Mind Over Marriage Read online

  “The other night you mentioned there was something you needed to tell me. Maybe you should tell me now.”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Rebecca Daniels

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  “The other night you mentioned there was something you needed to tell me. Maybe you should tell me now.”

  Cooper dreaded the truth. The truth wasn’t going to set him free; it was going to sink him. “Kelsey, I’m...I’m not sure this is the time—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Coop,” she said, cutting him off. Breathing deep, she looked him square in the face. “Is there another woman?”

  The question hit him like a glass of ice water. Of all the things he’d been concerned about, that was the last thing he’d expected her to ask. “Why would you think there was someone else?”

  “Because...” Her voice had started to quiver.

  “Because since the accident, things have been different between us.”

  Coop felt a knotting in his stomach. Of course things had been different. They were divorced. They hadn’t been together as man and wife in over two years....

  Dear Reader,

  Once again, you’ve come to the right place if you’re looking for that seductive mix of romance and excitement that is quintessentially Intimate Moments. Start the month with The Lady in Red—by reader favorite Linda Turner. Your heart will be in your throat as rival homicide reporters Blake Nickels and Sabrina Jones see their relationship change from professional to personal—with a killer on their trail all the while. And don’t miss the conclusion of the HOLIDAY HONEYMOONS miniseries, Merline Lovelace’s The 14th...and Forever. You’ll wish for a holiday—and a HOLIDAY HONEYMOON—every month of the year.

  The rest of the month is fabulous, too, with new books from Rebecca Daniels: Mind Over Marriage; Marilyn Tracy: Almost Perfect, the launch book in her ALMOST, TEXAS miniseries; and Allie Harrison: Crime of the Heart. And welcome new author Charlotte Walker, as she debuts with Yesterday’s Bride. Every one of these books is full of passion, and sometimes peril—don’t miss a single one.

  And be sure to come back next month, when the romance and excitement continue, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Enjoy!

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  * * *

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Warden Ave., P.O. Box 1325. Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609. Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3

  * * *

  MIND OVER MARRIAGE

  REBECCA DANIELS

  Books by Rebecca Daniels

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  L.A. Heat #369

  L.A. Midnight #431

  Fog City #467

  Lawyers, Guns and Money #563

  *Tears of the Shaman #654

  *Father Figure #696

  Mind Over Marriage #765

  *It Takes Two

  Silhouette Romance

  Loving the Enemy #987

  Family Addition #1201

  Montana Mavericks

  Way of the Wolf

  REBECCA DANIELS

  will never forget the first time she read a Silhouette novel. “I was at my sister’s house, sitting by the pool and trying without much success to get interested in the book I’d brought from home. Everything seemed to distract me—the kids splashing around, the sea gulls squawking, the dog barking. Finally my sister plucked the book from my hands, told me she was going to give me something I wouldn’t be able to put down and handed me my first Silhouette novel. Guess what? She was right! For that lazy afternoon by her pool, I will forever be grateful.” That was years ago, and Rebecca has been writing romance novels ever since.

  Born in the Midwest but raised in Southern California, she now resides in Northern California’s San Joaquin Valley with her husband and two sons. She is a lifelong poet and song lyricist who enjoys early-morning walks, an occasional round of golf, scouring California’s Mother Lode region for antiques and traveling.

  Prologue

  Thursday, 10:01 a.m.

  “Hi, Mr. Reed, this is Barbara Reynolds from Continental Casual. Isn’t this rain something? Hope you’re managing to stay dry. Just wanted to call to remind you your policy is coming due next week and I’d like to set up a time when we can discuss a renewal. Call me when you can. I’m at 805-555-8100. Bye.”

  Friday, 2:33 p.m.

  “Hey, Coop. It’s Dale McCannon. Time to renegotiate the lease again. Hope the place is still standing. Give me a call—you know the number.”

  Tuesday, 6:56 p.m.

  “Cooper, hello, it’s Morris Chandler. Been a long time, I know. I tried the house, but must have missed you—left a message on the machine, though. I was hoping I’d catch you at work, but no doubt this storm has you grounded. Coop, I...I need to talk with you—don’t know quite how to say this. Something’s happened—to Kelsey, I mean. She’s in the hospital, Coop and...and, well, she needs you. Please call me as soon as you can, as soon as you get in. If there isn’t someone at the house, I’ll be at Community General in Santa Ynez. Please, Coop, it’s really important.”

  Wednesday, 7:55 a.m.

  “It’s Mo Chandler, Coop—looks like I missed you again. I’m still at the hospital in Santa Ynez, Community General. I could really use you up here, Coop, as soon as possible. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m desperate.”

  Wednesday, 11:27 a.m.

  “Mo again. Coop, it’s bad here. Kelsey needs you, Coop. Please come. Please.”

  Chapter 1

  They were calling it the storm of the century, but as far as Cooper Reed was concerned, that was just so much media hype. He’d weathered a lot of storms in his thirtynine years—from Mother Nature as well as a few of his own making. And while the severe weather system that had moved over the state of California eight days ago and pelted coastal communities with raging winds and fierce rains had been bad, it wasn’t the worst he’d seen.

  Still, the storm had managed to disrupt his life pretty good, not to mention the toll it had taken on his wellbeing. His helicopter flight service had ground to a dead stop, and he could count on one hand the number of hours of sleep he’d had since volunteering with the rescue efforts that had begun seventy-two hours ago. His chopper had been in the air almost constantly in the past three days, so to say he was exhausted was an understatement.

  Coop stumbled into his small, cluttered office and collapsed in the squeaky chair behind the desk. As offices go, it wasn’t much, with its bare floors and cramped space, but that was okay. He wasn’t there much, anyway. He spent most of his time piloting his helicopter back and forth between the airport and the huge offshore oil platforms that dotted the waters off the Santa Barbara coast. On four scheduled flights each day, he would ferry people, equipment, supplies—and just about anything else anyone would pay him to deliver—over the turbulent waters of the Pacific.

  He leaned back, resting his head against the slick green vinyl and gazing through the small, grimy window beside the desk. The main runway of Santa Barbara’s small airport was quiet now, but that hadn’t been the case seventy-two hours ago. The place had been ab
uzz with activity then, air ambulances and transport planes landing and taking off one after the other, and emergency vehicles screaming back and forth, sirens blasting. It had been crazy—but then, like everything else since the damn storm had hit.

  Starting eight days ago with a light drizzle, the storm had intensified over the California coast. For four days the calm waters of the Pacific had turned into a teeming caldron of destruction and death. Swells offshore rose as high as sixty feet and created a tide that swallowed up beaches and brutally pounded cliffs.

  The aftermath had been no less brutal—a harsh testament to the fury of Mother Nature’s hand. Injuries up and down the state had been bad, and some areas had experienced devastating destruction. Every pilot, seaman, heavy equipment operator, truck driver, search-and-rescue squad, law-enforcement agency, emergency medical team and able-bodied soul with two steady hands had pulled together to work the massive rescue campaign Coast Guard and Red Cross officials had organized.

  Coop rubbed his scratchy eyes. He’d lost count of the number of trips he’d made between the airport and the offshore drilling platforms since the rescue began. With considerable storm damage to many of the platforms, and critical injuries, time had been of the essence in getting help to the stranded workers. He’d spent the past three days picking up and delivering injured workers to area hospitals, carrying supplies and equipment to repair damage, transporting work crews to storm-ravaged areas and assisting in search-and-rescue missions up and down the coast.

  The wind shifted suddenly, sending a smattering of light rain against the windowpanes. It hit the glass with a crackling sound, a feeble reminder of the gale-force winds that had ripped through the area only days before. Coop gave his eyes another rub, stifling a yawn, and reached for the stack of mail Doris had dutifully left piled on his desk over a week ago.

  Doris DeAngelo called herself his receptionist—probably because she sat behind the small counter out front—but to anyone who knew Coop and his aversion to anything resembling paperwork, she was the heart of Reed Helicopter Service. Coop might be the pilot and owner, but Doris was the reason the doors stayed open for business. She saw to it schedules were met, phones were answered and bills were paid on time.

  Except the offices were empty now—they’d been empty all week. But even without the storm, Doris wouldn’t have been around at this time of day anyway. It was nearly six, and Doris never, never worked past two. The way she saw it, she didn’t need eight hours to get eight hours of work done. Besides, bridge games at the San Marcos Retirement Center began at three o’clock sharp, and Doris never missed a bridge game. Next to pushing him around, there was nothing the sixty-two-year-old woman liked more than playing bridge.

  Coop smiled, leafing through the mound of mail. It was all junk, flyers and advertisements—nothing of importance. If there had been anything important, Doris never would have left it for him to take care of, anyway.

  He glanced at the phone. At least his electronic voice mail service was his own. Doris wanted no part of it, thank God. As far as she was concerned, if it didn’t involve a pen and paper or her antiquated Royal typewriter, it was considered high tech, and Doris simply didn’t do high tech.

  Coop picked up the receiver, hearing the rapid clicking sounding along with the dial tone that indicated he had taped messages waiting. He punched in his code and waited while the computer retrieved his calls, wondering just what he had missed in the frenzy of the past several days.

  Coop listened to the perky voice of Barbara Reynolds, the insurance agent who’d taken over his account last year. Hearing that the premium on his copter was coming due wasn’t exactly news he was anxious to hear. Neither was Dale McCannon’s message that followed. Coop understood when a property manager started talking about renegotiating anything, it meant only one thing—his rent was going up.

  As he listened, Coop picked up a pencil from the cup by the phone and doodled absently on the year-old calendar that lay among the clutter on top of his desk. He blackened a tooth of Miss January, who was clad in a teeny bikini and stocking cap made from the colorful labels of a popular brand of motor oil. He’d finished one front tooth and had just begun sketching a mustache across the top of her smiling lips when the next message began to play.

  It took a moment for it to register what it was he was listening to, to identify the voice and understand the words being spoken. However, when recognition finally sunk in, the pencil slipped from his hand, landing on the cluttered desk and rolling into oblivion.

  It had been two years, and yet Coop recognized his former father-in-law’s voice immediately. Morris Chandler had raised five kids on his own, and there wasn’t much that could get him upset—but he sounded upset now. In fact, he sounded terrified.

  As he listened to Mo’s message, Coop felt a cold dampness settle over the room, a cold that seemed to seep into his bones and turn his blood to ice. Kelsey was in the hospital. Mo hadn’t said how or why—just that she was in the hospital and needed him. It seemed impossible.

  Coop stared at the defaced calendar, but he wasn’t seeing the spoiled image of the model in the picture. He was seeing an image in his mind, seeing the face of the woman he had married, the face of the woman who had promised to love him forever. Only Kelsey had broken her promise—broken it and walked away. Two years ago she had decided their marriage was over, had decided what was broken couldn’t be fixed, what they once had was over forever.

  It had been a bad time for both of them, a time when they should have pulled together, when they should have helped each other heal. Except there had been nothing she had wanted from him—not his comfort, not his support and certainly not his love.

  His hand flexed nervously around the telephone receiver, and he closed his eyes. Mo was telling him she needed him now, she was in the hospital and needed him. How could that be?

  He heard the beeping that signaled the end of one message and the start of another, and before he could think or react, Mo Chandler’s voice came on the line again. The second message was short and to the point, and the third shorter still, with Mo leaving the same cryptic message, the same succinct dispatch—Kelsey needed him. The only things different in each message was the tone of Mo’s voice. It grew more urgent and a little more desperate in each.

  When the line finally went dead, Coop quickly punched in a code and replayed the messages. Except there was nothing else to hear, no further information to procure, no hidden message he’d missed the first time around. Coop hung up the phone and slowly rose to his feet.

  He stood there for a moment, not sure what he should do—stand, sit, walk or run as far away as he could. He felt stunned, a little like he’d been caught in a wind shear and was heading toward the ground in a tailspin.

  Glancing at the phone, he snatched it and punched in Mo Chandler’s number. He didn’t have to look up the number. Mo’s number, like everything else about Kelsey Chandler Reed, had been permanently burned into his memory a long time ago.

  He felt a ripple of anxiety while he waited for the connection to go through. The blood rushed through his veins, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth he hadn’t experienced in a long time—not since his days with the Navy SEALS. He’d feared for his life back then, and for the lives of those depending on him, and the fear was no less real now. He wasn’t on a mission to save the world from disaster this time, but he did have to save himself from the past.

  With a loud click, the call finally connected. Coop held his breath as the phone rang once, twice. His mind raced as he tried to decide what to say, practicing lines in his head. There were so many things he wanted to know, but he didn’t want to just start blurting out one question after another.

  The phone rang for a fifth, then a sixth time. He thought of Mo’s words on the message. If there isn’t anyone at the house... But there had always been someone at Mo’s house, always one of Kelsey’s brothers or sisters or nieces or nephews.

  Eight, nine—Coop felt the muscles in his
stomach tighten. Where was everyone?

  Finally, he accepted the inevitable and dropped the phone to the cradle. No one was going to answer. The air left his lungs in one long sigh. He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or disappointed. What did he do now? Wait and try again? Go home?

  He walked around the desk, stopped at the window and looked at the sky. It was dark, and the misty rain had made the runway wet. The landing lights reflected brightly off the slick surface, sending streaks of color in all directions. But Coop’s thoughts were too far away, his mind too distracted to see anything at all. All he really could think about was Kelsey.

  What had happened? Why would she need to see him? Was she sick? Had there been an accident?

  A bolt of fear traveled through him like lights streaking across the wet pavement. He should be doing something, something more than just standing there staring out a window. He needed to call Mo, call the hospital—call out the National Guard!

  But, for the moment, all he could do was stand there and stare. It had taken him two years to pull his life together, to bury the memories deep enough so he could cope with the pain. He couldn’t afford to open up those wounds, couldn’t afford to start hurting all over again.

  And yet Mo said she needed him. There had been no mistake. How could that be? They had been leading separate lives for two years. There had been no communication, no contact between them. What could have happened to make her want to see him again? What did she need from him after all this time?