Marry Me (25 page)

She was no fool. Forty-two wasn't thirty. If Chad ever learned her true age, he'd drop her in a heartbeat, and with each passing year, it was getting harder to find a man worth having, so she might not be able to replace him. Despite his many flaws, she had no intention of ever letting him go.

"Merriweather told me," Chad said, "that he bought the newspaper and closed it."

"Amy worked there. Is she out of a job?"

"Yes, but what did she expect? She can't butt her nose into a wealthy man's business and think there won't be consequences."

"What will become of her?"

"Who cares? Not me."

A flicker of anxiety slithered through her. How would Amy earn an income? What about the twins? If Amy had to apply for unemployment, how would she support them? The checks only lasted a few months. What would happen after her benefits ran out?

But as quickly as concern flooded her, she shook it away.

Chad was right. Amy's problems were of her own making. Pamela had warned her not to tangle with the Merriweathers. Look where it had landed her!

"She lives in the old mansion," Pamela pointed out.

"Yes, she does, and it's the first one scheduled for remodel after the sale is finalized."

"So she'll lose her housing."

"Yes, she will," he repeated, "and here is what you have to do."

"Me? Why do I have to do anything?"

"She's your sister, Pamela, and she's giving me a headache."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not waiting until the sale is final. I want her out of that apartment and out of this town—before she has a chance to stir any more trouble."

"She doesn't have the money to leave."

"Then I'll offer her some cash to cover her expenses, but you have to convince her to go."

Or what?
Pamela almost asked.

He was issuing an ultimatum, which was aggravating in the extreme. He liked to snap his fingers and watch as underlings jumped to carry out his wishes. In that regard, she was no different than a clerk or secretary, and she knew her role. It was to keep him happy.

He could marry any woman he chose, and if she hoped to ever receive an engagement ring from him, she had to tread cautiously.

"I'll speak with her," she said.

"Good. Make sure she listens. Make sure she understands my position."

"I will," she curtly declared.

She was so weary of Amy and how her antics were impacting Pamela's relationship with Chad. When Pam was with him, she didn't want him thinking about Amy, at all.

She slid off the couch and went over to him, her hands slipping around his waist as she snuggled herself to his back.

"Now then," she purred, "can we please talk about something besides Amy?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Come to the bedroom, and I'll show you."

He was a sex fiend, and with ease, she dragged him away.

* * *

"When can we get out of here?"

"I'll try for tomorrow."

Chantal sat at the dressing table in her bathroom. Dustin was behind her, lounged against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. She was studying his reflection in the mirror as she rubbed lotion on her thighs.

He was so strange and brooding. Sometimes, he seemed obsessed and couldn't get enough of her, and other times—like now—he seemed bored silly, as if he might never call her again once they parted in Denver.

They had adjoining suites, with him insisting he needed his own. If he fell asleep in her bed, she'd wake to find that he'd left, earning him the honor of being the most aggravating man she'd ever met.

Her robe was open, the entire center of her torso visible, but he might have been staring at a block of wood.

"I still don't see why we couldn't have gone this afternoon."

He shrugged, but didn't provide a suitable answer. "You have to be in LA on Monday?"

"Yes, in the morning."

"So we have to leave by Saturday at the latest."

Saturday!
The notion of staying in the dismal town—where there wasn't even a nail salon—for another three days was nauseating. It was just cold temperatures and crisp mountain air and stark, desolate scenery. How did he tolerate it?

She nearly snapped at him, but had the sense to bite her tongue. If she exhibited any attitude around him, he never complained. She simply wouldn't hear from him for weeks.

"I hate it that we didn't make it down to Aspen," she said.

"Maybe next time."

Everything with him was
maybe
. Maybe next time. Maybe never.

His ambivalence drove her nuts, but she took some solace in his comment that there would be a "next" visit to Colorado. That indicated he would travel with her in the future. Though he was renowned for flying his mistresses off to exotic locales, this was the first occasion where he'd asked
her
to accompany him, and she was trying to be optimistic about the invitation. But what was his point? He sent such mixed signals that it was impossible to figure them out.

She'd been seeing him for six months. He'd come on hot, and they'd spend every second together, then he'd vanish, and it would be silence for an eternity. Then he'd pop up again, and they'd fall right back into their pattern.

She didn't know why she put up with him. With any other guy, she'd have told him to go screw himself, but she'd done her research and had learned every pertinent detail about him.

He dated constantly, and he had dated
her
longer than anybody else. It had to mean something, didn't it? He was old money.
Old
money, and she was desperate to get her hands on some of it.

While she'd made a name for herself as a model, she wasn't certain her career would ever soar in the manner she'd planned. She was already twenty-five and hadn't caught her big break, so she was taking acting lessons and expanding her horizons in that direction. He’d coughed up the cash that created two reality TV shows, and her relationship with him ought to land her on a show. It was only fair.

If she couldn't convince him to force the producer to cast her, she would definitely be available if he wanted to marry her. She would be the ideal Hollywood wife, and he could supply the lifestyle she might never be able to attain on her own. She would wring a proposal out of him, or she would die trying!

"Was that snotty pest at the restaurant," she said, "really that Amy Dane person?"

"The resident trouble-maker in the flesh."

"I can't believe you let her speak to me that way."

She was still incensed over his handling of the whole situation. After Dane had huffed out, Chantal had questioned him about her snide accusations, but he wouldn't discuss it. And of course, with their dining at Chad Paltrow's table, there had been no chance for a private conversation.

She was thoroughly steamed, which seemed to be her regular condition when they were together. If they wed, she'd end up murdering him before the first month was over.

"How did I
let
her speak to you?" he asked.

"She was rude and sarcastic."

"Sticks and stones, Chantal. You're nine inches taller than she is and a hundred years older in experience and sophistication. You were perfectly capable of holding your own without my coming to your rescue."

At his lack of outrage, she sniffed with offense. "I hope we don't bump into her again."

"I'm positive she feels the same about us."

She bristled with indignation.

He was in an odd mood, but then, he was always in an odd mood. In the past few days, he'd been in more of a funk than ever. Maybe it was his return to his roots. It had to be difficult, visiting the spot where so much of his family's history had started. Ghosts might be haunting him.

The best way to distract him was with a bout of wild, vigorous sex. He had the stamina of a bull, and she could match him in prowess and energy.

She sauntered over to him, the lapels of her robe falling away so he had a full view of what advertisers paid thousands of dollars to photograph.

He watched her approach, but was completely unmoved.

She snuggled herself to him and murmured, "Let's go to bed."

When he didn't agree immediately, her heart pounded with anxiety. If there was one thing she could count on with him, it was his interest in sex. If he was growing bored, how would she hold on to him?

He considered, then ultimately said, "I don't think so."

"Why not? What's wrong?"

"I'm…antsy, I guess. I'm going to take a walk."

"Now?" There was a whine in her voice that she hated, but she couldn't tamp it down. "It's almost midnight, and it's snowing."

"I'll survive. I come from hardy pioneer stock, remember?"

He slipped out of her arms and went to the door.

"What am I supposed to do while you're gone?"

"I don't know. Sleep?"

"Will you join me when you get back?"

"Probably not. I might be really late."

"Would you please promise me that we can leave tomorrow?"

"We'll see."

He left, and she stomped over to her bed, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. But he'd already slinked out, so he missed her childish display.

"Asshole," she muttered.

She flopped down on the mattress and stared at the fire in the fireplace.

Since they'd arrived in Gold Creek, nothing had been the same between them. If she could drag him out of the awful town, they would be fine again.

First thing in the morning, they were heading out, and she didn't care what he said or how he tried to delay. They were going and that was that.

She would push him to finalize the sale—she might even phone Chad Paltrow and discuss how they could hurry it along. Then she and Dustin would fly home to LA, and they would never have to return to Colorado.

Her plan formed, she grinned with satisfaction and clicked off the light.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dustin arrived at the landing outside Amy's apartment.

It was after midnight, and he had no idea why he was there. When he'd fled his warm, welcoming hotel, as well as a perfumed, lotioned, and naked Chantal, he'd told himself that he was going for a stroll. But the moment he'd started up the hill, it had become clear that he had a destination in mind.

From out on the sidewalk, he hadn't been sure which window was hers, but her living room light had seemed to be on.

Hoping she was still awake, he knocked very quietly, then waited and waited, but he didn't hear any footsteps approaching. He knocked again and waited again, and he had to consider that she was asleep and had simply forgotten to turn off the lamp.

He should have spun and left—what was he expecting to accomplish anyway?—but he grabbed hold of the knob. He didn't know how he could have predicted that the door would be unlocked, but it was.

The insane woman! What was she thinking? That ax murderer she was so worried about could stroll in. Didn't she have any better sense?

Of course, she didn't. She was flighty and sassy and imprudently reckless—all the traits he hated in a female—and he couldn't imagine what bizarre impulse was driving him.

He slipped inside, and she was sitting in the window seat and watching him sneak in. She was barefoot, dressed for bed in fuzzy pink pajamas that buttoned down the front. Her hair was piled on her head, a knitting needle jammed through it to keep the luxurious mass precariously balanced.

"If I wanted to talk to you," she said, "I would have answered the door when you knocked."

"And if I'd waited for you to answer, I'd have been standing out there until dawn."

"Precisely. Go away, Mr. Merriweather."

"It's Dustin."

"I know."

She flashed a rude smile that was all teeth so she looked extremely feral. If he'd been any closer, she might have bit him.

He walked toward her and pointed to a stack of papers that were strewn on her lap.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Some rich jerk shut down the office where I worked, so I'm trying to figure out how I'll pay my bills."

He pulled the knitting needle from her hair, and the curly mass fell across her shoulders.

"Hey!" she complained.

"I like your hair down."

"I'll alert the media. Oh, I
am
the media. Or I used to be the media. Now I'm an unemployed person with two kids to support." She picked up the papers and began reading them. "Beat it. I don't want you here."

"I told you that I never listen to women."

"And I've told you that I think you're an asshole. We keep saying the same things to each other. I guess it makes conversation easier. We never have to come up with any new comments."