Читать книгу The Playboy Meets His Match - Sara Orwig - Страница 9

“Don’t tell me I’m the club expert at seduction,” Jason Windover grumbled good-naturedly, glancing around the circle of friends and fellow members of the Texas Cattleman’s Club as they sat in one of the elegant private meeting rooms. Thick carpets, dark paneling and polished wood flooring graced the spacious room, built over ninety years earlier. A boar’s head was mounted above the stone mantel, and a Tiffany chandelier glittered brightly.

The Texas Cattleman’s Club was one of Texas’s oldest and most exclusive clubs. Usually, it was a place where Jason could relax and enjoy his friends, but at the moment he was mildly annoyed. He crossed his jeans-clad legs, resting one booted foot on his knee, and arched his brows.

“Au contraire,” Sebastian Wescott said, turning to his longtime friend. “You’re the one who excels at seduction, so I nominate you to get this Valkyrie out of our hair.”

“I second that motion,” snapped black-haired Will Bradford, a partner of Wescott Oil Enterprises.

Jason looked into Sebastian’s silver-gray eyes and shook his head. “If nothing else, she’s not my type,” Jason said coolly, certain this foolishness would pass. “I like tall, long-legged, sophisticated blondes. Beautiful blondes who are poised and sexy. This wildcat sounds like five feet of pure trouble and anything but sophisticated, sexy or poised. Forget it, guys. It ain’t gonna happen.”

“The woman is unhinged. She belongs in a mental hospital,” Dorian Brady added sharply. “She’s got this vendetta against me—at the moment it’s me. No telling who it will be tomorrow. She’s mentally unstable, and her fixation could switch to any one of you. Lord knows, I haven’t done the wild things she’s accusing me of.”

Studying Dorian, Jason felt cold distaste. Other than Dorian, Jason liked all the members of the Texas Cattleman’s Club, an exclusive, prestigious facade which allowed members to work together covertly on secret missions to save innocents’ lives. While most of the men had grown up in and around Royal, Texas, Dorian was a relative newcomer. There was an arrogance about Dorian that rankled him, but Jason knew he needed to get over his dislike. Dorian was, after all, Seb’s half brother.

“You’re elected,” Rob Cole said dryly to Jason. “You’re the rodeo guy. You can handle wild bulls and wild horses. I’m sure you can handle a wild woman.”

“You’re the detective—you should know how to handle her.”

“Nope. You have a way with women, and I already have my hands full trying to find out what I can about our unsolved murder here in Royal.” Rob studied the circle of men. “We have someone trying to frame Sebastian for the murder of Eric Chambers. We don’t need this woman in our hair while we’re trying to find out who’s behind this.”

“I wasn’t here when she burst in on y’all, but I’ve heard what an unholy commotion she caused here at the club. Dammit, don’t dump this on me.” All of the men looked at Jason. “C’mon, y’all,” Jason argued.

“You have to be the one,” Sebastian replied. “You’re the CIA-trained operative, so you’ve dealt with difficult people before. Frankly, I’ve been through enough lately, and I have a new bride to devote myself to.”

Jason sighed and waved his hand. “Save your excuses. I can guess all of them. All right. I’ll try to keep the little wildcat out of our hair.”

“That problem solved, let’s adjourn to poker,” Keith, the computer expert, suggested, his brown eyes twinkling.

The men agreed swiftly, and Jason knew the matter was settled. Morosely, he joined them, getting a fresh drink, going through the motions while he contemplated his assignment. He didn’t like one thing about it. He was not accustomed to forcing a female to do something she didn’t want to do—in this case, he was going to have to do exactly that in order to keep this little wildcat out of the other guys’ ways.

Will, Rob and Sebastian were all recently married. Marriage had become an epidemic, except he was safe—no marriage for him—at the moment there wasn’t even a woman in his life. Maybe Keith should be the one to take care of this nuisance. Jason wondered whether Keith had ever gotten over his old flame, Andrea O’Rourke. He said he had, but he sure didn’t act like it. Jason sighed. He could understand why this assignment had been dumped on him, but he didn’t like it. Thank goodness he wasn’t involved with anyone right now because this would be a very unwanted complication in his life. He wished he could just haul this Ms. Silver down to jail and ask Sheriff Escobar to lock her up and throw away the key until all their mysteries were solved.

When Jason realized he was losing the first round of the poker game, he shifted his thoughts to cards and forgot about Meredith Silver, hoping she had left town and he would never have to deal with her.

It was almost midnight when Jason pocketed his winnings and told his friends goodbye. Stepping outside, he inhaled the cool May air. A silver moon hung in the inky sky while stars were blotted out by the lights of the parking lot. As he crossed the lot to his black pickup, Jason’s boot heels scraped the asphalt. As he reached for the door handle of his pickup, he heard a faint sound behind him.

The hairs on the back of Jason’s neck prickled, and he stood motionless beside his pickup. His experience in the CIA had trained him to be a keen observer, and he knew he had heard the scrape of a footstep on the asphalt.

Jason stood in a row of empty cars and pickups. When he had walked from the clubhouse, there hadn’t been another person in sight. In spite of the seemingly empty lot, Jason doubted he was alone in the parking lot. Should he look under the next car? he wondered, or would it be better to try to discover what the person intended? Jason pocketed his keys and headed casually back to the club.

He went through the front door, down a hallway past the cloakroom and rest rooms, and cut through the giant kitchen, touching the brim of his Stetson with his finger in silent greeting to the skeleton cooking crew still on duty at this late hour. They were familiar with the members of the club, and none of them questioned his presence in the kitchen as he passed through and went out a side door. He stepped into a flower bed, creeping behind cedars and flowering crape myrtles. Glad now that he had worn a dark blue Western shirt and his dark jeans, he moved stealthily even though he was wearing Western boots. He paused, his gaze sweeping over the empty lot and then settling on the car parked next to his.

He knew to whom it belonged—Dorian. As he watched, a shadow separated itself from the darker ones around it. Jason focused on a black-clad figure that had slithered out from beneath Dorian’s car and now knelt beside the back tire.

Something glinted in the moonlight. There was a clunk and then a swift hiss of air. When the vandal moved to the front tire, Jason sprinted from his hiding place, determined to catch the rascal who was vandalizing club member’s tires in their private parking lot.

Seeing Jason, the culprit dropped the knife and ran. From the short stature, Jason decided it was a teen. Jason’s long legs gave him the advantage, and he stretched out his stride. As they raced across the lot, Jason made a flying tackle, wrapping his arms around the miscreant’s tiny waist.

“Gotcha!” he snapped triumphantly as they both went crashing to the asphalt.

The high yelp didn’t indicate anything about the vandal, but the moment they landed on the asphalt, and he felt the soft, curvaceous body beneath his, surprise rippled through Jason. A female! And then he guessed who it was. The crazy woman who was stalking his fellow club member, Dorian Brady—the wildcat who was his assignment.

“Oh, damn,” he muttered. Never in his life had he hurt a woman and remorse filled him as he groaned and moved off her. “Are you all right?”

Light from one of the tall lamps spilled over him, although the brim of his hat shaded his face, but her back was to the lamp and her face was completely hidden. She was covered in black with a black cap and some black goop spread on her face, so that he couldn’t distinguish her features. Jason hunkered down on the balls of his feet as she started to sit up.

Her fist shot out. Catching him completely by surprise, five feet of female did what few six-foot-plus, some-two-hundred-pounds of male had never done. Her blow landed squarely in his middle, knocking the breath from his lungs as she followed with a swift push that knocked him off balance. Springing to her feet, she tried to run for it.

Jason’s surprise lasted only a second and then his natural reactions set in. He rolled forward, snaking his hand out, caught her by the ankle and yanked. For the second time in his life, he sent a female sprawling facedown.

He wasn’t giving her another chance. Unceremoniously, he grabbed his hat, scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder.

For someone who was up to criminal activities and packed a vicious punch for her size, her epithets and name-calling fit a five-year-old’s vocabulary. Heck, some five-year-olds could do better.

Ignoring her harmless blows on his back and her sputtering fury, Jason carried her to his pickup, unlocked the door and dumped her inside. Like a cat springing back into battle, she came up fighting, but he was ready this time.

Tossing his hat into the back with one hand, he clamped her wrists in a tight grip with his other hand, pinning her against the locked door and the seat with his body. In spite of her struggles, he became aware of several things at once: an enticing perfume, a body whose topside was even more curvaceous and soft than her backside, a wiry strength he wouldn’t have believed possible and short, guttural moans of battle that made him think of something far removed from their struggle. Against all wisdom, he was curious and wanted to see what she looked like.

“You just slashed a club member’s tire, and I can call the sheriff and have you hauled to jail.”

“Go ahead and call, you warp-noggined manhandler,” she snapped. “They can’t put me in jail for slashing a tire. I’ll call my lawyer.”

“Why do I doubt you even have a lawyer? Warp-noggined?”

This was the Valkyrie who Dorian said had been stalking him. Jason had suspected Dorian had been stretching the truth a bit, but after the past few minutes, he decided the man had been correct. Everything about her seemed amateurish, and he didn’t think there was a lawyer, a plan or much sense. From the few minutes of dealing with her, he figured he had a crazy person on his hands, or perhaps a woman emotionally unhinged by a man who had done her wrong. Was this some ex-lover of Dorian’s, and he didn’t want to admit it?

“Settle down, wildcat. Fighting won’t do you any good. You’re not catching me by surprise ever again.”

In the darkness he could see her jaw lift in a stubborn gesture. “That’s what you think. Let me go. I can charge you with assault—”

“Hardly,” he stated dryly. “I just caught you in a criminal act.” She wiggled, struggling to break free, but it was having a far different effect on him. Jason had been a longer time than usual between women. She was soft, curvaceous and she was squirming and gyrating against him. His body was pressed over hers, pinning her down, but she was doing things that were setting him on fire in spite of his annoyance.

“Wildcat, do you know what you’re doing?” he rasped.

She stilled instantly, and he knew she had become aware of his natural male response to a warm, sweet-smelling female rubbing sensuously against him.

When he reached down with his free hand and unbuckled his belt, her struggles became wild. Swiftly, he yanked his belt free, bound her wrists together and secured her to the door handle. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re just not going anywhere. You’ve caused enough trouble around here. Now, you make a choice. I take you home with me— I lock you in a room by yourself for tonight. I have no evil intentions, I promise. Tomorrow you go on your way and get out of Royal. Or I can take you to the sheriff. You decide.”

Why he was taking her home with him, he wasn’t altogether certain about, except he had been assigned to keep her out of the way of the rest of the club members, and it was the best way to keep an eye on her.

She struggled, and Jason tightened his grip. “Look, you’re just going to get yourself in deep trouble. There are laws against stalking someone—”

“Stalking! I’m not stalking that rotten lowlife varmint. He’s mean and vindictive and dishonest.”

Jason was intrigued. “I’ve given you a choice. Make your decision. Or it’ll be the sheriff because I’d be glad to dump you into someone else’s lap.”

They were both breathing hard—his ragged breath was not from exertion. Erotic thoughts were tempting him and she was the cause. She might be five feet of trouble, but she was definitely all woman and a very sweet-smelling one at that. Jason fished a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the black stuff off her forehead.

“How do I know you won’t hurt me?” she asked so softly that he had to lean closer. And got another deep whiff of her perfume. A little pesky wildcat shouldn’t wear seductive perfume.

“You have my word on it,” he said, and she gave a bitter laugh. “The sheriff or my house,” he repeated.

“Your house,” she whispered, her breath sweet, lightly brushing his skin.

Keeping up his guard, he moved away and fished for his keys, starting the pickup. Now she was hunched into a ball in the corner between the door and the back of the seat. As he drove out of the lot, he glanced at her again. She looked pitiful all huddled over, but his bruised midriff warned him not to be taken in by appearances. This was not a cringing, frightened little waif. The wildcat had a punch that had knocked him flat.

Jason worked out over an hour every day. He shouldn’t have been felled by a blow from a female of her size, and he vowed he would increase his workouts tomorrow.

He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a flask of whiskey, opening it and offering it to her. “Need a drink?”

“Now you want to get me drunk so you can have your way with me,” she snarled.

“Great grief,” he grumbled, wanting a stiff drink himself, but resisting, since he was driving.

“Where did you get your vocabulary—out of some 1920s dime novel? Outside of melodramas, I didn’t know anyone used that phrase have your way with me.”

“You’re too young yourself to know anything about 1920s dime novels, and I certainly don’t. And you know full well what I meant.”

“I gave you my word. You’re not my type anyway.”

“I can imagine your type.”

He glanced at her again, his curiosity growing. Silence stretched between them as he drove down Main Street, Royal, Texas, the place where he had grown up and lived a good part of his life. “So, what type do you imagine I’d like?” he asked finally.

“Someone beautiful, sexy, sophisticated and easy. Real easy.”

Amused, he looked at her, still unable to see anything except a huddle of black.

“You don’t think I have any charm to win over someone who isn’t easy?”

“You tackled me twice,” she said in the same haughty, aloof tone that he could recall early grade-school teachers lecturing him with. “That isn’t a winning approach.”

“I wasn’t trying a winning approach. I never intended seduction. I was trying to stop a criminal act. That’s not a fair judgment of me,” he remarked, amused by her in spite of his annoyance at being saddled with responsibility for keeping her away from the others.

He drove past Pine Valley, the exclusive, private-gated, residential community that held mansions, including one belonging to his family where his brother was currently residing. Jason could take her there, but he preferred her out on the Windover Ranch—far enough out of town so that she would have a hell of a hike if she decided to run away.

“It might be a good idea if we knew each other’s names. I’m Jason Windover.”

“I’m Meredith Silver,” she said.

“Well, hi, Meredith. Where are you from?”

“I’m from Dallas,” she said.

“And what do you do in Dallas?” he asked, slipping into old patterns of interrogation, avoiding the hot topics or accusations.

“I’m a computer programmer. I’m a freelance consultant.”

“Interesting profession—and gives you freedom to keep your own hours sometimes.”

“Yes, it does,” she answered while she stared out the window. “We’re out of town.”

“I’m taking you to the Windover family ranch.”

“You’re a cowboy?”

“Yes, I am. I’ve been with the government, but I recently retired to the ranch. So, Meredith, who’s your current boyfriend?”

“There isn’t one,” she replied. “But I’ll bet there’s a woman in your life.”

“As a matter of fact, there’s not at present.”

“I’m sure she’s not far in the past and there’s another lined up somewhere in the near future.”

“Now why do you think that? You don’t know me.”

“You have that easygoing manner of a man accustomed to always having a female in his life.”

“Do I really?” he asked, amused by her observations.

“You know darn well you do. You’re also egotistical and overbearing.”

“Golly gee whiz. I’ll have to work on that.”

“You can save the charm because it won’t work on me.”

“Now is that a challenge or what?” he asked, his voice dropping as he shot her a look.

“It’s definitely not a challenge. Besides, I’m not your type remember?”

“Point taken.” He drove quietly for a few minutes and then asked, “Do you have a hotel room in Royal or did you intend to drive back to Dallas tonight?”

“I’m staying at the Royalton Hotel,” she replied, naming Royal’s oldest and finest hotel.

“Do you still have family in Dallas?”

“Yes. My sisters and my mom are in Dallas. I have an older brother who’s in Montana, I think.”

“Silver,” he said, remembering a stocky, wild guy from the rodeo circuit. “I’ve met a bull rider—Hank Silver.”

“That’s my brother,” she said with what sounded like reluctance.

“Well, small world. He’s a tough cowpoke. I’ll bet that’s where you got the punch you pack. You have a big family,” he said, curious to see what she looked like. Her voice was soft, low and soothing. A sexy voice that didn’t match her volatile personality. If he had talked to her on a telephone and hadn’t seen her in person, he would have conjured up an entirely different type of woman in his mind. The voice definitely didn’t fit a little five-foot wildcat with a vocabulary as old-fashioned as his grandmother’s. Her enticing voice didn’t fit someone who could deliver a jab that knocked the breath from your lungs. But with Hank Silver as an older brother, Jason could well imagine, she’d had to defend herself growing up. From what Jason could remember, Hank Silver was in trouble with the law more than once over barroom brawls.

“I have two older brothers,” he said. “Ethan and Luke.”

“That’s nice,” she said, not trying to hide her anger. for the next hour they lapsed into silence, a new experience for Jason with a female.

Jason turned south between large posts with the Windover brand carved on the front of each one and drove swiftly along a hard-packed road until they pulled up behind the sprawling ranch house that had belonged to his family for four generations. Moonlight splashed over a combination of red sandstone, rough-hewn logs and glass. A porch with a sloping roof ran along the front and a well-tended lawn was surrounded by a picket fence. Beyond the house were outbuildings, a guest house, a bunkhouse and a barn.

Jason stopped near the back gate and untied the belt, taking her arm to lead her inside. When they entered the house, he switched on lights in a back entryway that held a coat rack, pictures of horses and potted plants. He turned and punched buttons on a keypad to disengage the alarm system that was beeping steadily. As soon as he had finished, the tiny red alarm light changed to green and the alarm was silent.

In the large kitchen he switched on soft lighting that fell over whitewashed oak cabinets and a pale-yellow tiled counter. Jason caught Meredith’s wrist lightly. “Come here,” he said, leading her to the sink. She wore black boots and black, lumpy sweats that hid her figure. And he knew from falling on her and pinning her down in the car that she definitely had a figure. Pulling out a towel, he ran warm water over it and then turned to scrub her face.

“I’d like to see what you look like. You’ve been a dark blob from the first moment I saw you,” he said, looking down at her as he tilted up her chin. At the sight of her in the light, he drew a sharp breath and remorse filled him because she had a raw scrape on her cheek and he knew he had caused it. When he touched her jaw lightly, she jerked her head away.

“I’m sorry you’re hurt. I thought you were a boy.”

Thickly-lashed, large, stormy gray eyes gazed up at him, and the moment his gaze met hers he received the second stunning blow from her. Her eyes took his breath and held him mesmerized. He couldn’t recall ever seeing eyes exactly the color of hers. But it was something more than color that held him breathless. He felt as if he had touched a live wire and sparks were flying all around him. Silence stretched; he realized she was as still as he and he didn’t want to break the contact.

She took the cloth from his hand and began to rub black off her face. He retrieved it, wanting to touch her, wildly curious now to see what she looked like without all the junk on her face. And still neither one of them had spoken or moved or looked away.

“We need to clean up your scrapes quickly. Just a minute and I’ll be back.” Silently, he called himself all sorts of names for causing her face to be scraped raw as he hurried to the nearest bathroom. He returned with a bottle of peroxide. “Lean over the sink and let me pour this over your cheek. It’ll clean your scrape and disinfect it. How long since you had a tetanus shot?”

“Only a year ago.”

She tilted her head and he poured the clear liquid, dabbing gently. “Sorry, if I hurt you.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” she grumbled, and he felt worse than before. Finally he patted her cheek dry. “Let’s see your hands.”

“I can take care of my hands.”

“Put your hands out and let me help,” he ordered. When she held them over the sink, palms up, he winced, hating that he was at fault for her injuries. He washed the scrapes, cleaning and disinfecting them. “I wouldn’t bandage those scrapes tonight. Maybe tomorrow when you’ll be out in the world, but let them heal tonight. Now, let’s get off the rest of whatever you have smeared on you.” In slow deliberate strokes he wiped her face gently, while he continued to look into her eyes. The longer he rubbed her face, the faster his pulse beat.

Finally, he had to rinse the cloth because it was covered in whatever she had spread over her face. In silence he rinsed it and returned to a task that was ever so pleasant, slowly stroking her face free of smudges. Besides the fabulous eyes, she had a slightly upturned nose, full pouty lips and prominent cheekbones.

She yanked the cloth from his hand. “I can wash my own face,” she snapped and turned to wash over the kitchen sink. She slanted him a look. “If you’ll tell me where the bathroom is, I’ll wash in there.”

“You’re fine where you are,” he said, not giving a rip about the sink and interested in the smooth, rosy skin beginning to show.

As she shook water off her hands, he handed her a clean towel, and she scrubbed with it vigorously, something he had never once seen a woman do.

Big gray eyes peeped at him over the towel, and he wondered if he should get ready to dodge her fist again, but she merely folded the towel.

Reaching out, he pulled the cap off her head. When long, slightly curly auburn locks spilled out, he drew a swift breath. Unruly, silken strands curled around her face. From what little he already knew, she was fiery, impetuous and fearless.

“You want anything to eat or drink?”

“No, thank you,” she replied with disdain.

“Come here,” he said, taking her wrist again and leading her through the kitchen, down the hall, into the spacious family room. He led her to a wide, brown leather couch that faced a large brick hearth. With a little tug he got her to sit down and he faced her, releasing her wrist. “Now, why were you slashing Dorian’s tires? What’s going on between the two of you?”