"But I thought Steve was only riding as far as the fire break. Why did he go up the hill?"
"Steve tracked him."
"Oh, my gosh.
"I told you, the guy is amazin'. Let's get movin'. I wanna make that call."
"And I need to check my emails, but what about the truck?"
"Walkin' home will be faster than goin' down to the barn and drivin' back. Steve will bring it up at some point."
"What would you do without him?" she asked as they left the arena and headed to the house. "He seems indispensable."
"I reckon he is, especially when I'm gone. Tourin' is great, but it's tough bein' away. Knowin' he's here makes things a whole lot easier. I don't have to worry."
As they continued to walk at a fast clip, Amber began to feel the heat from the blazing sun, and though they were nearing the house she needed to slow down.
"You go ahead," she said, stopping to catch her breath. "I can't keep up. It's too hot."
"Easily fixed," he exclaimed, and to her shock he bent down and lifted her over his shoulder. "Comfy?"
"No! Kind of! I'm not sure if comfy's the word. Why didn't you just pick me up and carry me?"
"This is more fun, and I can do this," he said, landing a slap and chuckling.
"Ow. Oh, my gosh. I'm so glad no-one's around to see this!"
"Then I'll be sure to do it when someone is."
"No! You wouldn't."
"You're right. I wouldn't. We'd probably end up on the front page of the tabloids," he declared, putting her down as he reached the porch. "There's some iced tea in the refrigerator. Help yourself. I'm goin' in my study."
"Thanks. Do you want some?"
"I'll fix myself some coffee when I'm done talkin' to the sheriff."
"Okay."
"See you in a bit, Sassy Lassy," he said softly, giving her a quick kiss. "You did good on Millie, and I'm not just sayin' that."
"Thank you. I had a blast."
She watched him stride down the hall, then moving into the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of the chilled tea and carried it back to her room. Placing the glass on her nightstand, she picked up her laptop, settled on the bed and powered it on.
"Hey, Benny," she cooed, petting the cat happily curled up in his usual spot. "Don't you ever leave this room?"
Breaking into a deep purr, he looked up at her with wise cat's eyes.
"Sorry. I can't keep stroking you. I need both my hands."
Opening her email account, she scanned the many waiting messages, stopping when she saw one from Undercover Publishing.
"Shit. I have to call and tell them I'm bailing," she muttered as she clicked it open.
Dear Amber:
We received the signed agreement this morning. As promised $5000 has been wired to your account.
Please find important dates and your deadlines listed below. Feel free to contact me if you have any questions.
We here at Undercover Publishing are very excited about this book. The public are begging for information about this elusive star, and you'll be a celebrity yourself when this book is released.
To demonstrate our commitment to your success, the moment we received your executed contract we dispatched one of our best photographers. He is already there and taking pictures of the compound. Whatever snapshots you're able to take will be most welcome.
Looking forward to reading the first chapter.
Regards,
Robert Hoffman.
"No, no, no! That must have been the guy on the hill. I have to stop this. I have to stop this now."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Already sweating from the walk in the blazing afternoon sun, a fresh wave of heat coursed through Amber's body. Taking a long drink of her iced tea didn't help. Shaken and upset, she decided on a cool shower before responding to the publisher's email. Moving into the bathroom, she peeled off her clothes, stepped into the shower and turned on the faucets. Taking her time, she wrote her reply in her head as she soaped her skin with the fragrant foaming bath gel, but as the suds rinsed away, she considered telling Brett everything.
"I can't, can I?" she mumbled as she turned off the water and stepped from the stall. "What will he think of me? Shit! Why did I ever believe I could pull this off?"
Toweling herself dry, she recalled hearing her parents arguing during the disastrous days of the housing market crash when her father lost his fortune.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," her father had yelled. "I'm sorry, but we have no choice. This house has to go. We need to downsize."
"Desperate times," she repeated as she dressed, choosing shorts and a T-shirt. "That's how I felt. Desperate, but will that be enough of an excuse for BD to forgive me? No. I can't risk it. I'll get myself out of this stupid agreement somehow. Maybe I'll tell him one day, but not now."
Cooled off but not much calmer she settled back on the bed, opened her laptop, and after reading the email from the publisher a second time, she decided to keep her response short and direct.
Dear Robert:
Thank you for your mail and for depositing the advance. I was very excited about this project too, but I'm sorry I am unable to write the book. I will return the advance immediately. Thank you for the opportunity, and should my circumstances change I'll get back in touch.
Kindest regards,
Amber Scott.
Hitting the SEND button, she let out a long, relieved breath, prayed that would be the end of it, and returned to her inbox. She was halfway through catching up when her phone rang.
Her heart leapt.
Steeling herself, she lifted it from the beside table.
Undercover Publishing.
The company name glared at her, daring her to answer.
"May as well get this over with. Hello?"
"Is this Amber Scott?"
"Yes."
"Robert Hoffman calling. Hold on please."
Closing her computer, she leaned back against the headboard, promising herself she'd stick to her guns no matter what the publisher said.
"Amber?"
"Hello, Robert. Before you say anything, I'm truly sorry."
"Sorry doesn't come into it. The company has already invested money and resources, but more to the point, you've signed a contract. You can't just tear up the piece of paper because you've changed your mind."
"I haven't changed my mind," she lied, searching frantically for the words to persuade him to let her off the hook.
"Explain."
"I can't."
"That's not going to fly."
"It will have to. The reality is I can't write the book. Period. Sue me. You can't get blood from a stone. I'm completely broke, but if you send me an accounting of the money the company has invested I'll find a way to pay it back."
"This should be discussed in person. I can't be there, but please meet my photographer, Andrew Stern. He's staying at The White Feather Lodge. I've already spoken to him and he's expecting you in an hour."
"An hour? I don't know if I can get away."
"I doubt you're a prisoner in that country palace. Find an excuse."
"But—"
"Things may not be as bleak as you think. I have a feeling I know the issue, but even if I don't, you need to sit down and talk with Andrew. You owe me that much, and you never know what might come of it. Be in the cocktail bar. One hour. The White Feather Lodge," he repeated brusquely, "It's on the outskirts of the town."
"I know where it is."
"Goodbye, Amber."
"Goodbye, Robert."
Ending the call, she slid down the bed, rolled on her side, grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest.
"What a mess. Do I have a choice? Dammit!"
A soft knock on her door snapped her from her pondering, and sitting up, she forced a smile as Brett walked through the door.
"Hey. Anything excitin'?" he asked, walking in and seeing her laptop on the bed.
"Not really."
"You look better. I thought
you were gonna melt."
"I did too. I'm not great in the heat."
"It's that Scottish heritage. With your pale skin you should be careful."
"I am, believe me. I burn easy."
"I'm takin' off with Steve," he declared, sitting on the edge of the bed. "He's gonna show me the spot where the photographer has been hangin' out. It takes about thirty-minutes to get there, but the ride's an easy one. You wanna come along?"
"I think I've had enough sun for one day," she replied, and though an excuse, she'd told the truth. "I think I might take a run into town."
"Do you need something? I can have it delivered, or Jasmine can pick it up when she comes tomorrow."
"I noticed a couple of cute clothing stores I'd like to check out."
"Ah. You can take the girl out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the girl."
"You don't have to worry. I love it here, honestly. It's just…the last few days have been pretty hectic, and I find wandering around a store relaxing."
"You do whatever you want. I'm not sure how long I'll be, so don't be concerned if I'm not here when you get back."
Leaning forward, he slid his hand into her hair, and lightly gripping, he narrowed his eyes.
"I'm pickin' something up. What's goin' on?"
"The sun. That's all."
"Darlin', if you're not feelin' good maybe you should take it easy."
"Maybe I will," she said softly, then suddenly filled with a mix of swirling emotions, she moved her arms around his neck. "Can you please give me a hug."
"Always," he purred, but as he cradled her in his arms he could feel her angst oozing out of her. "I know you're holdin' back, and that's okay. You're not ready to tell whatever it is, but when you are I'll be here."
"I'm sorry," she whispered, swallowing the heat in her throat. "I can't. I just can't."
"What's so terrible?" he asked, pulling back and cupping her chin. "Did you rob a bank?"
"Of course not."
"Did you accidentally kill someone?"
"No!"
"Then you're probably makin' yourself crazy over nothin'."
"This isn't nothing, believe me," she sniffled. "I'm sorry. We promised to share everything. I just—"
"Hey, things are rarely as bad as we think they are. I'm gonna take off. Just remember I'm on your side, no matter what."
"Okay."
Kissing her softly, he rose from the bed and headed out the door.
She almost ran after him.
Almost.
But she just couldn't quite bring herself to do it.
* * * * * * * * * *
Pulling into the The White Feather Lodge parking lot, Amber stepped from her car and entered the lobby. The hotel surprised her. More upscale than she expected, and tastefully decorated with a western decor. A brass plaque pointed the way to The Hitching Post and The Sundown Restaurant. Assuming The Hitching Post was the bar, she followed the sign and found it a short distance down a wide hall. Peering over the antique swinging doors she found an old saloon, complete with an antique piano. As she pondered the reason for her visit an idea sprang to mind. Opening her bag, she found her phone, set it to record, and taking a deep breath, she walked in.
"Amber Scott?"
Turning in the direction of the voice, it belonged to a heavy set man with receding red hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He lifted his hand in a wave.
"You must be Andrew," she said, approaching the table.
"That's me. Have a seat."
Sitting down, she looked at him expectantly. Her father had often said, To gain the upper hand be the listener not the talker. Learn to be comfortable in an uncomfortable silence. He who speaks first loses.
During her college years she discovered a way to handle the awkwardness. Regardless of the circumstances, she would use the wordless seconds to study her adversary's features. She learned her father had been right. Making sure the other person broke the deadlock magically gave her a sense of power. Setting her skill into practice, she focused on Andrew Stern's face. With his red hair, narrow nose and widely-set eyes, he reminded her of Henry VIII. She guessed him to be in his early thirties, and suspected he'd balloon in his later years just as the notorious king had done.
"Robert has brought me up to speed," he said, finally breaking the ice.
Amber remained mute.
"Don't you have anything to say?"
"You just said Robert has brought you up to speed. I have nothing to add."
He shifted in his seat.
Amber suppressed a smile.
His discomfort was palpable.
"This project is going ahead."
"I'm glad you found another author."
"Uh, we haven't. Undercover Publishing isn't in the habit of handing out thousands of dollars and getting nothing in return."
"You said Robert had brought you up to speed, so if we're here to rehash the conversation I had with him I'll be on my way."
He frowned, leaned across the table and brought his hands together.
His fingers were short and stubby.
Ugly hands.
She inwardly shuddered.
"Need I remind you, we didn't initiate contact? You called us and we accepted your proposal."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"We didn't force you to sign the contract. The barn door has been opened, and the horse is galloping across the field. You're going to write the fucking book, Amber, and we know exactly what's going on."
Sitting back, he opened a leather satchel, retrieved a manila envelope and dropped it on the table.
"Open it."
She remained still and quiet.
"No? You don't want to? Not a problem."
Lifting the flap, he pulled out a dozen or more photographs and spread them across the table.
Amber stared in shock.
She and Brett kissing.
Arm in arm.
Laughing.
Playing with the dogs.
Lying over his shoulder.
"You work fast," he sneered. "Been there less than seventy-two hours and you're already in his bed. I must admit the two of you make a cute couple. You're having a fit of conscience, or you're afraid he'll find out why you're really there and you'll be kicked out on your ass."
"How did you take those pictures?"
"I've got the biggest and best lenses money can by. The minute you called and said you'd landed the job, I was on my way. I got here before you did, and I found myself the perfect perch high on the hill across from his fancy estate, but Amber, things are not as bad as you think. Robert and I know how you can have your cake and eat it too. Or should I say, have your cock and suck it too."
"Fuck you, asshole," she hissed, leaning across the table. "You don't know crap!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. "I'm out of here. Do your worst. I have no problem telling Brett the truth. Goodbye, and it hasn't been a pleasure meeting you."
"Whoa, easy. Sorry, I was crude," he said hastily, stepping in her path. "There is an answer to your dilemma. You can write the book under an alias, and if you don't," he growled, lowering his voice, "I'll blow the lid off your perfect little slice of heaven, I'll write a story for the tabloids that will make the pristine Brett Prescott look like a total scumbag."
"Why? Why would you do something like that?"
"Because I can. Because you don't cross Robert Hoffman or Andrew Stern, and because you've been so difficult, I want a bonus. You and me, alone in my room, and it's not to play tiddlywinks."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brett loved riding his big-boned gelding on the trail. Brave and powerful, Solider had been aptly named, The horse wasn't just trustworthy, he was comfortable, and though he offered an easy lope, he possessed a fast gallop when Brett wanted to cut loose. When Heath had called and told Brett he'd found the horse of Brett's dreams, Brett paid attention. His closest friend specialized in equine sales.
"You're not called Dream Horse Ranch
for nothin'," Brett had joked. "I'll come up during the weekend and give him a try."
From the moment he'd seen the big buckskin standing in the cross-ties he knew the horse would be leaving with him. That had been years before, and though they had developed a close relationship, Brett envied Steve's unique ability to communicate with his pinto. Following him through the forest towards the firebreak, Catori, a much smaller horse, carefully picked his feet up as he made his way across the branches on the forest floor, while Soldier's big feet trampled them.
"This is where I found the trash," Steve declared. "If you look back, you can see there's a gap in the trees giving a clear view of the compound."
"You're right, though all I really see is the wall and the top floor of the house, but I want to look through my field glasses."
Lifting his powerful binoculars from his saddle bag, Brett raised them to his eyes.
"Damn," he muttered. "I can see the terrace off my bedroom. At least the coatin' on the windows is reflectin' the light. They look like mirrors. At night though, with a strong zoom lens, you'd probably be able to see inside. Same with the other rooms on that floor. How much garbage did you find here?" he asked, returning the binoculars to the safety of the saddle bag.
"A couple of burger wrappers, ketchup and mustard packets. A milkshake cup."
"Sounds like a healthy fella," Brett said sarcastically.
"He's big."
"With that diet I'm not surprised, but how do you know?"
"He lumbers. Look at the wide path he made walking through," Steve remarked as they continued on, "and how high the broken branches are, but he wasn't comfortable in here. He wouldn't have stayed after dark. He'd find the other spot more inviting."
A strong breeze suddenly rustled the trees, skirted around them, then died down.
"The first gust!" Steve exclaimed.
"You mean the winds are starting?" Brett asked, not wanting to be on the hill when they hit. "I thought they weren't comin' 'til tonight."
"We have time."
To Con A Cowboy (Hunks and Horses Book 3) Page 10