The Playboy Meets His Match

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?”

Two

Meredith Silver thrust out her chin stubbornly. “I don’t have to answer any of your questions,” she snapped. No man should look so sinfully handsome. He had black curly hair that he wore long, and it gave him a wild, dangerous look. His features were slightly rugged with a strong jaw, prominent cheekbones and straight nose. It was his thick lashes and blue-green eyes that had stopped her in her tracks in the kitchen.

Meredith wished she hadn’t stood there like a starstruck teen looking at a movie idol, because she suspected Jason Windover drew women the way flowers drew bees.

She glanced beyond him to study the windows. This was no fortress, although he had turned off an alarm system when they entered. She knew how to hot-wire a car, and later tonight she was getting out of this house and away from this man who was becoming a big interference in her life.

“I can still call the sheriff and have you locked up. This is a small town and most of us know each other pretty well. He can come up with some charges to hold you in a cell for a while.”

Her mind raced. She knew lawyers because she had solved computer problems for various ones, but not recently and she had never made lasting friendships with any of them. She didn’t know a single lawyer to call for help. Besides, compelling bedroom eyes were staring at her, an invisible push to get her talking.

“I’ve been trying to find Dorian Brady. Now I’ve found him and he’s telling everyone that I’m crazy and that everything I’m saying about him is a lie.”

“Well, is it or not?”

“I’m telling the truth, but he’s your friend and your good-ol’-boy fellow club member. Y’all are a bunch of snooty male chauvinists, and I know you’ll believe him over me, so what’s the point in even discussing this with you?” she said, becoming more annoyed as she talked because a twinkle had come into his eyes.

“What’s the point in slashing his tires?”

“I just want him to know that I’m here. That I’m in his life and I’m not going to go away. I want to cause that man some grief.”

“He knows you’re in his life, and you are causing him a little grief. But I’ll tell you what, all those good-ol’-boy male chauvinists have voted that I’m to keep you out of everybody else’s hair, so that’s just what I’m going to do. Tonight, you can just stay here under my roof until you simmer down. And tomorrow you can go back to wherever you came from.”

“That’s what you think, mister.”

“Jason is the name, remember?”

“Mister is sufficient. We’re not going to be friends.”

“Now that’s another challenge you’ve just flung at me,” he drawled, and she definitely saw the twinkle in his eyes that time.

Thrusting out her jaw, she leaned closer to him. “I will never be friends with a man like you, buster!”

He looked as if he was making an effort not to laugh out loud. He leaned close. “Why not, Meredith?”

Oh, my! She was going to have to watch it around this one. He was sexy and too handsome and his voice sent shivers skittering around inside her. And those bedroom eyes of his! She moved back and drew herself up. “I’m sure most women just melt when you bat your eyes at them, but I’m not melting, nor will I. I—”

“Challenge number three,” he stated, this time speaking in a slow drawl and looking at her with a speculative gleam in his eyes that made her draw a swift breath.

“I’m not flinging sexy challenges at you. I’m telling you. You probably can’t believe that a female in this whole big state of Texas is immune to your charm.”

“Darlin’,” he drawled in a tone that did curl her toes and sent a flash of heat that threatened to melt her, “I haven’t even begun to turn on any charm. Knocking the wind out of me doesn’t exactly draw out the best aspects of my personality.”

“You attacked me.”

“I stopped a vandal from escaping,” he reminded her. He took her wrist again. His brows arched. “Your pulse is racing, Meredith.”

She glared at him while crimson flooded her cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s fright.”

“You—afraid?”

“There’s good reason to be,” she snapped, pointing at her scraped face and annoyed that her pulse was reacting to him in a wild, uncontrollable manner.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, and to her surprise, he sounded truly contrite. “Come on. Let’s get something to drink. I definitely want a drink.”

“I’ll come without you holding my hand,” she said, attempting to yank free.

“I think I want to keep one hand under control. You have a wicked punch there. Besides, I don’t want you heaving one of the family heirlooms at me and breaking some favorite vase.”