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In the morning, it was over. All the quiet comfort of the night was gone, and guilt, her companion ever since, lodged deep into a very private place in her soul...
J.D. had left and never once called her. Nor had he written or stopped by. She’d moved to Bittersweet, and, until that day just last week when he’d shown up and rented the upstairs room, she hadn’t seen him again.
She’d thought what they’d shared was long over. A mistake. A one-night stand.
Now she knew differently.
And it scared the heck out of her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I’m just telling you she’s doing the best she can,” J.D. said into the mouthpiece of his telephone. It had been installed on Friday, and he’d finally decided to report to his father.
“She’s no mother,” Carlo insisted, then his voice was softer as he turned away from the phone. “No prune juice... I don’t care, Frankie, I won’t drink it. Just coffee and toast We’ll have brunch after Mass.”
“I think you’re wrong.” J.D. wasn’t afraid to stand up to the old man.
“About Tiffany?” Carlo snorted. “What would you know?”
“She loves her kids.”
“Love, shmove. Stephen’s already in trouble with the law, isn’t he?”
“A little,” J.D. lied. There was no reason to bring up the Isaac Wells mess; not until there was concrete evidence as to Stephen’s involvement. J.D. intended to take care of the situation—without his father’s interference. “She’s got problems, but she seems to be handling them.”
“Sure.” Carlo didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm. “What happened, J.D.? Have you fallen under her spell like your brother—may he rest in peace—did?”
If you only knew. “I’m just telling you what I’ve observed.”
“Yeah, and remember, if it wasn’t for her, he’d be alive today.”
“You don’t know that, but let’s not get into it again.” J.D. wasn’t foolish enough to point the finger at Tiffany for Philip’s death, but his parents needed someone to blame, someone to punish for the loss of their firstborn.
“You’re already standing up for her, and you’ve hardly been there a week yet.” Carlo sighed in disgust. “Sending you down there was probably a mistake.”
“Probably,” J.D. countered, refusing to be baited by the irascible old man. “You know I go by gut instincts.”
“Humph. And what does your gut tell you about a new winery?”
“Still working on it, but I’ll fax you copies of the most promising,” J.D. said, thankful that his father had dropped the subject of Tiffany, if only for the moment. Frances was chattering in the background. “Your mother wants to know if you’re keeping up with your physical therapy, if your leg is any better.”
“Stronger each day.”
“Good. I’ll pass the word along. You’ll call again?”
“Soon,” J.D. promised as he hung up. He was surprised that he’d stood up for Tiffany, that he was changing his mind about her. He rubbed the tension from his shoulders with his right hand.
Tiffany wasn’t quite what he’d expected when he’d driven to Bittersweet. Stronger than he’d suspected, a better mother than he ever would have thought, she gave the outward appearance of being a responsible woman trying to make it in the world. Even if, as his parents were convinced, she’d been a gold-digging girl looking for a father figure a long time ago, she’d grown up, blossomed and done her best with the kids.
“Dammit all, anyway,” he growled.
No matter what, she was a problem.
For him.
He wanted her. More than he’d ever wanted a woman. He’d given in once, when she was grieving and alone. She’d reached out and he’d reached back, going too far. He’d felt like a heel ever since, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her, wanting her, needing her. Taking a room in this house with her just one flight down the stairs had been a mistake he’d probably regret for the rest of his life.
Tiffany Nesbitt Santini was the one woman on this earth whom he should avoid. Being with her was a betrayal of his dead brother. It didn’t matter that he and Philip had never been close. Blood was supposed to be thicker than water. Honor and loyalty to a person’s family were more important than lust. And yet, where Tiffany was concerned, J.D. was able to toss away his deepest convictions.
