Page 15 of The Playboy Meets His Match
She couldn’t be far down the road. As he hurried inside and returned to his room to yank on his jeans, he mulled over his choices. He could turn in his pickup as stolen and have her thrown in jail. He could go after her, but she had a head start and he suspected she would drive fast.
“Dammit,” he swore again. The woman was more trouble than a basket filled with snakes. She might not even return to Royal. She might be headed to Dallas. He didn’t think she would keep his pickup, though, and she had a car somewhere in Royal, he was certain.
He yanked on a T-shirt, pulled on his boots and began to stuff his pockets with his wallet and keys. He could drive the car into town. He didn’t know how she had managed to get to his keypad to turn off the alarm without setting it off, but he realized that when they’d arrived at the ranch, he had been careless in turning off the alarm. He hadn’t tried to hide the code from her because he didn’t think she was paying attention anyway. And he hadn’t thought she would have any chance to use the code.
What was one of the first things he had been taught? Don’t underestimate the enemy. Well, he had grossly underestimated this little enemy. Damn, she was trouble! She wasn’t doing anything except annoying Dorian and the rest of the club members. Jason grimaced. She was annoying the hell out of him. He remembered kissing her. He didn’t want to remember because her kiss had all but melted his teeth. Her kiss had gone deeper than just hot—stirring some feeling that was totally foreign to him. He had to get her out of Royal and out of his hair.
He locked up and jogged to the garage, swearing under his breath. Here he was in the dead of night, his pickup stolen, outsmarted by a five-foot bit of trouble—that was embarrassing. He thought of the foreign assignments he’d had, the assignments with the Texas Cattleman’s Club. He had been up against the toughest of the tough and here this little five-foot wildcat had outwitted him—his own damn fault for underestimating her.
He should have slapped handcuffs on her and made her spend the whole night beside him. And then he really wouldn’t have gotten any sleep. He didn’t want to think about her kisses or her body or those great big smokey eyes or her soft lips that set him on fire. He was not going to think about any of that. He backed out of the garage, turned the car and raced up the road for the highway, trying to shake thoughts out of his mind that he didn’t want there.
He should just call the sheriff and turn her in and let her rot in a jail cell. It would serve her right. He thought about her silky skin that was raw and skinned because he had tackled her and he knew he couldn’t have her arrested and thrown in jail.
“You’re getting soft, Windover,” he told himself. The hell he was. He was getting hard just thinking about her and her delicious mouth. He swore and pressed the accelerator and wondered what she would do next.
As he cruised Main Street, he spotted his pickup. In spite of his aggravation, he had to grin because she had parked it squarely in the sheriff’s reserved parking spot.
Watching for her, Jason cruised down Main until he reached the Royalton. He turned into the lot and let a valet have the keys. Inside the quiet hotel with its potted palms, plush oriental carpets and high ceilings, Jason strolled to the desk, his pulse jumping with satisfaction when he recognized the stocky blond clerk behind the desk.
“Morning, Mr. Windover.”
“Hi, Stan. I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been here almost a year now.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stan, what room is Meredith Silver in? I need to talk to her.”
Stan frowned and looked uncomfortable. “She said no one was to disturb her. I’m sorry.”
“All I want to do is talk. You know I wouldn’t harm a woman.”
“Oh, no, sir!”
Jason pulled out his wallet, withdrew a fifty-dollar bill and carefully folded it and slid it across the counter. “Just tell me the room number. I’m not asking for a key. I just want to slip a note under her door or talk to her if she will talk.”
“Mr. Windover, gee.” The fifty had already disappeared into Stan Fogarty’s hand. “It’s room three-one-seven. But I didn’t tell you.”
“Thanks, Stan. She won’t ever know that you told me. I promise, no trouble.”
“I hope not, sir.”
Jason crossed the lobby, entered the hall and took the stairs. In minutes he was in front of her room. He pulled a small wire from his pocket, picked the lock and quietly turned the knob.
The room was dark and he slid inside, closing the door behind him without a sound. Ready to get revenge, he switched on the light.
Jason blinked and stared at the smoothly made bed. He spun around, looking into the bathroom, the closet, the rest of the room. There was no luggage, nothing. Had she gone back to Dallas? In the early hours of the morning? Where was she? And had she given up pestering Dorian? She hadn’t checked out or Stan would have told him. She had left orders not to be disturbed. He had a gut feeling the woman was still right in Royal, but if so, where was she?
Jason knew that he had underestimated her at every turn and it was beginning to annoy him. He better start thinking that he was up against a very intelligent operative instead of five feet of aggravating fluff. He circled the room again. He could smell her perfume. He glanced in the bathroom. A wet cloth hung over a rack. She had been in here, but was gone.
Feeling ridiculous, he looked under the bed and searched the closet that held nothing except extra pillows and an ironing board. Finally, he switched off the light and went downstairs.
“Stan, has Miss Silver checked out?”
“No, sir. She just said she didn’t want to be disturbed.”
