Call Me Cowboy. Judy Duarte

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      Priscilla hooked her arm through Sylvia’s and drew her toward the front door. “Listen, Syl. This has been a great party, but I really need to get home.”

      “Oh, no you don’t.” Her friend lifted a nearly empty champagne flute. “You need to finish that drink and mingle.”

      “Actually my stomach has been bothering me the past couple of days.” Okay, maybe not for days, but ever since last night, when that unsettling dream woke her at two in the morning. And it had intensified when she’d padded into her father’s bedroom and begun to dig through his cedar chest.

      “I’ll bet it’s the stress you’ve been under that’s affecting your stomach,” Sylvia said.

      “Probably.” But it was more than grief bothering her. She just wished she could put her finger on exactly what had knocked her digestive system out of whack.

      She did, however, have a clue.

      The mild-mannered widower who’d loved her had taken a secret to his grave. A secret Priscilla was determined to uncover.

      Would she feel better if she confided in Sylvia?

      Maybe, although now didn’t seem to be the time.

      On the other hand, keeping Sylvia worried and in the dark might put a damper on an evening when she ought to be celebrating.

      Priscilla took a long, deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I had a dream last night and woke up in tangled sheets and a cold sweat.”

      “A nightmare?” Sylvia asked. “Those can be pretty upsetting.”

      “Yes, they can. But so can a repressed memory, which is what I think it was.”

      Sylvia stopped a waiter walking by, placed her flute on his tray and gave Priscilla her undivided attention. “What do you mean?”

      She wasn’t sure. At first, it had been a niggling, restless feeling. Then there’d been a collage of images.

      A two-story house. The scent of vanilla and spice. Laughter. Bedtime stories.

      Loud voices and tears.

      A 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 СКАЧАТЬ