like to give special acknowledgment to Rick Redmann for his valuable input on the business of advertising. I’d also like to thank Emilie Richards, who taught the creative writing class that got me started writing romance suspense and remains a wonderful friend. And to Wayne, always.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
COWBOYS. Ranchers. Cattle. Beef.
Ashley Garrett typed in the words, Times New Roman font, eighteen point, and ran them across the page in the shape of a galloping horse.
Her mission was to put them all together and come up with an ad campaign and a slogan that was so terrific it would be on the lips and in the minds of every Texas citizen. In the process, she would put her name on the map—along with the Texas Ranchers Association, of course.
This was her biggest account to date, a chance to leap a few rungs up the advertising success ladder and put her one step closer to some swanky office on Manhattan’s famed Madison Avenue. Let other women marry and cook pot roasts. She’d influence what their kids wore, the kind of car they drove and where they’d buy their groceries.
But for now, it was sell the Texas Ranchers Association. Sell beef. Sell an image. The task had seemed so easy when Mr. Clintock of Clintock, Mitchum and O’Connell had offered her the plum account. Four days later, she was drowning in insipid, languishing in schmaltz, when what she needed was a spark of genius. Of course, she’d let the Creative Department guys in on the fun eventually, but she wanted to be the mind behind the idea, not just a facilitator.
Stretching her fingers and placing them back on her trusty keyboard, she prepared herself for another go at releasing a rush of ingenious juices. When in doubt, start with a cowboy. They were sexy, virile, rugged, totally masculine. Except for the ones who were dirty, sweaty and smelled of cattle droppings.
“Wrong mind-set, Ashley Garrett.”
Talking to herself again—a sure sign she’d been punching keys and staring at the screen on her computer too long. Fingering her favorite silver bracelet, she glanced at the chrome office clock on the wall over her file cabinet. Six-thirty. No wonder the office was so quiet.
Everyone else had gone back to their cozy suburban homes, where, according to someone’s statistics, they could enjoy their four bedrooms, two baths, two and a half children, one dog, one cat and two goldfish. Or else they’d headed over to happy hour at the hotel bar across the street so they could fortify themselves to face their mate and two and a half kids. To each his own.
She had a session scheduled with her personal trainer at seven. She loved saying that. It sounded so impressive. Not that she could afford him on a regular basis, but after one session, she’d been so excited about the results that her brother Dylan had made exercise her Christmas present. He was springing for three months of sessions, two per week. She had six weeks to go, and she could already see progress. By summer, she’d be able to do great things for a bikini.
In a matter of minutes, she’d flicked off her monitor, turned her daily calendar to the next day’s page and straightened her desk, readying it for the morning. Organization was a key factor in maintaining the level of professional excellence she demanded of herself.
Standing, she ran a hand down her skirt, ironing the pleats with her fingers so that they lay straight. The suit was teal, the fabric a silk blend, the workmanship exquisite. The price tag had blown her budget to heck and back, but she couldn’t resist it. Work was her passion, but clothes ran a close second.
The phone rang just as she grabbed her briefcase and threw the leather strap over her shoulder. She considered ignoring it, but thought better of it. It might be her pregnant sister Lily, and who knew what a woman with a stomach the size of a bloated beach ball might need?
“Clintock, Mitchum and O’Connell, Ashley Garrett speaking.”
“So this is where you spend your evenings. What a waste.”
The voice was male and unfamiliar. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“Guess I didn’t make as much of an impression on you as you did on me this morning. I’d recognize that soft, feminine voice of yours anywhere. This is Jim Bob McAllister.”
“Mr. McAllister?”
“Yes ma’am. It’s me.”
The Mr. McAllister from the Ranchers Association. She hadn’t recognized his voice, but she’d make it a point to the next time he called. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about in our meeting, you know, about how to help folks see beef in a new, much more acceptable light. Anyway, I made a few notes this afternoon and I’d like to toss them around with you.”
“Great. You know what you want. I’m just here to put your desires into a total image package. I can see you tomorrow, any time that’s convenient for you.”
“I’d rather make it tonight.”
Yuck. She’d spent an hour
