Cowboy Secrets. Alice Sharpe

      

       She studied him for a second and he glanced at her. “Something wrong?”

      “No, nothing. I’ve just never met … well, someone like you before.”

      “Someone like me,” he mused. “What does that mean?”

      “You’re a cowboy.”

      He flashed her a smile. “What gave it away? The hat, the boots, the saddle in the back, or maybe it’s the subtle whiff of cow lingering in the air?”

      “All of the above,” she said, but her voice revealed she knew he was teasing her. “Of course, in my line of work it pays to be observant.”

      “And I bet you don’t miss much.”

      Cowboy Secrets

      Alice Sharpe

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      ALICE SHARPE met her husband-to-be on a cold, foggy beach in Northern California. Their union has survived the rearing of two children, a handful of earthquakes, numerous cats and a few special dogs, the latest of which is a yellow Lab named Annie Rose. Alice and her husband now live in a small rural town in Oregon, where she devotes the majority of her time to pursuing her second love, writing. You can write to her c/o Harlequin Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, USA. An SASE for reply is appreciated.

      MILLS & BOON

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      This book is dedicated with love to Amalia Anina Mauro LeVelle

      Contents

       Cover

       Introduction

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

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

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

Chapter One

      Sierra Hyde yawned into her fist as she nursed a glass of white wine at a long mahogany bar. The music, the booths on the back wall and the big mirror behind the bottles all reeked of familiarity.

      Her main interest, however, wasn’t the establishment, but the solitary woman sitting alone at a dark booth near the back of the room. Her name was Natalia Bonaparte, age thirty-three. Occupation: job counselor. Frequent glances at the diamond watch sparkling on her wrist suggested whomever she was waiting to meet was late, but Sierra already knew this. Her job was to catch a photo of the man who joined the woman. According to Sierra’s client, Savannah Papadakis, that man was going to be Savannah’s estranged husband.

      Yeah, well, it better be him because trailing Natalia was getting tedious and it had only been two days. The woman had a pretty active after-hour party life.

      “Will you have another?” the bartender asked as he ran a rag along the bar. Sierra looked down at her glass and realized she’d imbibed half the wine. “I’ll have a ginger ale this time,” she said. With any luck, her client’s husband would show up, she’d get a few photos and be on her way back to New York City within the next few minutes. She needed a good night’s sleep after the disco stakeout last night.

      He left to pour her drink right as the door opened. Sierra darted a quick glance. Two young guys barely old enough to legally walk through the door held each other up as they staggered to the bar and plopped down on either side of Sierra.

      “Hey, pretty lady,” one of them said. The guy’s breath reached her nose before his words reached her ears and she instinctively flinched.

      The bartender showed up with the ginger ale and took orders for two beers, while Sierra declined to let her new “friends” buy her one, too. The door opened again, sending a renewed jolt of cold January air into the bar. A man about the right age sauntered in. His perfectly groomed head of white hair caught every stray beam of light as he looked from the bar to the tables, past groups of revelers, until his gaze stopped on the far corner where Sierra knew the blonde sat. He seemed to momentarily frown before crossing the room to join her. The woman greeted him by lifting one of her hands, which he kissed. Sierra witnessed all this by watching their hazy reflections in the mirror that backed the bar.

      The two drunks were both leaning closer to her, making her thankful she hadn’t taken off her jacket. She had to get rid of them if she was going to get the pictures and escape this place.

      “Those gals over there are giving you the eye,” she whispered to the one on her left. She nodded at a table a good distance away, where two women pushing forty sat talking over martini glasses. As far as Sierra knew, neither one was even aware the guys at the bar existed.

      “Them?” the one on Sierra’s left said after turning to stare.

      “Too old,” the man on her right said. “Besides, they ain’t looking at us.”

      “Sure they are,” she said as she took a pair of tortoiseshell glasses out of her pocket and slipped them on her face. “They just look away whenever one of you turns around.”

      “You