Call Me Cowboy. Judy Duarte
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marble-topped table crashing to the floor.
The remnants of her dream, of the memory, of her odd discovery, settled over her like a cold, wet blanket.
She tried her best to shake it off, at least long enough to level with her friend. “When I woke up, I felt so uneasy that I went into my father’s room and opened the old chest where he kept his things and went through it.”
“What did you find?”
“Evidence that my name might not be Priscilla Richards.”
“Wow.” Sylvia furrowed her brow, then cocked her head in disbelief. “Are you sure?”
“No. I’m not. But until I get to the bottom of this, I won’t be able to focus on anything else. I just wish I knew where to start digging.”
Sylvia stood silent, focused. Then she brightened. “Wait here.”
“Where are you going?”
Without answering, Sylvia dashed off, swerving to avoid a waitress balancing a tray of hors d’oeuvres, and ducked into her father’s study.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. Sylvia could be so dramatic. But like a child waiting for guidance, Priscilla remained in the entryway.
Moments later Sylvia returned and placed a glossy business card in Priscilla’s hand. “This is the firm my dad uses for employee screenings.”
Priscilla scanned the card.
Garcia and Associates
Elite and Discreet Investigations
Offices in Chicago, Los Angeles and Manhattan
Trenton J. Whittaker
“The agency is reputable and well respected,” Sylvia said. “Of course, they’re not cheap. But I’d be happy to loan you whatever you need.”
“Thanks. But my dad had a healthy savings account he transferred to me before he died. And he also had a good-sized life insurance policy. So I’ll be all right.”
“For what it’s worth,” Sylvia added, eyes growing bright and a grin busting out on her face, “I met that guy—Trenton Whittaker—at my dad’s office the other day. And he’s to die for. You ought to hear the soft Southern drawl of his voice. It’s so darn sexy it’ll make you melt in a puddle on the floor.”
Priscilla rolled her eyes. “When I choose a private investigator, it won’t be based upon his looks or the sound of his voice.”
“You can’t go wrong with Garcia and Associates. They’re a top-of-the-line agency. And if the P.I. also happens to be single and hot, what’s the problem? Heaven knows your love life could sure use a shot in the tush. And believe me, Pris, this guy will do it. If I weren’t involved with Warren, I’d have jumped his bones in a heartbeat.”
Priscilla wasn’t interested in finding Mr. Right. After all, she couldn’t very well expect a happily ever after when she’d had too many questions about once upon a time.
But she took the card and slid it into her purse, figuring she’d give the agency—not necessarily Mr. Whittaker—a try.
Then she handed Sylvia her nearly full glass of champagne. “Congratulations on the promotion. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Don’t thank me for that.” Sylvia placed the glass on a table in the entry. “You’re my best friend.”
“And you’re mine.” Priscilla gave her a hug.
“Hey. I just thought of something.”
Priscilla waited, poised by the door. “What’s that?”
“Remember that young-adult book you edited a while back? The one about the rodeo cowboy?”
It had been well written, the settings vivid, the character a handsome young man with true grit and brawn.
Priscilla nodded. “What about it?”
“You told me that you could see yourself riding off into the sunset with a cowboy like that.”
“So? I didn’t mean anything by it.” And she hadn’t. It had just been a dreamy, romantic comment. After all, Priscilla loved the Big Apple and thrived in a cosmopolitan environment. She even found the hustle and bustle thrilling. So for that reason alone, when it came to a lover, a cowboy was out of the question.
“I saw the way your eyes lit up, the way you placed your hand on the cover of that book. You practically caressed the cowboy on the front. That was your heart speaking, Pris. And have I found the perfect man for you.”
“What are you talking about? A man is the last thing in the world I need right now.”
“How about a Manhattan-based P.I. with a slow Southern drawl? A man they call Cowboy.”
“Cowboy” Whittaker sat behind his desk in the Manhattan office of Garcia and Associates with his back to an impressive view of the Empire State Building.
He’d just gotten off the phone with a client, an appreciative single mother who’d called to tell him she’d received her first child-support check. And thanks to the work Cowboy had done in locating her ex—a man who’d run off with an off-Broadway showgirl—the runaway daddy’s wages were now being garnished, and he was being forced to support the kids he’d fathered.
Deadbeat dads were the worst.
Not that Cowboy was an expert on fathers. His had been a workaholic who’d never had time for his family. But at least there’d been plenty of money to go around.
He blew out a sigh. He was eager to get back in the field, to do what he did best—charming the secrets out of unwitting folks with his down-home, slow and easy style.
Cowboy’s Southern twang often gave people the impression that he was a backwoods hick—which couldn’t be any further from the truth—and they tended to open up with him, sharing things they wouldn’t share with another investigator. So he used it to his advantage, sometimes even laying it on extra thick.
God, he loved his job, the mind games that uncovered secrets and revealed lies.
What he didn’t love was working indoors, confined to an office.
But until his boss and buddy, Rico Garcia, returned from his honeymoon in Tahiti, Cowboy was deskbound.
Fortunately Rico was due back in town tomorrow evening.
As Cowboy scanned a report sent in by an associate, the intercom buzzed.
Margie, the office manager, was probably telling him his three o’clock appointment had arrived—a referral from Byron Van Zandt, one of their newer clients.
He clicked on the flashing button. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Priscilla Richards is here, Cowboy.”
“Thank you. Will you please send her in?” He closed the file he’d been reading and slid it across the polished desk.
As the door swung open, he stood to greet the woman—one of many formalities and courtesies his mother had instilled in him while he’d been growing up in the upper echelon of Dallas society.
Margie opened the door and stepped aside as an attractive redhead dressed in a conservative cream-colored skirt and jacket entered the office. She stood about five-three or -four. A pretty tumble of red hair had been swept into a neat, professional twist.
She wore only a whisper of lipstick and a dab of mascara. She didn’t need any more makeup than that.
Some women looked like a million bucks when they went out on the town in the evenings, but woke up as scary as hell. Yet he suspected this one looked damn good in the morning even before she climbed out of bed.
A man might be tempted to find out for himself if that were true or not—if he were