The Cowboy and the Angel

Maybe he stood out now, but with time he intended to become a true Detroiter. And Michigan was the farthest thing from ranches, oil and his stepfather’s influence—he doubted anyone this far north had heard of the multimillionaire. “The city made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You mean steep tax breaks.”

“Yes, tax breaks. But my company will contribute to the general revitalization fund to improve the Riverfront.” What he didn’t confess was that Detroit was the only city whose financial incentives enabled him to transfer his company without having to accept a handout from his stepfather. His turn to change the subject. “Your boyfriend informed me that you were a social worker.”

“Boyfriend?”

“The older cop seemed pretty possessive of you.”

“Rich? He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my brother.”

Siblings? They looked nothing alike. Renée had beautiful blond hair and the cop was a carrottop. Relief pulsed through Duke’s body, and he grinned like a fool. He had no qualms about ignoring an older brother’s warning. If Duke had his way, tonight’s dinner would be the beginning of his getting-to-know-Ms.-Renée-Sweeney-better campaign. But just in case…“Any other boyfriends or big brothers in the picture?”

“No, I’m unattached at the moment.”

Unattached was good. Very good.

“The Screw & Bolt factory has been a part of the Riverfront for a long, long time,” she argued, showing no interest in pursuing a personal conversation with him.

“I’m aware of the building’s significance. I read up on the area before I put in an offer.”

Her soft huff claimed she didn’t believe him. Time for a history lesson. “The factory was established in 1877 on Lafayette before moving to Atwater and Riopelle in 1892.” He paused, expecting an apology—nothing. “The company erected a new building in 1912. They manufactured cap screws, nuts and automobile parts, then went out of business before World War II. From then on the building was used as a warehouse for various companies until it became permanently vacant.”

“Okay, you did your homework,” she conceded. Peggy arrived with the burgers and a large to-go bag. Renée thanked her, then proceeded to devour her meal.

Why the rush? He’d hoped to discover if they shared a common interest besides an old warehouse. “How long have you been a social worker?”

“Six years.”

“Born and raised in Detroit?”

A single nod. “What does a social worker want with an abandoned building?” he prodded.

With great care, she set her burger on the plate and finished chewing. “What if I asked you to hold off destroying the warehouse for a month?”

Nice try. “You didn’t answer my question.”

A stare-down ensued. He gave in first. “No.” He didn’t dare delay construction. The lease on the current office building in Tulsa expired in September of next year, leaving nine months to complete his new headquarters. In truth, there wasn’t enough money in the coffers to pay additional rent in Oklahoma.

“A few weeks won’t make a difference,” Renée argued. “Besides, it’s freezing outside. No one pours cement in the middle of winter.”

Unwilling to be swayed, he remained silent. Her eyes flashed with irritation, their blue color brightening. Then she blurted, “Give me one week.”

Obviously she had no intention of coming clean with him. Duke didn’t want any part of whatever scheme this woman was involved in. For all he knew, she might be breaking the law. Dinner had been a disappointing waste of time. Too bad they hadn’t met under different circumstances. Renée was the first woman he’d encountered in Detroit who intrigued him and he balked at the idea of never seeing her again. Blaming indigestion for the churning feeling in his gut, he slid from the booth, leaving his half-eaten burger on the plate. “I can’t agree to a day, much less a week.”

Renée’s mouth sagged. “You’re going to leave before we’ve finished discussing the subject?”

He wouldn’t label their conversation a discussion—more like a one-sided argument. He removed a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it on the table, then grabbed his coat. “As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing more to say.” Hoping she’d change her mind, he paused with one arm shoved inside his coat sleeve. Her mutinous glare vowed she wasn’t budging from her position. He fished a pen and a business card from his pocket, then scrawled the name of his hotel and room number on the back.

“What’s this?” She held the card between her fingertips as if it was contaminated with germs.

“For whenever you’re ready to confess the truth. Unless I learn what you’re really after, Renée, the wrecking ball swings on Monday.”

Chapter Two

A click-click-clicking sound greeted Renée when she let herself in the door of her mother’s two-bedroom cottage on Church Street in Corktown—Detroit’s oldest neighborhood. “Hey, Mom, it’s me!”

“In here, honey.”

Renée stowed the half-gallon of ice cream she’d brought over in the freezer, then dropped her purse on the gold-flecked Formica countertop in the kitchen. After ditching her coat, she joined her mother in the living room. As expected, seventy-nine-year-old Bernice sat in the recliner watching COPS on TV, her knobby, arthritic fingers moving a pair of knitting needles at lightning speed. Row after row of gray yarn piled high in her lap. The almost-empty wicker basket next to the chair served as a reminder that Renée needed to take her mother yarn shopping.

Bernice Sweeney knitted afghans and sweaters, which she donated to city shelters and the neighborhood Most Holy Trinity Church’s winter clothing drive.

Expelling an exasperated breath Renée dropped onto the couch. She hadn’t been able to purge Duke Dalton from her mind since their dinner date—correction, dinner meeting—Friday. The quick meal with the cowboy had been the closest to a date she’d come in months.

Peering over the rim of her bifocals Bernice asked, “Anything wrong?”

“No.” Yes. Why did the new owner of the Screw & Bolt Factory have to be handsome? Mannerly? As stubborn as she was? Renée offered a smile, not wishing to worry her mother—a woman who’d spent her entire adult life glancing at clocks and waiting for the phone to ring with bad news.

Gun shots exploded from the TV and for a moment Renée watched the drama unfold. She’d stopped second-guessing her mother’s addiction to COPS long ago, figuring the series provided a therapeutic purpose. Bernice’s husband had been a Detroit cop killed in the line of duty thirty-one years ago. Renée was sad that Bernice had lost her husband at a young age and in such a violent manner, but if not for the tragedy Bernice would never have adopted Renée. And she couldn’t imagine her life without Bernice and Rich in it.

As soon as the suspect on TV had been apprehended, Renée’s mother spoke. “Something’s bothering you.”

Not something…someone. “I’m fine,” Renée fudged. While running her usual Saturday errands she’d agonized over Duke Dalton’s warning. She feared the man hadn’t been bluffing when he’d threatened to destroy the warehouse Monday.

The clickity-clack stopped and a thick gray eyebrow arched. “You were just over here last night.”

Renée’s home sat next door to her mother’s. She’d purchased the two-bedroom, one bathroom cottage three years ago. With the help of her brother she’d scraped together enough cash for the down payment. “Can’t a daughter spend time with her mother?” It ticked off Renée that her encounter with Duke had unnerved her to the point where she acted like a wimpy kid in need of mommy’s hug.

Darn the cowboy. Not only did he worry her…he excited her. When she’d sat across from him in the booth the previous night, every pore in her body had opened wide and absorbed his appearance, his smell, his voice…his sophistication. But it was his gentle brown eyes that caused her the most grief. They begged her to trust him.

A bad, bad idea.

“Go be bored in your own house.” Although a loving smile accompanied the command, Renée believed Bernice used her stubborn independence as a shield against the fear of becoming a burden to her children. “No hot date tonight?” her mother teased.

“I’m thirty-one. Hot dates are for hormonal teenagers.” Duke’s face flashed through her mind and she decided he could easily make her hormonal if he cared to.

“I brought ice cream.” Renée sprang from the couch and gave her mother an impulsive hug, breathing in the almond scent of Jergens lotion before skipping off to the kitchen.

Out of sight, she slumped over the counter and rubbed her fingers against her forehead in rhythmic circles. She hadn’t been able to shake the headache that had chiseled away at her frontal lobe all afternoon. After shoveling Rocky Road into two bowls, she and her mother enjoyed their treat in silence. Bernice finished first. “If you don’t tell me what’s bothering you, I can’t fix it.”

How Renée wished her mother had the power to mend the predicament Renée had gotten herself into. She changed the subject. “Have you agreed to go out to dinner with Mr. Morelli yet?” Mr. Morelli was the self-appointed block warden. The old coot marched along Church Street leaving notes on the front doors of homes in violation of the neighborhood beautification program.

“Roberto’s too young for me,” Bernice sputtered.

“There’s only five years difference between the two of you.” After seventy did age matter?

“He has bad breath.”

“Tell him to try a different denture cream.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “What makes you an expert on men, young lady?”

Touché. Bernice made no bones about the fact that before she strolled up to the pearly gates, she wanted her daughter married with children. With Renée’s nonexistent dating life, the likelihood of fulfilling her mother’s wish was equally nonexistent.

“What about that nice young man Rich introduced you to a month ago?”

Disaster. Renée had warned Rich that she didn’t care to date cops. She loved her brother and supported his choice of careers, but marry a police officer? No way. She fretted enough over the children under her care. She didn’t need the added angst of worrying that her husband might not live through his next shift. “Ben and I didn’t click.” No sense stating the particulars—like Ben had a potty mouth and a habit of denigrating the women who worked the street corners in Detroit’s less reputable neighborhoods. Or that Ben had been married before—twice. Renée wasn’t interested in becoming strike number three.

“Rich says he’s a good cop,” Bernice persisted.

Time to fess up before her mother recited a list of eligible men from church or the nephews and grandsons of her Bunco friends. “I met a man. His name is Duke Dalton.”

“Duke…? Is he from England?” Her mother chuckled at her own joke.

“I don’t believe there are any members of the royal family living in Oklahoma. Duke moved here from Tulsa.”

“An Okie.”

“What do you know about Okies?”

“Dated one when I was a young gal.”

Renée snapped her fingers. “I forgot your parents were migrant workers in Oklahoma before moving to Detroit.”

“Daddy sure was excited to build cars. Life was good once he started putting on bumpers.” Life had been better than good for many in Detroit before the downturn in the automotive industry.

“Duke owns a software company and he intends to knock down one of the warehouses along the Riverfront and erect a new building in its place.” If Renée confessed the truth about why the warehouse needed to remain intact, her mother would volunteer to help and Bernice was too old to foster children anymore. “I can’t go into detail, but I asked Duke to hold off demolishing the building for a week and he refused.”

The knitting needles froze. “You’re up to no good, aren’t you, young lady?”

Even though Renée had the best of intentions, she had a history of becoming involved in situations that usually caused problems for her boss. She wiggled a finger into the tear in the couch cushion and protested, “Not at all.”

“Then use your God-given gift to change his mind.” Her mother believed all her daughter had to do was flash her dimples and others would gladly do her bidding.

“I tried,” Renée muttered.

“And?”

“And he won’t budge.”

Bernice’s expression softened. “Then you best leave well enough alone.”

Not the advice Renée had hoped for.

Saved by the ringing doorbell, Renée bolted from the couch, pressed an eye to the peephole, then swallowed a groan and opened the door. “Hey, Rich.”

The yellow glow of the porch light bounced off her brother’s russet-colored hair, sparking a fireball above his head. Renée grinned. “It’s Saturday night. Don’t you have a date?” Like Officer Ben, her brother was divorced with no kids and always on the hunt for the next Ms. Perfect.

“Brat,” he muttered, tugging a strand of her hair as he brushed past her into the room. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hello, son.” The needles clicked faster. Bernice was becoming agitated at having her quiet evening disturbed. “Imagine that, a visit from both children in one night.”

Rich caught Renée’s eye and nodded toward the kitchen.

“In the mood for ice cream?” Renée asked.

“Sure.” He followed her out of the room.

“What’s up?” she whispered, understanding full well why her brother had dropped in.

When she reached for an ice-cream bowl, Rich caught her wrist. “No, thanks.” Her brother had been dieting since his fiftieth birthday, hoping to lose the extra ten pounds he’d put on over the years.

“What the hell were you thinking standing in front of that crane yesterday?”

“I was thinking I didn’t want the building demolished.”

“First, you asked me and Pete to increase our drive-bys along the Riverfront, then I discover you’re interfering with a construction crew. What kind of trouble are you stirring up?”

He breathed deeply through his nose—a sign he was about to blow his lid. “Your nostrils are flaring,” she teased.

“This isn’t funny, especially if you’re breaking the law.”

“It’s always about the law with you, isn’t it?”

He scowled.

“I can’t tell you, Rich. Not yet anyway. Promise you’ll maintain your patrols a little while longer.”

“Hell, Renée, if there were any criminals hanging around the Riverfront, they’ve all fled by now. The area’s a graveyard.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re breaking the law, I risk losing my job for helping you.”

“I’m bending, not breaking.”

Her eyes must have conveyed sincerity, because he changed topics. “What did you and that Dalton guy discuss at the diner?”

“Mr. Dalton is relocating his computer software company from Tulsa to Detroit.”

“And…?” Rich rested his palm against the butt of his gun.

Good grief. “The man didn’t threaten me.” At least not directly.

“Is he interested in dating you?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that question.”

“C’mon, Renée. Mom’s on my case every day of the week to find you a husband. There’s a new cop at the precinct. He transferred in from Cleveland.”

“No. No. And no.” Every cop in Detroit knew Renée was Rich’s little sister and most had heard the circumstances surrounding her adoption. The last person she intended to date or become serious with was a man who felt sorry for her. Too many damned people still treated her with kid gloves. Maybe that’s what made Duke Dalton so intriguing. He wasn’t from Detroit. He had no idea that she had a past. A very public past.

“Too bad. Dalton seemed okay.” Rich peeked into the living room, then warned, “Stay away from that warehouse.”

“But—”

“If you make trouble for Dalton, he’ll lodge a complaint with the police department, then I’m caught in the middle.”

The last thing she wished was to create problems for her brother. She’d have to find a way to stall Duke without resorting to drastic measures. Crossing her fingers, she followed her mother’s suggestion and flashed her dimples. “I promise I won’t get in the man’s way.”

LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON—right in the middle of the Lions-Bears football game, Renée entered the Detroit Marriott. The hotel was located downtown in the General Motors Renaissance Center, which housed businesses, restaurants, bars, retail shops and a five-story atrium with river views. Across the street and accessible by a skywalk sat the Millender Center with additional stores and businesses.

Both the Renaissance Center and the Millender Center had station stops for Detroit’s elevated light rail, the People Mover. The train traveled a three-mile loop around the area—not that Renée had much use for the mode of transportation in her line of work.

She rode the elevator to the hotel lobby on the third floor. Halfway to the front desk she changed her mind and backpedaled to the elevator bank. Rather than call ahead and notify Duke of her presence, she’d catch him off guard in his room. When it came to the corporate cowboy Renée needed every advantage.

Even though Duke’s confidence and stubbornness irritated her, he was a man that stuck with a woman long after they’d gone separate ways. The sticking part had to do with his handsome face. But it had been the mellow glow in his dark brown eyes that had sucked her in like quicksand. Even if they worked out a solution to the Screw & Bolt Factory she and Duke were from different worlds and had nothing—save a little physical chemistry—in common.

Inside the elevator, she confirmed the number scrawled on the business card and punched the button for the sixty-second floor. In less than a minute she exited the elevator lightheaded from the slingshot ride. A few steps later she stood in front of Duke’s door chewing her lip. When the coppery taste of blood met her tongue she swallowed a curse and rapped her knuckles against the wood.

“It’s open. C’mon in,” he called.

Had he been watching her through the peephole? Cautiously she turned the handle and entered the room, then gasped. Duke stood in front of a flat-screen TV wearing nothing but a white towel slung around his waist. Water from a recent shower dripped from his head and several droplets rolled down his smooth, hairless chest. Peeking out from beneath the terry cloth were masculine hairy calves and two big bare feet.

“Renée? What are you doing here?”

She forced her gaze from his chest to his face. It was four in the afternoon and he’d yet to shave. The dark stubble along his jaw added a swashbuckler element to his cowboy image, taking the guise to a whole new level of sexiness—a cowboy pirate.

The words I’ll return later stuck to the sides of her throat, as she grappled for the doorknob.

“Wait.” He stepped forward, the towel slipping to his hips. He clutched the knot at his waist and flashed a sheepish grin. “I was expecting room service. Make yourself comfortable while I dress.” He retreated to the bathroom, leaving her a clear view of the unmade bed. A fantasy of her and Duke fooling around on the mattress was cut short by the sound of a throat clearing behind her.

A room-service waiter stood in the doorway. She stepped aside. The man rolled the cart past her and arranged service for two at the cocktail table in the corner, then left without pausing for a tip.

Drat. Duke had a date tonight. What rotten timing on her part.

Ignoring the zap of jealousy that pricked her at the idea of him and another woman enjoying a cozy meal and whatever else that followed, she decided to get right to the point.

Her attention rotated between the food, the football game and the bathroom door. Purely by accident her eyes landed on the bathroom door as Duke walked out, wearing jeans and a maroon turtleneck sweater. His big feet remained sock free and she forced her attention from his hairy toes—the whole bare feet thing impossibly intimate for having met the man two days ago.

He’d shaved. A sliver of disappointment pricked her as she studied his clean profile. He checked the game, then paused in front of her. Eternity. The subtle scent of the men’s cologne enveloped her and she breathed deeply. Eternity for Men was one of her favorites. She’d given her brother a bottle for Christmas a year ago.

One side of Duke’s mouth lifted and she caught herself before responding to his smile. This was a business meeting, not a social call. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—” she pointed to the table “—your dinner date.”

He padded closer, his scent intensifying. In addition to cologne, her nose detected soap and shaving cream.

“I don’t have a date,” he said. “They always prepare the table for a guest. Will you join me?” He crossed the room, stopping on his way to straighten the bedcovers. “Sorry the place is a mess. I don’t bother with maid service on the weekend.” He held out a chair and waited.

The pull of his brown eyes tempted her to forget her mission. “I’m here to talk business.”

“Share this pizza with me, then we’ll discuss anything you want.”

What could it hurt? Nothing but laundry and paperwork waited at home. She laid her coat across the end of the bed as she passed by and joined him at the table. He rewarded her with a sexy half smile and her heart flip-flopped inside her chest.

The man’s lonely, that’s all. He’d left family and friends behind in Tulsa. Maybe a lover. Well, Renée wasn’t family. She doubted she’d leave today his friend. And becoming his lover…dream on.

He pushed her chair in after she sat. Duke had manners. Class. Style. She struggled to envision him mixing with Detroit’s working-class. And you’ll never fit into his world. Regardless, it was nice to pretend for a while that they had more in common than a crumbling warehouse.

“Are you a Lions fan?” she asked, as he poured two glasses of red wine, which probably cost as much as a week’s worth of groceries.

“I intend to be.” He served her a slice of pizza.

She sipped from her wineglass, waiting to see if he used silverware. He picked up the pizza slice with his fingers. His casual manner put her at ease. A bite later, she said, “This is delicious.”

“Barbecue.”

“An Oklahoma favorite?” she guessed.

“My stepfather’s housekeeper’s family recipe. I passed it along to the chefs in the kitchen. They loved it, so they added the pizza to the room-service menu.”

A comfortable silence settled between them while they ate and watched the game. “Do you like football?” he asked when a commercial aired.

“Usually I don’t have time to watch the games. Too busy responding to one crisis or another.”

He stopped chewing. “You work seven days a week?”

“Sometimes. I’m on call Saturday and Sunday. Most of my coworkers are married and have families, so I cover weekend emergencies.”

“You must rake in the overtime.”

She shook her head. “I’m on salary, but the station wagon I drive is sort of a company car.” Rich and several fellow officers at the precinct had organized a fund-raiser to purchase the car for Renée. People who had the least donated the most—as they always did when Detroit’s Little Darling was involved.

“What’s it like to pick up stakes and start over in a city where people don’t recognize you?” She’d dreamed of doing that exact thing, but felt beholden to her mother and Rich for the blessed life they’d provided her. Now she was too entrenched in her job to ever consider leaving.

“Not as difficult as I’d imagined. I like Detroit.” At her eye-roll he insisted, “There’s a lot of energy here with the younger generation taking over the older neighborhoods and restoring them. I hope the Riverfront experiences the same revitalization sooner rather than later.”

“Difficult to picture a cowboy fitting in with automotive workers.”

“I’m not really a cowboy.”

The rogue smile…the muscular body…the self-assured attitude…yeah, right. “So the boots and hat are for show?”

“The hat became a habit. And I told you the boots were a gift from my mother. She gave them to me shortly before she passed away, and you can’t beat a sheepskin jacket in this bitter cold.”