by Cheryl Holt
The question rang through her mind again.
Why proceed with a wedding where she wasn't allowed to arrange the type of event she desired? Why proceed when her brothers would never attend?
Jacquelyn had been adamant that she wouldn't socialize with Dustin's and Lucas's wives. If Brittney insisted on inviting her brothers, they would insist on bringing Amy and Faith, and Jacquelyn would have a fit.
Brittney didn't want her life to be like this.
She wanted to know her brothers. She wanted to meet their new families and be part of what they were building with those they loved. What she didn't want was to be trapped in this room with her caustic, insensitive mother who seemed to loathe Brittney.
"You can hire a thousand florists," Brittney quietly said, "but I won't use any of them."
Brittney had finally managed to ignite Jacquelyn's notorious temper. Her mother whipped around. "Honestly, Brittney, you're acting like a baby, and I've had enough of your antics."
"I'm going to New York. Andrew and I will figure something out. Maybe we'll elope. I'm thinking that would be easier."
"Elope!" Jacquelyn gasped. "Like a…common person? Don't be stupid."
Footsteps sounded, and Brittney glanced over as Matt Monroe entered. After the way he'd enraged her the previous afternoon, she'd thought she never wanted to see him again. But just then, with her being crushed under the weight of all that was wrong in her world, she felt as if her hero had arrived.
He must have heard the awful exchange with her mother, and she blushed. She was embarrassed that he'd been privy to another private quarrel.
"Excuse me," he said to Jacquelyn, "but I have to speak with Ms. Merriweather."
"What is it?" Brittney inquired.
"I'd like to ask you a question."
"She's busy," her mother curtly informed him. "You can talk to her later."
"I'm afraid it has to be now," he sternly replied, his tone brooking no argument.
He glared at Jacquelyn, his forbidding expression vividly telling her that he didn't like her and wouldn't put up with her. It was clear that he was rescuing Brittney from Jacquelyn's barbed tongue, and to Brittney's stunned surprise, Jacquelyn was cowed into submission.
Matt gestured to the hall, and Brittney rose and followed him out.
She'd assumed he would halt outside the door, but he kept on to the back of the house, stopping in the mudroom.
"What did you need?" she asked.
"Nothing. I just had to drag you out of there."
"You overheard?"
"Yes, and while I'm here, she's not treating you like that."
Brittney had never had a champion before, and she was incredibly flattered.
"I'm used to it," she claimed.
"I'm not, and it's not happening while I'm around to prevent it."
Brittney sighed, feeling trapped between him and her mother. They were both so strong-willed. Why was she—Brittney—the only one who couldn't stand up for herself?
She hated discord and liked everyone to get along; she'd always been that way.
"You'll make things worse for me," she said.
"How could they be worse?"
"I've known my mother a long time. If you call her out on her behavior, she becomes more entrenched. You can't win against her."
At least I can't, Brittney thought.
"Your mother is a bully," he baldly stated, "and she deserved a good smack-down."
Was Jacquelyn a bully? Was the term accurate? Now that Matt had given a name to the conduct, it certainly seemed to fit.
"So she's a bully," Brittney agreed. "Do you think you can whip her into shape for me?"
"No, but when I'm with you, she's simply going to shut the hell up. Aren't you sick of listening to her?"
"Well…yes."
"I've only been hanging around for three days, and I've had her up to my eyeballs."
He opened the door. It was another beautiful spring morning in Denver, the sky so blue, the temperatures balmy. His red Mustang was parked in the driveway.
"Let's get out of here," he said.
"And go where?"
"Wherever you want. We'll just drive."
"I don't know if I should. I need to make reservations to fly to New York."
He grinned his wicked grin. "Are you antsy for your dearest Andrew?"
He had a knack for rattling her, for igniting her temper, so she almost replied with a caustic retort, but didn't.
"I'd like to leave Denver, and New York seemed the best direction."
"Is that where you live?"
"No."
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhere, really."
"What? You don't have any roots? You just travel from place to place?"
"Pretty much. I land myself in a nice spot, and I stay until I'm tired of it."
"But then you don't ever belong anywhere."
"No, you don't," she confessed, oddly shamed by the admission.
He scowled. "That's the saddest thing I ever heard."
He studied her, a thousand emotions crossing his handsome face, then he clasped her wrist and led her outside. She could have protested, but instead, she trotted after him like a puppet on a string.
"We're heading up into the high country," he told her.
"When will we be back?"
"Maybe tonight." He shrugged. "Maybe never. We'll see how it goes."
He stopped at his car and opened the passenger door. He held it for her, and they both paused, perched on the edge of something more than a ride to pass the time.
Brittney gazed up at him, then over at the house that offered only a boring, spiteful day with her mother. He was smiling, full of mischief and determined to provide her with an adventure.
Given the two choices—him or her mother—it was a simple decision.
"Can I get my purse?"
"Already got it for you." He pointed to the floorboard. "I snagged it out of your bedroom a bit ago."
"Why were you in my bedroom?"
"I'm a petty thief," he mockingly retorted. "Why do you think?"
"I don't want you in there touching my stuff."
"Hey, when your mother started in on you, I had to get you out of there. I'm not letting you go inside where you can dick around and change your mind. I grabbed your purse for you. Sue me."
"Why were you so sure you could convince me to play hooky, Monroe?"
"You're easy. Manipulating you is a piece of cake."
He pushed her into the car, went to the driver's seat, and they raced away.
CHAPTER FOUR
"We're going over there."
"We are not."
"We're going—if I have to toss you over my shoulder and carry you in like a bag of flour."
Matt glared at Brittney, figuring he could gain her compliance with a bossy attitude and his larger size.
He'd never met a woman who was so willing to do what she was told—except maybe for Ken's daughter, Emily. She'd always wanted everybody to be happy and get along.
Ken had shared many horror stories about Brittney's parents, so Matt had a fairly good idea of what her childhood must have been like.
Early on, she'd have learned to appease her tormentors, to smile during any unpleasantness. For someone so rich and sophisticated, she was too dang nice, incapable of sticking up for herself, speaking her mind, or fighting back. So he could definitely teach her a few life lessons. She was lucky they'd crossed paths; she'd be a much tougher person when he was through with her.
"I don't have anything to wear," she complained.
"You look fine."
"I'm in shorts and a tank top, and it's snowing outside."
"Sleeting."
"Same difference."
Down in Denver, the temperature had been appropriate for the shorts she had on. But he'd whisked her away without a thought as to what the weather would be like in the high country where winter was never completely over. It was cold and blustery with just enoug
h snow spitting on the roads to make them treacherous.
They'd spent several companionable hours, driving up into the Rockies. She'd been amazed by the scenery, had enjoyed the narrow highways that took them up into central Colorado.
She'd been skiing in Aspen before, but had flown in and out on jets, so she'd never had the pleasure of the slow, spectacular trip, of oohing and aahing over the views.
The scenery had lulled her into complacency, so she hadn't realized he was heading for the town of Gold Creek where her two brothers had gathered to celebrate Dustin Merriweather's wedding.
As they'd passed the sign for the town, as he'd turned into the narrow canyon that led up to it, she was fuming.
"You tricked me," she'd correctly charged.
"Sure did."
"Get us out of here. Right now!" she'd demanded in that haughty manner she had, but he'd ignored her and kept on.
Gold Creek was nestled in a rocky valley, and humans had tried their best to tame the wild geography. Old buildings clung to the sides of the ravine. Old houses were precariously balanced on the steep slopes of the jagged hills.
The mines that had once generated economic prosperity, and that had provided the basis of the Merriweather's fortune, had been shut down for ages. Yet the family still owned most of the community. The area was too rugged for skiing and too stark for tourism, so it had sat—untended and unimproved—for decades.
It was a sad, rundown place, but he'd managed to stumble on a classy bed and breakfast located on the main street. It had been remodeled to resemble the prior century of gamblers, gunslingers, and prospectors.
It was the only hotel and—to Matt's delight—it had had only one room available. They'd taken it, with Brittney protesting every step of the way.
"I'm not staying here," she fussed. "I want to head back to Denver."
He glanced out the window, thrilled to see that the lousy weather continued to cooperate. "We couldn't go even if I'd agree."
"I hate you!" She went over to the bed and flopped down, an arm flung dramatically over her eyes.
They'd missed the wedding ceremony, but he'd phoned the front desk to ask what else might be happening. Dustin's bride, Amy Dane, had grown up in Gold Creek, so everyone knew the details.
There was to be a wedding supper at the family's gaudy, neglected mansion at the top of the hill. It was a casual affair, with kids and neighbors invited, so it was the perfect environment for Brittney to make an entrance without a lot of stress.
"If you won't go with me," he taunted, "I'll go by myself, and I'll tell them you're here, but you're too bitchy to join them."
"You wouldn't!"
"I would."
She sat up, glowering. "I repeat: I hate you."
"You don't hate me. You're glad I brought you. Admit it. You didn't have the courage to come on your own, and you're relieved that I made you. If your mother finds out you attended, you can blame it all on me."
"You are a sneaky, lying, dishonest, two-faced—"
"Yeah, whatever."
He picked up the phone and called the front desk again.
"What are you doing now?" she asked.
"With how it's pouring down out there, we might be trapped for a couple of days."
"A couple of days? Are you insane? I'm engaged! I can't stay in a hotel with you."
"I don't see how you have any choice."
"I could kill you and hide your body out in a snow bank. Then I'd have the room all to myself."
"You're not big enough or bad enough to kill me. Besides, I'm too tough to die."
And too lucky, he thought.
When he reflected on all the violent fights he'd had as a kid, all the years he'd spent in Iraq, and then the terrible, brutal conclusion, he often felt as if he was a cat who'd used up six or seven of its lives. He still had a few to go.
The receptionist answered, and he fumbled in a drawer for a pen and paper. He jotted down the address for a boutique that the woman swore Brittney would love. He also got directions to a drugstore so she could purchase what she needed if they were stuck for awhile.
Because he'd known they were coming, he was prepared. He'd packed a bag that was stashed in his trunk. But he'd snatched her away with only the clothes on her back. He had to dress her better, feed her, calm her, then she'd be easier to handle.
While his initial impression of her was that she was a pushover, she proved to be extremely stubborn. She refused to accompany him to do any shopping, and he'd refused to leave her where she might vanish the minute he left. She was so rich; she could buy a car and drive away before he realized that she had.
So he'd made more phone calls, to the desk, to the boutique, to the drugstore. The power of money always fascinated him. Within the hour, he had people delivering what he'd requested.
The lady from the boutique was especially helpful. She'd pronounced herself an apparel "artist" who'd retired from LA, and she had all kinds of fancy stuff for Brittney. She was aware of who Brittney was too, so she hadn't even insisted on being paid.
She dropped off a couple thousand dollars worth of outfits, telling Brittney to wear what she liked and return the rest later. The guy from the drugstore was the same. Her surname was like gold bullion in the town, and all her toiletries were free, a gift from the owner.
Finally, everyone departed, and he and Brittney were alone again. The place looked as if a cyclone had blown through. There were clothes strewn across the bed, bags of cosmetics tossed into the bathroom. Brittney was in a chair by the window, appearing so wretched that she might have just had a root canal.
He studied her, assessing her aloof beauty, her quiet misery. Though she was rich and smart and educated, with a fortune that could provide any sort of life that might make her happy, she was so isolated and forlorn.
He'd told her that he couldn't bear seeing a damsel in distress, that he might become her knight in shining armor, and he hadn't been joking. She seemed so in need of friendship and affection, and he was eager to jump in with both feet, to give her what she required.
When he was with her, his masculine tendencies started firing on all cylinders. He wanted to seduce her, to have wild sex with her, to wake up next to her the morning after. Yet he craved more than that. He was desperate to care for her, to protect her, and if he wasn't cautious, he'd get himself in much deeper than he'd planned.
If he reached out to her and she latched on, it wouldn't be easy to pull away when he was finished with her. He didn't bond or form attachments, and he was always surprised that he'd maintained a connection with Ken—though he credited Ken with the relationship. Ken had refused to leave Matt alone, and he was more like a bad habit that Matt couldn't break.
But with other people, it didn't take sessions on a therapist's couch to recognize his personal shortcomings and how they'd developed.
As a boy, he'd suffered too much loss, and it had warped him, had left him wary. He didn't believe he was able to bond with a woman. It wasn't in his nature.
"Don't make me go to the reception," Brittney glumly said.
She looked so sad that his heart actually flip-flopped in his chest. He went over and clasped hold of her hand.
"What are you so afraid of?" he asked.
"I'm not afraid. I'm just…just…" She halted, pondering, then she grumbled, "Okay, maybe I am afraid."
"Of your brothers?"
"You don't understand what it was like for us."
"Tell me. I'm a good listener."
"I hardly know them. We were never together as kids. My mother enrolled us in boarding schools at the first opportunity. Sometimes, years would pass where I wouldn't talk to them, and when I did…"
Her voice trailed off again, her embarrassment acute.
Ken had already told him this story. As a cop who was constantly broke, Ken had moonlighted as a security guard. He'd often worked for her father, David Merriweather, when David deigned to grace Denver with his exalted presence.
Their
main business offices were downtown in the city center, and Brittney's parents would stop in to host conferences or throw fancy parties at their mansion.
Ken had seen and heard plenty.
"Didn't Dustin send you an invitation?" he inquired.
"Yes, but I don't think he really wants me there."
"That's what has you worried?" He laughed. "I don't know a lot about weddings, but I'm pretty sure the bride and groom don't send an invitation unless they're hoping the person will attend."
"But I've never met his bride. Or Lucas's either. I was in Europe when he got married. I was trapped in a blizzard and couldn't fly out. After I returned, I never bothered to visit them."
"Isn't it time you did?"
"How do I just show up? How do I just walk in like it's no big deal?"
"Honey, you brazen it out. You're the Merriweather princess. Start acting like it."
"I've deliberately avoided their wives. There's been so much terrible gossip about them, and they'll realize that's why I've stayed away. They must hate me."
Ah, the real crux of the problem.
"Who said bad things about them? Your mother?"
"Yes."
"She's an idiot. Why would you take her word for it?"
She chuckled, but miserably. "You make everything sound so easy."
"That's because it is easy. You'll see. And I'll be there, guarding your back. No one will hurt you; I won't let them." He pulled her to her feet. "Come on. Let's get you ready."
She rose too fast, the momentum carrying her forward so that, suddenly, she was pressed against him, her entire body stretched out the length of his.
He had a fleeting instant to feel every delicious inch of her. The pert breasts. The slender waist. The thin, shapely legs.
The air seemed to crack and sizzle with sexual energy. They both sucked in a shocked breath, then lurched away.
She frowned at him, and he frowned too. There was a potent and remarkable temptation brewing between them. So far, he'd done nothing to exacerbate it. Instead, he was working to lower her defenses, nudging her to examine her life, her choices, to recognize that she was unhappy.
If she was confused and distraught, and he was around and available and supportive, she'd be more likely to behave as he wanted her to behave. He'd developed some delicious fantasies that included things like stripping her naked and having raucous, slippery sex in the shower, but she was engaged to her precious Andrew, so he couldn't proceed.
