Call Me Cowboy. Judy Duarte
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she now edited.
The time she and her father had lived in Iowa had been the chapter-book years, and the memories were abundant and happy.
But she had very little recollection of the picture-book years, just the flash of an image, the sound of a soft but undistinguishable voice.
A big white house with a step that squeaked—the one at the bottom of the landing. A Snoopy night-light with a broken ear. A tire swing under an old oak tree.
A faceless dark-haired woman who made sugar cookies with little colored sprinkles on top.
“Where can I reach you?” Cowboy asked.
She slipped her hand into her purse for a business card, then pulled out a pen and jotted down her home and cell phone numbers. Then she handed it to him.
He glanced at the card that displayed a colorful child’s sketch of a sun in the top left-hand corner and a small tree at the bottom right.
“Sunshine Valley Books,” he read out loud. “Priscilla Richards, Associate Editor.”
“We publish children’s literature,” she said.
He chuckled, his hazel eyes glimmering with mirth. “I was close.”
“Close?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”
“I had you pegged as the librarian type.”
She smiled. Sylvia had probably pegged him right, too. Cowboy Whittaker was a charmer. And she suspected he was a footloose bachelor who’d never met a woman he didn’t want to wine or dine.
Or bed.
Not that Priscilla was interested in being another in a long line of conquests.
But that didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate his style. Or his looks.
“You know,” she said as she stood and slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder, “I really like the sound of your voice. Your accent is…” She paused, unable to finish her line of thought. She couldn’t very well tell him that she found it sexy. So she reached for something more appropriate. “Your voice is gentle on the ears.”
“Well, now. Ain’t that something. I’m pretty partial to the sound of your voice, too.” He tossed her a boyish grin. “It’s as sexy as all get out.”
She swallowed, unsure of what to say.
Was he flirting with her?
Or teasing?
Either way, she dropped the thought like the wrong end of a hot curling iron.
He followed her to the door, then reached for the knob. “I assume Margie has already gone over our rates.”
Priscilla nodded. “Yes, she has. And I gave her a deposit.”
“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days to get some kind of answer for you. And we can take it from there.”
She nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate this.”
He opened the door in a courteous manner that made her think that chivalry was alive and well in Manhattan.
As she stepped out of his office, she glanced over her shoulder, taking in the stunning view one more time.
But not through the office window that looked out at the Empire State Building.
It was the fair-haired “cowboy” who’d caught her eye and made her heart skip a beat.
He slid her a smile. “I’ll call you.”
She knew he was talking about the case. But somewhere deep in her heart she wondered what it would be like to wait for another kind of call from him.
A personal call.
But that was silly. The man probably had a legion of women clamoring for his attention. And Priscilla wasn’t planning to ride off into the sunset with anyone.
Not until she’d come to grips with her past and uncovered her father’s secret.
Chapter Two
As the sun hovered over Manhattan, Cowboy turned his desk chair a hundred and eighty degrees, providing him with a view of the city.
His day was growing crappier by the minute.
First his mother had called, insisting he come home in a couple of weeks for a fancy dinner party she was having, a formal wingding to kick off his brother-in-law’s campaign for congressman.
It was a command performance for all the Whittakers, he supposed. But it was an event the family black sheep wasn’t eager to attend.
The youngest son of an oil-rich family, Trenton James Whittaker had been born a maverick. And his prim and proper mother had been hell-bent on taming him since day one. But Cowboy—or rather, TJ to folks in Dallas—had never been the submissive sort.
His mother had finally given up trying to control him. But that hadn’t stopped her from doing her damnedest to set him up with every “suitable” debutante or socialite she could find, hoping the right woman would make him toe the mark.
TJ hadn’t been interested in any of them and he’d responded to her meddling by bringing home “dates” he knew she’d never approve of.
Not that he’d set up an unsuspecting woman for an inquisition or a snub. His “dates” had all been friends or acquaintances who’d known what they were getting into. And they’d dressed for the occasion.
It was part of the game.
Elena Cruz, the last gal he’d taken home, had walked into the Whittaker estate sporting stilettos, a black miniskirt and a bare midriff revealing a belly-button ring and a stick-on tattoo.
Later, over a beer, he and Elena had laughed about his mother’s reaction.
But there was a hell of a lot more going on between him and his mom than rebellion.
For the past fifteen years they’d been involved in a cold war, an undeclared conflict that had started when she’d walked into the living room unexpectedly and found him and Jenny Dugan sharing a tongue-swapping kiss. She’d embarrassed the poor girl so badly that, as far as TJ was concerned, she’d triggered a set of circumstances that had led to Jenny’s death. And he’d never really forgiven his mom for that.
Not that she’d asked him to.
Maybe that’s why he’d continued to be a burr under her saddle, a thorn in her side.
He hadn’t been as contrary or ornery lately, though. But that’s because he’d grown tired of the family rigmarole and gone to New York on a whim, a visit that had become permanent after he’d met Rico and landed a job with Garcia and Associates.
Absence might not have made his heart grow fonder, but his life had become a hell of a lot more peaceful.
He glanced at the calendar. July twenty-third was wide open, so he’d fly to Dallas that weekend and attend the dinner party—for his sister’s sake.
While on the telephone, he’d told his mother as much.
Still, it had been more than his mother’s call that had sent his day on a downhill slide.
He’d just uncovered information that would set his latest client’s world on end. And he wasn’t looking forward to telling her.
His first impulse had been to call Priscilla Richards so that he wouldn’t have to deal with her tears and emotion in person. But that would be the coward’s way out. A face-to-face meeting was definitely in order—even if he wasn’t up for it.
“Hey,” a familiar voice sounded from the open doorway to the lobby.
Cowboy turned and shot Rico an ain’t-you-a-sight-for-sore-eyes grin.
He didn’t have to ask how the