Sunshine floated up to her.
“That single gentleman is staying in your room, Belle,” she whispered.
What?
Belle quickly floated to the desk and hovered over the computer monitor while gazing at the listing of rooms and names. Because of Belle’s exceptional money-earning skills, Miss Arlotta had dedicated one of the rooms to her, the only girl to receive such an honor. The hotel, having unearthed this fact in their historical research, had named it Belle’s Room.
She gasped.
Andrew Branigan, Denver Post. Belle’s Room.
“Hellfire and—” She glanced up at the attic. “Pardon again,” she murmured, “but how in tarnation am I supposed to earn my last notch if I’m strapped with a single ruff—gentleman?”
Several of the ghostly gals giggled.
Belle shot them a withering look. Except for Rosebud, whose rip-roarin’ smarts had always set her apart, they all stared back looking a tad frightened.
Dang, darn and pshaw!
Taking her old shootin’ stance, Belle straightened her arm and pointed the .44 at the ugly globe. Ignoring the girls’ squeals and threats, she squeezed the trigger. The shot tore loose with a crack and flash, only witnessed on their ghostly realm. The bullet, as always, disappeared into nothingness.
Or into another world.
The world where, Belle believed, she’d someday be. And yearned to go. But with a single guy in her room…Well, hell’s bells, she might as well twiddle her thumbs because she wasn’t goin’ nowhere soon.
“Belle, no—”
“Yes, Miss Arlotta, no cussing. No Big Picnic in the Sky, either.” She tucked her gun in the waistband of her drawers and floated up the stairs, needing some breathing room…
As though that were possible. No breathing, no sex, no cussin’.
Being dead isn’t all it’s cranked up to be.
1
DAPHNE REMINGTON, socialite and bride-to-be, chewed thoughtfully on a strip of raspberry licorice as she scrutinized herself in the full-length dressing-room mirror. “Why do brides have to wear white?” she murmured. “I look so much better in red.”
“It isn’t white, it’s ivory,” countered the salesclerk as she adjusted one of the dress straps. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Besides, after that stunt you pulled several years ago at the Firecracker Ball, I figured you’d never wear red again.”
Over the past few months of Daphne trying on the latest bridal designs at Ever-After, the ultra-exclusive salon in the ultra-exclusive Cherry Creek area of Denver, she and the salesclerk, Cindi, had become chummy enough to drop the me-sales person, you-client facade. Plus, not only were they both pushing thirty and feeling familial pressure to marry, they both confessed to serious bad-boy fantasies about the wild Irish actor Colin Farrell—and if that didn’t bond two women, Daphne wasn’t sure what else could.
“Well, I don’t wear red in public anymore, especially around swimming pools,” Daphne said with a wink, which made Cindi laugh.
That was because everyone who had read the Denver Post three years ago on July fifth had seen a picture of socialite Daphne Remington being hauled out of the Denver Country Club pool, her red silk dress clinging to every inch of her body. The Post had labeled the photo Renegade Remington which had been bad enough to live down, but then the story got picked up by the AP wire and had ended up in papers and magazines across the country with captions like Red-Hot Remington! and Haughty Hot Heiress. Playboy had even approached her to do a special photo shoot.
Her family had not been amused.
Not even when she tried to explain that she’d jumped in on a dare—a handful of guys had collected several thousand dollars, betting she wouldn’t jump into the pool fully clothed. Loving a challenge—and emboldened by several flutes of champagne—she’d kicked off her Manolos and executed a flawless jack-knife.
But did the papers snap a picture of that moment of stylistic perfection? No-o-o. They’d gone for the grossly unflattering shot of her soaked head to toe, her hair matted and tangled, with mascara smeared underneath her eyes like some kind of prizefighter.
The following morning, when Daphne stumbled to the breakfast table to find the front page of the Post on her chair, she’d explained to her parents that despite appearances, she’d personally raised more money at the fundraiser than any other single contributor.
They continued not to be amused.
Which was par for the course. Delores and Harold Remington III, icons of Denver society, had never been pleased with their eldest daughter’s rebellious nature. And as she’d done mega times before, Daphne listened to their lectures about how her great-great-great-great-grandfather Charles “Charlie” Remington had only a quarter in his pocket when he’d staked his mining claim in the Colorado Rockies. How, through hard work and perseverance, he’d not only struck gold but segued his fortune into a real-estate empire. How his offspring were politicians, doctors, lawyers who’d fought for justice and left the world a better place. How her only sibling, the ever-reputable and perfect Iris, was following the path of outstanding, law-abiding Remingtons…
Left unspoken was that rebellious Daphne had still to find the path. Daphne bet even Paris Hilton’s parents gave her more consideration than Daphne’s own did her.
Nevertheless, after the infamous Firecracker Ball incident, Daphne had done her best to behave. No wild escapades, no outrageous clothes. It was like being in a twelve-step program for bad girls, but she’d done it because she truly didn’t like embarrassing her family. Of course, having her parents threaten to withhold her trust—a cool two and a half mil that was hers on her wedding day—unless she “shaped up” was an incentive.
During that period, her parents had introduced her to G. D. McCormick, a prominent lawyer who was eight years older, sophisticated, with a stellar career as a partner at the prestigious Denver law firm Joffe, Marshall and McCormick. Daphne hadn’t liked him for those attributes, however. He’d had a kick-back side that was fun, lighthearted. Plus, he professed to love her “high spirits.”
When, after dating for a year, he’d asked her to marry him she’d said yes. Maybe she didn’t feel that zap of lightning Mario Puzo wrote about in The Godfather, but that was fiction after all and she was in the real world. Her family was thrilled, her friends were giddy and Daphne was happy and relieved that finally she was on the path.
But the happiness had taken a downward turn six months ago when the state’s top-dog politicos had asked G.D. to be their candidate for governor next year. That’s when G.D. became less kick-back and more kick-ass. Increasingly concerned with his political image, his adoration of her high spirits became criticism of her free spirits. If she’d had a quarter for every time he’d asked her to tone down her wardrobe or her language, she probably could have paid off half the city of Denver’s current budget deficit.
G.D. had even started criticizing her way of walking. Seemed her hips swung too far left and right when she walked. She quipped that she’d swing the way of his political leanings, but he—like her family—wasn’t amused.
Daphne’s high spirits were low ones more and more.
She looked in Ever-After’s dressing-room mirror and fluffed her normally straight dark hair, which was resorting to its natural curl thanks to this morning’s April showers. “When we first dated, G.D. and I used to have spontaneous adventures,” she suddenly said. “We’d grab cheese and bread for a picnic or hop a bus and visit some picturesque spot in Colorado. I’d take my camera and snap photos…” Her voice trailed off.
Cindi, checking something on the hem, looked up. “Politicians can’t afford to be spontaneous. Bad for their image.”
Daphne