Free The Cover Model by Cheyenne Meadows

angry Fancy.
    Yanking out his cell phone, he chatted briefly with his contact, describing Darla/Donna, reporting her room number, and tossing in any further details he could recall. The man assured him he'd take the matter from there and thanked him for a job well done.
    Mitch locked his room, then walked one door down and paused. Leaning his ear against the hotel door, he listened for sounds of movement inside. Finding none, he knocked. Silence greeted him. Spinning on his heel, he tapped his chin for a moment and considered where she might be. He didn't hear the shower running through the thin walls between their rooms, yet, he couldn't see her bouncing back downstairs to attend the party after he callously stomped on her feelings, though for a good reason. Not with the fury radiating off her from his behavior. That left a couple of options. Either she had holed up in her room after all and ignored the world or she'd headed to the workout room to banish some stress. Sure, she could have opted for a night on the town, but she didn't seem the sort who would go bar hopping in search of hard liquor or a man. Nope. He would place his bets on the small gym in the basement of the hotel. Long steps ate the distance to the elevator as he readied himself for the difficult discussion to come.
    Tugging the glass door open, he stepped into the room, releasing a sigh of relief when his gaze landed on Fancy busily running on the farthest treadmill, her feet flying over the black belt in a statement of grace and athleticism. Clean, lithe lines of her conditioned body flowed fluently with easy movement, a testimony to natural ability and balance. The long blonde ponytail swayed with each movement, like the mane and tail on a palomino horse racing across the open land, running free. Her face, though, told another story. Simmering rage. Pain. Disappointment.
    Steeling himself, he walked over, watching her closely. He prided himself on accurate body language interpretation and hoped the skill would prove handy as he tried to wiggle off the hook as the worm she more than likely considered him now for promising to take her to the dance, then coming on strong with another woman in the elevator to the point of leaving with her. Granted, he had a legitimate excuse, but she didn't know that, and he wasn't sure she would believe him even if he explained.
    He stopped beside the machine, standing quiet for a long moment. Her gaze flicked to him before returning straight ahead once more.
    "Fancy. Let me explain."
    She blatantly ignored him, her feet pounding out a fast rhythm, the only sound in the room along with her heavy breathing.
    "I'm sorry. There are reasons behind what happened. Reasons I can't explain right now…" He shoved one hand through his hair in a combing motion. "Just listen to me first. Then you can chew on my ass all you want."
    For a long moment, he waited. Right when he decided she intended to pretend he no longer existed on this earth, she reached out, slowed the treadmill, until coming to a complete stop. Grabbing the towel, she wiped her face, finally looking at him for more than a fleeting second.
    "Fine. I'll listen. But you should know I'm not in a mood to believe anything you say. As it looks to me, you're a sex maniac who can't get enough women in his life."
    He flinched but didn't bother to correct her thinking. After all, he lived the life of a playboy, especially at the convention. Hard not to when dozens of women cooed, flirted, and maneuvered themselves into his line of vision, offering up a night of passion with no strings attached. A man's dream come true.
    The challenge tossed out, he focused on the rest of her words and seized the opportunity to convince her of the truth without spilling the beans about his ulterior motives. Seeing her like a difficult jury, he quickly formulated a plan.
    "Okay. The woman in the elevator, she's special."
    Fancy snorted. "I bet. Even half drunk, she lured you away with liquor