Читать книгу An Heiress on His Doorstep - Teresa Southwick - Страница 9

J. P. Patterson automatically reached out and caught the woman against him. As he lifted her limp body into his arms, her head settled onto his shoulder and he studied her face. It was fine-boned and lovely, with smooth, soft-looking skin. And she was heavier than she looked, which he attributed to muscle, because her pencil-thin skirt wouldn’t hide any fat.

Nine out of ten guys would be grateful this woman had fallen into their arms. Apparently J.P. was number ten because he wished she’d fainted in front of the other nine guys. This beautiful brunette had scam written all over her. He didn’t for a minute believe this act and cursed the fact that he couldn’t just let her hit the pavement. But he had no illusions about trying to get the truth out of her.

He had to give her credit. This scheme was definitely more elaborate and imaginative than the ever-popular sneaking into his hotel room and waiting naked in his bed. The dangling handcuff, the missing shoe and being stranded in the middle of nowhere were all nice touches. Her mission to meet him had been planned and executed with the precision of a military invasion. And that wasn’t ego talking. It was the voice of experience.

He didn’t flatter himself that women fell all over him because of his sex appeal and animal magnetism. The only magnet was his fortune. He’d made People magazine’s list of the fifty most beautiful people—Sexiest Gazillionaire it read under his picture. Again, nine out of ten men would be flattered. To him, it was simply more publicity he didn’t want or need.

Women threw themselves at him on a fairly regular basis. Just like this one in his arms. The question was, now what did he do with her?

This was the road to his house. It seemed obvious she’d had someone drop her off here so she could wait for him to come by, knowing he wouldn’t be able to leave her. He thought about setting her on the blacktop to see how fast the faint would last. He could simply drive away. Unfortunately, his mother had raised him to be a gentleman. He turned toward his SUV and managed to open the passenger door and get her inside.

He looked over his shoulder in the direction of town. He’d just come from there; the sheriff was there. Turning her over to the sheriff would be his best option. But it was a long drive and the estate was closer. Besides, his mother had just arrived for a visit, and she was waiting. He belted the stranger in and went around the front of the car, then entered the driver’s side.

He drove to the estate in a couple of minutes. Again he thought how precisely she’d planned her campaign as he braked in front of the closed security gates. He pressed the button on his remote control and the gates opened wide. He guided the vehicle up the long, tree-lined drive, then parked in the semicircular area in front of the house. Turning off the ignition, he glanced at the woman in the other seat.

She opened her eyes—big, beautiful brown eyes, he noticed—and sat up. How convenient.

“Where am I?”

Classic question and certainly in character for the part she was playing. But he was sure she knew exactly where she was. He could end her game any time, but he wanted to wait. It would give him a certain satisfaction to watch her reaction when she tripped up and the plan imploded. And she would trip up. He was certain of that, too.

“This is my home,” he said, opening his door. “I brought you here to call the sheriff and report the kidnapping.” He watched her closely.

“I can’t wait.”

A cool customer. Detail noted. He got out of the car and went to her side to swing the door wide. She slid out and her skirt rode up, revealing a flash of shapely thigh. A calculated move, like baiting a hook. He didn’t plan to be her unsuspecting mackerel. But he had to admit, if there was any silver lining to the situation, this view of tempting, tanned flesh was it. Then she was standing on the concrete driveway, wobbling because she was wearing only one high heel.

“You might want to take your shoe off,” he suggested, pointing to her foot.

A dainty foot, he noted. And her nylons were in shreds. That short Band-Aid of a skirt didn’t hide much of her legs and her thighs were pretty spectacular, too, even in the tattered panty hose.

To steady herself, she touched his arm. Her hand was small and warm against his skin, and his pulse spiked once before he drew in a deep breath to stabilize it.

She slipped off her high heel then straightened and looked it over as if she’d never seen it before. “Looks like real leather.”

“It does,” he agreed. “You apparently have a memory of genuine leather.”

“Apparently I do. Along with exceptionally good taste in footwear.” She shook her head. “I like this shoe, and I wish I knew where the other one was.”

The comment seemed sincere, but he would bet she wasn’t all that worried. Her accomplice was probably taking good care of it. “Let’s go inside.”

She turned and froze. Her jaw dropped as she silently stared for several long moments at his house. Either she’d really fainted, which he doubted, or she hadn’t peeked on the way up the drive to preserve the pretense that she’d passed out. Either way, her surprise seemed genuine.

“Good Lord, it looks like a castle. Turrets and towers and stones, oh my.”

“It is a castle. Very famous in this part of Texas. In fact that’s how the town of Castle Rock got its name.”

She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t remember if I’ve ever heard of it.”

He studied her, again waiting for a slip in her facade. A weakness in her expression. He found none. Not surprising since the rest of this operation had been planned so precisely and in such a detailed manner. He couldn’t believe her research hadn’t included information about where he lived, so he had to assume her apparent shock meant she was a very good actress.

Then he looked at the impressive stone walls surrounding the extensive manicured grounds of the estate. He studied the main entrance to the house, stately and towering above them. The sheer majesty of the building was something he always took for granted, along with the heavy double doors that led inside.

But he tried to put himself in her shoes, so to speak, he thought, glancing at her bare feet. He lived in the country on five acres and the security surrounding him was state of the art. If she’d been casing the place, he would know. That meant she probably hadn’t seen it in person. Up close, it must look pretty extraordinary.

He’d always thought so. “In the late 1800s, my family made more money in cattle than they knew what to do with. Someone on my mother’s side decided to buy an English castle. They took it apart and reassembled it here in Texas brick by brick.”

“That must have cost enough to feed a third world country for a year.”

“Probably.” He was volunteering a lot of information to someone who was trying to con him and could only chalk it up to pride in the family digs. Besides, he figured she’d done her homework and already knew the details. “We call it Patterson palace.”

“A palace,” she said, an odd expression on her face. Then she met his gaze. “Patterson? Is that your name?”

As if she didn’t know. “J. P. Patterson. And you are?”

“I wish I knew.” She shifted her bare feet and winced, then brushed the bottom of one bare foot across the top of the other. “Ouch. You wouldn’t think a palace would allow pebbles.”

“It’s not Camelot,” he said wryly. “Let’s go inside. My mother’s waiting.”

Her gaze narrowed as she looked up at him. “She is?”

“Yes.” He didn’t like the look on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s just something about a guy in his thirties who lives with his mother.”

“Without a memory, you know this—how?”

“Instinct. Just an impression. I can’t explain it.” She shrugged. “If it’s all the same to you, maybe I’ll just take my chances back on the road.”

Her implication irritated him, and he felt compelled to defend himself. “My mother lives in a condo in Dallas. She’s here to visit.”

“If you say so. And since we’re here, I can call the sheriff. Like you said. I’d appreciate the use of your telephone.”

“After you,” he said, holding out his hand.

With an air of stubbornness, she lifted her chin and preceded him up the four steps to the entrance. When she stopped at the door, he reached around her and opened it.

She halted in the entryway, staring from side to side, then up at the ornately carved stone ceiling. “Wow.”

“This way,” he said. “Mother’s probably in the great room.”

Pride in the family digs took him only so far, and he was done now. The sooner he got the sheriff out here to deal with this faker the better.

They moved past the front rooms used as a parlor and living room and headed toward the kitchen and great room, which looked out over the rear gardens and a pool with a brick patio.

“J.P.? Is that you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

They walked into the huge room where his mother sat in an overstuffed chair beside the stone fireplace taking up one full wall. J.P. could almost stand up straight in it. They’d always joked that their ancestors probably used it to roast a steer on a spit.

Audrey put aside the book she’d been reading and looked up. When she spotted his companion, she frowned. “Good lord, J.P., what have you done to that young woman?”

“Nothing. I rescued her.” He glanced at the companion in question and was sure he saw her glare at him. But the look disappeared so fast he wasn’t certain. “She was stranded at the side of the road and there was no car in sight. That seemed odd, so I stopped.”

His mother closed her book and stood, then went to meet them. She was taller than the gold-digging stranger. “What’s your name, dear?”

“I—I don’t remember.”

“J.P.?”

“All she told me is that she thought she’d been kidnapped,” he said.

His mother lifted the dangling handcuff and studied the shoeless stranger, frowning as she took in every detail of her disheveled appearance. “Good heavens. How did you get free?”

Mystery woman shook her head. “My last clear memory is standing on the side of the road and a car driving away. Fast. Then your son stopped to help me. I’m afraid I was so overwhelmed I fainted.”

His mother slid her arm around the faker’s shoulders and led her to the couch on the long oak-panelled wall. He wanted to warn his mother of his suspicions, but didn’t want to make a scene. It wasn’t worth the aggravation since the sheriff would deal with the situation soon enough.

“Poor dear,” his mother said. “Is there anyone we can call who might be worried about you?”

“I can’t remember.”

“J.P., did you find a purse or anything that might give us a clue to her identity?”

“I didn’t look,” he said.

“For goodness’ sake, that’s basic investigative technique.”

“She passed out, Mother. I had my hands full.”

“Sorry, dear. Of course you couldn’t let her fall.”

If there was any plus for him in this whole situation, it had been holding her in his arms. She was soft and curvy in all the right places. He was a guy, and he’d noticed.

“I’m Audrey Patterson,” his mother said. “Obviously you met my son.”

“My hero.”

Was there the slightest trace of sarcasm in the stranger’s tone? When his gaze locked with hers, the hostility there was quickly replaced by innocence and a fragile victim expression.

“Think, dear,” his mother said to her. “Can you tell us where you live? Maybe where you work?”

She was working right now, J.P. thought. Playing his mother like a violin.

“I can’t remember anything.”

“Should we take you to the emergency room? Perhaps a doctor should check you over?”

“My head doesn’t hurt, and I don’t feel any bumps or bruises. I don’t hurt anywhere, in fact. But my memory is blank.” She looked appropriately pathetic.

Audrey patted her hand. “It must be amnesia caused by emotional trauma.”

Not yet, J.P. thought. But soon. With the sheriff’s help, he planned to give her a healthy dose of trauma.

“Mother, I brought her here to call the sheriff.”

“That’s right,” the stranger agreed. “If you’ll tell me where your phone is, I’ll do that. The sooner the sheriff gets involved, the better.” She met his gaze, and her own narrowed. This time there was no doubt about the animosity. “I don’t want the kidnapper’s trail to get cold. Or any accomplices to get away.”

What was that all about? She was playing this to the hilt. And the way she was looking at him. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was accusing him of something.

“What are you implying?” he asked sharply.

“J.P., your tone,” his mother admonished. “She’s been through a terrible ordeal. You’d be hostile too if you couldn’t remember your name.”

“If I didn’t know my name, I’d be trying everything possible to remember.”

“It’s not good to force the memories,” Audrey said.

“And you know this—how?” he asked.

“It happens that way in all the romance novels,” she said defensively. “And the movies. They always say the victim needs to rest and feel secure. With relaxation, the memories will start to come back. Probably in isolated flashes.”

“Well, I bet the sheriff can make her feel safe and secure. I’ll just go make a phone call and get him out here.”

“You’re my hero,” their guest said again. “Coming to my rescue yet again.”

He looked at her, pure and pretty as she sat in the circle of Audrey’s maternal embrace. Victimizing him was one thing; he was used to it. But he wanted to shield his mother from the gold diggers who were only after his money. The last time he’d let his guard down, he’d been hammered by a woman with the face of an angel and the soul of a snake.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

Jordan watched J.P. walk out of the room and breathed a sigh of relief. She looked at the blond, blue-eyed older woman beside her and wondered if she knew her son was an underhanded weasel.

A weasel who wasn’t hard on the eyes. In the looks department, J. P. Patterson was a twelve on a scale of one to ten. She’d always had a weakness for dark-haired, blue-eyed men. But her father couldn’t have known that because he hardly knew her at all. At least he’d picked a hunk to be her hero. A hunk with money, judging by where he lived.

She hadn’t gotten a good look at this place until she’d slid out of the car. It was a real, honest-to-goodness castle with a drawbridge over a moat and everything. It was like Sleeping Beauty’s castle at Disneyland—only bigger. And with real rooms, not a facade. Really big rooms with beveled, leaded glass windows covered by velvet drapes with gold-braided tiebacks. It was unbelievable.

The first thing she’d thought of was her leap year birthday in New Orleans when she and her friends had rubbed the lamp and made their wishes. Hers had been to be a princess and live in a palace.

She’d been joking, but apparently fate had a sense of humor. If this guy lived here, no way on God’s green earth would she live here with him. He was an underhanded scoundrel, a willing and eager participant in this outrageous kidnapping scheme of her father’s.

Audrey Patterson patted her hand again. “Can I get you something to drink, dear? Water? Something stronger?”

“No, thanks.”

She would have something stronger after the sheriff got there. Then it would be time to celebrate giving J.P. back a little of his own medicine. She just didn’t want to do it in front of this woman who seemed a decent sort. If she didn’t already know what a conniver her son was, Jordan didn’t want to rub her nose in it. Although she did wonder why he was so eager to call the sheriff. Could be he thought he was in the clear. That there was nothing to tie him to the scheme.

Except her father.

Anger knotted inside her. Somehow she had to teach Harman Bishop to mind his own business. Show him he couldn’t make up for twenty-four years of indifference with six months of meddling.

J.P. walked back into the room and his mother said, “What did the sheriff say? When can we expect him?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“What?” Jordan asked, surprised.

He looked at her. “It’s a small town. The sheriff’s department reflects that. On Friday night its resources are stretched to the limit. And this isn’t an emergency.”

“Since when is a kidnapping not an emergency? I agree with—” Audrey hesitated, obviously not knowing what to call Jordan “—our guest, that we don’t want the kidnapper’s trail to get cold.”

“I’m not so sure there’s any trail to cool off,” he said.

Jordan thought there was the hint of derision and a shade of cynicism in his voice. Or maybe it was just guilt.

“No one can come out until morning?” she asked.

“That’s what he said.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his khakis. The long sleeves of his yellow shirt were rolled to just below the elbows. It was a good look.

“That’s unacceptable,” his mother commented. “When I see Sheriff Michaels, I intend to give him a piece of my mind.”

“I actually talked to Rick. He’s out on a call, but he said since the victim is physically all right, we should sit tight and someone will be out tomorrow to take a statement.” He looked at Jordan. “Or I could drive her into town and leave her at the station.”

Jordan stood. “Then that’s probably the best thing to do.”

“Absolutely not,” Audrey said.

“But, Mom, the department has resources—”

Audrey shook her head. “Not the kind she needs. That institutional, bureaucratic little office won’t give her the feeling of safety and security necessary for her memory to return.”

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Patterson,” Jordan said. “I’ve burdened you enough already.” But she hadn’t burdened him nearly enough, she thought, meeting J.P.’s narrowed gaze.

“Nonsense, dear. Frankly, I was wondering how I was going to keep myself entertained. My condo is being painted, and J.P. insisted I stay with him while the work is being done.”

How about that? The man was nice to his mother. But even serial killers had redeeming qualities, and she wanted her pound of flesh for what Harman Bishop and J. P. Patterson had put her through.

“Mom, if she wants to go, I’ll be happy to take her into town.”

“Really, J.P., you rescued this young woman only to dispose of her at the sheriff’s office? She called you her hero. That doesn’t seem especially heroic to me.” She looked at Jordan. “My dear, you can’t remember who you are or where you live. Rick Michaels is an exceptional sheriff in the finest tradition of Texas lawmen. But, as with most men, he has the sensitivity of a gnat. You’re concerned about putting us out and that’s very sweet. But this place is big enough to put up several professional sports teams. I think we can handle you for one night. Maybe by morning you’ll have your memory back.”

Jordan glanced at J.P. who looked as if he would rather eat glass than have her stay. He was good. What an act. Academy Award material. And it made her furious. She’d been put out and put upon with this farce. Surely there was some law against staging a kidnapping. He’d portrayed the rescuer, but he was part of this conspiracy. She’d wanted to make a statement; she’d hoped to embarrass him in front of the sheriff. She’d been frightened to death and held captive by a wimpy little twit who caved at the first sign of trouble. And J. P. Patterson had gone along with the manipulation. What kind of man would do a thing like that?

She wanted to beat him at his own game; she wanted it bad. Sticking around until tomorrow would give her an opportunity.

“Thank you, Mrs. Patterson. I’d be happy and very relieved to accept your generosity.”