An Heiress on His Doorstep

“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.”