To Con A Cowboy (Hunks and Horses Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  Title Information

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  A Word From Maggie

  Title Information

  Hunks and Horses

  Book Three

  To Con A Cowboy

  Maggie Carpenter

  Copyright © 2018 Dark Secrets Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Dark Secrets Press LLC.

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  PROLOGUE

  Listen to the wind, it talks.

  Listen to the silence, it speaks.

  Listen to your heart, it knows.

  Native American Proverb.

  The idea had been brilliant.

  Inspired.

  Perhaps even divine intervention.

  But as Amber Scott nervously studied the two lawyers behind the desk she had doubts. Mr. John Hamilton and Mr. Barry Jordan, wearing expensive suits and with immaculately styled hair, oozed power and money. She'd never considered herself duplicitous, but her scheme was dishonest to the core, and she was beginning to think they could see right through her.

  "Miss Scott, you say you've never spent time on a ranch. What makes you think the lifestyle will suit you?"

  "I love horses and riding," she replied, though the few lessons she'd taken had been far more difficult than she'd imagined. "I've always wanted to live outside the city, and the property is only an hour away. If I get the shopping bug, or want to meet up with friends for lunch, I can zip back on my day off."

  "Mr. Preston may be a successful songwriter, but he's never attempted a book before and this will be non-fiction. You'll have to make his stories palatable to readers. Why do you think you're up to the task?"

  "Mr. Hamilton, you've read my work. I wouldn't be here if you didn't think my style engaging."

  "Your work is good, but it is fiction. As I just stated, Mr. Preston's biography will be non-fiction."

  "The story isn't the only key. Presentation is just as important, if not more so. For example, if you said, I was driving to the department store to buy my wife a present, and when my car broke down, it happened. That's interesting, but boring. If you said, I was desperate to reach the store to buy my wife's birthday present, but I only had fifteen minutes to get there. Three blocks away my car broke down and the most extraordinary thing happened, the reader, will want to know what the extraordinary thing is."

  "Well said, Miss Scott," Barry Jordan declared, running his hand over his thinning hair.

  "Thank you, Mr. Jordan."

  Though Amber appreciated his support, he eyed her as a cat would a goldfish in a bowl.

  "Would you excuse us for a moment?" he said abruptly, removing his phone from his breast pocket and staring at the screen.

  Both men rose to their feet and disappeared through a door behind them. She knew where they were going. Brett Preston, the country and western superstar had been watching the interview.

  "Mr. Preston is observing our meeting," Mr. Hamilton had announced when she'd arrived. He'd made the proclamation formally and with great sobriety as he'd pointed to a video camera.

  Unable to resist the temptation, Amber had looked directly into the lens and waved. Mr. Jordan had grinned. She'd seen the smile from the corner of her eye, but Mr. Hamilton had not been amused.

  Aware the camera still picked up her every move, and self-conscious staring at the walls, she lifted her handbag and retrieved her phone from the zippered compartment. One text from her best friend wishing her luck for the umpteenth time. The message gave her a lift. Drowning in debt from her student loan, and a string of rejections from both potential employers and publishers, landing the job with Brett Preston was imperative.

  "Miss Scott?"

  Mr. Hamilton's sudden entry startled her.

  Her heart skipped.

  The moment of truth.

  "Yes, Mr. Hamilton?"

  "Would you come through please? Mr. Preston would like to meet you."

  For a moment she thought she'd misheard, but the portly man in the expensive suit, white shirt and bright red tie, standing at the door as if imitating a hotel porter, stared at her expectantly. Not sure what to say, she said nothing, but feigning a confident smile, she stood up, placed her bag on the chair, and walked over to him.

  "After you," he declared with a wave of his arm.

  The office in which she'd been sitting offered nothing out of the ordinary: an impressive desk, two chairs in front, a credenza behind. But the opulent room in which she suddenly found herself took her by surprise. She'd been expecting a conference room, but she could have been in the living room of a luxurious home.

  "May I present Amber Scott. Miss Scott, this is Brett Preston."

  "Please call me Brett," the famed singer offered with a warm smile. "Good to meet you. Take a seat."

  Rarely did Amber find herself flustered, but as the handsome cowboy stood up and extended his hand, Amber's face flushed red. The gorgeous guy gave the word dreamy a whole new meaning.

  His fingers wrapped themselves firmly around hers.

  Fainting was not out of the question.

  "I'd like to ask you just a couple more questions," he continued, releasing her hand and sitting back down on the distressed leather couch.

  The timber of his voice matched the deep, honeyed tone of his singing, and something about him felt vaguely familiar. His eyes suggested a secret, and as she settled into the chair opposite him, one of his hit songs echoed through her head.

  You might be an angel with a ruby-red mouth, but I'm gonna be a devil, my lips are headin' south.

  "I'm lookin' for more than just a writer," he began. "When I pick up my guitar and pluck outta tune, the melody and the lyrics start out jumbled, but then they start to flow. I figured the same thing would happen when I sat down to write, but it didn't. You think you can help me with that?"

  Focusing on the question had been difficult. His ridiculously muscled arms and wide shoulders promised the engulfing hug of her fantasies.

  "Every book needs a beginning, a middle and an end," she managed. "The first thing you have to do is decide where you want your story to start. Will this book be a retrospective of your personal life, or centered around your career?"

  "Huh. I've had many conversations about this project, but you're the first person to lay out that question so clearly. Amber, as you know I watched your in
terview. I liked what I heard and I wanna give this a shot. How would you feel about comin' out to my ranch and seein' if it's a fit?"

  "Very much," she replied, her heart leaping with joy.

  "You got any questions for me?"

  "Not about the job, but I am curious about something."

  "Yeah, I could tell," he said, grinning a grin with dimples so deep she wanted to explore them with the tip of her tongue. "When Heath told me about you, he said you had an insatiable curiosity. Go ahead, don't be shy. Ask away."

  "Why aren't you using a well-known author? I would think your publisher would insist on it."

  "I'm done with publishers."

  "You're not using one of the big houses?"

  "My business manager said I had to, but after a couple of meetin's I knew goin' with a big-time publisher wasn't my style. I don't doubt their know-how, but I wanna do this independently. A publisher would have too many people tellin' me what to do and how to do it. I had the same trouble when I started singin'. Ever hear the song by Fleetwood Mac called Go Your Own Way?"

  "Of course."

  "That's how I am. I go my own way. Sink or swim, it's down to me."

  "You must have received a ton of applicants for this."

  "Yep, quite a few. I gave a list of guidelines to the folks who did the screenin' for me. Made cullin' quick and easy. That's why you were sent the questionnaire, but you've gotta come to the ranch. You need to be comfortable with the livin' arrangements and meet the horses. That's real important. I do my best thinkin' ridin' out on the trail. We'll do a lotta talkin' in the saddle."

  "Sounds like fun," she replied, wondering how she could fit a month worth of lessons into a few days.

  "Dream Horse Ranch is only about forty-five minutes away. I see quite a bit of Heath and Carly."

  "I've known Heath forever, but I've only met his wife a couple of times. I hear she's an amazing rider."

  "Sure is. Are you busy this weekend? Why don't you come out for lunch on Saturday? You can take a look around. See if you think you'll be happy there."

  "I'd love to."

  "John will email you the directions and the phone number at the house in case you get lost. It's up a windin' road. Tricky to find unless you follow the map. A navigator won't get you there."

  "Terrific. What time should I get there?"

  "Noonish. The drive will probably take about an hour," he said, rising to his feet. "I have another appointment across town so I have to leave. Thanks for comin', Amber. I'll see you on Saturday."

  "Yes, great, thanks," she replied, getting up quickly and shaking his hand. "I'm looking forward to it."

  "You might wanna wear somethin' comfortable," he remarked, eyeing her heels and tailored dress. "You could find yourself in the saddle. I'm kinda spontaneous that way."

  "I will. Thanks for the heads up."

  "See ya later, fellas," he said with a wave, already heading towards a door on the opposite side of the room.

  "There's one more thing, Miss Scott," John Hamilton said solemnly as Brett disappeared. "The confidentiality agreement. You can't set foot on the ranch until you sign it."

  "But I haven't been hired, have I?"

  "No, but as I just stated, no-one can visit the property until the agreement has been signed," he continued, reaching into his briefcase and withdrawing a manila envelope.

  "Sure. No problem. Should I take it with me and give it Brett when I arrive?"

  "Miss Scott," he said tersely, a deep frown carving his forehead, "you must execute this and return it to me before I can send you the directions."

  "Sorry, I've never done anything like this before. I didn't understand."

  "Take your time and give it the once over. It's boilerplate."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It's a standard. You cannot discuss or pass on any information about what you see or hear at the ranch."

  "So if I talk to my girlfriend, I can't tell her anything? Not about my accommodations or even the horses?"

  "Precisely."

  "That's a bit weird, but if that's how it has to be, of course I'll sign it, though I need to read it through."

  "You absolutely should, and I would encourage you to have it reviewed by a lawyer. Today is Wednesday. I need it back by Friday no later than three-o'clock. I have an appointment out of the office and I'll be leaving early. Do you have any further questions?"

  "Um, the most obvious one. There's been no mention of the salary."

  "The remuneration will be up to Mr. Preston. If all goes well, you'll be presented with a written offer which you can accept, counter, or reject. I take it you've not worked for a celebrity."

  "I'm no stranger to the lifestyle. My family is well-known in Houston, that's how I met Heath Boyd, but worked for a someone famous? No, I haven't."

  "Mr. Preston, like many entertainers, goes to great lengths to protect his reputation, his privacy, and his assets. I have another appointment shortly. Perhaps you can hold any further questions until you receive an offer—if that should happen."

  "Yes, of course. I didn't mean to hold you up. I'll make sure this agreement is back to you in plenty of time."

  "Thank you. Allow me to walk you to the door."

  "What is this room?" she asked as he guided her forward. "I've never seen a lounge in an office building."

  "I'm an entertainment lawyer, Miss Scott. My clients like to be comfortable when they come here. This is far more relaxing than a formal setting. Good day, and don't forget your bag."

  He'd opened the door, and passing him with a faint smile and a nod, she picked up her purse and left the austere work place, but as she walked down the hall to the elevator, her heart sang. The interview could not have gone better. Though she'd been expecting the confidentiality contract and had no qualms about signing it, she wanted the lawyer to believe she was naive and needed to have it checked out.

  Her interest in working with the hunky, handsome cowboy wasn't straightforward.

  She intended to gather information and write her own book about the ultra-private singer.

  Brett Preston's first biography, even unauthorized, would wipe out her debt.

  The lawyer thought the agreement protected his client, but he was wrong.

  If he threatened to sue, she'd call his bluff. Ending up in a lawsuit, she'd become an overnight celebrity, but she suspected it far more likely she'd be offered a handsome payout.

  Either way, she couldn't lose.

  But as she rode the elevator to the parking garage, pangs of conscience took hold. She'd expected Brett to ooze arrogance and conceit. Most of the rich and famous she'd met were infuriating, demanding narcissists, but Brett appeared to be none of those things.

  "Needs must," she muttered, stepping from the elevator. "I have to do this for me. I won't use anything that could hurt him. In fact, I'll make the book extremely complimentary. Yes! That's what I'll do. Then he'll be happy, even if he is pissed at first. Yes. That will work! I feel so much better. Shit. Three days to become a decent rider. How the hell am I going to do that?"

  CHAPTER ONE

  Two Days Later

  Amber studied her reflection in the full length oval mirror. Dressed in pale blue jeans, a pink and black plaid shirt and black cowboy boots, she gave herself an approving nod. Even though she'd bought everything on sale, the cost of the outfit had added one hundred and thirty-two dollars to her ever-growing credit card debt.

  "I had to do it," she muttered, running a brush through her long, curly, caramel-colored hair. "I look like I belong on a ranch. I just hope Brett doesn't decide we should go on a trail ride. These jeans look great, but they're sure as hell not made for riding."

  Grabbing her hobo bag and hurrying out to the carport, she climbed into her Subaru Forrester. The car had been her college graduation present. Though she'd been grateful, she'd also been tempted to sell it to reduce the student loan hanging over her head, but she soon discovered the car had been leased. Her once wealthy fat
her had lost almost everything when the real estate market crashed, and though she'd been lucky enough to land a scholarship, she still had to borrow to finish college.

  She'd printed out the directions to Brett Preston's home, and sitting them on the passenger seat, she loaded one of his CDs. As she drove through town and up the freeway onramp, his rich voice filled the car. Singing along she couldn't help but smile. Regardless of the circumstances she was thrilled to be spending the day with the country music superstar. The miles sailed by, and exiting the highway, she glanced down at the directions. They seemed straight forward, but after following the endless winding mountain road she began to wonder if she'd driven too far. Spying a lookout point ahead, she rolled in and stopped to reread the instructions.

  Continue up the hill 4.2 miles. Turn sharp left onto the first unmarked road, drive half-a mile to the gates.

  "Shit. Have I gone 4.2 miles? Dammit. I forgot to look. I haven't see a turn off though," she mumbled as she stared at the magnificent view.

  Praying she wouldn't have to turn around, she decided to drive further up the hill and maneuvered back onto the road. Large homes on swaths of green carpet dotted the hills across the canyon. Surrounded by trees and natural vegetation offering ultimate privacy, she guessed they were inhabited by celebrities like Brett, but her anxiety continued to grow. Sure she must have traveled too far and about to turn around, a road appeared on her left.

  "Thank God! This must be it," she muttered, swinging into the unmarked lane.

  Moments later she slowed to follow a tight turn, and as she came out of it, tall gates and a high, solid fence came into view. The barrier sported ominous spikes and stood at least eight feet high. Coming to a stop next to the keypad, cameras stared down at her. Wondering why the heavy security was necessary in such an isolated location, she pressed the red call button.

  "Yes?"

  "Amber Scott for Brett Preston."

  "Follow the road to the left. It will take you down to the barn. He's expecting you."