Читать книгу: «Tall, Tanned & Texan»

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DEANIE CODGE had been waiting her entire adult life to experience really great sex.

Sex that included lots of slow, deep kisses and long, lingering touches. Sex that stole her breath away and zapped her common sense. Sex that made her toes tingle and her skin prickle and her body actually throb.

Sex that didn’t involve a sleeping bag, a can of insect repellant and the bed of a beat-up pickup truck.

Now, after twenty-nine years and one too many mosquito bites, she was this close.

Deanie stowed her purse beneath the seat in front of her and her hand paused on the side pocket where she’d tucked her cell phone. She slid it free and noted the flashing message light before powering it off. She had five messages. Probably one from each of her older brothers. Or maybe they were all from Clay. He wasn’t the oldest, but he was the only one who’d settled down and found the right woman. His wife, Helen, was pregnant with their first child, which was due any day now. Since Clay had taken over the family’s cattle ranch—their father suffered from rheumatoid arthritis and had handed over the workload to his most responsible son and the only one who’d stuck around Romeo—he now considered himself the head of the family. While their dad spent his time playing bingo and gossiping down at the Fat Cow Diner, Clay kept track of ten thousand cattle and his baby sister. She could only imagine the fit he was throwing after discovering that she was missing in action.

Technically, she wasn’t missing. She’d left a letter clearly explaining what she was doing. At the same time, while the letter was meant to inform, she knew its contents would make her overprotective brother worry that much more.

It wasn’t every day that his baby sister signed up for boot camp.

A sexual boot camp, that is.

She ignored the small spiral of guilt, stowed her cell phone and fastened her seat belt. She lifted the oval window shade and stared at the hustle and bustle. Beyond the glass, she could see the white and gray building that housed the terminals for San Antonio International Airport. A cart overflowing with luggage, her new white and pink flowered canvas bags balanced on top, rolled toward the turquoise-and-white 747. The gray tunnel she’d just walked through still sat attached to the doorway of the plane. The last few passengers filed inside, twisting this way and that to make it down the narrow aisle that separated pairs of seats.

Excitement zipped up her spine and her hands trembled. This was it. The second step in transforming her ho-hum, going-absolutely-nowhere life.

The first had involved the purchase of the pair of three inch stilettos currently cutting off the blood supply to her toes and the cotton sundress that clung to her as if it were hanging on for dear life.

She drew a deep breath and tried to ignore the way her chest pressed against the low-cut halter top.

So what if it was skimpy? And pink? It was feminine. Trendy. Sexy. There would be no mistaking Deanie Codge for one of the boys in this get-up.

She looked one hundred percent female.

As for feeling like one… Okay, so it wasn’t quite happening.

Yet.

Growing up the youngest of five brothers, she hadn’t had much of an opportunity to explore her feminine side. Her mother had passed away right after giving birth to Deanie, and so she’d been raised by her father and brothers on a small cattle ranch in the middle of Nowhere, Texas aka Romeo.

It had been survival of the fittest in the Codge household, complete with wrestling matches to determine who used the bathroom first and shooting competitions to decide who did what chores. Being the youngest and the smallest, she’d ended up pitching hay and cleaning out stalls more times than she could count. She’d also been extremely lucky to get a full five minutes in front of the mirror every morning. Not nearly enough time to primp her way to womanhood, even if she’d wanted to. Overall, she’d grown up feeling like one of the boys.

Oddly enough, it had never really bothered her. Deanie had always been happy with herself. Content.

Until six weeks ago when Harwin Mulligan—the low-down, sneaky rat bastard—had stolen her promotion and cheated on her with Dora Mae Shriver.

She’d realized then and there that she would never be taken seriously as a mechanic. While her customers—namely the entire Senior Women’s Rotary Club—trusted her with their Cadillacs and Bonnevilles, Big Daddy, the owner of Romeo’s largest auto shop where she’d worked for the past ten years, obviously did not. Otherwise, he would never have left his brake specialist—aka Harwin aka the low-down, sneaky rat bastard—in charge while he raced off to Mexico on a fishing trip.

She’d known then that if Big Daddy wouldn’t let her run Big Daddy’s Auto & Body for a measly six week vacation, he certainly wouldn’t let her take over the place when he officially retired. It didn’t matter that she was the best mechanic in town or that she’d worked her way through the local junior college and earned an associates degree in business.

Her dreams of managing the auto shop and building up the business while saving to eventually buy out Big Daddy had died as fast as the old, souped up Toyota pickup she’d driven her senior year of high school. It wasn’t going to happen.

Not now.

Not ever.

As had the crazy, insane notion that she was going to ever meet the man. A man who would know a few things about romance. A man who wouldn’t assume she didn’t give a lick about those things just because she didn’t look all soft and frilly and girlie. A man who could give her the best, most amazing orgasm of her life. A man who would love her and not so much as glance at Dora Mae or any of the other hotties down at the Fat Cow Diner.

A man who would see beneath her rough-and-tough exterior to the heart and soul of the woman who lay beneath.

Yeah, right.

It seemed her overalls were made of Kryptonite because no man had ever seen beyond the surface. Except Harwin, or so she’d thought. But then he’d stolen Big Daddy’s confidence and gone after someone prettier, more feminine and a zillion times better in bed.

Deanie would never forget Dora in her red thong and matching bra, a large red feather in her hand as she leaned over Harwin, who’d been spread-eagled and tied to the bed with a pair of fuzzy red handcuffs.

In her wildest dreams, Deanie could never have cooked up such a scene. A fact that spoke volumes for her sexual know-how. Or lack thereof.

Determination flowed through her. She ignored her pinched toes and the goose bumps chasing up and down her arms thanks to the revealing sundress. It was time for something drastic. A change.

An extreme makeover.

Deanie had started with the outside. She’d left her dead-end job, spruced up her blah hairstyle, revamped her vampless wardrobe.

Now she was ready to tackle the inside.

She leaned over, reached into her purse and pulled out a folded brochure.

Two weeks to a new and improved, sexier you!

The main caption leaped out at her and she grasped at the hope that blossomed in her chest.

In exactly three hours, after stopping in Miami to pick up more passengers and a thirty minute layover on a neighboring island, Deanie would arrive in Eden, a small island in the heart of the Caribbean and home to Camp E.D.E.N. The honest-to-goodness sexual boot camp helped individuals nurture their sexuality. Their specialty was an intensive fourteen day training program that included everything from an anatomy class called Treasure Island 101: If You Can’t Find It, You Can’t Use It, to Cooking To Cuddle: The Best Aphrodisiac Foods.

By the time Deanie graduated from Camp E.D.E.N., she would be more than ready to begin a new life in Dallas, complete with an apartment in the heart of the city and a job as manager of Sweet Nothings, an upscale lingerie boutique owned by one of her mother’s old high school friends. Miss MaryBelle had been surprised and happy to hear from Deanie. She and Deanie’s mother had been close and so she’d been more than willing to consider Deanie’s résumé.

Consider, mind you.

Miss MaryBelle was a businesswoman first and so she’d been clear about the fact that she couldn’t give Deanie a job just because she and Deanie’s mother had giggled about boys in the girls’ bathroom all four years of high school. Business was business.

Thankfully.

Where Big Daddy had been more influenced by a set of balls—and not very big ones—rather than an associates degree, Miss MaryBelle didn’t subscribe to the good ole boys’ club. The old woman had been impressed enough to start Deanie off as a manager-in-training. Now it was adios to her life as a small-town mechanic and, especially, her reputation as Romeo’s resident tomboy.

A change she never could have made if she’d stayed put. While the town itself had changed over the years, the people hadn’t. The Piggly Wiggly had added a self checkout lane, but the owner, Mr. McGhee still bagged up everyone’s groceries himself. Moe’s Gas Station had turned into a self-serve with pay-at-the-pump options, but Mr. Johnson, the clerk, still rushed out to wash every-one’s windshield and share the latest gossip. The old rodeo arena where Deanie had spent her weekends watching Clay and his best friend, Rance McGraw wrestle steers was just weeks away from being bulldozed to make way for one of those superstores, but Mr. Samuels, the grounds-keeper, still raked the arena dirt every afternoon the way he’d been doing for the past twenty years.

The folks in her hometown would never see her as anything other than the tomboy she’d always been.

She ignored the pang of regret in the pit of her stomach and checked her watch. Even though they were already five minutes past takeoff, she should still arrive on the island in plenty of time to make the camp’s afternoon check-in.

Most of the passengers had already boarded and so the flight attendant started down the center aisle, checking the overhead compartments and closing the bins.

Deanie had just stuffed the brochure back into her purse and settled into her seat when she heard the soft, sugary voice.

“Coming through, hon.”

A heartbeat later, a tall woman folded herself into the seat next to Deanie’s.

“Thank God for flight delays,” the twentysome-thing woman exclaimed. She had long blond curls brushed out just enough to make them full and wild. Streaks of platinum added to the overall effect.

She wore a stretchy blue top, the neck outlined with sequins and matching beads. A short blue skirt clung to her hips and rode high on her thighs as she adjusted herself on the seat. Her legs were long and tanned and bare. Her feet disappeared into a pair of three-inch blue sandals even higher than the shoes Deanie wore. A matching clutch purse sat in her lap. French-manicured fingertips reached for the edges of the seat belt.

“Now,” she declared as the buckle clicked into place. “I can actually breathe. For a few minutes there, I didn’t think I was going to make it.” Her hot pink lips parted in a smile as she turned blue eyes the same color as her outfit on Deanie. “I couldn’t get Roger off the cell phone. I swear, he’s this close to being a Fatal Attraction, you know what I mean?”

“Boy, do I ever.” The comment came from the seat in front of Deanie. A heartbeat later, a large, red beehive hairdo pushed into view, followed by the thin, narrow face of a fiftyish woman. She wore flaming orange lipstick and a pair of gold-framed glasses that looked two sizes too big for her thin face. Her cheeks were pinked with too much rouge and bright blue eye shadow clung to her lids. She smelled of hair spray, old perfume and mothballs.

“You try to let them off easy,” the woman continued, “but they just can’t take no for an answer. They keep calling and showing up and sending flowers and buying jewelry. I can’t be bought, I’ve said more times than I can count.” She made a face that deepened the wrinkles around her eyes. “But that still didn’t stop Walter from sending over that Rolls Royce last month.”

“A man bought you a Rolls Royce?” the twenty-something asked, a look of disbelief on her face.

“He tried, but I’m still partial to the Porsche that James gave me for my birthday last year. James…” She sighed. “Now there was a man who had good taste. Unfortunately, he had a bad colon. Keeled over during dinner a few months later and that was that. It’s always the good ones that go young. Remember that, child,” she told Deanie. “If you find a grade A, quality man, you latch on to him fast and don’t waste a moment, especially if there’s a nasty colon involved.”

“Words to live by,” the blonde murmured.

“And how, otherwise I would be home watching my soap operas right now instead of popping Dramamine.” At Deanie’s questioning expression, she added, “Men usually fly to me, mind you, not the other way around. Then again, Mitchell isn’t your typical man. Why, he actually wrote me a love poem, of all things. I couldn’t very well let him abandon a million-dollar deal just to fly to Texas to see me for Valentine’s Day after that. Not that he needs the money. He’s got the stuff coming out his ears.”

“You’ve got a millionaire writing you love poems?” The blonde sounded as skeptical as she looked.

The redheaded woman didn’t seem the least put out. “Actually, he’s a billionaire. And he’s handsome. And a good dancer. And a great bingo player. Not that any of that means anything. Why, I’ve known handsome, bingo-playing, tangoing billionaires before, but none of them knew how to appreciate the real me. The personality beneath the decorative package.” She patted her hairdo with a bony hand. “Mavoreen Rosenbaum does have a brain, too. Unfortunately, men are simple creatures much too caught up in their hormones to understand that.”

At that moment, a man bolted through the doorway and started down the aisle. He wore a three-piece suit and a haggard expression. He rushed past Deanie’s aisle, only to stop and retrace his steps until he stood next to Mavoreen Rosenbaum. He pointed his briefcase at the empty seat beside her. “I’m sitting there.”

“Of course you are,” she told him. “What can I say?” Mavoreen shook her head. “I guess we all have our crosses to bear.” She turned to let the man scoot past her. “I’ll expect you to keep your hands to yourself,” she told him as he settled in. “And your legs. And all other body parts. And don’t even think about staring at me, sonny, because I’ve got a stun gun in my purse and I know how to use it…”

“If she’s got a decorative package, I’m Shrek,” the blonde murmured.

As far out as the notion seemed, Deanie couldn’t help but admire the older woman. “At least she’s confident.”

“She’s delusional. There is no billionaire. It’s just a story she makes up so she doesn’t have to look like a lonely desperate woman, which is what she is.” The blonde smiled. “But enough with the small stuff. I’m Savannah Sierra Ellington.”

“Nadine. Nadine Codge. But you can call me Deanie.”

The woman’s smile widened and she winked. “Thank the good Lord for flight delays and nicknames.”

Before they could exchange any more pleasantries, the flight attendant’s voice carried over the loud speaker.

Deanie shifted her attention to the woman wearing the white blouse trimmed in turquoise piping and khaki slacks, and did her best not to grimace.

A reaction that had nothing to do with the fact that she was on an airplane for the first time in her life. Or that it just so happened to be Friday the thirteenth. No it was the cupid cutouts and heart streamers that decorated the front of the plane in honor of tomorrow.

V-Day.

The worst day of any single girl’s life.

The flight attendant wore a flashing neon heart pin. A red scarf dotted with red lips circled her neck. To top off her tribute to the big L, she sported a headband with a pair of red glitter hearts attached via long, tentacle-looking wires. The hearts bobbed with her every movement.

“…a little delay, but while we’re waiting for the tower to give the go-ahead for takeoff, we’ll start our in-flight service by taking drink orders.” She started down the aisle, pen and paper in hand. In her wake, another flight attendant carried a large red bag filled with packages of pretzels. She passed out the goodies and carefully eyeballed everyone’s seat belt.

“Welcome to Island Airways where love is always in the air,” the flight attendant with the pretzels told them after her partner had taken their drink orders.

“This is too much,” Savannah Ellington exclaimed when the attendants had moved to the next row.

“You said it.” Even the pretzel bags were red with tiny silver hearts. Deanie fought back the memory that pushed its way into her head… Of a hopeful young girl, a shoe box full of homemade sugar cookies and the most handsome boy in the seventh grade.

She’d been so silly back then and Mr. Handsome hadn’t been the least bit interested. Not that she’d taken the hint. She’d made more sugar cookies the next year and the next, and the only thing he’d ever given her in return had been a thank-you and a grin.

Ah, but that grin had been worth the entire day spent in the kitchen and her brothers’ teasing.

At least that’s what she’d thought back then. But then she’d wised up.

Sure, you did. After you made an even bigger fool of yourself.

“I’m definitely going to complain to the higher ups,” Savannah said. “This just isn’t right.”

“I know. It’s not like it’s a major holiday. We’re not talking Christmas, for Pete’s sake. It’s just Valentine’s Day.”

“I wasn’t talking about Valentine’s Day.” Savannah held up the red foil bag. “ One serving? Talk about chintzy. Forget dancing the night away once I get to Escapades. I’ll be too weak from lack of proper nutrition.” She dropped the bag into her lap and unlatched her purse. A little digging and she withdrew a candy bar. “Thank God I think ahead.” She tore the wrapper, broke a piece of candy off and popped it into her mouth. Her expression eased as she savored the mouthful before holding the bar out to Deanie. “Want some?”

Deanie shook her head.

Savannah gave her a knowing look. “It figures.”

“What?”

“If you hate Valentine’s Day, you’re bound to hate candy, too. And flowers. And jewelry.”

“I don’t hate Valentine’s Day. I just think it’s a little overdone.” And depressing. “People shouldn’t have to buy candy or flowers or jewelry to prove their love.”

“Says you.” She ate another piece of candy and eyed Deanie. “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly no, or not exactly yes?”

Deanie swallowed. “We broke up.”

Savannah studied her a few more seconds before winking. “Don’t sweat it. There are plenty more where he came from. Real ones,” she added, nodding toward Mavoreen’s beehive that bobbed above the seat in front of her. “And trust me, the more the merrier. That way when one’s busy in Atlanta with a buyout for his precious company, you don’t have to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You just hop a plane to a tropical paradise and party the night away with boyfriend number two. And number three. And number four. It’s all about having a back-up plan.”

For the lucky few like Savannah Sierra Ellington with her feminine clothes and her breathy voice. She practically oozed sex appeal. It made sense that she would snag more than one man’s attention.

Deanie, on the other hand, wasn’t as concerned with snagging every man’s attention as she was with keeping one man’s attention.

The man.

And so she intended to be ready when he happened along.

If he happened along.

“I shouldn’t have had that extra glass of wine in the airport lounge. I think I’ll head to the ladies’ room before we takeoff.” Savannah tucked the remainder of her candy bar into her purse, popped open her seat belt, pushed to her feet and sashayed the few feet to the lavatory at the front of the plane.

Deanie glanced at her watch again. Anxiety rushed through her, chasing away the excitement. They really needed to get going. The last thing she wanted was to be late.

Camp E.D.E.N. ran a tight ship. There would be no lounging around the pool or writing post cards. Her training would start immediately after check-in with the first workshop—Shedding Your Inhibitions. There would be a thirty minute dinner break and then it was back to work with three more workshops before curfew and lights out. The strict regimen went hand-in-hand with the camp’s no-nonsense image. Camp E.D.E.N. was for the serious, self-improvement-minded individual, not the fun-seeking sort. At least that’s what the Web site and its page of testimonials claimed.

Her toes whimpered and she eased her feet out of her shoes just enough to allow some breathing room. She shifted and tried for a more comfortable position. The seat was more narrow than she’d initially thought, her legs a lot more cramped. Jet-setting to a tropical getaway wasn’t at all as glamorous as she’d imagined.

It felt more like being cooped up in the last row of a school bus with the other equipment assistants—all three of them, Deanie included—while the football players rode up front.

Then again, this wasn’t high school.

This was her life.

The new and improved version.

“This is a good day.” She murmured the words her grandmother had recited to her every morning during her summer visits before the old woman had passed away.

A great day.

A scary day.

She forced aside the last thought.

Exciting, not scary.

Of course, both caused massive bursts of adrenaline and a faint, light-headed feeling so it was understandable how she could confuse the two.

She pulled out the latest fashion magazine she’d bought at the newsstand—after reaching for Sports Illustrated and giving herself a mental hand slap—and flipped to an article that debated the benefits of lip gloss versus lipstick. Then she heard something…

It took her all of two seconds to realize it wasn’t just the cramped space that reminded her of her high school days.

It was the deep, husky voice that slid into her ears.

“…wouldn’t say I was the greatest tackle to ever play pro football. Maybe one of the top five…”

It couldn’t be.

Deanie closed her eyes for a long moment, her heart beating frantically, as the past pushed and pulled at her.

“Hey there, Teeny.”

The familiar voice echoed in her memory and she practically smelled the sharp aroma of cattle and hay that had filled the corral where she’d watched her brother and his best friend practice steer wrestling techniques every afternoon after school.

“…I managed to hold my own, but there were a lot of players just as good…”

She forced her eyes open, drew a deep breath and twisted to peer over the top of her seat.

Rance McGraw had been the hottest, hunkiest boy to ever wear a Romeo High School football jersey. He’d been the youngest and the wildest of the notorious McGraw triplets, the star of Deanie’s adolescent fantasies and a few adult ones, as well. He’d been sweet and charming and charismatic, and one of the best steer wrestlers to ever win first place at Romeo Junior Livestock Show and Rodeo. He’d also been the boy Deanie had wanted desperately to marry and live happily ever after with.

Wanted, as in past tense. She’d given up her infatuation with him a long time ago.

Sixteen years was a long time, however, and the boy had turned into a hotter, hunkier man.

The man now sitting two rows behind her.

She swallowed and tried for a deep breath. But while her brain issued the command, her lungs wouldn’t cooperate. Neither would her eyes. She willed them to look away, but they kept staring, drinking in the picture he made, his tall, muscular form barely contained in the narrow seat.

With his dark hair and good ole boy smile, Rance was the spitting image of his two handsome brothers. He had the same strong jaw, sensuous lips and sculpted nose. At the same time, there would be no mistaking him for the other two. Being a fraternal triplet, he didn’t have blue eyes like Mason or green ones like Josh. Rather, his gaze gleamed as bright, as bold, as intoxicating as a shot of Jack Daniels whiskey.

Even more, Rance had his own style that set him apart. He wasn’t the classic clean-cut cowboy type like the other McGraw men. Rather, his dark hair hung down to his shoulders. He wore a bright Hawaiian print shirt unbuttoned, a white NASCAR T-shirt beneath. She couldn’t see without giving herself whiplash, but she’d be willing to bet that he wore his signature board shorts, long and frayed around the edges, and a pair of flip-flops.

The only indication of his cowboy roots was the beat-up straw Resistol that he’d been wearing since the age of sixteen. It had belonged to his father who’d died that year. The hat looked worn and faded now, a Coors Lite patch stitched to the brim in between a patch for last year’s ESPN Extreme Sports Games in Colorado and another advertising the bungee jumping finals in South America.

The media still referred to him as a cowboy, however, because of his do-anything attitude and I-don’t-give-a-damn appearance. Rance was an ex-pro football player who now owned a chain of extreme sporting good stores and still made the news with his passion for the outrageous. Just last year she’d seen him on TV hang gliding over a sea of hungry sharks.

Crazy.

Not Rance, mind you. She understood his competitive drive better than anyone because she knew the circumstance behind it. His parents had died when he’d been sixteen, and a little of his heart had died with them. He’d been trying to revive it ever since with a constant supply of adrenaline rush.

No, Deanie was the crazy one.

Her heart pounded. Her vision blurred. Her hands even trembled.