Love With a Perfect Cowboy Read online

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the

  memory of my beloved Daisy.

  Acknowledgments

  THIS is the last book in my Cupid, Texas series, and I hate to leave the Trans-Pecos region. There’s no other place like it in Texas. The people there are a different breed—rugged, independent, hard working and long suffering—molded by the extremes of climate and topography.

  While my husband and I were visiting the area, a bigger dog attacked our New American shepherd puppy, Daisy, as we walked her on a leash. We raced her to the local vet, but, alas, there was nothing they could do to save her life, and we had to have her put to sleep. Losing her was so very hard, and I left a bit of my heart in the Fort Davis Mountains that awful day. Most everyone in the small close-knit town heard about our loss, and many came by our motor home to express their condolences. The veterinarian never cashed the check we gave him. I can’t begin to express my gratitude for the kindness I was shown and can only hope my books honor the community in the way it deserves.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Lori Wilde

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  New York, New York

  April 1

  MELODY Spencer was rushing up Madison Avenue when she spied him.

  A tall, lanky man in a black Stetson logjamming the flow of foot traffic by moseying along at a lamb’s pace, craning his neck up at the skyscrapers as if he couldn’t believe they made buildings that lofty.

  Two simultaneous thoughts popped into her head. One was: What a hick. The other was: I’m homesick.

  Twelve years earlier she had marveled at the towering buildings when she first arrived in the city as a green freshman on a full academic scholarship to NYU. While she no longer stared at the high-­rises, she still lived by one motto—­Keep looking up. Vision, commitment, and hard work were what had brought her to this moment. She was about to receive the promotion she worked a lifetime to earn.

  Why else would her boss, Michael Helmsly, have texted her and asked her to come in for a private meeting thirty minutes early on the same day that the creative director was retiring?

  She shivered, smiled.

  At long last her time had come.

  A river of ­people flowed around the cowboy, some muttering obscenities, others flipping him off, a few glowering, but most not even bothering to acknowledge him at all. He was nothing more than a speck in their obstacle-­laden day.

  Although one smart-­aleck teen—­probably a tourist—­hollered from a passing taxi, “Why aren’t you naked in Times Square, cowboy?”

  The man tipped his Stetson at the taxi, briefly revealing a head of thick, whiskey-­colored curls and a sense of humor. A navy blue, Western-­cut sport jacket hugged his broad shoulders. The crowd obscured her view of his backside, but she would have bet a hundred dollars that tight-­fitting Wranglers cupped a spectacular butt.

  Cowboys always seemed to have spectacular butts, probably from all that hard riding in the saddle.

  He turned his head and the morning light illuminated his profile—­straight nose, honed cheekbones, chiseled jaw. He was freshly clean-­shaven, but she could tell he had a heavy beard and that long before five o’clock he’d be sporting a shadow of stubble. In that regard he looked a bit like the actor Josh Holloway, who’d played Sawyer on the television show Lost.

  A cold jolt of recognition smacked into the pit of her stomach. She knew this man! Had once both loved and hated him.

  Luke Nielson, from her hometown of Cupid, Texas.

  Her chest tightened and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. What was Luke doing in New York City attracting attention like the proverbial fish out of water? What if their eyes met and he recognized her?

  Pulse thumping illogically fast, Melody ducked her head and scurried to the far side of the sidewalk. She had no time or inclination to take pity on him and help him navigate the city. He was on his own.

  Coward.

  She had fifteen minutes to spare. She was using the meeting as an excuse to get away from him. Right-­o. And a good excuse it was. She needed those few minutes to compose her thoughts and tamp down her excitement before heading into her boss’s office. Cool, calm, and unruffled. That was the image she projected on the job.

  Praying that Luke hadn’t seen her, she held her breath until she put an entire city block between them. By the time she exhaled, her lungs felt stretched and achy. Okay, she dodged a bullet, onward and upward.

  She pushed through the frosted glass door of the building that housed the Tribalgate offices. In the lobby, the security guard positioned at the check-­in desk nodded a mute greeting as Melody used her ID badge to swipe her way through the turnstile granting access to the elevators.

  Because she was a bit early, there was no one else waiting for the elevator to the thirty-­fourth floor. On the ride up, she whipped out her cell phone to text her boyfriend.

  Jean-­Claude was a top-­tier photographer who traveled all around the world, and Melody still couldn’t believe he’d chosen her when he had his pick of beautiful, fascinating women. Yes, sometimes he was distant and a bit self-­absorbed, but what artist wasn’t? He might not be the love of her life, but they had a nice thing going on.

  For the last two weeks, she’d been living with Jean-­Claude in his Upper West Side apartment across from Central Park. Not to mention that her new residence and illustrious boyfriend had duly impressed her mother, Carol Ann Fant Spencer, when she told her about him, although her mother had immediately made when-­are-­you-­getting-­married noises.

  It was definitely a monumental step up from her former loft apartment in Queens, although moving in with Jean-­Claude had taken a nerve-­wracking leap of faith on a relationship that was barely two months old. But her landlord had jacked up her rent, and one night Jean-­Claude casually offered to let her stay with him. For once in her life, she plunged in feetfirst without calculating the risks, and so far, so good.

  Tomorrow, Jean-­Claude was catching a plane to South Africa for a ten-­day photo shoot and she wanted to give him a proper send-­off.

  Dinner 2 nite. My treat. Bernadette’s, she texted. Fingers X we’ll have something big to celebrate.

  She waited a moment to see if he would text back right away. When he didn’t, she logged on to OpenTable. Since it was early in the week hopefully she could swing a reservation at their favorite restaurant.

  OpenTable came back telling her there were no vacancies at her preferred time of eight P.M. but there was a table available at five-­thirty. It was pretty early for dinner, but hey, at least she scored a table. She accepted the five-­thirty spot through OpenTable, and then on impulse called the restaurant and asked to have a bottle of iced Dom Perignon waiting tableside.

  It wasn’t every day a girl made creative director at one of the biggest ad agencies in the country.

  Her mother was going to be over the moon when she told her.

  Only a ­couple
of executive assistants were in the office. She waved hello and headed for the coffee machine. She poured herself a cup, but drank only half of it, not wanting to look jittery when she walked into her boss’s office. With a ­couple of minutes left to kill, she popped into the ladies’ room and reapplied her lipstick.

  “Why thank you for this opportunity, Michael,” she said, practicing accepting the position. “I do appreciate your confidence in me and I promise you won’t be disappointed in my performance.”

  She smiled carefully. Making sure her upper lip hid her slightly crooked front tooth. She’d learned the flaw-­camouflaging smile when she was on the beauty pageant circuit. Why hadn’t she gotten veneers years ago? Oh yes, they cost a lot. But with this promotion, she could finally afford them now. Jean-­Claude had been nagging her to do it.

  She straightened her collar that wasn’t askew and brushed imaginary lint off her lapel, and gave herself one last appraisal. She wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but she looked presentable.

  “Here we go, Ms. Creative Director,” she murmured, and stepped out into the hallway.

  Her boss’s door stood ajar.

  She poked her head into his office.

  Michael sat at his desk, scowling at the computer screen. He looked so much like the Mad Men character Roger Sterling that he was almost a caricature, although he possessed none of that character’s easygoing, flamboyant ways. Personality-­wise, he was more like Don Draper, brilliant, but darkly moody.

  He glanced up and his scowl deepened.

  Her euphoria evaporated. What had upset him? Bounce. Don’t let his mood throw you. “Am I too early?”

  “Come in,” he said curtly. “And close the door behind you.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the room and quietly shut the door. Michael did not ask her to sit down. In fact, he stood up.

  Her stomach pitched.

  “Jill Jones called me over the weekend,” he said.

  Jill Jones represented Mowry and Poltish, a chemical company looking to rebrand their image. She and Ms. Jones had had a difference of opinion over the direction of the recent ad campaign, but Melody believed they’d ironed out their differences.

  “Isn’t Jill sharp? I’m learning so much from her.” She struggled to keep her tone neutral. Where was this going?

  “Jill’s asked that you be removed from the campaign.”

  What? Melody gulped. “May I ask why?”

  He leaned forward, placed both palms flat on his desk in an intimidating gesture. “She says your values aren’t consistent with Mowry and Poltish’s vision.”

  She sank her hands on her hips. Yes, she wanted this promotion more than anything in the world, but she had to set the record straight. “Ms. Jones requested a television campaign that essentially claims their new cleaning product is one hundred percent safe. Her idea was to have a mom cleaning a cutting board with their product and then without rinsing the cutting board, cut up raw fruits and vegetables on it and serve the food to her family.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “The cleanser should be thoroughly rinsed off. It says so on the labeling. The chemicals could be harmful if ingested.”

  “Did Jill ask you to make false claims about the product?”

  “No, but—­”

  “It’s not your job to police our clients’ ethics.”

  “Yes, but such a—­”

  “How many times do I have to tell you we’re selling the sizzle not the steak? Advertising is about playing on ­people’s emotions, not about bald-­faced facts.”

  “I know that, which is precisely why I objected to Ms. Jones’s vision of the ad. Her version would make ­people feel safe, but it’s a false sense of security and I pointed this out. She agreed to allow the actress playing the TV mom to thoroughly wash the cutting board before cutting food up on it. I don’t see—­”

  “That’s just it. You don’t see.”

  “See what?”

  He shook his head. “Jill says you’re difficult.”

  A heavy weight settled on her shoulders. She was not about to get that promotion after all. In fact, she was being called on the carpet. “So being ethical means I’m difficult?”

  “Jill didn’t ask you to tell a lie.”

  She extended her arms out to her sides, palms up. “So I shouldn’t have said anything?”

  “Never argue with a client.”

  “Even if I believe the ad they want intentionally misleads the consumer?”

  “The truth is rubbery, especially in advertising, and you should know that. There’s nothing wrong with bending the truth as far as it will go as long as you don’t break it.”

  “You’re telling me that you want me to lie?”

  “That’s not what I said.” He stalked around the desk to stare her down. “The fact that you can’t tell the difference between a lie and a creative spin on the truth concerns me.”

  A hot blast of adrenaline shot through her. Stunned, she curled her hands into fists. “What are you saying?”

  “This isn’t the first time your provincial ethics”—­he spat the word with disdain—­“have tripped up a campaign.”

  Taken aback, she placed a palm to her chest. “Specifically, what campaigns are you speaking of?”

  “The Palmer campaign for one thing.”

  “But I only worked on the Palmer ad for a few days,” she protested.

  “Exactly. Palmer said you were argumentative so I put you on another project.”

  “I merely pointed out that the campaign they wanted was lewd and suggestive. The insinuation of a ménage à trois featuring their garden hoses was in poor taste.”

  “And yet, that ad went on to become Palmer’s most successful campaign ever. Implied sex sold those garden hoses like hotcakes.”

  “It also garnered more consumer complaints than any other ad we’ve ever produced.”

  “Which goes to prove controversy is a good thing. You seemed to understand that when you first came to work here. The family feud television spot you created for Frosty Bites was not only hilarious, but it was one of Tribalgate’s most successful campaigns in the last decade.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “That campaign was six years ago. What have you done for us lately?”

  “I won a Clio two years ago!”

  “Which means absolutely nothing. The ad you won the Clio for was cute and attention-­getting, but in the end it did nothing to increase the sales of the cars it was advertising. And Hyundai dropped Tribalgate over it.”

  “All right.” She nodded. “I see your point. Message received. I will strive to get over my ethics and infuse ads with more titillation.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but no you won’t.”

  “You don’t want me to put more sexuality in the ads?”

  “You will no longer be putting anything into the ads.”

  “I … I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not your fault.” His tone softened. “You come from a small town. You’re just not sophisticated enough for Tribalgate.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What do you mean? I’ve lived in the city for twelve years, almost half my life.”

  “Ms. Spencer, Melody …”

  Goose bumps spread over her arm. The left muscle in her eye jumped, a tic she got whenever she was super stressed. This couldn’t be happening. “What are you saying?”

  “Not to sound like Donald Trump or anything, but you’re fired.”

  Stunned, she stood there, mouth open. She caught sight of Michael’s desk calendar Tuesday, April 1. April Fool’s Day. Relief washed over her.

  “Oh, very funny, sir.” She smiled circumspectly, hiding that defective tooth. “You almost had me going there.”

  He glowered. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve got to hand it to you. It’s the best April Fool’s joke anyone has ever played on me.”

  S
lowly, he shook his head. “This is not a joke.”

  The dread was back and heavier than ever. Oh shit. “This isn’t a prank?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure Ashton Kutcher isn’t going to jump out of the closet and declare I’ve been punked?” she asked hopefully, even as she knew she was well and truly sunk.

  No joke. He was serious. She’d been fired.

  Her boss held out his palm. “Please hand me your identification badge.”

  Pressing her lips into a straight line, she fumbled with the ID badge clipped to her lapel. She could barely see through the mist of tears welling up in her eyes, but she refused to let him see her cry. She swallowed the saltiness, blinked hard, and passed her badge to him.

  Michael took her ID that represented her entire sense of self, stared at someone over her shoulder, and nodded.

  She turned and for the first time saw the two security guards standing in the doorway behind her.

  “They’ll take you to your desk to collect your things,” Michael intoned. “After that, they’ll escort you from the building. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t cause a scene.”

  Chapter 2

  HOURS later, Melody sat in a pew at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the cardboard box of her belongings clutched in her lap, the gold-­plated Clio statuette sticking out of the top, mocking her. Yeah, hot stuff, not so spectacular now, huh?

  Whenever she needed a respite from the crazy business of day-­to-­day Manhattan, she came to St. Pat’s. Even when the cathedral was packed with tourists, as it was this afternoon, there was still a reverential hush that soothed her.

  After Michael fired her she hadn’t known what to do or where else to go, so she’d stumbled in, and once seated, she hadn’t been able to make herself get up.