Or he could log on to the internet. In a day and age where every detail was on-line, no one could hide.
But why would he track her down? Why would he go to all that trouble? If he actually managed to locate her, what would he do with her?
There wasn't anything for him in Gold Creek. There never had been, and he'd known it from the first morning he'd rolled into town all those months ago.
He stood on the sidewalk and peered down the canyon and out to the highway beyond. Then he climbed into his SUV, revved the motor, and drove away.
* * *
"Call me the minute your lunch is over."
"I will."
Chantal grinned into the phone, liking how she'd ensnared Chad Paltrow, liking how he'd grown stupidly, pointlessly infatuated with her. As if she'd fall for a glorified realtor—especially a boring, stuffy one who lived in the middle of nowhere.
Still, as her reward for ratting out Pamela and Amy Dane, he'd coughed up the cash for a trip to Cancun. It was the trip Dustin had promised to provide but hadn't, and she was more than happy to let Chad fork out whatever treats he felt compelled to offer.
With the country's economic turmoil, the modeling world was crashing. She'd laughed at other women who'd become unemployed, being convinced that she was too beautiful and unique for her own career to falter.
Yet suddenly, she was struggling too. She hadn't booked a job in over a year, a fact that was beginning to keep her up at night. Her agent was ignoring her, and money was tight.
In tough times, a rich man was always a viable solution—even if it was a buffoon like Chad.
"You have to be sly with Merriweather," he cautioned.
"I know, Chad. I've been acquainted with him a bit longer than you."
"You can't come right out and ask him a question. You have to skirt around the edges."
"Don't worry. I'll play him perfectly. Leave it to me."
"I swear, babe"—she rolled her eyes at the endearment—"if you can push this sale through, I'll be very, very grateful."
"How grateful?"
"We'll take that vacation to Hawaii we were discussing."
"I love Hawaii. Can we stay on Maui? My favorite resort is there."
"You get Merriweather moving forward, and I'll buy you the whole damn island."
Across the restaurant, Dustin was approaching, so she spewed a flirtatious comment to Chad, then hung up.
It was a heavenly spring day in Los Angeles, the temperature balmy, the sky vividly blue. They were out on the patio, their table overlooking the ocean.
His own phone call had dragged him out to the lobby, and as he seated himself, she asked, "Is everything okay?"
"It was nothing. I shouldn't have answered." He turned off his phone and stuffed it in his pocket. "There. If they call again, I won't be tempted."
She smiled, deeming it an excellent sign that he wanted to focus solely on her.
She hadn't seen him in months, not since the breakfast they'd shared with his mother in Denver. She and Jacquelyn had kept in touch, and Chantal was making inroads into the family, but apparently, only the mother thought Chantal was wonderful.
The son had a different opinion, but after listening to Jacquelyn's advice, Chantal figured he needed a little prodding. So she had phoned him.
It was awards season in Hollywood, so for the next few weeks, there would be a string of fabulous parties, and she'd been unnerved to discover that she hadn't received invitations to some of the ones she usually attended.
Because of his fortune, Dustin would be asked to many A-list events, and he always showed up with a striking woman on his arm. She was more glamorous than anybody in LA, and he had to be reminded of how much he liked being seen with her.
"You won't believe who I was just talking to," she told him.
"Who?"
"Chad Paltrow. Remember him?"
"He's unforgettable."
She disagreed. She viewed him as completely forgettable.
"Guess what he wants me to do?"
"I can't imagine."
"He wants me to ask you about the sale in Gold Creek."
After Dustin had left Colorado in December, the deal had stalled, and Chad was furious over the delay. Dustin had either lost interest or simply wouldn't be pushed into a final decision.
Chad was having fits, and if Chantal could wrangle a better ending for him, there was no telling what gifts he might shower on her.
"Why would he have you ask me about that?" Dustin inquired. "He could pick up the phone and call me himself."
"He's feeling like a spurned suitor. He claims that when you realize it's him, you don't answer."
Dustin snorted and relaxed as the waiter arrived with their wine. They waited while he opened the bottle and poured them both a glass.
She took hers and leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and she sipped it slowly as he watched her. She knew she looked stunning, but if he was pleased by her appearance, by the opportunity to be with her, he gave no sign of it. Then again, he was never the most animated person, and she refused to be concerned over his detached expression.
"So," she said, "are you going to?"
"Going to what?"
"Sell him that awful little town."
He shrugged and posed a question of his own. "Why did you call me?"
"I haven't seen you in ages."
"Was there something you needed?"
"I've been invited to a party Friday night, and I could use an escort. I thought you might like to go with me."
She grinned flirtatiously, expecting him to jump at the chance. He enjoyed the premier events, but when he didn't rush to accept, she struggled not to let her smile turn into a frown.
He studied her hair, her dress, the ocean behind her, then he said, "I'm busy Friday."
"Oh, okay." She waved her fingers as if it had been no big deal, but she was fuming. She'd already advised the host that he would be her date.
Bastard!
"How did you become buddies with Chad Paltrow?" he inquired.
"We chatted at you
r mother's party; we exchanged numbers."
"He doesn't seem to be your type."
"I don't have a…type," she complained.
"Where is he living? Denver?"
"Yes."
"Is Pamela Dane still with him?"
"Gad, no." She laughed, trying to keep the conversation light and easy when she was boiling inside. "You'll never guess what he found out about her."
"What was that?"
"He assumed she was a Vegas socialite, that her father had been a British doctor. That she was thirty."
"And…?"
"None of it was true. She's forty-two, she has a couple of kids—that Amy woman who pestered you in Gold Creek is one of them—and she's been married several times."
"He split with her?"
"Dropped her like a hot rock." She preened with satisfaction. She was ecstatic over the part she'd played in screwing the Dane family. "When I told him about—"
He narrowed his gaze, like a hawk sighting its prey. "You told him? What did you tell him?"
"Well..." she stammered, disturbed by his fury, "just…nothing."
"You specifically said: when I told him." More sternly, he demanded, "What did you tell him?"
She wasn't sure how to proceed. Should she deny any participation? Should she admit her role and make a joke of it?
Amy Dane. Pamela Dane. If she never heard their names again, it would be too soon. Yet Dustin—evidently—was still obsessed with Amy. He was glaring at Chantal as if he'd like to throttle her. What was best?
She decided to shrug it off. Breezily, she explained, "I came across Pamela while I was searching the internet."
"Really? That was convenient."
"I was looking at some old photos from Vegas, and there she was. It seemed like an odd coincidence."
"So you simply had to do a bit of digging."
"Not a lot."
"And you felt compelled to tell Chad what you'd discovered."
"I thought he should know, Dustin. Honestly, he was living with her."
"You and Chad being such good buds and all, you were worried sick about him."
She scowled with dismay.
"It wasn't like that," she quietly insisted.
"What was it like?"
"If you'd been involved with someone that disreputable, wouldn't you have wanted to be informed?"
He grabbed his glass of wine and downed the contents. Then he rose to his feet so abruptly that she was dizzy from the sudden motion.
"Don't ever contact me again," he said.
"What? You're being absurd."
"Don't contact my mother, either. Don't email her, don't send her any of your little gifts."
"I haven't done that."
"She has a big mouth, Chantal. She tells me everything."
Her cheeks flushed bright red. "I like your mother, and she likes me. We've become great friends."
"She'll be ending her relationship with you, for I have no wish to let you further impose yourself on us."
"You don't have to be rude."
"I'm not being rude. Just blunt."
He spun and started out, and heads turned as a few of the diners watched him go. People in the restaurant had recognized her when she'd entered, and they were wondering if he was somebody, if they should know him, too. She wanted to jump up and chase after him, but couldn't take the risk that a photographer might snap a picture of her quarreling with her date in a public place.
Still, she was anxious to salvage something from the failed meeting.
"Dustin," she softly pleaded, and he glanced back.
"What?"
"What should I tell Chad about Gold Creek? He'll keep hounding me until I have an answer."
"Tell your pal Chad that the sale is off. Tell him to find another town to ruin."
He stormed out, and she sighed and slouched in her chair. She'd like to storm out, too, but she couldn't have onlookers noting any upset or realizing that her lunch partner had left in a huff. The news would be all over the tabloids before she could get out to her car.
Her phone rang, and she peeked down, seeing that it was Chad. She slammed her thumb on the power button and shut it off. Casually, gracefully—as if she had all the time in the world—she stood and walked out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Amy, there's a customer asking for you. A man."
"For me?"
"Yes. Booth three in the corner."
She blew out a heavy breath, then started out into the restaurant. It was the middle of the afternoon, the slowest time of the day. No one ever came in at three o'clock.
She was a crappy waitress, new in town, and didn't know anybody. Who would ask for her by name? She couldn't begin to guess. Any customer would be taking his life into his own hands, risking starvation because she forgot about him and never brought his food.
When she'd peered down the road to her future, she'd never envisioned this dreary detour. She'd always pictured herself still in Gold Creek, working at the paper, maybe leaving for a few years to attend college. It's what Marge had constantly pushed her to do, but with the twins being so young, she hadn't been able to go.
But she was grateful for the restaurant manager who'd hired her, grateful for the income the job provided. She'd been at it three months, but wasn't growing more proficient. Luckily, her boss didn't seem to care about her ineptness.
She hadn't realized that the position would be so physically demanding, and the strenuousness had turned out to be an enormous benefit. At the end of her shift, she was too exhausted to feel sorry for herself, too exhausted to grieve over what might have been.
She stopped at the waitress station to fill a glass of water and grab a tray, then she kept on.
The man was sitting by himself, his back to her. His dark hair needed a trim, so it hung over his collar. He was wearing a leather jacket, and for a brief instant, she stumbled.
He looked so much like Dustin Merriweather.
She shook her head and continued toward him.
As if Merriweather would chase her down. As if Merriweather would spend one second worrying about anyone but himself.
During the long nights, when she tossed and turned in her bed, wondering if she'd made the right choices, she often thought about him. Was he aware that she and Marge had closed his newspaper and walked away? Was he aware that she'd moved? Had he sold his property to that asshole, Chad Paltrow?
At that very moment, were there carpenters stripping the walls in her old apartment?
She sighed with regret. It didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore.
She let a scene come into her mind, of him with that bitch-model, Chantal, snuggled to his side. They'd be on a sunny beach somewhere, and Chantal would be cooing over how handsome he was, how manly and marvelous.
The vision worked like a charm. Fury flooded through her, which was ridiculous. He wasn't worth hating. And it had been three months! Why couldn't she accept what had happened and get over it?
She was so pitiful. She was pretty sure she'd fallen in love with him. She'd never been in love, so she didn't have any prior experiences to aid her in measuring her emotions. That was probably why it was so difficult to quit thinking about him.
Despite the fact that he was a Merriweather—and thus, a first rate pig—he'd occasionally proven that he could also be amusing and kind and interesting, and she was so darn sad that he wasn't the man she'd wished he was.
She approached the booth, muttering, "May I help…"
Her voice trailed off. The tray slipped out of her hand, the water glass landing on the dirty carpet with a dull thud.
"Hello, Amy. Fancy meeting you here."
Dustin Merriweather grinned up at her. He was just as yummy as he always was in her memories: buff, tan, fit. His eyes were so blue, and they were sparkling with humor, as if he'd played a great trick on her.
"How did you know where I was?"
"I stopped by your house and spoke to your mom."
"Pam
told you where I was?" The traitor!
"Yes." He was cocky and obnoxious. "How have you been?"
"Get lost."
"No. Did you miss me?"
"No."
"I missed you," he absurdly claimed.
"Liar."
Her heart was beating so hard, her breathing so labored, that she was certain she was on the verge of a panic attack.
To cover her dismay, she bent down and picked up the tray and water glass. She set them on his table, then frowned with disdain, but her sour glare had no effect whatsoever.
He gestured to the empty spot across from him. "Have a seat."
"I can't. It's against the rules."
"I talked to your boss. He said it's okay if you take a break."
Traitor! she fumed again. Was the whole world allied against her? She glanced around. There weren't any other customers in the place, and grudgingly, she slid into the booth.
"Do you like working here?" he asked.
She shrugged. "It's all right."
"When I learned that you'd left Gold Creek, I never pictured you in a dump like this."
Neither did I.
"Some of us aren't as lucky as you. Some of us don't have the money to lounge in our backyard pool while we peruse our dividend statements. Some of us have to accept whatever job we can find."
"Ooh, you sound bitter."
"Don't I, though?" She struggled for calm when what she'd really prefer was to lean across the table and whack him alongside the head. "What do you want? Are you here just to insult me? Or is there actually a valid reason in that convoluted mind of yours?"
"I came to tell you that I didn't go through with the sale to Chad."
"Aren't you special?" she sneered.
He chuckled. "I thought you'd be a little happier to hear it."
"I'm absolutely ecstatic," she responded, completely deadpan.
What was it to her that he hadn't sold some old buildings in Gold Creek? What was it to her if he'd screwed Chad in a business deal? Wow, what a surprise! A Merriweather couldn't be trusted to keep his word.
He chuckled again. "I think you're angry with me."
"I'd have to care about you to be angry."
"You don't care about me?"
"No."
To her ultimate humiliation, tears flooded her eyes. She had too many memories: Thanksgiving Day when he'd taken her to Boulder to meet his brother, the blizzard that had trapped them in her tiny apartment.
