An Heiress on His Doorstep. Teresa Southwick
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.”
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