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The kid was already in trouble with the law.
“Hell.” J.D. sat on the edge of his new bed and ignored the mental image that leveled a guilty finger in his direction. It wasn’t his fault that Stephen had decided to rebel. What thirteen-year-old wouldn’t? Stephen had lost his father, been uprooted and moved to a new town, and become the man of the family all in one fell swoop.
It was too much for any boy. No wonder the kid was full of piss and vinegar.
What a mess. And J.D. wasn’t going to make it any better. He rifled through his duffel bag until he found a crisp manila envelope. Inside the packet was the deed, bill of sale and proof that this house—Tiffany’s home since the accident that had taken Philip’s life—belonged to the Santini family. Well, at least most of it. A portion—one-fourth, to be exact—was still hers; the rest had been signed away to pay off Philip’s gambling debts.
“Great,” J.D. said, tossing the envelope on to the foot of the bed and wishing he hadn’t agreed to step into Philip’s shoes in the first place. He’d never wanted to work for his father, had avoided anything to do with Santini Brothers Enterprises for years, but then, after Philip’s death, he’d felt obligated. His parents had been devastated by the loss of their eldest, and his father had hoped to “step down,” or so he’d claimed. At the same time J.D. had become jaded with the law, tired of the constant courtroom battles and legal arguments he’d once thrived upon, sickened that settlements and awards were always more important than justice.
His motorcycle accident had been his own personal epiphany. When a colleague had suggested he sue the manufacturer of the bike, or the highway department, or the parents of the kid he’d swerved to avoid, he’d decided to chuck it. J.D. had been pushing the speed limit, the accident had been his fault; he’d nearly lost his life, and he wasn’t going to blame anyone or anything but himself.
But the accident had made him take a good long look at himself and what he did for a living.
When his father had offered him the job, he’d accepted, as long as they both understood it was temporary. He wasn’t going to be sucked permanently into the fold.
For the time being he took the job that Philip, in dying, had vacated. Carlo kept talking about retiring and had tried to lure J.D. into becoming more involved—about someday running the multifaceted company—but deep in his heart, J.D. didn’t believe his old man would ever voluntarily give up the reins of an operation he’d started nearly fifty years earlier with his own brother, who had retired five years ago. Not so Carlo; the day Carlo Santini quit work was the day he gave up on life.
One of the first duties of J.D.’s employment was to deal with Tiffany. The family wanted to be certain that she and the children were dealt with fairly, but Carlo had never liked his second daughter-in-law, nor had he forgiven his son for divorcing his first wife. Whether he admitted it or not, Carlo blamed Tiffany for the marriage breakup, though she hadn’t even met Philip until after his divorce was final.
Or had she?
J.D. really didn’t give a damn. He only had to do his job down here, find the right piece of land for the new winery, then make tracks. He’d check on the kids, make sure the widow Santini was handling things okay, inform her about the ownership of the house, then return to Portland.
He couldn’t wait.
He tucked the legal papers inside his bag again and stuffed the duffel into a drawer. After walking stiffly across the room, he sat on the edge of the windowsill and looked into the backyard where Tiffany, in the gathering dusk, was watering some of the planters near the carriage house. She was humming to herself, seemingly at peace with the world, but J.D. sensed it was all an act. The woman was restless, disturbed about something. Ten to one it had to do with her little foray down to the police department today. She set down her watering can and glanced up toward the window.
He didn’t move.
Through the glass their gazes met. J.D.’s stomach tightened. His pulse raced. As he stared into those amber eyes, something inside him broke free. Memories he’d locked away emerged and turned his throat to dust. He remembered touching her, kissing her, feeling her sweet, forbidden surrender. God, she was beautiful.
She licked her lips, and his knees went weak at the silent, innocent provocation.
Or was it innocent?
Damn it all to hell. Sweat tickled the back of his neck. Desire crept through his blood.
She looked away first, as if her thoughts, too, had traveled a sensual and taboo course. She turned her attention back to the planter boxes, and J.D. snapped the blinds closed. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not ever.
His fascination for his deceased brother’s wife was his personal curse, one he’d borne from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her.
CHAPTER THREE
“Did you hear that we’re getting a new neighbor?” Doris, the owner of the small insurance agency where Tiffany worked, asked the next day. Tiffany was just settling into her chair, balancing her coffeecup in one hand while reaching for the stack of mail sitting on the corner of her desk.
“Who is it this time?” Tiffany took a swallow of coffee and snagged her letter opener from the top drawer. In the small cottage converted into offices there had been everything from acupuncturists to a toy store, a bead shop and a phone-card business. All had failed.
“An architect,” Doris said with a wry smile.
Tiffany froze. “You don’t mean—?”
“Yep. Bliss Cawthorne’s going to be right next door.”
“Great.” Tiffany sliced open the top envelope as if her life depended upon it. She didn’t need to be reminded of her half sister, her legitimate half sister. Not this week.
“Thought you’d be pleased.” Doris’s eyes gleamed from behind thick, fashionable frames. Near sixty and divorced, she had the energy and stamina of a woman half her age. “She already stopped by this morning, asking about tenant’s insurance, spied your nameplate, and after half a beat, said she’d be back later.”
