"You're about to be a bride. You should be dancing for joy."
"I'm fine. I'm just a little stressed out."
"So chuck it all and elope to Vegas. Tell your fiancé to meet you there. You stroll into a chapel, and it's all over in a matter of minutes. The pressure will vanish like that." He snapped his fingers. "Just so long as you don't invite your mother."
She laughed, humored by how he made it sound so easy. But she was Brittney Merriweather, the wealthy heiress he kept reminding her she was. Nothing about her marriage could be simple or quick.
He shifted nearer, his lips brushing her hair, and she shivered, but not from the cool temperature. She was absolutely terrified that he was about to kiss her. And then what would follow?
She was engaged, for pity's sake. She was in Denver to plan her wedding. Yet she was out in the middle of nowhere with a total stranger and wondering what it would be like to kiss him. She'd been concerned over the fact that she was wretchedly unhappy, but apparently, she was crazy too.
"Do you know what I think?" he said.
"What do you
think
?"
"I don't think you want to get married."
He'd voiced her worst fear, and she shook her head in denial.
"Yes, I do."
"Or if you
do
want to get married someday, it's not to this Andrew guy."
"Where do you come by these ridiculous ideas about me?"
"It's okay to back out. The world will keep spinning."
She laughed again to cover her discomfort. She wasn't about to have this conversation. Ever.
"I should probably be going," she said.
She could see every detail of his handsome face: the tiny black flecks in the blue of his eyes, a faded scar on his temple, a cut on his chin where he'd nicked himself shaving.
If she moved the slightest inch, she could touch her lips to his, and for a wild, insane moment, she seriously considered it. He seemed so strong and so tough, and he had broad shoulders, the kind a female could lean on when she was weary or afraid.
He understood her, and she could confide in him, could lay her troubles at his door. He'd listen and help and she'd be better off, but she couldn't imagine proceeding.
She was emotionally drained, and she needed to return to the mansion, to eat, bathe, and relax with a glass of wine. Then maybe she'd stop feeling sorry for herself.
She scooted around and slid to her feet, but didn't walk away. She liked being close to him. The odd energy she'd noticed the day before was surging between them again. She was calmer with him by her side; she felt less lost and alone.
He rested his hand on her waist, and even through the fabric of her shirt, she was soothed by the warmth of his skin. She was suffering from that peculiar urge again to press her body to his. But why would she?
She was pretty sure she didn't like him. He was rude and bossy and arrogant, yet she was attracted to him as she'd never been to another man. For an engaged woman, it was a dangerous realization. What was wrong with her?
She stepped away and blurted, "Why are you being so nice to me?"
"Hey, I'm a nice guy. It's just my nature."
She scoffed. "Now look who's lying."
"You don't think I'm
nice
?"
He pouted, feigning hurt, and she chuckled. "I don't know what I
think
about you. I'm still trying to decide. Usually when a man throws himself into my path as you have, he wants something from me. That being my money."
His fake pout turned to a genuine scowl. "You're worried that I'm after your money?"
"It wouldn't be the first time."
"Honey"—the word rolled deliciously off his tongue, and she didn't correct him as she had previously—"I hate rich people, so your fortune is safe from me."
"You
hate
rich people? What an absurd comment."
"Why? It's true."
"Why do you hate rich people?"
"None of your business."
"You are the strangest man."
"And you are the strangest woman."
"Ha! I'm very, very normal."
"Oh, please. Are you kidding me? No one could be raised with your kind of wealth and privilege and be normal. It's impossible."
"Don't be mean."
"I'm not being mean. I'm being honest."
"I like you better when you're being nice."
"Okay." His gaze grew tender and sympathetic. "I can't stand to see you so lonely and upset."
"Me? Lonely? Get real."
"You're lonely and lost and in desperate need of rescue."
"Rescue from what?"
"From whatever it is that has you frowning all the time."
She frowned. "I don't frown all the time."
"I've always been a sucker for a damsel in distress." He shrugged. "When I'm around you, all my chivalrous instincts ignite. If I'm not careful, I'll become your knight in shining armor."
"I don't need a knight in shining armor."
"You might be surprised by what you need."
She couldn't abide the affectionate gleam in his eye. It made her feel as if she actually was the helpless, pathetic creature he deemed her to be. She yanked away and went to the car, climbed in and slammed the door.
He sat on the rock wall, watching her, his attention probing and astute, and she couldn't bear to imagine what he must be thinking.
She called out the window, "Could we go?"
He hesitated as if he might say something he'd been dying to say, but he tamped it down. He nodded and stood, walked over and slid in.
He jammed the key in the ignition and sped out of the lot, gravel spitting from the tires. The loud music blared, preventing further conversation as they wound down out of the foothills and returned to the city.
Soon, they pulled into the driveway at the mansion. He stopped under the portico at the side of the house, and as she stepped out, he leaned across the seat.
"Your brother is getting married on Saturday," he said, halting her in her tracks.
"Yes, he is," she guardedly replied.
"Are you going? If you are, I have to make some arrangements."
"What kind of arrangements?"
"I need to know how long we'll be gone, when we'll leave, and when we'll be back."
"Because…you're intending to come with me?"
"Yes. Have you hired a car and driver? Or are you renting a car and driving yourself? I can drive you—if you want. I'd rather do it that way."
She tried to envision being trapped in a car with him for several hours, heading up into the high country to the old mining town of Gold Creek where the ceremony was being held.
She'd never been to Gold Creek, but it was where her great, great grandfather had struck gold. They still owned most of the town, but it had fallen into decline after the mines were shuttered.
Dustin and his bride, Amy Dane, planned to remodel and repair and restore it to the prior glory of the mining heydays.
On the one hand, Brittney hungered to see the spot where so much of the Merriweather's history had begun. She was anxious to meet Dustin's new family and attend his wedding. But on the other hand, she was afraid to go, afraid to aggravate her mother and afraid to join Dustin for such an important event.
She, Dustin, and Lucas had been raised like orphans in separate boarding schools. They'd spent rare occasions together as children, and they'd erected walls to protect themselves from the slings and arrows of their isolated existences.
Though she yearned to be closer to her two brothers, they had no mutual experiences that were typical for siblings, so there was no foundation to build on. Her brothers were like polite strangers who treated her with unwavering courtesy and civility, but she had no clue how to interact with them. As an adult, her few, measly attempts at friendship had been rebuffed.
She would never travel to Gold Creek with Matthew Monroe, because she would never let him witness the level of dysfunction in her family. She'd skipped Lucas's wedding, hadn't met his notorious, scandal-ridden wife, Faith Benjamin, who had changed his life and made him so happy.
As for Dustin, she'd never been invited to his home in Los Angeles, had never met his fiancée, Amy Dane. Brittney had no idea where he was living in Gold Creek and had never taken the time to find out.
These were shameful, embarrassing secrets, and Matthew Monroe would never be allowed to learn any of them.
"I'm not going to Dustin's wedding," she said.
"Why?"
"I'm just not."
"But he's your brother."
"Yes, he is."
"That's the craziest damn thing I ever heard," he muttered. "Who told you not to go? Your dingbat mother? Why would you listen to her?"
She sucked in a shocked breath. While they were up in the mountains, he'd been exceedingly kind, so she'd imbued him with all sorts of traits he didn't possess.
She'd forgotten that he could be an insensitive and overbearing jerk, and she had to remember what he was really like. She had to keep her distance and not be swayed by a handsome face and a few demonstrations of empathy.
"You presume on our acquaintance, Mr. Monroe," she furiously fumed, "and your comment was out of line."
"Don't play the haughty princess with me," he retorted. "It won't get you anywhere."
"You were hired—against my express wishes—to provide security. Other than your participation in that paltry role, my family is none of your business."
"I had a brother once," he surprised her by saying. "He was killed in a car wreck when he was nineteen. I'll never have a chance to attend his wedding. You have one who—at this very moment—is alive and well and marrying up in the high country, and you're too damn arrogant to help him celebrate. Pardon me if I find that to be outrageous behavior."
She was so angry, she was shaking.
"How dare you judge me, Mr. Monroe."
"Somebody should."
"Well, it's never going to be you."
She shut the door with a determined click, spun, and went inside.
CHAPTER THREE
"What do you expect me to do?"
"Lie and cheat and conceal. Behave as you always have, and we'll beat this."
Andrew Fitzroy-Jones gripped his phone in his fist as he listened to his uncle's sage advice. His father would never have said such a thing, but then, his father was deceased. He and his uncle had built up the company to what it was, taking it from a small investment firm to the pinnacles of the financial world.
They saw eye to eye on how business should be conducted, and they'd engaged in practices his father would never have countenanced. Dear old dad had been absurdly ethical, so he'd never have found himself in the type of jam where Andrew was currently mired.
He hit the off button and threw the phone across his office. It smashed against the wall and broke into a dozen pieces. His secretary heard the commotion. She knocked and poked her head in.
"Are you all right, sir?"
"I dropped my phone again. Could you get me another?"
"I'll have it ready in a jiffy."
Lately, he'd broken numerous phones, so she kept a stash of new ones in her desk.
She was an elderly woman who used antiquated words like
jiffy
and
neat.
While others in his position might have fired her and hired a young, beautiful female, she suited his needs.
She was extremely loyal and reminded him of a nostalgic time when a man could prosper without having his every motive questioned, when a man could earn a fortune without being treated as if it was a crime.
He stared out the window at the New York skyline, and he could see his reflection in the glass. He was attired as befitted his exclusive station in life, but stress was taking its toll.
His blond hair was graying; he had bags under his eyes and pout lines bracketing his mouth. He was too nervous to eat, which had proved to be a great diet. He'd lost so much weight that his once perfectly-tailored clothes flopped loosely on his six-foot frame.
"Have my car brought around, would you?" he told her. "And notify security that I'm leaving."
"Will do."
"I won't be back until tomorrow morning."
"Have a terrific evening, sir."
"I plan on it."
He swept by her and stormed to the executive elevator that ensured he never had to stand with any common person while traveling the thirty floors to the street. But anymore, he couldn't bear to discover what other captain of industry might be stuck in the private elevator with him.
Should someone else be present, he'd have to chat and smile and pretend that all was fine. So far, he'd managed to hide his fiscal troubles, but he couldn't juggle that ball forever. Eventually, it would come crashing down, especially now that there were rumors of a grand jury having been impaneled.