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

by Emilie Richards

  He folded his arms atop the golf bag and watched the foursome take their turns at the tee. Two men—one white-haired and one bald, and two smartly attired older women. They were all laughing and kibitzing as much as they were golfing, he thought.

  His hand moved across the clubs still in the bag. His mom had liked to golf. But after her husband had walked out on them for the unfathomable charms of a young Tiffany Scott, Devlin’s mother never went to a golf course again.

  His thoughts were dark as he slid the nine iron out of the case and weighed it experimentally in his hand. It wasn’t quite the perfect day for golfing, with a storm looming on the horizon. There was enough cloud cover to keep the sun from being too bright; but it was humid as hell. None of that detracted from the beauty of the course, though. Full of lakes that glittered silver-blue beneath the clouds, alongside grass that was so green it almost seemed unnatural.

  Golf had been a prime passion for Phillip Mason. Devlin wasn’t surprised that he’d lived in a house with this painfully perfect course nearly in his backyard. Business or pleasure, it hadn’t mattered to Devlin’s father. It could all be conducted on eighteen holes of well-manicured fairways and greens. Even telling his only son that he was divorcing his mother had been done on a golf course.

  The foursome moved on, with a wave of thanks to Devlin. He waited until they were well down the fairway, one of the women hunting in the rough for the landing spot of her little white ball. Devlin didn’t go to the tee, however. He didn’t pull out a brand-new golf ball. Instead, he made a half-turn to face the lake that rippled from some undetectable breeze.

  He threw the nine iron as far as it would go. It splashed and disappeared from sight.

  “On the green,” Devlin muttered. Almost on cue, he heard feminine laughter. It sounded like Marti’s laugh, he thought, and he grabbed another club from the golf bag. It sailed over the lake when he threw, going even farther than the nine iron. “And Faulkner gets a hole in one,” he said. “Look out Tiger Woods.”

  Again that gurgle of laughter carried to his ears.

  He swore. He was losing it. He was supposed to be getting his head back together, but he was unraveling like a cheap sweater. There was no amount of coincidence that would put Marti on this golf course in Tallahassee. She was helping her grandmother close up the place on Colman Key. Living her life, without him, just the way she’d said she’d wanted it when she’d dumped him at the beginning of summer. Apparently her departure doomed him to carry sounds of her laughter in his head until God knew when.

  He grabbed another club—a driver this time—and sent it flying. It turned, end over end, seeming to hang in the sky like a basketball player on a slam dunk before it went headfirst straight into the water. After sixteen holes and almost that many golf clubs, Devlin was getting good at sinking the shot. But the grim satisfaction he’d been getting was wearing thin. So he snatched up the two custom putters that were all that remained in the golf bag, and speared them into the water after the other clubs. A little basketball, a little golf, a little javelin. His lips twisted.

  “Must be having a bad game, there, to be pitching your clubs into the drink.”

  Devlin looked back to see another foursome watching him. “Nope,” he said. “Best game I ever played.” He smiled and walked past them.

  “What about your golf bag?”

  He looked back at the thing. Oversized, leather, it had every bell and whistle that an avid golfer with unlimited money could obtain. Undoubtedly, Phillip Mason had treasured it. “Keep it.”

  He was aware of their raised eyebrows and whispers that maybe he’d had too much liquor or too much sun as he continued walking, heading in the direction of the clubhouse. He hadn’t had a drop to drink. Yet he was hearing Marti’s laugh like some ghostly thing. So maybe a drink would do him some good.

  The theory lost even the mildest credibility when, an hour after Devlin had taken over a padded stool at the mahogany bar in the clubhouse, he heard that laughter all over again. He didn’t turn around to look, though, preferring to stare into his beer. He hadn’t yet found the answers to all of life’s questions dwelling in the amber liquid, but he was still game to try.

  God, he was a pathetic case. He was disgusting even himself. He lifted the beer and finished it off and as he did, his eyes lifted to the long, narrow mirror behind the bar. And there, among the bottles of Captain Morgan and Chivas, he saw the reflection of a shining brunette head.

  He stifled an oath and pointed to his empty glass when the bartender looked his way. In seconds he had his hands wrapped around another icy mug of beer. But his gaze kept straying to the mirror. And when he heard that laughter again, he finally gave in to weakness and turned around on the stool.

  The sight of Marti Colman sitting in a booth with the rugged young guy he’d seen her talking to at his father’s house greeted him. But that wasn’t the biggest shock. Marti and wonder-boy weren’t alone. Two older men were with them.

  And one of them was Bedford Mills.

  If Devlin remembered correctly, and there was no reason to think his brain functions had completely ceased, Mills would be about sixty-five years old now. But the man’s age hadn’t kept him from being quietly investigated by everyone from reporters to DEA to the Treasury Department. Not a one had been able to concretely tie his money to the drug trade. Not even Devlin, himself. And he’d tried.

  And now sweet, trusting Marti Colman was having drinks with him. What the hell was she doing?

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to rid himself of a rapidly forming headache. But the pain was there to stay, just as Marti was there to stay in that booth in the corner of the bar.

  So Devlin stayed, too. Nursing the beer he had no interest in, watching the progress in the corner through the mirror above the bar. Marti’s group broke up about an hour after they arrived. Just in case there was any doubt that she’d spotted him when she’d come in, he turned around and watched them head for the door, knowing they’d have to pass right by him.

  He knew for certain that she saw him when her face paled and her steps faltered. She said something to her companions, who continued on without her. Then she walked over to Devlin and propped her hands on her hips.

  “Are you following me?”

  She wore cream-colored pants that ended just below her knees and a snug button-down of the same color that hugged her curves from shoulders to hips. He could see her pulse throbbing visibly at the base of her neck where a pretty diamond pendant rested. She looked like a sexy vanilla ice-cream cone. And he was starving.

  “You came in after me, cupcake,” he pointed out.

  She glared, silent.

  “You’ve been golfing.” It wasn’t a question. And he thought he was relieved, maybe, that he hadn’t imagined overhearing her laughter earlier. “How’d you get into Bedford Mills’s foursome?”

  “I should have known you’d recognize him.”

  “Do you even know who the man is? He’s dangerous. I swear, Marti, someone should put you on a leash for your own protection.”

  “Keep your voice down. I knew exactly what I was doing. Have you been drinking? You never drink.”

  He reached back and picked up the half-empty beer mug. “Never say never.” He thumped the mug back onto the gleaming bar. “What do you think you’re doing with Bedford Mills?”

  “I told you I went to high school with Bobby Ray Caulfield. His father is golfing buddies with Bedford Mills whenever he’s in town.”

  “Great. Former mayors who are in the pocket of drug dealers. Nice company, Marti. Wonder if your parents would approve.”

  “You told me to follow the leads, and I am,” she hissed quietly. “So take your ‘leash’ and choke on it. There’s never been any proof to the rumors of his drug connections. Maybe you don’t think I’m capable of handling anything more important than little columns about whether pink or coral will be the hot color of the season, but I—”

  “I never said that.”


  “—have a promise from Colman Key’s local newspaper to run the story if I can tie Mills to Colman Key.” She looked flushed with triumph.

  “Tie him how?”

  “Why would I tell you? So you can scoop me?”

  He smiled sardonically. “Cupcake, if you haven’t figured out what I want to do with you, I must not be expressing myself very well. Scooping a story has nothing to do with it. The necklace looks good on you, by the way. I knew it would.”

  Her flush deepened. But she didn’t shy away from him. Her eyes didn’t turn away; her feet didn’t retreat. “And are you so sure you’re expressing what you intend?”

  He narrowed his eyes against the odd sensation that she was looking inside him and seeing things he didn’t even like acknowledging. Then he went stock-still as she stepped forward and rested her slender palms on his thighs.

  She leaned up to press her lips to his cheek. “Bedford Mills is the money behind the Trinity Group, which happens to be funding Lou Cox’s so-far unannounced run for the state senate. And the Trinity Group is the developer for sixteen singles’ resorts all over the country,” she said softly. “Colman Key is their latest focus. And, by the way, thank you for the necklace. But I have no intention of being just another notch on your bedpost, Devlin.”

  Then she stepped back, her gaze steady on his.

  It was painful, that look of hers. Far more painful than the hard ache in his body. When he said nothing, she finally sighed a little and walked away.

  Devlin unlocked his jaw and turned around to face the bar again.

  “Refill, sir?” The bartender stopped in front of him.

  Devlin shook his head. “I’ve had enough.” More than enough.

  Marti jabbed her finger on the illuminated doorbell button and tried to quell her misgivings. Behind her, the wind picked up a palm frond that had blown down and carried it, skittering noisily, across the drive. She pushed the doorbell again, only to fall back when the door abruptly opened.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not—Marti.” Devlin eyed her for a long moment, his gaze traveling over her from head to toe and back again. “Changed your mind about the bedpost?”

  She exhaled, cursing the heated shivers that his intense look inspired. “I knew this was a mistake.” She turned and raced back down the wide stairs. The wind that had been steadily increasing since she’d left the golf course hours earlier tugged at her hair.

  “Marti, wait.”

  Stupid fool where he was concerned that she was, she paused at the bottom step and looked at him.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

  Be sensible, Marti. “The bridge to the key has gone out again.”

  “How do you know?”

  She huffed. “Because I drove all the way down there and couldn’t cross, that’s how I know.”

  “And then drove all the way back here?”

  “My parents may be abroad, but Tallahassee is still my home,” she reminded. A crack of thunder made her wince.

  “It’s going to rain.”

  “Another display of your brilliant powers of observation. Hurricane Leslie decided to head this way after all. Should have known not to trust the weather forecasts that said otherwise.”

  His lips twisted. “Come inside.”

  “So you can insult me some more?”

  “Then stay out there and get wet,” he said, and disappeared into the house.

  He’d left the door open, though. A gust of wind blasted through it, making it slam loudly against the wall behind it. She hurried up the steps, feeling stupid, hoping that nothing had broken behind the door.

  Devlin was nowhere to be seen. She shouldered the door against the wind to get it closed and sighed at the distinct mark on the wall where the elaborate fixture had broken through the drywall. Then she looked around. The house looked far more packed than Grammer’s did. Cartons were stacked up in piles all around the foyer. Through the living room, she could see even more boxes. And the furniture—nearly all of it except the grand piano and the odd waterfall sculpture—had heavy-looking plastic wrapped around it.

  But the sculpture drew her eyes to the opened doorway beyond it and her feet headed that way. Inside the room, Devlin sat behind a mammoth-size cherrywood desk. There were stacks of paper everywhere, several opened packing cartons, and an enormous garbage can—the kind that she’d seen Big John use to gather up Grammer’s yard clippings.

  She rubbed her palms down the sides of her Capri pants. “I need to use the phone.”

  His heavy-lidded gaze turned toward one side of the desk. Taking that as permission, she walked through the obstacle course of papers to the desk. “It’s, um, long distance.”

  He merely lifted one eyebrow. She sighed faintly and picked up the phone, dialing rapidly. Fortunately the lines were still working and Grammer answered.

  She didn’t seem surprised that Marti had chosen to stay in Tallahassee. “I heard that darned bridge went out again,” Grammer said. “Goodness knows how long it’ll take to fix. Folks here are having a fit. I’m afraid Councilman Cox’s plan to replace the bridge is getting a big boost in popularity. I’m just glad to hear that you’ve lit somewhere and aren’t out driving in this awful weather.”

  Painfully aware of Devlin unapologetically listening, Marti turned her back on him. “Grammer, do you know what the security code is to the house? Mother and Daddy let all the staff have a break since they’ve been in Europe and I can’t get in.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I don’t.”

  Marti rubbed her forehead. There was no way she could call her parents. Her father would have a fit at being interrupted. He hadn’t been happy to be interrupted when Grammer had broken her ankle, and look what happened? He’d decided she had to move. “It’s a pretty bad storm here, Grammer. I know the forecast was for the hurricane to completely miss us, but I’m not so sure now. What’s it like at the key?”

  “Blowing and raining, dear. But don’t you worry about me. John is coming to finish boarding up the house.”

  She relaxed a little, knowing that her grandmother wouldn’t be alone. “All right, well, my cell phone is dead. But I’ll check in with you later.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  Marti couldn’t help it. She looked over her shoulder at Devlin. He cocked an eyebrow and she swallowed, looking away. “I…don’t know, yet, Grammer. I’ll call you later.”

  “What don’t you know, yet?” he asked the moment she hung up the phone.

  She pressed her hands together, wondering why she’d had the foolishness to come to Devlin for help. There were other places she could have gone. She just hadn’t thought things through. She cleared the knot from her throat. “She wanted to know where I’d be staying. What with the weather and all.”

  “So just admit that you’re here. Or…wouldn’t she approve?”

  “I don’t think I like your tone. But as it happens, she probably would approve. She thinks you’re nice.”

  “But you and I both know I’m not.” He turned back to the book he held. It looked like a photo album to her. He tossed it into the oversize trash can beside him.

  She watched him for a taut moment. “I did think you were nice,” she said, unable to squelch the honesty, even if it did hurt. “I wouldn’t have gone out with you in the first place, if I hadn’t.” He’d been surprisingly nice, dangerously humorous, and ridiculously exciting.

  “And now you know differently. Yet you still came here.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “You don’t need pretense, Marti. You told me yourself. Tallahassee is your home. You could have gone any number of places when you couldn’t get back to your grandmother’s. Instead you came here.”

  Irritation bloomed. “This was the closest place I came to. I needed to use the phone.”

  “You, who is never without her handy cell phone?”

  Marti’s fingers curled. “Obviously this was a mistake. I should have known bet
ter.”

  “Yet you came here, anyway.” He leaned back in his chair, watching her with the uncommon scrutiny that was such a part of him. “Why is that?”

  Her cheeks were hot. Because, fool that I am, I needed help and came to you. “You were closest,” she said aloud. “You heard what I told Grammer. My cell phone is dead and I don’t have a charger with me.”

  The slashing dimple in his cheek deepened.

  Annoyed beyond reason, she turned her ivory crocheted purse upside down. A dozen items rained out, tumbling everywhere. She caught her small cell phone before it bounced off the desk and thumbed the power button. The small display remained blank. “Satisfied?” She pushed it in front of his nose.

  His fingers circled her wrist, and the phone clattered on the desk. “Not remotely satisfied. Why can’t you admit it, Marti?”

  That I’m a fool for loving you? She twisted her arm, but his hold stayed fast. “Admit what?”

  “You want the same thing I want.”

  “The story behind Lou Cox’s real plan for Colman Key?”

  He tugged her wrist, forcing her to lean even further across the surface of his desk. She shuddered, thoroughly unnerved at the excitement that ripped through her.

  “Fine,” she said, pushed beyond measure. “You win. I want to sleep with you. But don’t feel too happy about it, because I’m not.” She twisted her wrist out of his hold at last and pushed herself off the desk, tugging the hem of her shirt back down where it belonged. “I promised myself a long time ago that I’d wait to make love with a man until I was sure he loved me.”

  He was silent a moment too long, and Marti wanted to tear out her tongue.

  “Marti—” his eyes searched her face “—are you a virgin?”

  Her face burned. She blindly fumbled the contents of her purse back inside. “I should have told you a long time ago,” she said tartly. “Then you could have saved your efforts, instead of wasting your last month in the States on me. Goodness knows you have your pick of far m-more experienced partners.” Her voice went hoarse. “Dr. Longlegs would suit admirably, no doubt.”