Sweet Talkin' Guy. Colleen Collins

he hadn’t written or interviewed her, but he’d definitely seen her somewhere.

      Bam!

      “Renegade Remington,” he said under his breath.

      He crossed his arms over his chest and eyed the privileged daughter of one of Denver’s bluest-of-the-blue-blood families. Their name was everywhere. The Remington Wing of the Children’s Hospital. The Remington Theater Arts Complex. Even the recently christened Remington Avenue that ran adjacent to the Denver Country Club.

      Ah, yes, the Denver Country Club and the scandalous photo of Daphne Remington. Andy flashed on the picture of her being tugged out of the pool, a crimson dress molded to a shapely body. Funny, she’d slipped below the radar after that…reemerging in tasteful society stories, often pictured on the arm of G. D. McCormick, high-profile lawyer and up-and-coming gubernatorial candidate.

      Weren’t they supposed to be getting married soon? That explained the boulder-sized ring.

      Andy felt a tingling on the back of his neck—an electric warning that he’d stumbled on a hot lead. A runaway heiress story, a runaway almost-bride story…maybe both?

      It smacked of that Julia Roberts surprise wedding escapade, one he and the guys at the paper wished they’d broken.

      This was that kind of story. A “Runaway Renegade Remington” escapade. Not only was the family name known in Denver, but all over the country thanks to the parents’ upper-crust jet-setting and their philanthropic donations.

      This was the kind of hot scoop national magazines and television stations paid big bucks for. The kind of moola that could propel Andy out of being a reporter in the trenches and give him the means to research and write the book of his dreams—the definitive book on Colorado history he’d wanted to write since he was a kid.

      Daphne was tapping her diamond-heavy hand on the polished wood of the registration desk. “Well, I can’t believe you’d turn down such a good deal.”

      “In the future, please make your reservation ahead of time and we’ll happily accommodate you.”

      The woman didn’t sound very happy at the prospect, however.

      Daphne pivoted on those skyscraper heels and minced to the door, a leather purse slung over her jean-jacketed shoulder.

      No luggage.

      That cinched it. Daphne Remington had definitely traveled here on a whim.

      Oh yes, baby, this was one hot scoop.

      As the front door clicked shut behind her, Andy followed, thinking how Frank would beg for this story, but Andy would have already made some sweet deals elsewhere.

      Hot scoop? Andy chuckled to himself. More like molten.