defeat, and in this particular circumstance, Connor couldn’t afford to fail.
The mobile phone in his jacket pocket rang, and he fished it out, keeping a wary eye on the road. Only one person had this particular number, his assistant Morris Gold. “Speak to me, Morris. Any luck in Texas? I know it’s a big place…no, I don’t want to interview Alan Greenspan for the show. Who wants to hear about interest rates for sixty minutes? I told you before, this interview is for sweeps week and it has to be something special. No one has been able to find this lady for two years. It’ll be a real coup if Public Eye is the first.” There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of raindrops hitting the leather upholstery. “No, I’m not trying to be difficult. I have a damn good reason for going to all this trouble, but you don’t need to know it. What do you mean, you’re starting to dream about her? No, you can’t fall in love with a picture. I’m an expert at not falling in love, Morris—I know these things. You’re losing your focus. Call me if anything turns up, all right?”
Connor tossed the phone down on the seat with a weary sigh. He had worked as a highly successful television journalist for over six years now, but had never come up against a challenge quite like this. Glitter Baby had dominated the fickle world of high fashion for nearly eight years. Even at the age of fourteen, when she had first begun modeling, she had radiated a powerful combination of innocence and sexuality that left women envious and men gasping for air. When she had abruptly retired two years ago at the venerable age of twenty-two, there had been no announcement of future plans. Even with Connor’s research staff scrambling in all directions, there was scant information available on who the woman really was, why she had vanished or where she might have gone. She had been born Frances Calhoon in Redfern, Wyoming, and her father had farmed there until his death six years earlier. Her mother had moved away since, although none of their former neighbors in Redfern knew where. End of story. Connor had an infallible sense of what the public hungered for, and the true story behind the disappearing supermodel had the makings of a dynamite show…not to mention the fact he had a promise to keep.
But first he had to find her.
Every lead his office could come up with was being investigated. Someone claimed to have seen her at a health club in Palm Beach. Another tip claimed she had gained 150 pounds and joined a nunnery, while yet another maintained she had opened her own tattoo parlor in the Philippines. Connor himself was following up on a tip that she had recently been seen at a cattle-judging competition at the Western Wyoming State Fair. He was dogged, if not particularly hopeful. Cows and supermodels did not compute.
Again and again he found himself sneaking sideways glances at her photograph. The camera adored her; he could understand why she had achieved such astonishing notoriety. Unlike the vacuous gazes of other ennui-drenched models, her eyes shone wetly with fire and fantasy. Part waif, part siren, and the combination was a powerful commercial aphrodisiac.
He wondered what it would be like to hold her.
After a restless night at the small motel in Oakley, Wyoming, Connor again went through his routine of visiting shops and cafés, showing Frances Calhoon’s picture and hearing the same comments over and over: “Of course I know who she is. I’ve never seen her around here, though.” Then, if Connor happened to be talking to a member of the male sex over the age of thirteen: “I wish I had.”
Somewhat of a celebrity in his own right, Connor wore his usual semi-disguise of sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low over his choppy mane of golden-brown hair. Unrecognized, he followed the western-style boardwalk up one side of the main street and down the other. He was oblivious to the female eyes that followed his rolling, somewhat cocky gait, lingering wistfully on his broad shoulders and snug-fitting faded jeans. Since his college days as a football star, women had enthusiastically appreciated Connor’s golden-boy good looks and he liked to think he did his part by appreciating them right back. When a knee injury had derailed his promising professional football career and left him in career limbo, he had crossed his fingers and accepted a job offer from his godfather, Jacob Stephens, the head honcho at a television cable network. Jacob had assured him that he had the presence to hold his own while interviewing celebrities, athletes and anyone else who was making news.
Connor discovered the job was far less stressful physically and mentally than football had ever been. What it boiled down to basically was flirting with pretty women, trading war stories with egotistical men and asking whatever question came to mind. Connor felt a little guilty about the generous salary he was making, since he never actually broke a sweat, but the powers that be seemed enormously pleased with his “work.”
Truth be told, Connor was amazed at his own success. He knew his looks and manner were not quite the norm for a television journalist. Where others were suitably somber, he was boyishly spirited. Where others were spritzed and polished to perfection before air time, Connor threatened the life of any makeup artist who approached him with a powder puff or a can of hairspray. Still, Public Eye managed to consistently top the ratings, which Connor modestly attributed to the luck of the Irish. Female members of the viewing audience, however, attributed its popularity to his longish, beautifully dishevelled hair, heavy-lidded amber eyes and a look so sweet you could pour it on a waffle. In fact, Morris liked to razz Connor by referring to him as “eye candy.” Actually, Connor didn’t enjoy the emphasis put on his looks, but he was basically an easygoing fellow who didn’t like to make waves. Consequently, he collected his paycheck twice a month and resigned himself to enjoying the ride while it lasted. If he was occasionally bored, he told himself all men who couldn’t play football for a living were probably bored. Then he went over his financial portfolio and felt much better.
Still, this particular assignment was something out of the ordinary and a far cry from boring. Normally, Connor would have been content to let his staff and field investigators do the footwork, but time was growing short and none of his leads so far had panned out. This had become a challenge, and the former quarterback often found himself yearning for a challenge—not to mention the fact he owed Jacob Stephens a tremendous debt of gratitude for seeing him through a difficult time in his life. Jacob had long been making plans to buy out a struggling network, and ruling the ratings during sweeps week would put the icing on a lucrative acquisition. Connor owed his godfather that much, and a great deal more.
When he came to an establishment called Howdy-Do Farm & Feed, he rolled his eyes and nearly passed by it. Then he recalled the cattle-judging competition, sighed and tugged his ball cap further down on his head. More than likely he was going to make a damn fool of himself. In his experience, celebrities did not hang out in feed stores.
It was a bustling day at the Howdy-Do, probably because of the fertilizer sale advertised on a sign at the checkout counter. For the most part, shoppers appeared to be of the middle-aged, bow-legged and leathery variety. The aroma of fertilizer hung heavily in the air.
Connor pulled off his sunglasses and, holding up Glitter Baby’s photograph, approached the teenage clerk at the checkout. The young fellow’s jaw dropped like a hinge had broken.
“Sorry to interrupt you.” Connor smiled. “I’m looking for someone. Have you seen this woman around town?”
“I’m looking for her, too,” the boy mumbled, eyes stretched to a breaking point. “Have been all my life. Hot damn…why can’t someone like that come into this store, that’s what I’d like to know? Man, around here, it’s the same girls over and over, the ones you go to school with, the ones you see at church—”
“Sounds like a bummer,” Connor interrupted, rubbing a weary hand over his eyes. “I take it you haven’t seen her, then?”
“Believe me,” the clerk said earnestly, “I would know if she’d ever been in Oakley. She’s that model, right? Spice Baby or somethin’?”
“Glitter
