To the One I Love: That Old Familiar FeelingAn Older ManCaught by a Cowboy

by Emilie Richards

“Or something,” he replied and caught her hand again. All but dragging her behind him, he loped down the steps that led to the beach. Once there, he dropped down onto the sand to tug off his boots and socks.

  She folded her arms across her breast. “If you’re planning on going skinny-dipping, count me out.”

  Smiling, he rolled his jeans up to his calves, then stood and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe later. Right now I just want to walk.”

  When she tried to pull away, he tightened his grip on her. She stopped and frowned at him. “You’re touching me again.”

  “Any kind of physical contact is off-limits?”

  “Exactly.”

  With a shrug, he withdrew his arm and started off. When she didn’t follow, he stopped and looked back. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

  “What’s my alternative?”

  “There’s a sink full of dirty dishes in the kitchen. I suppose you could wash them while I walk.”

  She considered a moment. “I guess I could go with you, as long as you promise to keep your hands to yourself.”

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You have my word.”

  Stooping, she slipped off her sandals. “Okay,” she said, straightening. “Let’s walk.”

  Cope waited until she caught up with him, then fell into step beside her. Deciding to steer the conversation toward a noncombative subject—anything it seemed, but their relationship—he asked, “How long has your family lived on the island?”

  She blew a breath up at her bangs. “Forever, it seems. The first Colmans settled here right after the Civil War. Jake and Greta. They were fishermen and farmers, but their children diversified and started a summer cottage resort and fish camp on the land their parents’ owned that proved more lucrative than fishing and farming. The next generation of Colmans branched out a little farther by developing property on the mainland and investing in a savings and loan.”

  “Sounds as if the Colmans are pretty shrewd business people.”

  “Some of them are.”

  He glanced her way, noting a touch of resentment in her voice. “Did I hit a nerve?”

  She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Deanna-the-Disappointment Colman. Or so my parents think.”

  He bumped his elbow against hers. “Ah, come on. They can’t be that bad.”

  “They’re not,” she said, quick to come to her parents’ defense. “They just have certain expectations for their daughters that, unfortunately, I fall short of meeting. You’d have to know them to understand. My father is the president of Colman Savings and Loan, plus he sits on the board of a kazillion different community and charitable organizations both locally and nationally. My mother has a law degree, but gave up her practice years ago when she was elected to the state legislature. Need I say more?”

  “I think I get the picture.”

  They walked a ways in silence, then Cope stole a glance her way. “I don’t think you’re a disappointment, Deanna. I think you’re a really unique and special woman.”

  She waved away the compliment. “You’re just saying that so I’ll sleep with you again.”

  He grabbed her arm and jerked her to a stop.

  “What?” she asked, surprised by the anger that flared in his eyes.

  “When you sleep with me again,” he informed her, “it won’t be because I sweet-talked you into my bed.”

  “When?” she repeated incredulously. “Have you not heard anything I’ve been saying? I’m not sleeping with you, Cope, and I’m certainly not marrying you.”

  “The two weeks aren’t up yet.”

  “Two weeks. Two years. Doesn’t matter. My answer will still be no.”

  He dropped her arm and struck out again. When she didn’t follow, he stopped and looked back. “I thought you were going to walk with me?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  He lifted a shoulder and turned away. “Your choice,” he called over his shoulder. “The dishwashing liquid is under the sink.”

  The sun was like a furnace on Cope’s back and the sand sucked at his feet as he walked, making him feel as if he were hiking across the Sahara desert in lead-soled combat boots.

  After about five minutes of the torture, he considered turning around and heading back to the house where it was cool, but opted to take advantage of the time alone to regroup, to rethink his strategy as to how best deal with Deanna.

  The day before when she had asked him why it had taken him two weeks to follow her to Colman Island, he’d told her it was because he’d needed to clear his desk. Essentially, that was true. Essentially. But what man in his right mind would willingly admit to the woman who had dumped him that he’d spent the week following her departure in a blind rage, kicking and cussing and generally making a fool of himself?

  By the beginning of the second week, his anger had burned down to a slow simmer. It was then that he had decided that he wasn’t accepting her “no” for an answer. He’d known convincing her to marry him wasn’t going to be easy. Deanna was nothing if she wasn’t headstrong. But he knew he had to give it his best shot.

  Coming up with a workable plan proved to be the tough part, as he couldn’t figure out why she was so damn opposed to the idea of becoming his wife. She sure as hell hadn’t stuck around long enough to offer any kind of explanation.

  Couldn’t she see that they were perfect for each other? he thought in frustration. He’d sensed it the first time he’d laid eyes on her. And it wasn’t just the sex, either. He hadn’t reached the ripe old age of thirty-two with his bachelor status still intact without learning the difference between infatuation and love. And what he felt for Deanna was definitely love. The mind-blowing sex was just an added bonus.

  He stopped short, as a thought occurred to him. Maybe it wasn’t him she was opposed to. Maybe it was sex. He sputtered a laugh at the unlikelihood of that possibility and began to walk again. He’d never met a woman who enjoyed sex as much as Deanna. She was open, sensual, even aggressive, and had absolutely no inhibitions about her body or that of a man’s.

  He kicked at the sand in frustration. So what was her hang-up? Why wouldn’t she just say yes, so they could get married and get on with their lives?

  He did an abrupt about-face and strode back toward the house. He had two weeks to squeeze the information out of her and convince her to marry him, and, by God, he wasn’t wasting any of that time tramping around on the beach alone.

  Winded from his jog back to the house, Cope pushed open the french door and stepped into the kitchen. Dropping his boots by the door, he called, “Deanna?”

  Not hearing a reply, he glanced around the kitchen and spotted the sink full of dirty dishes. Sure that she had run out on him again, he quickly ducked back onto the deck and strained to peer around the house at the drive out front. Seeing the Lamborghini still parked at the base of the staircase, he heaved a sigh of relief, and stepped back inside.

  “Deanna!” he shouted, wondering where she’d gotten off to.

  Still not hearing a response, he headed for the staircase. As he walked down the upstairs hallway, he glanced in each room he passed, but didn’t see a sign of her.

  Noticing that the door that led to the attic was slightly ajar, he jogged up the narrow staircase and stepped out into the large room. He spotted Deanna curled on a worn, velvet chaise in front of a window, an open book propped on her knees. Judging by the long streaks of wood visible on the otherwise dust-covered floor, he assumed she’d dragged the chaise beneath the window and pushed up the sash to let in sunlight.

  Obviously she’d been busy rummaging around through the items stored in the attic. Her knees were powdered with dust and a streak of it smeared one cheek. She’d pulled her hair up into a knot on her head again. Personally Cope wished she hadn’t. He liked it better down…preferably draped over his chest.

  Since she seemed unaware of his presence, he crossed to the chaise. “Deanna?” he said softly. When she hummed a distracted acknowledgment, her
gaze on the book, he took advantage of her absorption and sat down beside her, swinging his legs over to place them alongside hers.

  Wondering what she’d found to read that was so captivating, he tipped his head close to hers. He frowned at the unfamiliar, handwritten language, penned in feminine, flowery script.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked. “Greek?”

  “French. I found Celeste’s diary.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You can read French?”

  “A little,” she murmured, as she continued to read, twirling a strand of hair that had escaped the knot around a finger.

  “Find any clues as to why she disappeared?”

  Closing the book, she hugged it against her breasts. “I think it happened just as the islanders claimed. After learning of Fen’s death, I believe Celeste walked out into the Gulf and drowned.”

  Since she hadn’t kicked up a fuss about him lying down beside her, he took a chance and reached to tuck another stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “Why would she do that? She was his mistress. Seems to me she would have just moved on and found herself another sugar daddy.”

  She looked down at the book and stroked a hand over its bowed, leather cover. “No. She loved him. Really loved him. When she was told he’d died, she opted to join him in death, rather than face life without him.”

  “Sort of like Romeo and Juliet?”

  She flattened her lips at the question. “It would be if Fen had died, too,” she said bitterly.

  “But I thought he went down with his ship?”

  She leaned to lay the diary on the floor beside the chaise. “Fen Fennigan died in his late eighties and in one of his mistresses’ beds.”

  Cope could only stare. “So it was all a lie?”

  “What else could it be? According to Celeste’s diary, Fen persuaded her to move to the States by promising to marry her. When more than a year passed without him making good on that promise, she started putting pressure on him. Fen wasn’t about to divorce his wife, as she was the one who had financed his shipping business using an inheritance from her family. So he had his lawyer feed Celeste that line of bull about his death to get Celeste out of his house and off his back.” She folded her arms across her chest. “In my book, that’s the same as murder.”

  He pressed a kiss to her temple. “The cad.”

  She whipped her head around to peer at him, as if unaware until that moment that he was lying on the chaise beside her. Muttering a curse, she lurched to her feet. Once standing, she threw out an arm, wavering drunkenly.

  Cope rolled to sit on the edge of the chaise and caught her by the hips to steady her. “Hey,” he said, drawing her down to his lap. “What’s wrong?”

  She pressed a hand to her forehead and shook her head. “D-dizzy,” she stammered.

  He pulled her hand away and saw that perspiration dotted her forehead and that her face was pale. “Deanna,” he said in concern. “Do you feel all right?”

  She shook her head again, then dropped her head to his shoulder, as if the effort to hold it up was simply too much for her.

  “I had a touch of the flu last week,” she explained, then gulped, her stomach queasy. “Every once in a while, I have these little…spells. Give me a minute. I’ll be okay”

  He leaned back, drawing her to lie beside him, and tucked her head into the curve of his neck. “Take as long as you want,” he murmured softly, then pressed his lips against her temple. “I’ll stay right here with you.”

  With a sigh, Deanna closed her eyes. Within minutes, she was asleep.

  Chapter 3

  Deanna’s mind awakened first, slowly recording and categorizing the odors and textures that had stirred her from sleep. The cool breeze wafting across her cheek was compliments of the Gulf and Hurricane Leslie, which, according to the previous night’s television newscast, continued to brew offshore, building in strength and size. She could all but feel the Gulf’s spray on her skin, taste the salt of its aquamarine waters on her tongue.

  But the odor that lay directly beneath her nose was not a product of the Gulf. It was musky, sensual and definitely male, as were the legs tangled with hers and the arm draped over her waist.

  Disoriented—and a little aroused—she lifted her head to find Cope lying on his side opposite her, his eyes closed, his face relaxed in sleep. Unfortunately she found him as irresistible in sleep as she did awake, if not more so. There was something about the state of slumber that gave even the toughest, brawniest man an endearing boyish look.

  He had the most incredible face, she thought, staring. She’d often wondered if his rugged features were a prerequisite for all cowboys or a result of the Copely family genes. The high, prominent cheekbones. The square jaw. His nose, she noted, had a slight hump across the bridge. A result of a wild bronc ride or a barroom fight? She shook her head. Whatever the explanation, when added to the mix, the imperfection only added character to an already dangerously handsome face.

  “I told you you’d be in my bed again.”

  She snapped her gaze to his to find he was awake and watching her.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call this a bed,” she said wryly.

  Smiling sleepily, he slid a hand behind her neck and snuggled closer to nuzzle his nose against hers. “It’s the closest thing to a bed you’ll find in this house.”

  She braced a hand against his chest, remembering that she hadn’t seen a single stick of furniture in any of the bedrooms she’d passed on her way to the attic. “Where did you sleep last night, anyway?”

  “On the deck. Wish you’d been here with me. It was a beautiful night. Full moon. Canopy of stars. A cool breeze blowing in from the Gulf. It was a perfect night for making love outside.”

  All but melting at the sensual scene he described, she inched back, knowing she was treading on dangerous ground. Hoping to focus his mind, as well as hers, on more practical matters—anything but sex—she settled on the most obvious. “You can’t continue to sleep outside. There’s a storm building. Sooner or later, it’s bound to rain.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, with a sigh. “I guess we’d better do some shopping this afternoon. If you’re up to it,” he added, his forehead pleating in concern.

  Huffing a breath, she rolled from the chaise and to her feet. To her relief, this time the room didn’t spin sickly.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.” Folding her arms across her breasts, she looked down her nose at him. “And if you plan to do any shopping today, you’d better get up and get with it. The bridge to the mainland is cranky, at best. We’ll be lucky if we can get across and back before it goes out again.”

  Bored, Deanna trailed behind Cope, as he strolled from one tastefully decorated cubicle to the next, studying the furniture on display.

  “What about this one?” he asked, stopping before what must have been the twentieth sofa he’d asked Deanna’s opinion of.

  She looked from the bold navy-and-gold striped damask sectional to Cope. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s okay, if you’re going for a harem look.”

  “Harem?” he repeated, frowning at the sofa, then dropped back his head and laughed. “You’re right. It does look like it was designed with a sheik in mind.”

  He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe you better do the choosing,” he suggested, as he walked with her to the next cubicle. “Obviously I’m no good at this kind of thing.”

  Deanna snapped up her head to look at him. “Are you serious?”

  He withdrew his arm and dropped down on a butter-soft leather recliner. “As a heart attack.”

  Her eyes sharpening in interest, Deanna darted her gaze around the exclusive furniture store and all the gorgeous pieces displayed. “What’s my budget?”

  Pushing back to lift the recliner’s footrest, Cope tugged his hat down over his eyes. “Don’t worry about the cost. Just pick out what you want and come and get me whe
n you’re done.”

  Before he had time to reconsider the open-ended offer, Deanna took off, frantically waving down a salesclerk she spotted at the rear of the store.

  Two hours later, as Cope headed the Hummer back to Colman Key, Deanna was still flying high on an adrenaline rush that can only be achieved after spending butt-loads of money.

  “Did you see the look on that salesclerk’s face when she hit the total button?” she asked Cope, then hooted a laugh. “She could retire on the commission she received from your purchases alone!”

  Deciding to take a more scenic route to the bridge that crossed to Colman Key, Cope made the turn onto a country road, then glanced her way. “Does shopping always make you this giddy?”

  “Well, of course,” she replied, then grinned impishly and added, “Especially when I’m spending someone else’s money.”

  Chuckling, Cope focused on the road again.

  Deanna glanced at her wrist watch. “We’ve got almost an hour to kill before it’s time for me to head back to Grammer’s. What else do you need to set up housekeeping?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Sam left a few kitchen items behind, so I’m squared away there.”

  “Please tell me you’re not referring to that pitiful pile of dishes I saw in the kitchen sink?” She held up a hand, stopping him before he could reply. “Never mind. You need pots and pans, utensils, silverware. And linens,” she added, then heaved a sigh of regret. “We should have stopped at a department store and stocked up before we left Tallahassee.”

  “I can get by another day with what I have.”

  “Homeless people have more amenities,” she grumbled, then shot her eyes wide. “Stop!”

  Cope pulled to the shoulder, parking the Hummer behind a string of cars and trucks parked along the roadside. “Why are we stopping here?” he asked in confusion.

  Deanna was already fighting with the door handle, trying to get out. “It’s an estate sale. We can get you everything you need right here.”

  By the time Cope had shut off the engine and climbed out, Deanna was halfway down the driveway. With a woeful shake of his head, he followed. He caught up with her beneath a tree in front of an old Cracker style house where she was pawing through a box of what looked to him like rags.