Deadline to Desire

By Ann Whitaker

When Mahogany Marsh, nightside editor at the Desire Daily Democrat, loses a promised promotion, she knows it's time for a change. But the newspaper business is bleeding red ink, and jobs are scarcer than rain in drought-ridden West Texas.

Her solution: dump her sorry-ass TV news boyfriend and finish that novel she started years ago—the one with only the first and the last sentence written. The one that will make her Texas’s answer to Jane Austen.

With the prestigious Piece of My Heart contest deadline looming, Mahogany cranks out pages at night, while by day she’s forced to work side-by-side with Bran Barker, the damn Yankee who stole her promotion. When she realizes he's perfect hero-fodder for "Roving Ranch Hands," her novel-in-progress, things start to heat up—for her fictional hero and heroine and for Bran and Mahogany.

But a relationship with Bran is as doomed as a cow in a feedlot. Though he’s hotter than a chile relleño, he’s also her boss. Dating him could get her fired quicker than she could say yee-haw.

Besides, she already has a creepy funeral director threatening her, a passel of dependent, hard-up relatives, a missing 198-pound mastiff named Carl, and a back-stabbing colleague out to get her job.

Does Mahogany even have time for a real-life romance?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Whitaker
• Release date: May 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310179013

Ann Whitaker

Ann Whitaker lives in the heart of Texas with her journalist husband and their adopted poochon, Jackson. She's been writing in one form or another all her life. A reformed high school and college English teacher, she's published poetry, non-fiction, and short fiction in newspapers, literary journals, and magazines. Her fictional characters are often larger than life and sometimes find themselves in absurd situations. Ann's stories almost always have a dog.Her first novel, Dog Nanny, was a finalist in the 2008 Linda Howard Award of Excellence contest and dubbed a “near perfect book" by Coffee Time Romance & More. When not writing, Ann reads, teaches Jackson new tricks, sings, paints, and plays the guitar.Visit her at www.annwhitakerauthor.wordpress.com or at www.facebook.com/AnnWhitaker1.

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Deadline to Desire

by

Ann Whitaker

Deadline to Desire

Copyright © 2015 by Ann Howard Whitaker

Excerpt from Dog Nanny

Copyright © 2008 by Ann Howard Whitaker

Cover design for Deadline to Desire © 2015 Ann Howard Whitaker

Image of hardworker © fotolia/Zharastudio

Image of couple reading newspapers © fotolia/Astock

Image of Texas map © fotolia/skvoor

Image back cover of Morning news, Tablet pc, newspaper and cup of coffee © Maksym Yemelyanov

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. All texts contained within this document are a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons (living or dead), is entirely coincidental.

Deadline to Desire

By Ann Howard Whitaker

Published by Ann Howard Whitaker at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Ann Howard Whitaker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Tribute

Book Description

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

Epilogue

Excerpt from Dog Nanny

Praise for Dog Nanny

About the Author

Dedication

To my husband, Bill Whitaker: editor, historian, political junkie, reporter, and writer extraordinaire. Everything I know about the newspaper business, good and bad, I’ve learned from him over the past thirty-two years.

And a special recognition to all the editors and reporters and copy desk slaves who still take pride in the story, despite long hours, meager pay, and little appreciation.

In the past decade, many of them have overseen the decline of an institution that for hundreds of years has been a staple in people’s lives.

Hopefully, the business will rise from the ashes. Perhaps it will be even better. But it’s unfortunate future generations probably won’t experience the ritual of retrieving a rolled-up newspaper from their sidewalk each morning and savoring the smell of fresh ink.

Acknowledgments

A Heart of Texas thank you to the following:

Members of my Pens Across the Miles critique group who helped me brainstorm and offered encouragement when this story was just a germ of an idea back in 2008. Also for reading and providing suggestions for my first draft.

April Kihlstrom’s Book in a Week class. It took me twenty-one days to write the sloppy first draft. Then life and death and illness and moving and change derailed me, and it took another seven years before I could muster the motivation to finish.

Jan Hicks, who so graciously shared stories about the real-life Carl and educated me on the difference in the English Mastiff and the Dogue de Bordeaux.

My friends and beta readers, Marcy Madison, Nikki Anderson, and Gwen Kane. Thank you for catching many of my gaffes and offering suggestions for improvement.

Finally, I could never have written any of this book without the support and encouragement of my critique partners, fellow authors, and friends Cara Marsi and Lynn Reynolds. They’re my yin and yang. Over the years, we’ve shared stories of failures, successes, family, and heartache. But best of all, we’ve laughed a lot.

Award-winning author Cara Marsi (A Catered Romance, Logan’s Redemption, Murder, Mi Amore, Franco’s Fortune, Storm of Desire, A Groom for Christmas, and a host of short stories and novellas) read one of my final drafts. She always said when she retired she would write romances. And write she has. I’m in awe of her wealth of story ideas, her dedication, and her prolificacy. She’s also my reminder that romance readers have certain expectations. Grazie infinite.

Author Lynn Reynolds (Thirty-Nine Again, Love Capri Style) also read one of my many final drafts, despite crises of her own and a schedule that would defeat a less exceptional woman. What’s more, she understands my often irreverent humor. I hope her Novel-That-Cannot-Be-Named will be finished soon. My eternal gratitude.

I’m so thankful they both kept after me to get that second book out there!

A special thanks to my husband for the hours he sacrificed reading and rereading the final version of the manuscript, only to have me make more changes. His input was invaluable. Any mistakes are all mine.

May you rest in peace, Carl.

You were a good dog.

September 25, 2000-March 12, 2010

Photo by Jan Hicks

A Tribute to the Real Carl

The character of Carl was inspired by an English mastiff of the same name born in Rockwall, Texas, in 2000 and named after the Carl in Alexandra Day’s book, Good Dog, Carl.

I met the Texas Carl in the mid-2000s when he and my 10-pound poodle Mardi Gras were in Angel Paws, a pet therapy group based in Waco, Texas. Angel Paws dogs—and a cat at that time—paid regular visits to a local hospital, nursing homes, schools, and the public library, as well as attending special events. Carl loved donuts, sweets, and hamburgers, and after every Angel Paws visit, his pet partner, Jan Hicks, treated him at his favorite burger joint.

During his four years in Angel Paws, Carl comforted the sick, the troubled, and the heartbroken. He also uplifted tired, hardworking hospital staff members and brought smiles to countless faces.

Carl especially loved little girls, and during his last two years as a pet partner he visited developmentally delayed children at a local high school.

And, yes, like the fictional Carl, real-life Carl topped the scales at 198 and wore a size 2XL vest. In fact, because of his size, his veterinarian designed her largest cage with him in mind.

From the author of Dog Nanny, finalist in the 2008 Linda Howard Award of Excellence Contest.

Deadline to Desire

When Mahogany Marsh, nightside editor at the Desire Daily Democrat, loses a promised promotion, she knows it's time for a change. But the newspaper business is bleeding red ink, and jobs are scarcer than rain in drought-ridden West Texas.

Her solution: dump her sorry-ass TV news boyfriend and finish that novel she started years ago—the one with only the first and the last sentence written. The one that will make her Texas’s answer to Jane Austen.

With the prestigious Piece of My Heart contest deadline looming, Mahogany cranks out pages at night, while by day she’s forced to work side-by-side with Bran Barker, the damn Yankee who stole her promotion. When she realizes he's perfect hero-fodder for Roving Ranch Hands, her novel-in-progress, things start to heat up—for her fictional hero and heroine and for Bran and Mahogany.

But a relationship with Bran is as doomed as a cow in a feedlot. Though he’s hotter than a chile relleño, he’s also her boss. Dating him could get her fired quicker than she could say yee-haw.

Besides, she already has a creepy funeral director threatening her, a passel of dependent, hard-up relatives, a missing 198-pound mastiff named Carl, and a back-stabbing colleague out to get her job.

Does Mahogany even have time for a real-life romance?

Chapter One

A stranger came to town.

I pulled the memory stick from my laptop and slipped it into the zippered pocket of my fake-leather purse. If the double-wide trailer where I lived burned to the ground, I wanted to be sure my novel was safe, even though I’d written only the first and last sentences.

For several years now, I’d dreamed of becoming a Texas Jane Austen or J. K. Rowling. Sure, that was stretching it, even for a born and bred Texan like me. I didn’t have seven installments of Harry Potter-like adventures percolating in my brain, but I did have an idea for a romance novel. I knew how it would begin. I knew how it would end. I read somewhere there are really only two plots. I would use them both.

My first line read: A stranger came to town. My last: A woman went on a journey. Not Pride and Prejudice, but it was a start.

From the foot of the bed, Carl, my 198-pound four-year-old mastiff, rolled his eyes in my direction, snorted, and went back to sleep. I smiled, patted his massive head, and hummed 9 to 5, even though I worked the late shift, one to ten.

Something told me Jack Riggins, editor-in-chief of the Desire Daily Democrat, was about to announce my promotion from nightside assistant city editor to day shift city editor, a promise he made a month ago. I knew he’d been interviewing candidates for my job because I’d seen applicants coming in and out of his office. Then, yesterday, we were ordered to tidy up our work areas because top brass from corporate was dropping by. Jack had probably been waiting for the visit from corporate to announce my promotion. Or so I figured.

Since Jack had come on board six months ago, the Democrat had undergone a transformation. First, the features editor landed a job in Dallas. Next, we’d lost our city editor when his wife caught him with a female reporter in the bed of his pickup truck in the newspaper parking lot. The ensuing catfight, caught on a security camera, effectively ended his career at the newspaper. And the reporter’s.

I immediately applied for the city editor job. It would mean a significant pay bump, and I was sick of working nights.

During my interview Jack called my work impressive and said I was a perfect fit. As soon as I find a replacement for you, we’ll move on it were his exact words. I remembered because I took notes during the interview, and I consulted them regularly to make sure I’d heard him right.

My humming stopped when I opened my closet. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a wardrobe to match my mood. As I flipped through my clothes, I saw them with new eyes. Everything I owned looked old and unexciting. No one cared how nightsiders dressed, and my meager salary meant shopping at Cheapo’s, not Chico’s.

But if the bigwigs from corporate showed up, I wanted to look as professional as possible. I settled on dark brown pants and a short-sleeved cream-colored top. A pair of sexy heels or sandals would have helped, but all I had were some scuffed brown flats. I spit-shined them, polishing the toes with a tissue, a trick I’d learned from my granny.

To compensate for my deficient wardrobe, I applied bright red lipstick so I wouldn’t blend in with the walls. I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, noting how my cheeks still dimpled despite the weight I’d lost. I turned off the smile and swept some blush over my cheekbones, hoping to make them look more prominent.

My boyfriend, Robbie, said my long, dark hair and naturally tan complexion made me look exotic. He was full of it, but it sounded good. Most days I felt like my old high school self, Mog the Hog. I was overweight in my teens, thus the nickname. My real name was Mahogany, like the wood.

A train whistled in the background as I parked in the company lot and headed toward the back door of our three-story building. I took a deep breath and looked up at the sky one last time, reveling in the spring sunshine. For more than nine hours, I’d be trapped inside with no time to look out one of the few windows of the second-floor newsroom. Instead of an office with a view, I would sit inside a cubicle at a computer. I would miss the spectacular blue sky and a sunset to die for.

My hometown, Desire, Texas, population 90,000 at last census, sat smack in the middle of flat West Texas nowhere, midway between a three-hundred-mile expanse from Dallas/Fort Worth to Midland/Odessa, where a daily newspaper still had a chance of surviving. Just barely.

Orville, our hefty security guard, smiled as I approached, and I waved and smiled back. He’d been hired to keep an eye on the webcam monitor and hang around the employee entrance to make sure some irate subscriber didn’t slip in and hack one of us to pieces.

I ran my keycard through the slot and pushed the door open, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. With a job like mine—sitting on my butt editing copy almost nine hours a day, sometimes more—I had to squeeze in every bit of exercise I could if I didn’t want to revisit the chubby cheeks of my childhood.

Unlike the days when we were fully staffed, the newsroom was now half-empty. The few reporters we had left sat in cubicles, quietly writing or talking on the phone, while the editors worked in offices with plate glass windows looking out into the newsroom, insulated from the rest of us.

A couple of TVs mounted on the wall at the end of the room were tuned to news stations. As I walked past rows of metal filing cabinets and newspapers stacked waist high, the greasy smell of stale french fries wafted from the sports department.

I dropped my purse on the floor of my cubicle and waved across the room to Lena, who glanced up from her photo editing long enough to motion me over. Lena, short for Abelena, had been my best friend since elementary school and was now a photographer and fellow peon.

Hot off the press, she said, glancing up from her monitor. Jack finally resuscitated the ‘living’ department. Hired a new features editor. Some blonde.

I sighed with disappointment. She must be the one I saw in his office last week. I was hoping she was my replacement.

Lena raised an eyebrow. You really think you’re going to get the city editor job?

Jack promised me. Who else is there? Some outsider who doesn’t know the town?

I tried to put it out of my mind as I returned to my desk and quickly checked my email. Next on my agenda was to corral reporters, ask what stories were scheduled for tomorrow’s edition, check on length, and inquire about problems. One part of my job was non-negotiable—making deadline by 10 p.m.

I caught the cops reporter on his way out, asked him a couple of questions, and went in search of others. That done, I headed for Jack’s office in the far corner. Since he was also acting city editor until he hired a replacement, I now reported directly to him.

Unlike the other offices, his had a window with a view of downtown and his own television. As I moved closer, I could see Jack, propped as usual behind his large, highly polished wooden desk. He was in his mid-forties and on the thin side, except for a belly that looked as if he’d swallowed a bowling ball. But this was Texas, sixteenth fattest state in the nation.

Another man sat facing him, his back to me. From the serious look on Jack’s face, I figured the guy had to be one of the corporate suits.

I pushed a lock of hair from my face, thinking I should have worn it pinned up for a more professional look. Too late for that now.

As I stood there staring, the man turned toward me. When his gray eyes met mine, my world switched to slow motion. My foot stalled mid-step and remained suspended for seconds before touching the floor. I inched forward a few centimeters. Though my body moved one frame at a time, my mind raced at warp speed.

Holy cannoli! This man had Kennedy hair. He had Kennedy features. Not the fat Kennedys. The young Kennedys. John-John to be specific. The Kennedy prince my mother and granny worshiped. Photos of him from old magazines had been thumbtacked to their kitchen wall as far back as I could remember.

The man talking to Jack wore a gray suit, and I had a feeling whatever lay beneath the suit matched the rest of the packaging. He was hot. I was ready to vote for him for president of Texas based on his hair alone.

Jack motioned me inside.

I roused from my trance and tentatively joined the two men. I didn’t usually get introduced to the corporate guys. This could mean only one thing—my promotion. The Kennedyesque man stood as I entered.

Jack leaned back in his chair and smiled. Mahogany Marsh, meet Branwell Barker. We go back a long way. Both from Ohio. Jack inclined his head toward me. Bran, this is the girl I was telling you about.

I hated being called girl, but I wasn’t going to buck the big boss. Besides, I was having a difficult time absorbing the magnificent male creature standing before me.

His face broke into a smile as he jumped to his feet and reached out to take my hand. For the record, I was born in Texas, he said. That seems to mean a lot to people around here.

His grip was firm and warm. His eyes, the same dark gray as his suit. His lips…

Nice to meet you, Mr. Barker. My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. I could barely speak coherently. Get a grip, Mahogany. This man is used to females falling at his feet.

The last thing I needed was lust in the workplace. When I turned thirty, my hormones had kicked in, cursing me with the libido of a sixteen-year-old boy. Why hadn’t someone on TV warned me this would happen? Thankfully, none of the men I worked with looked like the one in front of me. Otherwise, I’d need an anti-Viagra pill to help me concentrate. My legs felt wobbly. My head buzzed.

Please, call me Bran. He seemed reluctant to let go of my hand and for a moment we stood there looking into each other’s eyes, an unexplainable intimacy pulsing between us.

He smiled again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Jack’s been telling me good things about you.

Now that I was closer, everything about him switched to high definition—the dimple in his chin, the slight wave in his full head of hair. I couldn’t peel my eyes off him.

I smiled back, hoping the red lipstick hadn’t rubbed off on my teeth. He has? In the newspaper business, you need to verify any information with at least three different sources.

His laugh rang out, and on the other side of the window several reporters looked up in surprise. Meanwhile, I grinned like the newsroom idiot.

How’s tomorrow’s front page shaping up? Jack asked.

I quickly switched to my über-professional mode. The follow-up on the school superintendent—the one who allegedly put the hidden video camera in the women’s restroom—it needs to be pared down. The news hole for that page is only thirty inches, and the story came in at forty-five.

I rattled off three more stories before Jack interrupted, turning his attention to Bran. Told you. She’s all business.

Then Jack began speaking to my breasts. Why did men do this? Did they think women wouldn’t notice? I vowed I was going to stash a digital recorder inside my bra with a remote switch I could activate the next time a man started talking to them. From the recorder, a deep voice would boom out: You talkin’ to me? These boobs weren’t made for talkin’.

Stifling a laugh, I began to choke on my own spit.

Jack jumped up from his desk, came around behind me, and began pounding my back.

Stop! I gasped between coughs. You’re making it worse.

Bran leaned toward me, put a hand on my shoulder, and asked if I needed some water. I nodded. His gray eyes showed real concern, and the warmth of his hand made me dizzy.

Jack, meanwhile, returned to the throne behind his desk, seemingly happy to relinquish me to someone else. He pulled a bottle of water from his refrigerator and handed it off to Bran, who unscrewed the cap for me. This should help, Bran said, his broad hands covering my shaky ones as I grasped the bottle and took a sip.

That’s when it hit me. Branwell Barker was the embodiment of the hero in my mental magnum opus. My eyelids half closed, my body hummed, and Jack faded out.

My book would take place on a modern-day ranch. With a hot cowboy hero. So what if I’d never been on a ranch and the only cowboys I met were all hat and no cattle. I was a Texan. Surely I could tell a tall tale or two. My right brain switched on, and my novel sprang to life. The hero, Dock Dangereux, wore chaps and boots, and instead of a gray suit, a denim jacket fit tautly across his muscular shoulders. In one hand he held a branding iron; in the other, a rope. He dropped them both to the floor of the barn when the shapely, breathless heroine appeared. Then he reached out and clutched her around the waist and pulled her to him as she struggled to breathe.

Roving Ranch Hands

by Mahogany Marsh

A stranger came to town. The stranger had traveled widely, unaware his heart had always longed for the place called Desire. Though he bore the name of his Cajun forebears, Dock Dangereux was more Texan than most women could handle. But he had a feeling this one could handle him just fine.

Her name—Jasmine—branded his brain, making him hotter than barbecued cabrito turning on a spit. From the moment she sashayed into the bunkhouse, he knew she’d been created for him and him alone. Jasmine. The name conjured up visions of tropical climes and delicate white blossoms with strong, sweetly scented lobes. Luscious lobes. Large lobes.

But first, he had to save her. One look at him and she had choked. Her plump red lips were slightly parted, and her ample bosom heaved with each labored breath. Dock knew from experience her attributes were home grown. His own breath caught at the thought of smothering himself in those soft, lush pillows.

Pressing his hard-muscled body against her from behind, he grasped her tiny frame under her breasts and thrust his hips upward, hoping to dislodge whatever was caught in her throat. She would have noticed his arousal had she not quit breathing at his first thrust.

Without hesitation, Dock whipped off his jacket and the gray shirt that matched his eyes, revealing a tanned chest with muscles hardened from years of manual labor.

He spread his shirt on the floor and rolled up his jacket for her head. Taking her in his arms, he eased her down and placed his mouth over her succulent lips, breathing life into her lungs and compressing her chest, just as he’d practiced on Resusci Anne. He put his face close to hers, hoping to savor her sweet breath. Nothing.

But as he started to compress her chest with his strong hands and supple fingers, her eyelids fluttered. Dark lashes, long as the fringe on his dear old granny’s Victorian lampshade, framed her turquoise eyes. She clutched his arms, her voice a whisper. Please. No more. Not now. Not here.

I blinked, took another sip of water, and nodded my thanks to Bran, relieved he couldn’t read my thoughts, though the amused smile that played at the corners of his mouth and the intensity of his gaze made me wonder if he could.

Jack was speaking. Something about the city editor’s job. I felt disoriented. Excuse me? I said.

He tugged his ear and talked to my breasts again. I’m counting on you to show Bran the ropes. Starting next week, he’ll be manning the helm.

The hand of the large clock on the wall above Jack’s desk clicked away each second, and a sixty-point headline moved through the air toward me, growing larger and larger until the message penetrated my brain:

Democrat names Branwell Barker new city editor

Now I knew why huge headlines were called screamers.

* * *

City editor? The man of my fantasy, hero of my novel-in-waiting, had landed the job promised to me?

I was having an out-of-body experience, hovering in another dimension, witnessing from a distance my slack mouth, my gaping eyes. I heard my heart flatlining.

Bran Barker, no longer the corporate man I’d thought but a usurper. I gave him a second look. Now, his Kennedy hair seemed overdone, arrogant.

Jack reached up and patted his own hair, as if reassuring himself he hadn’t gone bald. I stared at his receding hairline. The reddish sheen of his bad dye job had vanity written all over it. His neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard was another telltale sign. Middle-aged crazy just waiting to happen.

Branwell Barker was still looking at me as if we’d known each other in a past life, seemingly oblivious to the fact he had just shot me out of the saddle.

Did I offer a weak congratulations? I hope not. I vaguely remember him saying something about how much he looked forward to working with me. Then he was gone.

Had I imagined him? Dreamed him? I bit the inside of my cheek as a test. When I tasted blood, I knew he was real.

Jack’s oily voice coiled around me. I know what you’re thinking, but hear me out. I have bigger plans for you.

He was talking to my breasts again. My cha-chas weren’t the only ones he conversed with. Behind his back, other women at the paper were calling him The Boob Whisperer, though as far as I knew, he’d yet to tame a pair.

What had he just said? Bigger plans? I’ll bet. I collapsed into a chair and stared at him in disbelief.

Jack picked up a pencil and twirled it. We need someone with more experience on city desk. Bran has that.

Anger bubbled up from deep within me, burning my stomach like chili with way too much seasoning. I fought the urge to tell him I quit. Then why did you let me think I had the job?