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At first she was too stunned to move. Then she was too angry to think straight.
“That damn thug-in-training should be grounded for the rest of his natural born days,” she ranted, limping in a circle.
“Harman Bishop is going to rue the day he messed with me,” she sputtered. “An accident of DNA does not give him carte blanche to commandeer my life.”
Jordan stood by the side of the road, one shoe off, one shoe on, the handcuff still dangling from her wrist. She looked toward the west. She knew it was west because the sun was descending in the sky and would soon disappear behind the rolling hills on the horizon. In the distance, she saw a car coming from the direction her kidnapper had gone. Was this her hero?
The vehicle, a very pricey luxury model, stopped in front of her. The door opened, and a man got out. He was tall, muscular and looked to be in his early thirties, just exactly the age her father would have chosen. As he moved toward her she noticed his confident, sort of predatory walk. She noticed he was late, too.
When he stopped in front of her, she saw that his eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses. His head dipped slightly as he looked down to her shoeless foot. “Did you lose your glass slipper, Cinderella?”
So Mr. Wonderful was playing dumb. “Are you my prince here to see if the shoe fits?”
“I’m here to see if you need help. Car trouble?”
“Not exactly.”
He frowned as he looked around the empty road. “How did you get here?”
She started to raise her arm, and the handcuff jangled at the end of her wrist. “I—I think I was kidnapped,” she said.
Was it technically a kidnapping when one’s own father was behind it? How could he do this to her? And how could this guy go along with it? What was in it for him? Most people sent a card when they wanted to reach out and touch someone. Her father picked a hell of a way to say he cared. And did he really? He hadn’t even hired a competent kidnapper. He got an amateur, a guy she could take with weeny moves, and now this winner. Men, she thought disgusted.
He continued to stare at her when she didn’t answer right away. “You think you were kidnapped? That’s a new one,” he mumbled. “Don’t you remember?”
Remember? He was taking the playing dumb thing to a new high, or low as the case may be. What if she couldn’t remember? That would make his life difficult, and she liked the idea of that. She embraced the saying “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” What if she gave this bozo enough lemonade to drown in?
“Who are you?” he asked.
He knew good and well who she was. Okay. That did it. Scaring the stuffing out of a girl then playing dumb was not the way to win a fiancée and influence people. She was going to make this as difficult as possible for him. She plastered a confused expression on her face, and it didn’t require Drama 101 to pull it off. She really was confused by the events of the past few hours.
With the handcuff dangling in front of her, she rubbed her fingertips over her forehead. “I—I can’t remember.”
He gave her a doubtful look. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”
Why not? she thought. She needed a ride; this guy needed a lesson. She made herself go limp and dropped like a stone.
Chapter Two
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.”
