her gaze to the registration desk. Looking through the vapory form of Sunshine, who was chatting animatedly with another ghostly gal, Belle checked out the tall, lanky man with the head of wild red hair. Didn’t look like your typical just-married type. Dressed in blue jeans and a red fleece pullover with holes at the elbows, he looked more like a ruffian.
Some of the girls floated closer to the desk, commenting on his sporty appearance, lack of a wedding ring, those killer blue eyes. Living ones didn’t hear the girls’ chatter unless one materialized to them—which was a difficult feat and risked a black mark in Miss Arlotta’s Bedpost Book. But once a couple had checked in to, and crossed the threshold of, a girl’s room, she could materialize and speak to them as long as her goal was to spice up their sex life.
The ruffian leaned against the registration desk and Belle marveled at his long, lean legs. Men certainly didn’t wear such muscle-revealin’ jeans in her day.
“Denver Post reserved me a room six months ago,” he said to the clerk.
The deep vibrations of his voice rippled through Belle. He had the kind of rock-bottom voice—low, gravelly—that reminded her of someone. But that’d been a long, long time ago.
“Oh yes!” said the desk clerk, a young girl who’d only been on the job a few weeks. “We’ve been expecting the Post and we’re honored to be part of next month’s feature on five-star honeymoon hotels in the Colorado Rockies and if there’s anything you need or if we can be of any help…”
Yappity yap.
Belle had never been one for women’s chitchat. Not during the thirty-two years she was alive nor the hundred and nine she’d been dead. She turned away and was wiping the pearl handle of her gun against her silk drawers when Sunshine floated up to her.
“That single gentleman is staying in your room, Belle,” she whispered.
What?
Belle quickly floated to the desk and hovered over the computer monitor while gazing at the listing of rooms and names. Because of Belle’s exceptional money-earning skills, Miss Arlotta had dedicated one of the rooms to her, the only girl to receive such an honor. The hotel, having unearthed this fact in their historical research, had named it Belle’s Room.
She gasped.
Andrew Branigan, Denver Post. Belle’s Room.
“Hellfire and—” She glanced up at the attic. “Pardon again,” she murmured, “but how in tarnation am I supposed to earn my last notch if I’m strapped with a single ruff—gentleman?”
Several of the ghostly gals giggled.
Belle shot them a withering look. Except for Rosebud, whose rip-roarin’ smarts had always set her apart, they all stared back looking a tad frightened.
Dang, darn and pshaw!
Taking her old shootin’ stance, Belle straightened her arm and pointed the .44 at the ugly globe. Ignoring the girls’ squeals and threats, she squeezed the trigger. The shot tore loose with a crack and flash, only witnessed on their ghostly realm. The bullet, as always, disappeared into nothingness.
Or into another world.
The world where, Belle believed, she’d someday be. And yearned to go. But with a single guy in her room…Well, hell’s bells, she might as well twiddle her thumbs because she wasn’t goin’ nowhere soon.
“Belle, no—”
“Yes, Miss Arlotta, no cussing. No Big Picnic in the Sky, either.” She tucked her gun in the waistband of her drawers and floated up the stairs, needing some breathing room…
As though that were possible. No breathing, no sex, no cussin’.
Being dead isn’t all it’s cranked up to be.
1
DAPHNE REMINGTON, socialite and bride-to-be, chewed thoughtfully on a strip of raspberry licorice as she scrutinized herself in the full-length dressing-room mirror. “Why do brides have to wear white?” she murmured. “I look so much better in red.”
“It isn’t white, it’s ivory,” countered the salesclerk as she adjusted one of the dress straps. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Besides, after that stunt you pulled several years ago at the Firecracker Ball, I figured you’d never wear red again.”
Over the past few months of Daphne trying on the latest bridal designs at Ever-After, the ultra-exclusive salon in the ultra-exclusive Cherry Creek area of Denver, she and the salesclerk, Cindi, had become chummy enough to drop the me-sales person, you-client facade. Plus, not only were they both pushing thirty and feeling familial pressure to marry, they both confessed to serious bad-boy fantasies about the wild Irish actor Colin Farrell—and if that didn’t bond two women, Daphne wasn’t sure what else could.
“Well, I don’t wear red in public anymore, especially around swimming pools,” Daphne said with a wink, which made Cindi laugh.
That was because everyone who had read the Denver Post three years ago on July fifth had seen a picture of socialite Daphne Remington being hauled out of the Denver Country Club pool, her red silk dress clinging to every inch of her body. The Post had labeled the photo Renegade Remington which had been bad enough to live down, but then the story got picked up by the AP wire and had ended up in papers and magazines across the country with captions like Red-Hot Remington! and Haughty Hot Heiress. Playboy had even approached her to do a special photo shoot.
Her family had not been amused.
Not even when she tried to explain that she’d jumped in on a dare—a handful of guys had collected several thousand dollars, betting she wouldn’t jump into the pool fully clothed. Loving a challenge—and emboldened by several flutes of champagne—she’d kicked off her Manolos and executed a flawless jack-knife.
But did the papers snap a picture of that moment of stylistic perfection? No-o-o. They’d gone for the grossly unflattering shot of her soaked head to toe, her hair matted and tangled, with mascara smeared underneath her eyes like some kind of prizefighter.
The following morning, when Daphne stumbled to the breakfast table to find the front page of the Post on her chair, she’d explained to her parents that despite appearances, she’d personally raised more money at the fundraiser than any other single contributor.
They continued not to be amused.
Which was par for the course. Delores and Harold Remington III, icons of Denver society, had never been pleased with their eldest daughter’s rebellious nature. And as she’d done mega times before, Daphne listened to their lectures about how her great-great-great-great-grandfather Charles “Charlie” Remington had only a quarter in his pocket when he’d staked his mining claim in the Colorado Rockies. How, through hard work and perseverance, he’d not only struck gold but segued his fortune into a real-estate empire. How his offspring were politicians, doctors, lawyers who’d fought for justice and left the world a better place. How her only sibling, the ever-reputable and perfect Iris, was following the path of outstanding, law-abiding Remingtons…
Left unspoken was that rebellious Daphne had still to find the path. Daphne bet even Paris Hilton’s parents gave her more consideration than Daphne’s
