“You wanted me to come,” he said, his gaze locking with hers.
A tiny nod, then the words, “I needed you to.”
Needed. He hadn’t needed a woman since he was twenty. He didn’t need now. He could leave. Could walk out the door, get in his car and drive away as if nothing had ever happened. As if it might not kill him.
He didn’t need to stay.
But he wanted to.
Another gust of wind rustled through the house, stirring his hair. She raised her hand as if to brush it back but hesitated, her fingers unsteady between them. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t look at anything but her fingers, couldn’t want anything but her fingers on him. Stroking him. Holding him. Arousing him…
And finally, finally, she touched him. Her fingertips brushed his hair, something his mother and grandmother had done dozens of times since he was a child, simple, innocent.
And so damn intimate that he hurt with it.
Dear Reader,
When Robbie Calloway first appeared in my head, I wasn’t thinking about making him a hero. He was spoiled, arrogant, lazy and obnoxious—not exactly the commitment-worthy, true-love type. On the contrary, when Anamaria Duquesne came along, I knew she was heroine material. I just never intended for Robbie to be her perfect match. As so often happens when I write, the characters surprised me. They knew they were meant for each other even if I didn’t.
But that’s the cool thing about falling in love, isn’t it? Two people can appear on the surface to have nothing in common, but deep down inside, they share the kind of connection that…well, that romance novels are made of. Anamaria calls it destiny. I call it happily ever after.
I hope Scandal in Copper Lake brings some sizzle to your February!
Marilyn
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR
Scandal in Copper Lake
Marilyn Pappano
MARILYN PAPPANO
has spent most of her life growing into the person she was meant to be, but isn’t there yet. She’s been blessed by family—her husband, their son, his lovely wife and a grandson who is almost certainly the most beautiful and talented baby in the world—and friends, along with a writing career that’s made her one of the luckiest people around. Her passions, besides those already listed, include the pack of wild dogs who make their home in her house, fighting the good fight against the weeds that make up her yard, killing the creepy-crawlies that slither out of those weeds and, of course, anything having to do with books.
To Robert, my own connection, destiny and
happily-ever-after. Here’s to the next thirty years.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 1
Anamaria Duquesne slowed to a stop at the intersection and gazed up at the street sign. When Mama Odette had told her she would be living on Easy Street in Copper Lake, Georgia, she’d taken the words for symbolism. Mama Odette liked symbolism.
But her grandmother hadn’t been striving for some deeper meaning. The street really was named Easy, though it was clearly a place where some hard living went on. For every streetlamp that glowed in the night, another two were burned out. The street was narrow and lacked shoulders but dipped into ditches that filled with water when it rained. Trees and bushes grew thick, and grass was sparse. The ten houses she passed before reaching the end of the street hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in her lifetime. The cars were old, and a couple of scroungy-looking dogs stretched to the end of their chains to watch as she pulled into the last driveway.
She sat for a moment, studying the scene in the headlights’ beams. There was only one tree in the front, a magnificent live oak that shaded the entire front lawn. On the sides, the grass had long since surrendered to weeds that were thigh-high. The house was square, not large, but big enough for a mother and her daughter.
A screened porch stretched across the front; she knew from memory that the door opened into a central hall. On the left was the living room and, on the right, a bedroom. At the rear, there was a kitchen and another bedroom. A bathroom separated the two bedrooms.
This was the house where Anamaria had lived the first five years of her life. Just her and her mama, and a black puppy named Ebony. Ebony had made the move to Savannah with Anamaria. Her mama had not.
Despite the warm spring night, a chill crept across Anamaria’s skin. She cut the engine and climbed out of the car, pausing to listen, smell, remember. She heard tree frogs, whip-poor-wills, a night train on the not-too-distant tracks. A faraway dog barking, an answering bark, a car. She smelled dampness from the nearby river, the lush new growth in the woods that backed the house, the faint scents of decay, despair…hopelessness.
And she remembered…very little. Climbing the live oak. Helping with her mother’s flower garden. Playing with her mama as if they were both children.
Glory Duquesne had been little more than a child when she’d given birth to her first child at sixteen. This led to her dropping out of school, following the path with men and motherhood that Mama Odette had taken, and every other Duquesne woman before them. She had been beautiful—not just a daughter’s memory but verified by photographs—with café-au-lait skin, coarse black hair, eyes as brown as the earth and a smile that could stop a man in his tracks.
It’s a curse, Mama Odette said. Duquesne women love well and long and unwisely, and we never marry. But we make beautiful daughters. It was hard to tell with her whether It’s a curse meant an actual curse. Mama Odette believed in the old ways, in evil and curses and The Sight and atonement. She’d supported first her own babies, then her grandbaby, by telling fortunes, offering healing and charms and advice.
Taking two suitcases from the trunk, Anamaria made her way across the yard and climbed creaky steps to the porch. There were tears in the screens, along with enough rust to obscure the view. She crossed to the door, fumbled with the lock, then stepped inside and flipped the light switch. She’d called ahead to the power company, so light illuminated the hallway.
For a time she stood just inside the door, anticipation—fear?—tightening her lungs. Then she drew a breath. She’d expected something. Some flood of memories. Some sense of Mama. Some feeling of horror. But nothing came. The few memories she’d already examined were it.
Thanks to the cleaning service she’d hired, the house smelled of furniture polish and wood soap. Twenty-three years of abandonment had been scrubbed away, leaving the rooms spotless but shabby. The wallpaper was faded, the furniture outdated, the linoleum worn. The metal kitchen cabinets were fifty years or older, but the refrigerator and stove were in working order. There was no dishwasher and no microwave, but she didn’t mind.
Walking along the hall, she wished for a memory, a whisper, a ghost. But talking to the dead was Mama Odette’s strength. Those who’d passed ignored Anamaria as thoroughly as the