An Heiress on His Doorstep

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.”

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.”

“It’s in wonderful shape,” she said, rubbing her hand over the wood surface. The cuff scraped against the edge and she quickly grabbed it. “Sorry. I’ll be glad to get rid of this.”

He picked up the bolt cutters he’d found in the tool-shed. “Okay, give me your hand.”

“I’m going to pray you didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” Big, beautiful brown eyes stared at the large tool in his hand. “You’re not going to cut off my hand with that, are you?”

His gaze lowered to the button on her silk blouse that held the material together over her firm breasts. “I’m going to cut off the cuff, unless you’ve got a key tucked away somewhere.”

The idea of fishing for it sent a shaft of heat straight to his groin. He didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her, but, unfortunately, that didn’t shut down his appreciation of her attributes.

“Regrettably, when the kidnapper pealed rubber on the highway as he drove off, he didn’t toss me the key.”

“A simple no would suffice.”

“We’d all like things we can’t have. For instance,” she said, “I’d like whoever’s behind this kidnapping in these cuffs.”

“Me, too.” He met her gaze and waited for her to blink. She didn’t.

“He probably didn’t pull it off by himself,” she said, with what seemed like studied casualness.

“I came to the same conclusion.”

“Really? How about that? We agree on something.”

He was just sliding the bolt cutters beneath the circle of metal on her delicate wrist when he looked up and saw her smile. He was struck by the fact that she was quite remarkably beautiful. As those shock waves hit him, his hand slipped.

She snatched hers back. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with those things? One of us could get hurt.”

“This isn’t rocket science,” he snapped, annoyed with himself for the lapse.

“Neither is kidnapping. What do you suppose the penalty is for abducting someone against their will?”

“Penalty?”

“Yeah, as in it’s against the law. And when a person breaks the law, there’s a cost for it. Like jail time,” she added.

“I suppose so.”

“And what about accomplices? Coconspirators?”

What the hell was she doing? Was it like hiding in plain sight? Throw him off her trail by discussing the transgression? “What about them?”

“Do you think the punishment for a crime is as stiff for the brawn as it is for the brains behind it?” she asked sweetly.

“I have no idea. What do you think?”

“I think everyone involved should pay big time.”

“Me, too.” He let out a breath and started attempt number two to slide the bolt cutters beneath the circle on her arm. This time he didn’t make the mistake of looking at her.

“So you think jail time is appropriate?”

He kept his eyes on the metal. “Whoever hatched a kidnapping scheme to swindle money and anyone who goes along with said scheme should be locked up. And the key thrown away.”

The cuff was closed as far as it would go, but her wrist was so slender he easily had enough room to get the jaws of the tool between the metal and her flesh. The inside of her arm was pale, a stark contrast to the tan on her forearm. Her skin looked soft, smooth. He lined up the blades of the cutter very carefully. In spite of her sneaky actions, he had no desire to hurt her. Then he pressed the handles of the bolt cutter together and felt the stiff resistance. This wasn’t going to be like a hot knife through butter.

“Do you think those things would cut through the bars of a jail cell?” she asked.

“No.” What was it with her and retribution? She was the one flirting with a felony. But if he confronted her, she’d only deny it. No point in wasting his breath.

However, he wished big time that the scent of her skin didn’t remind him so much of twisted sheets, temptation and sin. The perfume she was wearing smelled subtle, expensive. A tool of her trade as surely as the one he was using.

“Hold still,” he warned, exerting more pressure on the bolt-cutter’s handles.

“Like I would make a sudden move when you’ve got the jaws of death on my arm.” She watched his progress in silence for several moments. “It occurs to me that if a felon has enough money, he can hire some high-powered legal counsel.”

“What does that mean?”

“It seemed an obvious statement of fact to me. There are stories in the news all the time about crooks who get off after hiring pricey legal eagles.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

She glanced around the large kitchen. “I’d say you have a few bucks.”

“You think?” he asked. She knew darn good and well he did. “What was your first clue?”

He pressed the handles together with as much force as he dared and felt the blades come together as they cut completely through the metal. He put down the tool, then worked the cuff off her wrist.

“Paupers don’t live in palaces,” she pointed out, meeting his gaze.

“No, princesses do.”

She looked startled for a moment, but recovered quickly. “Are you looking for a princess?”

“No.” Heaven forbid.

“Good thing.” She rubbed her wrist, now free of the handcuff. “But if you change your mind, you might try adding diamonds to that bracelet before you put it on a girl’s wrist next time.”

He stared at her, surprised at her boldness. “I didn’t put that bracelet on this time. The kidnapper did.” He studied the gleam in her eyes, the rebellious lift of her chin. “For a woman who’s been recently traumatized, you seem to be taking it all in stride.”

“I suppose the silver lining of amnesia is that you can’t remember trauma. It’s the mind’s way of protecting itself,” she said calmly.

“It just seems to me that someone who’s gone through a kidnapping then lost her memory over the whole thing would be more shaken up from the experience. You seem to be handling it very well. Pretty scrappy.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a scrappy sort of gal.”

“Is that a memory returning?”

“No. Probably just my natural personality coming out. Trauma may have stolen my memories, but it won’t keep me down.” She stood and touched the twisted metal he’d just removed from her wrist. “Next time remember diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

He opened his mouth to retort when his mother walked into the room.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Mission accomplished,” the mystery woman said, holding up her now naked wrist.

Audrey stood beside him. “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous prospect,” he said.

“Don’t be disrespectful, J.P. I brought you into this world. I can take you out.”

“Yes, Mother.” He thought it wise to hide his grin.

“As I was saying, we can’t keep calling our guest ‘hey, you.’ Until you remember your name,” she said to the woman, “I think we should call you Jane Doe.”

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “That’s what all the books and movies do.”

Audrey shrugged. “Well, it is.”

“Jane works for me,” said the mystery woman.

“Good.” Audrey nodded with satisfaction. “J.P., why don’t you show Jane upstairs to the window seat room. I think you’ll be comfortable there, dear. You can clean up. Everything you’ll need is there, and I’ve left some clean clothes on the bed. You’ll probably want to rest so I’ll send up a light supper for you.”

“Please don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Jane said, absently rubbing her wrist. Or was it nerves making her do that?

“It’s no trouble. I want you to relax and feel safe.”

“You’re very kind,” Jane said.

J.P. moved toward the kitchen doorway. “Follow me.”

He thought about blowing her cover, pointing out the flaws in her plan. Then he figured there was no point in a confrontation since she would be gone by morning. And he wouldn’t upset his mother. But “Jane’s” comments about princesses, palaces and precious stones proved that she was no different from all the other women who had gone to great lengths to meet him.

It wasn’t him she was after him. It was all about his money.

The next morning Jordan left her lovely room. Audrey was right. She’d been very comfortable tucked away there, although she’d felt like the princess in The Princess and the Pea, in a bed that seemed as if it was several stories off the ground. She’d had to climb a wooden step stool to get in it. But the velvet curtains at the beveled-glass windows, heavy, carved cherry-wood furniture, gold fixtures in the attached bath—it was all very wonderful.

She marveled at the rest of the house as she came downstairs. It made her interior decorator’s heart beat a little faster. The graceful arches and stained-glass windows high in the brick walls were spectacular. Twin oak staircases curved from the main floor to the second story. Reverently, she touched the bannister as she descended. Then she used it for real to keep from tripping. Audrey had loaned her a T-shirt and sweatpants that were too long. If she wasn’t careful, she’d go down the hard way. How would J.P. explain her broken neck to her father?

There was a certain irony in the fact that her father was throwing her at J. P. Patterson, a man who lived in a castle. She’d become an interior decorator over her father’s protests. Now, she would give her eyeteeth to redo this place; what a plus for her resume. But if she’d gone into the oil business with her father, he wouldn’t be so insistent she marry a man who could run it when he was gone.

She walked into the kitchen and found J.P. sitting at the table with coffee and a newspaper. What was his game? she wondered. Last night she’d been ready for his come-on. But he was barely civil when he’d removed the handcuffs. Then he’d made no protest when she’d gone upstairs right after dinner.

She’d expected him to suggest a walk in the garden. A visit to her room under the pretext of making sure she was comfortable. Something. But she hadn’t seen him again. Was he trying to lull her into a false sense of security before he slithered in for the kill? There was an aura of intelligence about him, and she reminded herself to be on her toes. Until the sheriff arrived.

He would be there sometime this morning. J. P. Patterson didn’t know her father’s rent-a-thug had spilled his guts to her about everything. In just a little while, she would expose him for the snake he was in front of local law enforcement. The prospect made her decidedly cheerful.

“Good morning,” she said.

He looked up. “Good morning.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“I’m not sure. If you’re hungry, there’s a buffet set up in the dining room.”

“Why aren’t you in there?”

“I prefer the kitchen.”

So did she. And Jordan found she was hungry. She went into the room, which had a table long enough to land a 747 on, and picked up one of the two remaining plates on the sideboard. Then she lifted lids on the array of chafing dishes. She took some scrambled eggs, a Belgian waffle with strawberries and a dash of cream, a slice of ham and some fruit. There was a lovely silver carafe of coffee, and she settled a delicate china cup beneath the spigot then pushed back the handle to let it flow. It smelled wonderful.

When she sat down across from J.P. in the kitchen, he glanced at her plate. “I see yesterday’s ordeal hasn’t affected your appetite.”

“Nothing like a kidnapping to stimulate a girl’s palate,” she said.

“I would expect someone who can’t remember their own name to be more agitated.”

If it wasn’t Mr. Happy. She studied his narrow-eyed expression and thought about his distrustful tone. Was this the best he could do? If his goal was to make her dislike him, he was wildly successful.

“I sense a lack of trust. Are you suspicious by nature? Or merely projecting your own character onto others?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my character. But I don’t trust you,” he admitted.