An Heiress on His Doorstep

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.”

Chapter Three

J.P. studied the slender wrist with the handcuff attached. Audrey had suggested he figure out a way to remove it while she found some clean clothes for their guest.

The stranger looked around the room. “Nice kitchen. Lots of counter space with that island in the center. The granite countertops are really beautiful. The different shades of brown and beige are a nice complement to the floor tile.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“And this,” she said, studying the oak table and eight chairs set in the bay area. “This looks like an antique. Did it come with the house?”

“It’s old. It belonged to my great-great-grandmother.”