Читать книгу Wild About A Texan - Jan Hudson - Страница 10

He woke suddenly, his heart hammering against his chest. He rolled over and reached for her, but the place where she had lain was empty. Something told him that she was long gone, but Jackson strode through the suite shouting her name. The only sign that she had been there was the second champagne glass beside his on the nightstand.

Cursing, he grabbed the phone and called her room.

“Miss Emory has checked out, sir,” the operator told him.

“Checked out? When?”

“I don’t know. Would you like the desk?”

“Yeah.”

He cursed some more while he waited, turned the air even bluer when he found out that it was ten o’clock in the morning and she had a three-hour head start on him.

Ten o’clock? He never slept that late. Then he remembered that they hadn’t done much sleeping the night before. God, he hadn’t been able to get enough of her. He’d never met anyone quite like Olivia, never experienced such a powerful connection with any woman. He’d known from the minute he saw her at the first prewedding shindig that she was a special lady. And he’d known that he wasn’t the only one aware of the chemistry between Irish Ellison’s bridesmaid and Kyle Rutledge’s groomsman. Everybody had seemed to notice.

Trouble was, he hadn’t been able to get Olivia alone; they had always been surrounded by people—and she had seemed to prefer it that way. In fact, she’d been feisty as a fractious filly when he’d tried to move in on her and cut her from the herd, telling him in no uncertain terms to get lost. But Jackson hadn’t let that stop him. God may have shorted him a bit on brains, but he’d made up for it with luck and determination. And Jackson was determined to have Olivia Emory, sass and all.

He had already been making plans to take her back to Texas with him, and damned if she hadn’t run off. Well, she wasn’t going to get away from him that easy. She couldn’t run far enough or fast enough.

Snatching his tuxedo pants from the bedpost, he yanked them on and pulled on his dress boots. He let loose another string of oaths when he couldn’t find the studs to his shirt. He grabbed a Dallas Cowboy jersey from a drawer and dragged it over his head as he made for the elevator.

Outside, when Jackson flagged a taxi, he saw that snow was really coming down hard. The cab driver earned his extra twenty bucks, but the few minutes he shaved off the ride to the Akron airport didn’t help. Jackson discovered that Olivia’s plane had left two hours before he had arrived, and now the runways were shut down. A mean snowstorm was moving in, and all the major airports in the area were closing. He tried to charter a plane or a chopper, but everything was grounded until the storm passed.

The ride back to the hotel was slower, and Jackson felt as if somebody had broken both his ankles and thrown him in a hole. He was miserable. Truth was, he had fallen for Olivia Emory—fallen hard.

Strange that he’d zeroed in on her. Even though she was a beautiful woman, she wasn’t the type he usually chose. Olivia was a bright lady with a string of letters after her name, and he was dumber than a barrel of horseshoes—coming from a family of smart go-getters, he’d figured that out when he was just a kid. And he’d never cared much for women who played hard to get; there were too many willing ones to put out the effort to chase one.

She was rare. He’d known it instantly.

He had watched her relentlessly the entire weekend of his cousin Kyle’s wedding, for, despite her words, he’d known sure as the dickens that she felt the same sparks sizzling between them that he did. Still, she wouldn’t even let him hold her close when they danced at the wedding reception. She acted prissier than Miss Culbertson, his third-grade teacher.

They were waltzing with a yard of daylight between them when everything suddenly changed. She started to shake, then plastered herself against him. “Dance me over to the side door,” she’d said. “And let’s get out of here.”

“Are you sick or something?”

She shook her head.

He didn’t question the shift in her attitude again. He chalked it up to his famous good luck—or maybe his charm had finally worn her down. He had danced her to the exit; they left. They found a quiet supper club a few blocks away where they ate and drank champagne and talked.

And laughed. God, how they had laughed. He’d loved the way she laughed, deep and throaty. Sexy as hell. He told every funny story he could think of just to hear the sound of it. Then the banter changed to plain conversation. He couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed just talking to a woman so much.

Back at the hotel, he’d kissed her in the elevator. When the door opened at his floor, they had gone to his suite together as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Making love with her had been unbelievable. Beyond his wildest dreams.

Now she was gone. He was heartsick.

And colder than a well-digger’s butt.

It was freezing outside, and it finally dawned on him that he wasn’t wearing a coat. Damn, if that woman hadn’t turned him inside out!

He hadn’t even taken his room key with him. When he stopped by his desk for another, the clerk handed him an envelope.

“What’s this?” Jackson asked, frowning.

“A message for you, sir.”

Jackson ripped open the envelope and squinted at the contents. The words danced and blurred; he cursed, crushed the paper in his fist and strode to the elevator.

He was going to D.C. even if he had to hire a bulldozer to get there.