Sweet Talkin' Guy. Colleen Collins

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cola, slice of lemon. And—” she fanned herself “—could you turn down the heat?”

      He rolled his eyes toward the kitchen. “The better half’s always cranking it up. I’ll turn it down.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Anything else?”

      “Lime phosphate,” answered a deep, gravelly male voice. “And an order of chili fries.”

      “Ya got it.” The older man sauntered away.

      Daphne looked over at the man who had settled on the seat next to her. Piercing blue eyes and a thick, unruly mass of rust-golden hair grown unconventionally long. She wondered if that don’t-give-a-damn look was calculated or if he really didn’t care about current styles.

      Although…picking the seat right next to her was definitely calculated. Every other stool was empty.

      “Couldn’t find another seat?” she asked.

      He looked down at hers, then back up. “The one I wanted was taken.”

      A rush of heat blasted through her. “You’re impudent,” she said, which would have sounded outraged if her voice hadn’t gone all breathy. She was seriously out of practice with bad-boy come-ons.

      “My apologies.”

      From the twinkle in his blue eyes, she didn’t believe he was sorry for a millisecond. Not trusting her traitorous voice, she gave a half nod as though accepting his apology.

      He leaned forward and she caught a flash of tie-dyed shirt underneath a red fleece pullover. “Caught your give-me-a-room speech across the street.”

      He was watching? She glanced out the window again at the inn. If he’d been standing on the hotel porch, he could easily have seen through the windows into the lobby, but she doubted he’d heard any of the conversation between her and that obstinate desk clerk.

      Although, on second thought, Daphne recalled briefly making eye contact with some man standing behind her. She’d been so irritated, however, she’d barely registered who he was.

      But now she knew.

      It was him.

      Which meant he was staying there. At her hotel. The place where she desperately wanted to spend one last carefree, anonymous weekend.

      Daphne looked past the man, searching the aisles of beauty items, and at the small pharmacy beyond for a newlywed Mrs. Impudent.

      “I’m alone,” he said, reading her searching gaze.

      Daphne tucked a curl of her hair behind her ear. “That wasn’t necessarily what I was thinking.” Like I’d admit it. She cleared her throat. “But since you mentioned it, seems strange to stay alone at a honeymoon hotel.”

      “Strange?” He cocked a sardonic eyebrow, his eyes glistening. “No, sad. Very, very sad.”

      A feeling rippled between them. A sizzle of attraction that charged the air.

      She became overly aware of his hand on the counter, how close it lay to hers. And she recalled something her great-aunt had once said—that a person’s hands were either muscled like a worker’s or long-fingered like an artist’s. She didn’t want to stare, but…

      His were both.

      “Here ya go!” said the older gentleman, jarring her out of the moment. He set the cola in front of Daphne and a glass filled with a slushy green concoction and a plate piled with a greasy mess in front of the guy. “Anything else I can do for ya?”

      When they shook their heads no, he jabbed his thumb toward the TV where a television reporter spoke earnestly to the camera. “Want it off?”

      Just then, a photo of Daphne flashed on the screen. Well, a photo of her standing in the background behind G.D., who, the reporter was explaining, had just won a major legal case involving corporate fraud. The story segued into G.D.’s possible bid for governor and his pet issues of tourism, reemployment assistance and promotion of Colorado’s agricultural products.

      She’d heard it all before, a hundred times, had even been coached on how to respond to those same topics herself. And damn if Gordo didn’t wind up his legal victory speech with the sound bite, “No consideration, no contract.”

      “Yes, turn it off,” answered Daphne, not wanting to hear more. Didn’t want to be recognized, either, as the woman in the background. But she doubted either man had recognized her. In the photo, her hair was pulled back in a tight chignon, the exact opposite of the curly mass she wore today. And that god-awful dress in the photo was one of those matronly ensembles her mother had insisted she wear. Proper and all that.

      Probably overreacting. Who would look at me in that photo, anyway? The focus is on G.D. Was it her imagination, or did she look smaller standing in the background? Definitely insignificant.

      With a chilling realization, Daphne saw her future. Small, insignificant, always in the background of G. D.’s life.

      Her insides contracted a little.

      The older man flicked a knob and silence descended. After sliding the bill across the Formica counter, he ambled away.

      Andy shoved the plate of goop steaming with spice and grease toward her. “Help yourself.”

      She wrinkled her nose. “What is it?”

      “Fries topped with chili, chopped onions, jalapeños.” With a pleased guttural sound, Andy dipped his fingers into the mess. She wondered if he dove into life like that, indulging himself the way an animal gleefully rolls in the dirt just because it feels good.

      “I’ll pass.”

      “Shame—you’re missing out on something good.” He shoved chili-drenched fries into his mouth. After swallowing, he frowned. “Your perfume—” he nudged the air with his nose “—smells different than before.”

      “How can you possibly smell anything through that…” She glanced at the pile of grease, cheese and fries.

      He took a silver flask out of his pants pocket, shooting her a wry smile. “When I first sat down I could’ve sworn I caught a whiff of roses and not lilacs.”

      “Lilacs?”

      “The scent I caught back at the hotel.”

      He hadn’t been standing close enough to pick up the scent of her perfume. And Daphne wasn’t the type to splash the stuff on, especially not at several hundred dollars an ounce. “It’s called Dulcinea.” G.D. never commented on her perfume. Not anymore.

      “Dulcinea,” he murmured, rolling the word on his tongue. “The personification of Don Quixote’s dream.” He looked at her. “Don Quixote de La Mancha? Ever read the book?”

      “I’m more a contemporary type.” She recalled those antiquated literature assignments at the private school in England. Truly a hideous time in her life, cooped up, wearing those insane school uniforms that made her look like some kind

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