Cowboy's Secret Son. Robin Perini
Jared crawled on board.
“Guy took off in a truck,” the sheriff said. “I lost him.”
Didn’t matter. Jared would kill the guy later. With shaking hands, he turned his wife over. Her eyes were wide-open, sightless, the white gown draped across her gently swelled belly.
“Don’t die on me, Alyssa!”
Jared leaned down and rested his cheek against her mouth, his finger on her neck, but no breath escaped, no pulse throbbed under her skin. Rain pelted them. He ignored it. He pressed his hands against her chest, rhythmically, frantically trying to revive her.
He’d heard her call out just moments ago.
“We’ll get her to the hospital,” Kevin shouted. “Keep at it.”
The boat skidded across the surface of the lake toward the pier.
A crack echoed through the night when her ribs gave way. Wincing, Jared hesitated for a bare second but kept going.
He pressed his lips to hers and pushed one breath, two breaths into her lungs.
The boat stopped. An ambulance would never make it way out here in time.
“Get the truck started,” Jared didn’t even look up until he heard his beat-up Chevy purr. The headlights shined at them.
He gazed into his wife’s face, ghostly white. His body went numb. This wasn’t happening.
“Fight, Alyssa. Please, fight.” He pressed his lips to her cold, wet mouth and puffed in once, twice, praying she’d cough up water.
She remained still, unmoving.
Jared scooped her into his arms and raced down the pier. “Don’t give up.” He jumped into the back of the truck and continued performing CPR, willing her to live, willing the family he’d always longed for to survive.
“Don’t give up. Please, Alyssa. Don’t give up on me, and I promise, I’ll never give up on you.”
Present day
If today’s clear skies had reflected the turmoil twisting Courtney Jamison’s heart into a quivering mass of uncertainty, the forecast should’ve indicated hurricane-gale winds, kiwi-sized hail and lightning slicing between skyscrapers across the city.
Instead it was a perfectly wonderful day. For most.
Courtney loved New York. The twenty-four-hour energy, the fashion, the events and especially her position as curator of her grandmother’s legacy—one of the most prestigious art museums in the city.
She never would have anticipated the last eighteen months, but she’d found a joy she’d never expected. Then, one week ago her world had capsized. Whatever happened in the next hour, she had no doubt her life would never be the same.
The heavenly scent of brewed coffee laced with a touch of cinnamon wafted through the shop’s air. The churn of blenders and mixers cut through the sounds of engines and horns piercing the door. She waited in this very ordinary setting for news that could destroy her world.
Maybe she’d been mistaken. After all, she hadn’t been thinking clearly that night eighteen months ago. Just feeling. Maybe her memory of his face, the contour of his cheek, the quirk of his lips when he smiled...maybe the man she’d seen on the news hadn’t been him at all.
It could happen. No need to borrow trouble when there was enough to be found in the world. The valuable advice had been one of the last bits of wisdom her mother had imparted before cancer had stolen her away from a ten-year-old who’d still needed those loving arms. Unfortunately, today was too critical not to worry.
Hers wasn’t the only person whose life could change forever.
A bell’s ring announced another patron. Courtney glanced up and her stomach flopped. The man’s military haircut screamed his thirty-year Marine career. She’d hired him because he didn’t frequent her family’s social circles. No one would think Courtney, Edward Jamison’s high-society daughter, would hire a private investigator who didn’t boast a Fifth Avenue pedigree.
That fact alone made Joe Botelli precisely who she needed.
He gave her a quick nod and crossed the room toward her. “Ms. Jamison.” He placed the folder between them and slid it across the table. “I found him. You were right. He stayed at the Waldorf that night.”
She closed her eyes briefly, bracing herself for the rest. “Tell me.”
The PI flipped open his notebook. “The highlights?”
She nodded. She could read the rest later, in the quiet of her penthouse, where she didn’t have to maintain such rigid control on her emotions.
“Jared King, thirty-two years old. Until about three years ago, desperate to keep his family’s Texas ranch in the black by training rodeo horses and raising stock.”
Jared. She rolled his first name around a few times, attaching it to the all-too-sensual dreams that invaded her sleep much too often. The moniker suited him. From what she’d seen on television, his apparent career was anything but expected.
“Jared King.” She tested it aloud for the first time. “So he really is a cowboy?” Courtney sagged in her chair, her body going limp with disbelief. That’s one she wouldn’t have guessed until she’d seen his image a week ago. And definitely not based on the Armani suit he’d worn all too perfectly that weekend at the Waldorf Astoria. The Stetson, flannel shirt and well-worn jeans had been her one holdout of hope that she’d been wrong.
“Yes and no. He lives on a ranch that’s been in his family for generations. It’s on the outskirts of a small town called Carder in the southwestern part of Texas.” Joe Botelli shifted in his seat. “Several years ago oil was discovered on his property. He went from scraping by to being one of the wealthiest men in Texas. The money didn’t change his lifestyle much from what I can tell. He still spends most of his time working the cattle ranch and supplying stock to rodeos.”
She could hardly wrap her brain around his words. Cattle, rodeo? The closest she’d ever been to either was flipping through channels on late night television and landing on an old 1940s Roy Rogers movie.
“Is...is he married?” she asked, trying not to reveal her nerves—or her fear. After her mother had died, she’d learned never to expose her thoughts or emotions, to maintain control and dignity at all times. Hopefully the skill would keep Botelli with the discerning gaze from realizing her true vulnerability. She’d taken a huge risk asking a stranger to investigate Jared King. Right now she had to wonder what she’d opened in the proverbial Pandora’s box.
“Widower.”
Jared had lost his wife. Her heart quivered in sympathy—and foreboding. What if he wanted...? She couldn’t let her mind go there.
The PI leaned back in his chair as if he couldn’t care less about her or the devastation his information had caused. “Do you want me to continue digging?”
Courtney gripped the folder in her hand as if her future depended on its content.
In truth, it did. Every fact she digested from the dossier would make Jared King more real. More dangerous. But she couldn’t fall apart here. “His address is inside?” she asked.
At the man’s nod, Courtney opened her three-year-old Prada purse and slid an envelope of cash across the table. No need to create a record of this transaction. She didn’t plan on seeing the private investigator again. She’d shred his card when she arrived home. “Thank you.”
The PI’s brow arched, but he pocketed the money and stood. “If you need anything else—”
“I