had a mission. A desperate quest to ease an old man’s mind, and no time for cowardice or feminine vapors.
“It’s just business,” she reassured herself. Slicking her dark hair back from her damp forehead, she automatically cally tightened her severe but sensible ponytail, then stepped out of the truck.
The marina had seen better days—and worse. Tall, clattering sabal palms shaded a weathered building, a combination business office, fisherman’s supply and dining hall. White crushed-shell paths connected ramshackle, clapboard guest cottages. A wooden dock stretched into the sparkling waters of the bay, but the majority of the boat slips lay empty. For most of Sarah Ann’s twenty-eight years, the Dempsey truck farm and orange groves had supplied fresh produce to this neighboring establishment. She and Gramps had watched the place struggle, then change hands—and names—again and again.
But the latest owners were something different. Mystery men, the gossips labeled them. A trio with questionable pasts, who vanished at intervals to pursue who-knew-what devilment, then reappeared to soak up the sun and rest on their laurels, caring little if the cottages were filled or the fishing boats rented.
As she opened the truck’s tailgate, a delicate shiver tickled Sarah Ann’s spine in spite of the heat. Making her deliveries, she’d seen them all at one time or another: the dark one, with the proud look of the Seminole; the Irishman with his merry grin and bleak eyes; and the one they called The Captain, tawny like a lion, and as commanding.
“Don’t you dare lift them tomatoes!”
Sarah Ann jumped, her hands poised on the handles of the bushel basket holding the last of the season’s crop. An Amazon wearing a man’s rayon tropical shirt screaming with chartreuse parrots barreled toward her like a battleship under full steam. “But, Beulah—”
The woman batted Sarah Ann’s hands away, lifting the loaded basket to her shoulder with no more effort than if it were a soap bubble. Her homely, corpulent face was ruddy with a high, indignant color matched by henna-red hair the texture of steel wool.
“Little gal, you’ll bust a gut.” A cigarette with an inch of ash dangled from Beulah’s prominent lower lip, bobbing to punctuate her scolding words. “You ain’t got the sense the Lord gave a lemming!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“’Sorry’ don’t pay the rent. Come in and get the last piece of chocolate pie. Rather you eat it as those no-accounts I work for.”
Sarah Ann smiled, unoffended by Beulah’s brusqueness. The cook-housekeeper had established herself at the resort as a force to be reckoned with, ruling the roost with her eccentric ways, sharp tongue and gourmet cooking. Now she was as much a part of the place as the salt water and saw grass, and as immovable. Nobody messed with Beulah, but over time she and Sarah Ann had developed something of a wary friendship.
“Thanks for the offer,” Sarah Ann said. “But I’m not very hungry.”
Beulah inspected her with sharp black eyes. “Been to the hospital?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How’s Harlan?”
Sarah Ann shrugged and looked away. It was difficult to talk about Gramps, but that’s why she was here, wasn’t it? Licking dry lips, she steeled herself for her task. “Is—is your boss around?”
“Who, Gabriel?”
Helplessly, she nodded. “I guess.”
“What you need with that scoundrel, missy?”
Sarah Ann’s face flamed. “Ah, it’s a…personal matter.”
“My, my, my. Hoity-toity, aren’t we, now?” Beulah’s pugnacious features soured. “Sure, sweet cakes, he’s around here somewhere. Come on.”
Beulah opened the screened door and led the way into a large open room with high pine beams and banks of screened windows. Serving as both lobby and dining hall, the area was furnished with shabby bamboo settees, Formica-topped tables and rattan chairs. Ceiling fans stirred the sultry air.
“Ain’t seen him in the office all day. He’s probably out there.” Steadying the heavy basket with an arm as muscular as any All-Pro linebacker’s, Beulah pointed through French doors that led to the cottages. “Help yourself. I got tomatoes to peel.”
She disappeared through a set of swinging doors into the kitchen, her foam rubber flip-flops slapping an ill-tempered tattoo against the tile floor. Feeling abandoned at the other woman’s abrupt departure and suffocated by the thick air, Sarah Ann wiped her damp palms on her jeans and tried to breathe.
How could she go through with this?
Plucking up her courage, she stepped outside. The compound was quiet except for the hum of insects in the scarlet hibiscus and purple bougainvillea that lined the paths. Sarah Ann glanced around, her resolve wavering. Gabriel wasn’t here. Maybe this was a sign from heaven that she ought to abandon her desperate plan. Maybe—
Suddenly a rope creaked, drawing her attention to a pair of battered cowboy boots peeping over the harness of a hammock slung in the shade of two palm trees. Hesitantly, Sarah Ann moved down the shell path. The top of a blond head and two elbows came into view, followed by a swath of deeply tanned masculine chest laid open to the wayward breeze by an unbuttoned khaki safari shirt. Gulping, she stared at the man snoozing in the hammock.
His fair hair was thick and straight, sun streaked and cut short at the nape. Mirrored aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes from the glare but did nothing to disguise the square jut of a determined jaw or the deep lines of experience that bracketed a wide mouth. He was in his late thirties, she guessed, and his nose looked as though it had been broken more than once. It wasn’t a handsome face, but forceful and somehow knowing, and to Sarah Ann the strength in it was intimidating. She was actually glad she couldn’t see his eyes.
Her gaze flicked to the rest of him, and she drew an involuntary breath at the sheer masculinity on display, the width of broad shoulders, the flat muscularlity of his stomach, the light dusting of sandy chest hair that darkened as it traveled down his midsection. Fascinated, she watched a glistening pearl of moisture trickle from his navel and disappear beneath the low-slung waistband of wellworn jeans. From the length of his outstretched legs, she knew that he would dwarf her when he stood.
She also knew with an instinctive certainty that she was making a big mistake.
“You can waltz your butt right back where it came from, sister,” a deep voice drawled. “I’m not budging.”
Sarah Ann gasped, and shells crunched underfoot as she took an involuntary step backward. “Of course. Sorry, I’ll go—”
He came to a seated position on the side of the hammock with the swiftness of a springing cougar and snared her wrist before she could back out of reach. Tipping his head, he surveyed her from her scraped-back hair to the tips of her old, canvas tennis shoes. “Who the hell are you?”
Shocked and chagrined, she stammered. “S-Sarah. Sarah Ann Dempsey.”
“Dempsey? The folks who own the next place over?”
“Yes.”
“Offered to buy a parcel of frontage from the old man a while
