"You have the worst taste in men, and you never understood how to get what you want from them."
"What should I
want
from a man?"
"See? You don't have a clue, which is why there was no hope for you with Chad. We should talk about Rick, too. It's obvious you're in way over your head again."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence."
Amy gazed around the restaurant, deciding she'd give anything in the world to vanish. Maybe if she murmured a fervent enough prayer, God would strike her dead and put her out of her misery.
She'd met Chad when he'd first arrived in Gold Creek. He'd stopped by the newspaper office, asking about some articles Amy had written on the historic downtown area.
They'd gone to dinner a few times, had gone to the movies. The choices for socialization in Gold Creek were extremely limited, so it had been refreshing to run across a single man who actually had money to pay the bill when the meal was over.
However, his overbearing tendencies had been instantly apparent, so she wouldn't have continued with him for long. The reason she'd caught him in bed with Pamela was that she'd been researching Lucas Merriweather, and she'd discovered that Chad was the developer who was buying the property.
She'd rushed to confront him at the house he'd rented, only to stumble on her naked mother lying on top of him.
Just then, Chad Paltrow hustled in, and of course, every head turned as he swept by. Dressed in a suit that had to have cost thousands of dollars, he exuded wealth, power, and success. He was good looking, and he knew it. At age thirty, he still had all his brown hair, and his face had some lines, but they enhanced his charisma rather than detracting from it.
But his handsome features couldn't mask his greed or cunning, although he hadn't gotten rich from any great business acumen.
He was a trust fund baby, having inherited his fortune from his dad who'd built ski resorts all over the West. Yet he liked to act as if he'd earned every penny through strenuous endeavor and brilliant strategizing.
"Sorry I'm late," he said as he walked over to Pamela and kissed her on the cheek.
"Don't worry about it. Amy and I were chatting."
He didn't bother to greet Amy, but he pulled out a chair, sat down, and leaned over the table. His eyes were ablaze with a salesman's zeal.
"You won't believe who I bumped into out in the lobby." He was stern, whispering.
"Who?" Pamela asked.
"Dustin Merriweather."
"What's he doing in Gold Creek?" Amy inquired.
"He's scoping out the properties he intends to sell me. I guess his brother, Lucas, is busy, so Dustin is taking care of it."
"Isn't that sweet?" Amy smiled a fake, sickly smile.
"He's with a gorgeous woman who has to be an actress or model. Her name is Chantal."
"I've heard of Chantal." Pamela gushed as if she might swoon. "She had a spread in Vogue last month."
Chad pointed a condemning finger at Amy. "I invited them to join us for supper, so you need to split."
"If he's coming in, I'm staying. I have a few questions for him."
"You're
not
staying." Chad gestured with his thumb toward a rear door through which a waiter had disappeared. "Hustle your ass into the kitchen and see if there's a back exit you can use." Amy didn't budge, and he barked, "Now, Amy. Go."
"Screw you, Chad. You're not my father or my babysitter. You don't get to order me around."
"You either go on your own, or I'll drag you out," Chad threatened. "You're not skewing this deal for me with a bunch of attitude."
At their being on the edge of a quarrel, Pamela was panicked. In any dispute she always sided with the man.
She shifted forward, whispering, too. "Amy, don't cause a fuss. Just do as he says. We'll talk about it later."
Amy didn't know what might have happened—if she'd have obeyed Chad like a whipped puppy—but any decision was averted by commotion at the door. The hostess hustled in, heads turned again, and frantic murmuring commenced.
Chantal entered like a queen, and diners were agog at the sight. She was six feet tall, striking and slender, with straight black hair that hung to her butt. Her riveting, violet-colored eyes swept with disdain over all of them.
Everyone stared. Everyone but Amy. She was gaping at the man with her, a man who was just as fascinating and just as mesmerizing.
Rick. David. Dustin Merriweather.
The rat!
How could he trick her like that! How could he toy with her! He had to have been aware of who she was all along. He'd probably been laughing the whole time. And what a pitiful reporter she was! She'd been loafing in her apartment and kissing the enemy, but too stupid to realize it.
A horrid thought occurred to her: He'd offered her money to smooth over the loss of her job. Was he the one who had bought the paper? Was he the one who had shut it down and blithely tossed her and Marge out of work?
Of course, he was! Who else would have done it?
She was livid.
Pamela frowned. "Amy, isn't that…Rick?"
Amy started to mutter, "Of all the dirty, rotten, lowdown, sleazy, creepy—"
"You know him?" Chad interrupted.
"Yes, I know him," Amy spat.
Chad was perplexed and Pamela confused. As to Amy, she hadn't wanted to leave when Chad had told her to, but she was anxious to leave now. If she stayed, she'd make a fool of herself by shouting epithets or punching somebody.
She stood, planning to storm out the back as Chad had insisted, but luck was against her.
When she rose to her feet, Merriweather spun and looked directly at her. Not by the smallest, tiniest, most minute inch did he give any sign that he recognized her.
The bastard!
His cool disregard fueled her fury. To heck with the back door. She was walking out the front, and Merriweather could get out of her way or she'd simply run him over.
"Amy," her mother hissed. "Sit down."
"I've lost my appetite."
"Amy!" Chad grumbled. "What's going on, Pamela?"
"What's going
on
"—Amy responded for her, being overly loud so the other diners would hear—"is that I don't care for the company in this restaurant. I'd rather starve than eat with Dustin Merriweather."
"Yeah, well," Chad retorted, "I'm sure he feels the same about eating with you."
Amy squared her shoulders and marched toward them. Since Chantal and Merriweather were still standing in the threshold, posed like royalty, she couldn't exit without pushing past them.
But she wouldn't mind doing a little pushing. If she wound up crushing the heel of her boot into Merriweather's smug face, she wouldn't mind that, either.
Merriweather watched her come, his unruffled expression not changing a bit, which infuriated her even more. Was he made of stone? Had he no heart?
No!
was the resounding answer. He was a Merriweather. He had no heart.
"Hello,
David
," she said as she neared. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Hello, Amy."
A slash of color reddened his cheeks so maybe he was capable of some shame.
Chantal glanced over, and her contempt for mere mortals was very clear. Her regal gaze traveled down Amy's body, taking in her disheveled clothes. For a fleeting second, Amy wished she had more of Pamela's flare. Or at least a few inches of her height.
"Who is that?" Chantal asked Merriweather, as if Amy was a street urchin begging for change. "Why is she talking to us?"
"She's that reporter from the paper—the one who writes all that derogatory stuff about my brother."
Chantal wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I wouldn't consider her much of a threat."
"No, not a threat," Merriweather had the gall to reply, "but definitely a nuisance."
Chantal simpered and laughed, and Amy was so disgusted that she felt like gagging. She wanted to hurl a snide and cutting remark, but on the spur of the moment, she couldn't think of any comment that would be sufficiently sarcastic.
She peered up at Chantal.
"You should keep an eye on your boyfriend," Amy advised her, giving Merriweather a scathing look. "There's a rumor circulating that he spends his mornings in local girl's apartments doing things he shouldn't." She smiled sweetly. "Just thought you'd like to know."
"What did you say?" Chantal hissed.
"He's a dog. Keep him on a leash."
Chantal sucked in an enraged breath. Merriweather snorted with cocky amusement.
Amy shoved by them, hurried outside, and ran all the way home.
* * *
"We have to rein in Amy's behavior."
"What would you suggest we try?"
"Put a contract out on her?"
"Not funny, Chad."
Pamela was on the couch in their rented house, and Chad was over by the front window, staring out at the paltry streets of Gold Creek. He had big plans for the dreary community and was likely envisioning how it would be when he was through with it.
Drink in hand, his jacket off, tie loose, he appeared to be exactly what he was: a rich, powerful man who was king of his world.
And Pamela had glommed onto him like a leech on a thigh.
She'd met him when she'd driven up to Gold Creek at the end of May. The minute Amy had introduced them, she'd realized that he was with the wrong woman, and she'd suffered no guilt in taking him away from her daughter.
Amy had no idea how to handle a guy like Chad. She was too nice, too trusting, and lucky that Pam had saved her from misery. Amy liked people more than she should, probably a product of her being shuttled around among Pam's acquaintances when she was a kid. If she'd continued on with Chad, she'd have fallen in love with him, and eventually, he'd have dropped her, and it would have broken her heart.
Pamela had done her a favor by intervening.
She still couldn't figure out what had brought her to Colorado. She'd been living in Vegas, had been despondent and out of sorts. While she hated Gold Creek and had fled it at the earliest opportunity, she occasionally found herself drawn back. Especially with Amy having never left. The twins were here, too, though she rarely saw them and was adamant about keeping her distance.
They were fine with Amy, better off than they would ever be with Pamela, and she wasn't about to stir that pot.
Typically, she thought she didn't
want
to see any of them, but every once in awhile—when she was feeling particularly low—she'd wonder how they were faring. Before she knew it, she'd visit Gold Creek, but the trips always ended up being much shorter than she intended.
Whenever she turned her car off the main highway and drove into the narrow canyon, she couldn't breathe, as if she was trapped and would never escape.
The notion made her shudder with dread, and to hide her unease, she kicked off her heels and tugged a knitted afghan over her feet.
"She can't wreck this deal," Chad was venting.
"If you think she could, you give her too much credit."
"I'm serious, Pam."
"I know you are."
"I have too much money invested. She's got to stop harping on this. She has to leave the Merriweathers alone."
"I'll talk to her."
"She assumes she can cross me—simply because we dated a few times."
"She doesn't assume that, at all. Her mind doesn't work that way."
"She's a damn flake; she's crazy and never notices the damage she's causing."
Usually, he was very handsome, but when he was angry, his wasn't quite so attractive. His lips pursed and his eyes narrowed, and she could imagine how he'd been as a boy when throwing a tantrum. It was obvious his mother had spoiled him. He was too used to having people fawn over him.
Of course all males were the same in that. She'd had three husbands, two of them by the age of twenty-five, and Chad would be the fourth—not that he'd been apprised of her past. He was too self-absorbed. He believed she was thirty, that she'd never been married, and she would never tell him the truth. Veracity wasn't on the list of things that fostered romance.
She wished he'd shut the hell up and quit whining. He had everything a man could ever want: money, a rich family, power. Why waste energy worrying about someone as insignificant as Amy?
"I don't know how the two of you could possibly be related," he said.
"I hear that a lot."
"Are you sure she's your sister."
"Very sure."
"They didn't switch babies at the hospital?"
Pamela chuckled. "No."
"She doesn't even look like you."
Thank God
, Pamela mused. Their disparities in height and weight helped her to preserve the charade that they were sisters rather than mother and daughter.
Behind him, she could see her reflection in the window. She was stunning, but in a stark, glamorous way, and her beauty wasn't an accident. Every second was spent maintaining the ruse that she was young and always would be.