early thirties, just exactly the age her father would have chosen. As he moved toward her she noticed his confident, sort of predatory walk. She noticed he was late, too.
When he stopped in front of her, she saw that his eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses. His head dipped slightly as he looked down to her shoeless foot. “Did you lose your glass slipper, Cinderella?”
So Mr. Wonderful was playing dumb. “Are you my prince here to see if the shoe fits?”
“I’m here to see if you need help. Car trouble?”
“Not exactly.”
He frowned as he looked around the empty road. “How did you get here?”
She started to raise her arm, and the handcuff jangled at the end of her wrist. “I—I think I was kidnapped,” she said.
Was it technically a kidnapping when one’s own father was behind it? How could he do this to her? And how could this guy go along with it? What was in it for him? Most people sent a card when they wanted to reach out and touch someone. Her father picked a hell of a way to say he cared. And did he really? He hadn’t even hired a competent kidnapper. He got an amateur, a guy she could take with weeny moves, and now this winner. Men, she thought disgusted.
He continued to stare at her when she didn’t answer right away. “You think you were kidnapped? That’s a new one,” he mumbled. “Don’t you remember?”
Remember? He was taking the playing dumb thing to a new high, or low as the case may be. What if she couldn’t remember? That would make his life difficult, and she liked the idea of that. She embraced the saying “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” What if she gave this bozo enough lemonade to drown in?
“Who are you?” he asked.
He knew good and well who she was. Okay. That did it. Scaring the stuffing out of a girl then playing dumb was not the way to win a fiancée and influence people. She was going to make this as difficult as possible for him. She plastered a confused expression on her face, and it didn’t require Drama 101 to pull it off. She really was confused by the events of the past few hours.
With the handcuff dangling in front of her, she rubbed her fingertips over her forehead. “I—I can’t remember.”
He gave her a doubtful look. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”
Why not? she thought. She needed a ride; this guy needed a lesson. She made herself go limp and dropped like a stone.
Chapter Two
J. P. Patterson automatically reached out and caught the woman against him. As he lifted her limp body into his arms, her head settled onto his shoulder and he studied her face. It was fine-boned and lovely, with smooth, soft-looking skin. And she was heavier than she looked, which he attributed to muscle, because her pencil-thin skirt wouldn’t hide any fat.
Nine out of ten guys would be grateful this woman had fallen into their arms. Apparently J.P. was number ten because he wished she’d fainted in front of the other nine guys. This beautiful brunette had scam written all over her. He didn’t for a minute believe this act and cursed the fact that he couldn’t just let her hit the pavement. But he had no illusions about trying to get the truth out of her.
He had to give her credit. This scheme was definitely more elaborate and imaginative than the ever-popular sneaking into his hotel room and waiting naked in his bed. The dangling handcuff, the missing shoe and being stranded in the middle of nowhere were all nice touches. Her mission to meet him had been planned and executed with the precision of a military invasion. And that wasn’t ego talking. It was the voice of experience.
He didn’t flatter himself that women fell all over him because of his sex appeal and animal magnetism. The only magnet was his fortune. He’d made People magazine’s list of the fifty most beautiful people—Sexiest Gazillionaire it read under his picture. Again, nine out of ten men would be flattered. To him, it was simply more publicity he didn’t want or need.
Women threw themselves at him on a fairly regular basis. Just like this one in his arms. The question was, now what did he do with her?
This was the road to his house. It seemed obvious she’d had someone drop her off here so she could wait for him to come by, knowing he wouldn’t be able to leave her. He thought about setting her on the blacktop to see how fast the faint would last. He could simply drive away. Unfortunately, his mother had raised him to be a gentleman. He turned toward his SUV and managed to open the passenger door and get her inside.
He looked over his shoulder in the direction of town. He’d just come from there; the sheriff was there. Turning her over to the sheriff would be his best option. But it was a long drive and the estate was closer. Besides, his mother had just arrived for a visit, and she was waiting. He belted the stranger in and went around the front of the car, then entered the driver’s side.
He drove to the estate in a couple of minutes. Again he thought how precisely she’d planned her campaign as he braked in front of the closed security gates. He pressed the button on his remote control and the gates opened wide. He guided the vehicle up the long, tree-lined drive, then parked in the semicircular area in front of the house. Turning off the ignition, he glanced at the woman in the other seat.
She opened her eyes—big, beautiful brown eyes, he noticed—and sat up. How convenient.
“Where am I?”
Classic question and certainly in character for the part she was playing. But he was sure she knew exactly where she was. He could end her game any time, but he wanted to wait. It would give him a certain satisfaction to watch her reaction when she tripped up and the plan imploded. And she would trip up. He was certain of that, too.
“This is my home,” he said, opening his door. “I brought you here to call the sheriff and report the kidnapping.” He watched her closely.
“I can’t wait.”
A cool customer. Detail noted. He got out of the car and went to her side to swing the door wide. She slid out and her skirt rode up, revealing a flash of shapely thigh. A calculated move, like baiting a hook. He didn’t plan to be her unsuspecting mackerel. But he had to admit, if there was any silver lining to the situation, this view of tempting, tanned flesh was it. Then she was standing on the concrete driveway, wobbling because she was wearing only one high heel.
“You might want to take your shoe off,” he suggested, pointing to her foot.
A dainty foot, he noted. And her nylons were in shreds. That short Band-Aid of a skirt didn’t hide much of her legs and her thighs were pretty spectacular, too, even in the tattered panty hose.
To steady herself, she touched his arm. Her hand was small and warm against his skin, and his pulse spiked once before he drew in a deep breath to stabilize it.
She slipped off her high heel then straightened and looked it over as if she’d never seen it before. “Looks like real leather.”
“It does,” he agreed. “You apparently have a memory of genuine leather.”
“Apparently I do. Along with exceptionally good taste in footwear.” She shook her head. “I like this shoe, and I wish I knew where the other one was.”
The
