along with it. âIâve never been to this area before. Itâs almost as if nature has swallowed us up.â
That had been his grandparentsâ intention, to make their guests realize that they belonged to nature and not the other way around. But he didnât want Angel appreciating what Tranquility House and the Sur had to offer. Not when he had good reasons for booting Ms. Buchanan out of his familyâs business.
âGrowing up here must have been something out of Huckleberry Finn or Treasure Island . Pirates and shipwrecks and mermaids.â
He grunted. It had been idyllic growing up with the woods and the ocean as his private playground. But then Cooper had become the man of the family and play had been supplanted with twenty-hour workdays fueled by too much coffee and too many cigarettes. All three had become a lifelong habit.
âWeâll get some great photos of the area for the article.â Angel was still chattering away, fueled by who knew what. Nerves, maybe, because he could feel something waving off her whenever they were alone.
Something. Hah. He wasnât so out of touch that he couldnât remember what mutual sexual awareness was like. That and his lawyerâs inherent distrust of the press were the reasons he didnât want her doing the story, even though the family was in no position to turn down the publicity.
But sex in the air would distract him from the serious business of making sure any press would depict hisbrother-in-law in just the right manner. Stephenâs licensing venture included the trademarking of the âArtist of the Heartâ phrase and the use of certain Whitney images on everything from Christmas decorations to floral arrangements.
It was imperative to keep the Whitney name untarnished, and to keep it in the forefront of the publicâs mind. Otherwise, no one would call FTD for an âArtist of the Heartâ bouquet, no one would buy the âArtist of the Heartâ bed-in-a-bag set at Macyâs.
No income would be generated for his sisters and his niece.
âYou know, I keep thinking that I know you.â
Angelâs comment jerked his focus back, and he stumbled.
âDo you think itâs possible we met somewhere?â
Without turning to look at her, he shook his head.
âAre you sure?â
The landscape lighting was bright enough for her to see him, so he merely shook his head again.
They reached the first buildings of Tranquility House. The âhouseâ was actually comprised of two dozen stucco cottages tucked for privacy among the trees, yet all within walking distance of a grass-covered clearing and an adjacent communal structure that housed a kitchen, dining room, first aid area, and office space.
âAre these the housekeepersâ units?â Angel asked, slowing. âI like extra pillows. Will I need to call for them, or can we just stop and gather them up? And what about dry cleaning?â Her chin tilted toward thetrees towering over them. âYou must need a satellite dish for television. Shoot, I was having trouble using my cell phone at the inn. How does yours do out here?â
Cooper halted, turning to stare at her. Extra pillows. Dry cleaning. Cell phones and satellite dishes. Then he grinned to himself. Oh, this was going to be good. Better yet, easy.
Angel Buchanan wouldnât be staying long.
âWell?â she said, sounding half-puzzled and half-impatient. âAre you going to answer my questions or are you just going to stand there looking silently amused?â
Though darkness ringed them, the light from the outside fixture of a nearby cabin made perfectly legible one of the several signs posted around the Tranquility property. Angelâs expression wasnât quite so readable as he dumped her stuff at his feet and then approached her.
She made a muffled noise when he detached her grip on her rolling suitcase, but she didnât protest as he used