Judy Duarte: Call Me Cowboy

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.

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 honeymoon trip to Tahiti had been. Rico wore a sugar-pie-honey-bunch smile that claimed he was bonkers in love and content to be hog-tied to one woman for the rest of his life.

Cowboy chuckled. “It’s about time you got back here, lover boy.”

“I thought I’d better make sure my right-hand man hadn’t run the company into the ground while I was away.” Rico made his way across the office toward Cowboy’s desk. “How’s it going?”

“So far so good.”

Rico studied him for a moment. “You’re not one to ponder the city view, no matter now nice it is. What’s the matter?”

“Just another invitation from home due to social protocol and an effort to keep up pretenses.” Cowboy shrugged. “But I’ve also got to break some bad news to a client and I’m not looking forward to it.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No, she’s brand-new. A referral from Byron Van Zandt.”

“She?” Rico asked. “That should make it easy. You’re an ace at handling ladies and turning on the charm.”

Cowboy chuffed. “Not this time.”

“Why not?”

“She’s not the kind of woman I charm. That’s all.”

Priscilla might not have the wealth and social standing of some of Dallas’s haute single crowd, but she was one of them just the same. The kind of woman who cared about her reputation and had serious expectations of the men she dated, men she could control and force to go to all those high-society functions. And he’d be damned if he’d let one of them try to hogtie him and drag him off to honeymoon heaven.

Rico plopped down in the chair in front of Cowboy’s desk. “Sounds like she’s either an old biddy or a gal just like the one that married dear ole Dad. Which is it?”

Cowboy cracked a wry smile. “She’s not old. And if she’d shed that prim and proper shell, she’d be a real looker. But my gut tells me she’s too damn nice for the likes of me. And I’m not into nice girls, remember?”

“Yeah, I do. If she had a wild streak, you’d be in a real pickle, especially since you don’t date clients, either.”

“You’re right about that.” Cowboy wasn’t sure how this particular client had tapped into the well of sympathy that rested under his surface. But nevertheless, when he’d learned what she was up against, he’d been worried about how she’d take the news.

“So what’s bothering you about the case?” Rico asked.

“I don’t know. I just have this feeling she’s going to buckle and fall apart and I don’t want to feel as though I should help pick up the pieces. I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

Rico reached into the candy dish Cowboy kept on the desk and scooped out a handful of M&M’s with peanuts. “What makes you think she’ll get emotional?”

“She just lost her father, a man she loved. And I have to be the one to tell her he was a bastard in disguise.”