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Tall, Tanned & Texan
Kimberly Raye
“You look really hot,” Rance said, his voice husky
“And how.” Deanie turned and squinted up at his large shadow towering over her. “There were no umbrellas available, and so I’ve been cooking.”
He grinned. “I meant hot as in good-looking.” Before she could answer him, he’d hooked a leg over the chair and straddled the chaise behind her. His thighs framed hers and his chest cushioned her back. His hands settled on her shoulders, then traced her upper arms. Deanie could barely breathe.
“You feel hot, too,” he added, his lips touching the shell of her ear.
“It’s the sun,” she said weakly.
“Maybe.” His hands slid back up over her shoulders.
“And maybe not.” Strong fingers lifted her hair away from her neck and she felt the cool rush of fresh air followed by the hot press of his lips.
“What are you doing?”
“Following the Camp E.D.E.N. curriculum and the first workshop—‘Shedding Your Inhibitions.’”
“Shouldn’t we find someplace a little more private? With less people?”
“Now, Deanie,” Rance said, grinning wickedly. “Wouldn’t that defeat the whole purpose?”
Dear Reader,
Being a romantic at heart, I love Valentine’s Day. It’s an infatuation that began long before I met my husband and fell in love. Lucky for him. See, my hubby is a total nonromantic. His last V-Day gift to me? A fishing rod and reel combo from the local sporting goods store. But for me, it’s not the actual gifts that make Valentine’s Day so special. It’s the whole notion of an entire twenty-four hours devoted to the big L. It’s just so… romantic.
But I have a lot of friends—single women, as well as married ones—who think I’m a nutcase. They hate the cheesy cards and the never-ending pressure that comes with a holiday where the depth of a person’s love is often measured by the size of the gift.
Like my gal pals, Deanie Codge, the heroine in my newest Harlequin Blaze novel, is totally convinced that Valentine’s Day is the worst day of the year. Not because she doesn’t enjoy a box of Godiva, mind you, but because she simply doesn’t believe in love. She’s been there and done that, and she’s not doing it again.
But when she finds herself stranded on a romantic island for twenty-four hours with her old flame, Rance McGraw, she starts to think that maybe, just maybe falling in love again might not be all that bad. After all, it is Valentine’s Day….
Join Deanie and Rance as they spend their hottest holiday ever in Tall, Tanned & Texan, and have a blazing-hot Valentine’s Day!
Kimberly Raye
P.S. I love to hear from readers! You can visit me online at www.kimberlyraye.com or write to me c/o Harlequin Books.
Tall, Tanned & Texan
Kimberly Raye
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to the wonderfully talented Nina Bangs. Thanks for being such a great writer and an even better friend!
Contents
Chapter 1 (#u52e1fa16-f4f8-5e2b-9e76-8709b786e885)
Chapter 2 (#u439d98e3-7d09-5742-9482-da0a2a6a0db2)
Chapter 3 (#uabadfebf-4cd7-5e15-a477-4b7fda1e7279)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
1
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.
