Marin Thomas - Samantha's Cowboy

Whatever. Sam’s nerves pulled taut. “I need to speak with him right away.”

“Mr. Dawson is in a meeting.”

She’d been pushed to the end of her rope and now someone was going to hang. “I’m not leaving until I see Mr. Wade-with-a-D Dawson.”

Veronica frowned. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

“Samantha Cartwright.” In case the woman was totally clueless, she added, “Cartwright Oil.”

The blonde’s eyes rounded, then she tapped her pencil against the desk calendar. “Let me see if I can squeeze you in…”

Sam hadn’t driven sixty-five miles to be squeezed in anywhere. Each time she’d phoned Dawson Investments one of the secretaries had reassured her that her call would be returned. At first Samantha had second-guessed herself and worried that she’d forgotten to leave a message or worse—she’d thought she’d called but hadn’t. After one week she’d kept a log of her phone calls to the firm.

Enough was enough. She left Veronica flipping the pages of her day planner and strolled through the office doors of Dawson Investments. Where to find…Wade with a D?

She marched down a corridor of glassed-in conference rooms. Bingo. At the end of the hall several men in monkey suits crowded around an oval table. The man seated at the head of the table with his back to Sam read a document out loud. The other apes appeared bored to death—one twirled his pencil on his palm. Another played with his BlackBerry. Four others stared bug-eyed into space. And the chimpanzee nearest to her sketched cartoon figures in the margins of a memo.

Sam rapped her knuckles against the glass pane.

The pencil twirler knocked his coffee into his lap. The artist scrambled to cover his drawings. And one of the men who’d been zoning out toppled backward in his chair and landed on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

She’d take a brooding cowboy any day over these pansies in suits.

Finally the head pansy shifted in his seat and stared at her through black-rimmed glasses. Hair neatly styled, no sign of a five o’clock shadow and unlike the other men in the room, he wore a pocket protector in his crisp white shirt along with the traditional red power tie—knot perfectly done.

Mr. Wade with a D was a nerd, albeit a handsome nerd.

His dark brown eyes pinned her and the air rushed from her lungs leaving her light-headed. He waved her into the room.

She didn’t need to be asked twice.

“May I help you?” The rumble of his deep voice contradicted his clean-shaven nerdiness. In her opinion his voice was better suited for whispering sweet nothings behind the barn than translating company performance reports. The outer corner of one dark eyebrow rose above his black frames. Shoot. What had he asked?

“Gentlemen, we’ll resume this meeting on Monday. Enjoy an early start to your weekend.”

The monkeys gathered their belongings and disappeared. Once the door closed, Sam exhaled a sigh of relief. Crowds made her nervous and she appreciated Wade with a D’s thoughtfulness in clearing the room.

Left alone with Calamity Jane, Wade studied the daughter of oil tycoon Dominick Cartwright. Sixteen years had passed since he’d last seen her. Time had transformed a pretty teenage girl into a breathtaking woman. Not even dirt-smudged cheeks, a messy ponytail or faded jeans and a wrinkled shirt detracted from her beauty. Evidence of Spanish ancestry, which rumor claimed she’d inherited from her mother, was apparent in her dusky skin, pitch-black hair, high cheekbones and almond-shaped dark eyes. He hadn’t remembered her being this tall—standing almost eye-to-eye with him—and he resisted rolling forward onto the balls of his feet to gain another inch.

Samantha’s gaze circled the room, skipping over him. Where was the smart-mouthed, self-confident braggart who’d once called him a wimp because he couldn’t climb a tree? He held out his hand. Her grip was warm, firm and callused, her fingernails bitten down to the quick—not the hands of a pampered princess. “Nice to see you again, Samantha.”

A wrinkle formed in the middle of her forehead. “Have we met before?”

The question shot through his ego like a marksman’s arrow. Apparently he hadn’t made much of an impression on her all those years ago—par for the course. He wasn’t a man women swooned over. Even his ex-wife had labeled him and their marriage unremarkable.

“Uncle Charles and your father were college buddies at the University of Oklahoma.” When that didn’t jar her memory, he added, “I accompanied my uncle to the Lazy River Ranch years ago.” Wade had been a junior in college, majoring in finance, when his uncle had suggested he meet one of Dawson Investment’s biggest clients. At the time Wade had no idea his uncle intended to put him in charge of managing Samantha’s trust fund once Wade had joined the firm two years later. “You offered me a lesson in tree climbing that afternoon.” After an uncomfortable silence, Wade accepted that Samantha didn’t remember him.

Feeling like an idiot, he motioned her to the nearest chair. She remained standing and he swallowed his irritation. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve phoned the office several times, but my messages have gone unreturned. Not until today did I learn that your uncle was out of town on business.”

Darn Veronica. The receptionist his uncle had hired was an airhead. “I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“You should. Better yet, you might have had the courtesy to at least return one of my calls, seeing how my father’s money keeps this firm afloat.”

Now this was the Samantha Cartwright he remembered—bossy and arrogant. Oddly, her waspish attitude put him at ease—much better than the damsel-in-distress expression she’d worn moments ago. He’d never considered himself hero material and no female had ever asked him to save her. “Please accept my apologies. How may I assist you?”

Instead of launching into a tirade, Samantha patted her clothes. Wade found it impossible not to follow the path of her hand, especially when she pressed her fingers against her breast before they dropped to her jeans where she removed a slip of paper from the pocket. She scanned the note, then announced, “I’d like to cash in my trust fund.”

Since joining his uncle’s firm Wade had worked diligently to grow Samantha’s savings. As a matter of fact he’d increased her net worth by several million dollars. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two. As of today.”

She was of legal age to withdraw money from the trust without her father’s consent. Wade was positive he hadn’t received a reminder of Samantha’s upcoming birthday from the e-mail system he’d set up to notify him of changes in the status of client accounts.

“Are you going to stand there and ogle me or do I get my money?”

Wade would have preferred to ogle but said, “Let’s continue this discussion in my office.” He held open the door and when she brushed past him, he caught a whiff of honeysuckle—the delicate feminine scent at odds with the sullied, sharp-tongued cowgirl. Wade’s office was a windowless room in the middle of the floor—but not for long. He was in line for a promotion to vice president and the position came with a corner office and a view of downtown Tulsa.

“Something to drink? Water? Coffee?” he asked, as soon as Samantha claimed the chair in front of his desk.

“No, thank you.”

Wade wiggled his computer mouse until the screen saver popped up—a photograph of his eight-year-old son, Luke, proudly displaying his first-place spelling-bee ribbon. A few typed passwords later and Wade had Samantha’s personal information in front of him.

Yes, indeed. Samantha Cartwright was thirty-two years old today. For the life of him, Wade couldn’t figure out why she was dressed like a ranch hand on her birthday. He’d have expected her to spend the day getting dolled up for a celebratory night on the town. “Happy birthday,” he said.