Buch lesen: «Cowboy's Secret Son»

Chapter One

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 won’t.”

At her terse response, he gave a sharp nod, rose from the table and exited the coffee shop. Courtney barely noticed him leaving. She couldn’t stop staring at the folder. For so long she’d dreaded—and wished for—this day.

Her phone dinged. A text came through.

Come home. Trouble.

The oddly curt message from her housekeeper closed her throat. Courtney clasped her neck. She couldn’t breathe. The barista called out her order, but Courtney ignored the announcement. She had to get home. Without a backward glance, she raced out of the coffeehouse and flagged a taxi.

Panicked, she dialed home.

No answer.

Without a second thought she called her assistant to inform her she wouldn’t be returning to the museum.

The cab swerved through traffic. Courtney took in a slow, deep breath. Perhaps she was overreacting. Since recognizing Jared, she’d been a rigid ball of nerves.

Despite logic trying to convince her everything was fine, her heart raced, slamming against her chest. She fought through the dread and clutched the door handle.

Luckily traffic was lighter than normal. The moment the taxi stopped in front of her building, she threw a hundred-dollar bill at the surprised cabby and jumped out.

“Good day, Ms. Jamison,” the doorman commented, holding the heavy glass open for her.

Unlike normal, she couldn’t muster a smile or chitchat. Ignoring Reggie’s furrowed brow of concern, she hit the button for the elevator.

She slipped the key card into the penthouse lock, but the familiar click didn’t sound. The door silently eased open.

“Marilyn?” she called. “What’s wrong?”

Courtney skidded to a halt. Her sitter lay on the living room floor, eyes staring unblinking and lifeless at the ceiling. Blood pooled around her head, seeping into her gray hair.

She dropped to her knees, her finger slipping through the blood when she searched for a pulse.

Nothing.

Only a split second passed before the shock leached into Courtney’s throat. “Dylan!” Courtney tore through the living area, searching frantically. Where was her son? She grabbed the fireplace poker and gripped it tight before racing into her baby’s bedroom.

She froze.

The crib had been overturned, the chest of drawers upended, clothes strewn across the floor.

Courtney whirled around. Her gaze landed on the closet door. Her stomach rolled and bile rose in her throat. Was the murderer still there? Did he have her baby?

She picked her way through the chaos, clutching her makeshift weapon with both hands. She reached out, barely able to breathe.

Terrified of what she’d see, unable to stop the horrifying images flying through her mind, she yanked open the door and flipped on the light.

Her knees gave way.

Empty.

“Dylan, where are you?”

She begged for a jabber a laugh, even a cry, but nothing. Within minutes she’d searched the rest of the apartment. Only one room left. Her room.

She slammed through the door and froze. In the center of the perfectly pristine bed lay her nine-month old son, pillows penning him in a makeshift crib on the bed.

He wasn’t moving.

Courtney’s heart stopped. She raced over to her heart and soul, terrified of what she might find. She leaned over the peaceful countenance and her body went limp.

“Dylan?” Courtney’s hand shook. The fireplace iron thudded to the floor. She reached out to touch her baby boy’s face.

Her son’s chest rose and fell. He was alive.

Choking back a sob of relief, Courtney scooped up her son with noodle-like arms. The movement caused Dylan to screw up his face and let out a loud yell.

“What happened, baby?” She glanced around the room, but nothing else appeared to be out of place.

Her gaze landed on Dylan’s stuffed lamb sitting on one pillow. A sheet of paper was pinned to the toy. She scanned the words in horror.

If we wanted to kidnap him, your son would be gone.

If we wanted to kill him, your son would be dead.

When we come back, we WILL take him. We WILL kill him.

Unless we receive $3,680,312.00.

We will call you with instructions.

If you contact the police or FBI, he will die.

If you don’t get us the money within 72 hours, he will die.

Don’t try to be smart. You can’t hide from us.

With a shuddering breath, Courtney tried to comprehend what she was reading. The strange amount of money, the taunting threats. Nothing made sense.

She gazed into Dylan’s one brown eye and one green eye, trying to smile with reassurance, all the while backing toward the door. “We have to get you out of here.”

Bundling up the diaper bag, Courtney raced out of the apartment with one last sorrowful glance at Marilyn. What kind of monster would kill the sweet woman who loved Dylan so much?

She hugged her child close. “I’ll keep you safe, Jelly Bean. I promise.”

* * *

ALMOST TWO HOURS LATER, the car service’s Mercedes pulled up in front of her father’s Greenwich, Connecticut, mansion. Courtney turned her cell phone over and over in her hand. Her thumb hovered over the emergency key. For the thousandth time on the ride there, she considered calling law enforcement.

Something had stopped her once again. Maybe it was all those television programs that showed how easy it was to hack a phone call. She couldn’t take the risk. Not with Jelly Bean. The kidnapper had come into her home. Had touched her baby boy. Had killed Marilyn.

A shiver vibrated down her arms. Part of her kept telling herself this couldn’t be happening. Threats like this were the stuff of crime novels and television shows, and yet every time she reread the note and pictured poor Marilyn lying on the floor of her penthouse, she knew it was her reality.

Which was why she was about to make an unprecedented request. Courtney rubbed her eyes. She’d never gone to her father with an open hand, but she didn’t know where else to turn. Her job, the penthouse, everything but her salary was part of her grandmother’s trust specifically created to fund the museum. She didn’t have the money to pay the murderer what he wanted.

She had to believe her father would give her what she needed. He had to. Even though he’d been furious—not to mention disappointed—when she’d found herself pregnant and had refused to name the father.

She’d been too embarrassed to tell him she didn’t know the man’s name.

“You getting out or what?” the driver asked from the front seat.

Courtney nodded and unbuckled the car seat. She rounded the vehicle to retrieve Dylan, and the driver met her at the door. He opened it and she grabbed the carrier, careful not to jar the baby.

“How much do I owe you—?”

The man shook his head. “It’s been taken care of. I was asked to give you this when we arrived.” He handed her a padded envelope. Before she could open it, he jumped into the Mercedes and screeched out of the driveway.

One look and her gut sank. She recognized the handwriting on the label. She lowered Dylan to the ground and gently tore open the envelope. She pulled out a phone with a sticky note attached.

Keep the phone with you.

Keep your silence. Especially from your father.

And don’t forget, you can’t hide from us. We’ll always find you.

The note crinkled in her grasp. How did he know so much? The words blurred on the paper. Her knees shook; her legs quivered. She nearly sank to the ground. Her gaze whipped to the now empty driveway. Was the driver blackmailing her? She shook her head. Somehow she doubted it. He wouldn’t have wanted to show his face. Besides, he’d said someone else had paid him.

The blackmailers had made their point clear, though. She’d better follow his instructions exactly. No police, no law enforcement. She couldn’t imagine what the cops would think when they found Marilyn. She’d considered phoning in an anonymous tip, but she couldn’t risk being arrested. Not before she was certain Dylan was safe.

“Okay, you can do this. You can do anything for Dylan.” She shoved the phone into her pocket and stumbled through the front door of the mansion. The eight-thousand-square-foot home had been in the family for four generations, the money originated from more than a few deals with Andrew Carnegie.

Courtney had never ruminated on her family’s money much. It had always just been there. She’d never been more thankful for the privilege than she was today.

She glanced at her son. Today the money she’d always taken for granted would save Dylan.

She refused to consider that the first payment wouldn’t be enough to get rid of the blackmailer. One step at a time.

The foyer’s Baccarat chandelier glittered high above her, though the butler didn’t appear out of nowhere like he usually did.

“Fitz?” she called.

No response. How strange.

“Clarissa? Burbank? Anyone here?”

Her footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Where was the rest of the staff?

A horrific possibility hit her squarely in the chest. What if the killer had come here. Oh God.

She started to run from room to room. No. This wasn’t right. Bare rooms, boxes, paintings missing.

“F-father?” she called, her voice shaky. She opened the door to her mother’s old sitting room. The blank space on the wall slammed into her. The Degas painting her mother had purchased just before her death was gone.

“Father!” she shouted again.

“In the library.” Her father’s voice filtered through the deserted hallways.

Something was wrong. He sounded strange, his words slurred. Courtney hurried through the double doors. A stack of boxes littered the floor. He huddled behind his mahogany desk, staring across the room as if in a trance. A half-empty bottle of cognac sat at his elbow, an empty old-fashioned Waterford glass directly in front of him.

Carefully, she set Dylan down on the floor and ran to her father. “What’s going on?” Was he actually leaving their family home? It didn’t make sense.

He shoved his hand through his already mussed hair and cleared his throat. “I should’ve called you sooner.” He let out a long sigh.

She studied his bleary gaze. Drinking again. Why wasn’t she surprised? “Father, I don’t mean to be rude, but right now I need your help. For Dylan. We need three million dollars.”

He blinked up at her, confusion lacing his eyes. He reached for the century-old bottle, poured four fingers and swigged it down. “No.”