"Oh, for heaven's sake. Would you move?"
"I might—if you tell me where you're going."
"First, I'm calling Andrew. I want him to contact your employer and have you dragged out of here."
"Won't happen," he confidently stated.
"We'll see, won't we?"
"Yes,
we
will."
She shoved at his chest, which was like pushing a block of granite.
"Okay," she grumbled, "you've proved your point. You're bigger and stronger than me, macho man, and I can only proceed if you decide to let me. Now move!"
"Yes, ma'am," he said again.
He was extremely pleased with himself, and he grinned a slow, sexy grin that—if she was more susceptible to that sort of behavior—might have made her knees weak. Then he stepped aside and motioned for her to pass.
She stomped by him and headed to the front parlor where her mother and Mr. Gregory were huddled together and comparing color swatches. They were so absorbed in their task that they didn't notice she'd returned.
She grabbed her cell phone and dialed Andrew several times, getting his voicemail with each attempt. Finally, she slammed her thumb on the off button and hunkered down on the couch. She should at least
try
to participate in her mother's conversation with Mr. Gregory, but she couldn't focus.
She was too distracted by Matt Monroe.
Why would Andrew hire him without informing her?
She was rich, but fairly innocuous, unknown to the masses and unrecognized as anyone important when out in public. She'd always been able to travel and live alone without a guard tagging after her.
Yet suddenly, Andrew felt that security was required. Why? He was two-thousand miles away in New York. If he needed protection, why would Brittney need it too? Why had he dumped vain, obnoxious Matthew Monroe into her lap?
She glanced up, and Monroe was loitering in the hall, leaned against the far wall and watching her.
He winked. The ass!
"I realize you wanted yellow," her mother said as if from a great distance, "but could we—"
"What?" Brittney wrenched her gaze from Monroe and stared at Jacquelyn.
"We discussed having yellow as one of your colors, but I really like this peach."
"I don't care what you choose," Brittney snapped, aware that if Jacquelyn liked peach, then peach it would be. "Mother, did you know that Andrew hired security for me?"
"Yes. He mentioned it last week when he called."
"He never told me."
"You were out."
"The guy is already here."
"Yes, he's been doodling around all morning, checking the locks."
Brittney hadn't previously noticed, but now that she had, she couldn't take her eyes off him. He was lurking like a statue, like a specter, and she wanted him gone.
It didn't appear that she would have any control over her wedding, but she could exert a small bit of authority with Monroe. Despite what he assumed, despite what Andrew had arranged, Monroe was
not
staying.
She marched to the hall, shutting the door on Jacquelyn and Mr. Gregory.
Monroe looked amused, as if he'd been expecting her to be flighty and fickle and she'd proved to be exactly that.
"You!" she barked. "Come with me."
"You're the customer. I'm happy to oblige."
She seized his wrist and started off, even as she wondered what she was hoping to accomplish.
What was her plan? To throw him out bodily? As if she could! She only weighed a hundred and twenty pounds.
They arrived in the mudroom behind the kitchen, and she stopped and whirled around. She'd intended to berate him for his high-handed manner, then push him outside, but somehow, she'd landed herself in precisely the wrong spot. She was wedged into the corner, and he was facing her, standing much too close and overwhelming her with his masculine size and presence.
They froze, both shocked by the abrupt, intimate positioning. The air seemed charged with electricity, a powerful chemistry flowing from him to her.
He felt it too, and he was as disconcerted as she was. A frown marred his brow. He studied her eyes, then her mouth, giving her the distinct sense that he was thinking about kissing her. Which was crazy. But still, she was certain the notion was raging through his head.
Would he dare? Would she let him?
She laid her palms on his broad chest and shoved hard. Thankfully, he stepped away without argument. With the extra space between them, the frenetic atmosphere diminished, but it didn't vanish altogether.
If he was a magnet, she was metal. She had to grab onto a nearby shelf to keep from rubbing up against him and purring like a contented cat.
"I don't want you here," she said.
"I realize you don't."
"I don't want you following me. I don't want you watching me. I don't want you providing your unbearable brand of security."
"All right."
He grinned as if it was all a big joke, and his disregard ignited her temper so that she was positively rippling with fury. She couldn't remember when she'd last been so incensed. She couldn't remember when she'd ever felt so alive.
"Why are you laughing at me?" she seethed.
"I'm not laughing," he insisted, but he was. Evidently, he thought she was hilarious.
"You're incredibly impressed with yourself."
"I definitely am."
"Well, I'm not, and I don't need you prowling the halls and making my blood boil every two seconds."
"Your blood's boiling? Am I having that much of an effect on you? What would dear old Andrew think if he knew?"
"Shut up."
"Your wish is my command." He made an insufferable motion over his lips as if he'd turned a key in a lock.
"Go away," she ordered. "Go away and don't come back." She yanked open the door. "If I catch you sniffing after me again, I'll call the police and have you arrested."
"May I say something?" he asked.
"No, you may not."
He spoke anyway. "Your fiancé signed a contract with Talbot Security that authorizes us to be here. If you call the police, they'll just release me."
"That may be, but before you're set loose, I'll have the extreme pleasure of seeing you in handcuffs for a few minutes." She flashed a satisfied smile and pushed him out onto the porch. "Goodbye."
"Goodbye," he responded and off he went.
He loped down the stairs and out to the driveway. For such a large man, he was particularly graceful and light on his feet, moving with the natural ease of a dancer or wide receiver.
He disappeared around the corner, and she shuddered with relief. Feeling as if she'd dodged a bullet, she headed off to rejoin her mother.
* * *
"Do you have her?"
"No."
Matt pressed the phone to his ear as he shifted on the seat of his restored '66 Mustang. It was the only item of value he'd ever owned.
He was parked across the street from the Merriweather mansion, the front windows in full view, the drapes open. Through his binoculars, he could peer down the long yard as Brittney entered the living room and flopped onto the sofa.
"But you met her?"
"Yup," he replied.
"What's she like?"
"Pretty, snooty, unhappy. Much too thin. She looks like a damned Sri Lankan refugee."
"Why is she so skinny?"
"Because she's miserable—but she doesn't realize that she is."
"Will she go through with the wedding?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say
yes
. Her mother seems intent on it happening, and I can't see Brittney bucking the woman's authority. Mrs. Merriweather is a tyrant, and I doubt Brittney has ever stood up to her."
"So what's your plan? Why didn't you grab her when you had the chance?"
"Give me a few days. I'm betting I can convince her to leave with me of her own accord. We wouldn't have to resort to any harsh measures."
"You're counting on the old Monroe charm?"
"It hasn't failed me yet. The sparks are flying between us, my man. If I can't persuade her to run off with me, nobody can."
A resigned sigh wheezed in the phone. "Okay. You can have a week, but that's it. If you haven't finished it by then, we're doing it my way."
"Like your idea is better," Matt scoffed.
"One week."
"Yeah, yeah, one week. I heard you the first time."
He hung up and chuckled to himself.
Poor Brittney Merriweather. Poor little, unloved rich girl.
She was already wary of Matt, and she had every reason to be suspicious. After he was through with her, she would never be the same again.
He liked her more than he'd imagined he would, but he hated wealthy people, and he had to remember that fact. If he left her sad, if he left her life in shambles, she had the money to buy herself some therapy and get over it.
Whatever was coming toward her, it couldn't be stopped. Some things were meant to be, and this was one of them. It was like a bad train wreck that couldn't be avoided, and he wouldn't suffer an ounce of guilt or regret over what he was about to do.
CHAPTER TWO
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"About what?"
"That you'd hired security."
"I told your mother."
Brittney bit down the terse response that was begging to spill out.
She was on the phone with Andrew. He was in New York, and she was in Denver, trapped in wedding prep hell and having to deal with her mother every waking minute.
When she'd flown to Colorado, she'd planned a two week trip, where she'd arranged to interview caterers and florists. Fourteen days was such a short amount of time. She'd thought she could tolerate Jacquelyn for the brief interval, but she was already feeling as if she couldn't breathe and longing to escape her mother's clutches.
She was angry with Andrew for being in New York, for waiting twenty-four hours before he'd returned her call. She was angry with herself for traveling alone to Denver, for not bringing Andrew to serve as a barrier against Jacquelyn's constant barbs. She was angry at her brothers for not visiting her.
They both knew she was in the city, but neither of them would stop by the mansion while Jacquelyn was in residence. Their rift with her was that horrid.
Brittney was particularly furious with her brother, Dustin. He was getting married over the weekend, in a small, private ceremony up in the high country.
She'd been invited, but didn't see how she could attend.
Jacquelyn had adamantly insisted that Brittney ignore the event as she, Jacquelyn, intended to do. Brittney was in an untenable position, caught between her mother's snobbery and her brother's unshakeable resolve to marry a woman their mother loathed.
If Brittney went to the wedding, her mother would never forgive her. If Brittney stayed away, her brother would never forgive her.
She was incensed over her mother's arrogance and how it had split the family apart. Jacquelyn was such a cold and callous person. She'd never exhibited any maternal tendencies toward her three children, and her attitude hadn't softened as she'd aged.
With Brittney's father having passed away, she felt that everyone should be trying extra hard to get along, to get closer. But instead, everyone was fighting more than ever.
"Mother never mentioned the security guard," she peevishly said to Andrew. "He showed up with no warning."
"I'm sorry. I assumed she'd inform you."
"I don't need him watching over me."
"Well, I hope to fly out there next week, and if I can make it, I'll be more comfortable if we have someone local in place."
"Why?"
"I always have security."
"I never noticed."
"That's because they've been discreet. I didn't want to worry you."
"Why would I worry? What aren't you telling me?"
"I simply like to be cautious."
In the background, people were speaking to him. He pulled the phone from his ear, his hand over the receiver, and there was a lengthy period where he was distracted.
Her temper flared, and she was confused by her bad mood. He was an international financier. He had more important problems than the petty details of their wedding or Brittney's stupid spats with her mother.
She knew that fact and understood that fact, but often, she seemed to be an afterthought, which left her wondering why he was marrying her.
He claimed he was madly in love with her, that he'd fallen for her the moment they'd met. She claimed she was in love too, but she wasn't. Not really.
She would never let herself be swept away by potent emotion for a man. She didn't think she was
capable
of that sort of powerful sentiment. In her turbulent childhood, spent at lonely boarding schools because her mother had refused to have her at home, she'd learned to tamp down her feelings.