An Heiress on His Doorstep. Teresa Southwick

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ