The Playboy Meets His Match. Sara Orwig
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is. My grandfather brought it home from Europe on one of his travels. I’ve tried to add some antiques to this home since I’ve had the house.”
“This is a beautiful desk,” she said, running her fingers along the smooth wood. Antique glass-fronted cases held books, but before she could read the titles, he took her arm lightly and led her back through the kitchen toward the center of the house and the west wing. “We’ll be staying in this end of the house.”
While they sauntered down the hall, Meredith considered escape. Maybe if he drank a few more beers, he would sleep dead to the world and her escape would be even easier.
“I’m surprised you don’t keep a dog out here.”
“There are several dogs on the ranch, but they’re down at the bunkhouse with the men.”
“Don’t tell me dogs don’t like you.”
He glanced at her with amusement in his eyes again. “I get along fine with the dogs. They’re just shut in the bunkhouse at the moment. Want me to get one of them up here?”
“Heavens, no! I just found it unusual to be out in the country and not see a dog.”
“Well, city girl, the dogs are here. I’ll show you tomorrow. Right now, I’ll show you around the house. Here’s the dining room.”
She looked at a large room with a Texas-size carved, mahogany table that held ten chairs on each side and two arm chairs at each end. A sparkling crystal chandelier caught the light and silver gleamed on the buffet. Another brick fireplace was at one end of the room.
“Do you actually eat in here?”
“Sure. The table is over one hundred years old and my great-great-grandfather had ten kids. The Windover descendants are all over Texas. We have big family get-togethers, and each of my brothers has four kids, so that’s at least twelve people when they come home. There’s a guest cottage in back for the overflow.”
“What about your parents?”
Again she caught the briefest shuttered look before he turned his head away and switched off the dining-room light. They moved down the hall. “My parents were divorced. I haven’t seen my mother since childhood, and my dad died last year.”
“I’m sorry you lost your father. My dad died when I was eleven.”
“I miss my dad,” he said gruffly. “Eleven must have been a rough age to lose your father.”
“It was, but my parents were always very involved with each other and not as much with us kids. Particularly my mom. My mother was just not meant to be a mother. I was always mother to my sisters and that was all right with me and good for Mom. Dad helped with the girls.”
“So you were mother to your sisters. Was your brother Hank the second dad?”
“Hardly,” she answered dryly. “Hank’s wild. When Dad died, Hank got more wild. He’s in trouble half the time and he’s out of touch with the family. I haven’t seen him in over a year.”
“I sort of remember that he’d been in some scrapes,” Jason said politely, and she could imagine that if he knew her brother, he knew some of the predicaments Hank had been in.
“If you know Hank, you must ride in rodeos.”
“I used to, but I haven’t had time in the past few years. I was a saddle bronc rider. I did a few months of bull-riding, broke my arm and quit.”
“I don’t know how many bones Hank has broken.”
“Here’s the living room,” Jason said, switching lights on in a formal room that was exquisitely furnished and looked as if no one ever used it, much less a houseful of men. It was the one room that did not appear to hold any antique furniture, and it struck a slightly strange note with the rest of the house.
“This is a nice room,” she said, noticing that the blue satin drapes were faded, but still looked elegant.
“Yeah, well, we don’t spend time in here,” he said, switching off the lights. His voice was harsh, and she realized there were undercurrents in his family that he didn’t talk about. She suspected he didn’t talk about a lot of the facets of his life. She was beginning to decide the real Jason Windover might be hidden from the world.
“Here are the bedrooms,” he said, switching on lights and moving down the hall as she looked into rooms that were spacious, masculine and comfortably furnished. “My bedroom is the master bedroom at the end of the hall and I’m going to put you in here tonight, right next to me, so I can hear you.”
He switched on a light and crossed to the closet. She looked at an elaborate Louis XVI bed of dark, hand-carved mahogany. A tall chiffonier matched the bed. The room had pale-green and off-white colors, and, as she looked around, she wondered how many other women had stayed in it.
He tossed out a cotton robe. “Here’s a robe. I’ll give you some of my T-shirts so you can get into something cooler. There’s the bathroom and towels are in the cabinet. Change and we’ll get something to eat.”
She nodded and he motioned to her. “First, come see my bedroom, and I’ll give you the T-shirts.”
She followed him to a spacious bedroom with a brick fireplace, shelves of books, another large television, a tall, rosewood armoire with an ornate cheval glass beside it. A second keypad for the alarm system was in his room, so he could switch it on or off from either end of the house. A king-size four-poster bed dominated one end of the room and a stack of books stood on a table beside the bed. She strolled over to see what he read and looked at titles about the Second World War.
“You like history.”
“Yes,” he answered while he rummaged in a drawer and handed her a stack of folded T-shirts. “My grandfather was in the landing at Normandy in the Second World War. He kept a diary of sorts and because of that, I got particularly interested in that war.”
Jason thrust the pile of shirts into her hands.
“Thanks. I’ll need only one.”
“Take them all. After we say good-night, don’t try to leave the house. I have the alarm turned on. If you open a door or a window, it will trigger the alarm. When we go to bed, I’ll change the setting and the alarm will go off if you step into the hall. You’re in a cell here. It’s just much nicer than the one in Royal.”
She nodded again, left his room and went to hers, closing the door behind her. She showered and washed her hair. She found a dryer and dried her hair. It had a natural curl and was unruly, but tonight she didn’t care. She pulled on a navy T-shirt and slipped back into her sweatpants and then left to find him, returning to an empty family room and then going to the kitchen where he was making sandwiches.
He glanced over his shoulder and then turned to look more carefully at her, and she wished she were back in the lumpy sweatshirt. The T-shirt clung, and the look he was giving her was making her tingle all over.
“My goodness, Meredith, you clean up good.”
“My friends call me Merry,” she said breathlessly, knowing she needed to re-engage her brain. The man was definitely not one of her friends. Nor would he ever be one.
He crossed the room to her, stopping only inches away, and she hoped he couldn’t hear her drumming heartbeat.
“So we’re going to be friends,” he drawled in that deep, sexy voice. He reached out to touch her hair, letting locks slide through his fingers, and she was aware of the faint contact. “That’s interesting.”
“I spoke before I thought,” she admitted.
“You don’t want to be friends?”
“I don’t think it’s possible.”
He focused on her face, moved closer and tilted up her chin. She was too aware of his finger holding her chin, too aware