by Lisa Jackson
“You are,” he agreed, his face set.
“Well, it’s my problem, okay? I’ll handle it how I see best.” Her eyes held his for a rapidly accelerating heartbeat. “It’s not your responsibility to step into Philip’s shoes, you know. It’s not your fault that he died.”
He eyed her for a second, and she felt as if the interior of the Jeep had shrunk, become far too intimate. “Funny,” he said in a soft voice. “That’s exactly what I was going to tell you.”
Her chest tightened, and she looked away. “Your parents blame me.”
He didn’t argue. “They’re having trouble with all of this.”
“Did your father send you down here to spy on me?” she asked—the question that had been on her mind from the moment she’d found him on her front porch springing to her lips.
“He was worried about the kids.”
“Was he?” Anger shot through her. “You know, Jay, of all the things I would have expected from you, it wouldn’t be that you’d end up as some kind of gopher...or...or what do they call spies these days? Moles? I can’t believe you’d come down here to be a mole, or whatever you want to call it, for your father.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you down here?” she demanded, poking a finger at his chest. “Why are you in a room in my house? Why didn’t your father send someone else—someone with more experience—down here to check out possible vineyard sites? You know, this whole thing has been bogus from the start!”
“Have you ever thought that I might be here because I couldn’t stay away?”
“From what? Me?” She shook her head and reached for the handle of the door again. “Oh, come on, Jay, it’s been months since Philip died. Months. If you really cared, you would have—Ooh!” He pulled her close and kissed her so hard she couldn’t breathe for a second, couldn’t think. Strong arms wrapped around her, preventing her escape.
Fire screamed through her blood. Desire shot through her insides, turning her liquid. Oh, why was it always like this with him? He groaned as his kiss deepened, and erotic images flashed through her mind.
“Tiffany,” he said and his voice cracked a bit. He lifted his head, and she saw in his eyes a raw pain she didn’t understand. “I do care, Tiffany,” he admitted, though he seemed to hate the words. His arms, strong and warm, were still wrapped around her. “I care too much. Way too much.”
Her heart pounded for a small second. Oh, God, how she wanted to believe him, to drown in his words, to trust in the concern in his eyes; but she couldn’t. This was J.D. Santini, her brother-in-law, a man who felt some kind of obligation, a duty to his dead brother’s memory and widow. “Then don’t, Jay,” she said, tamping down that stupid little romantic part of her heart that cried out to give him a chance. “Just don’t care. I…we… The kids and I are doing fine.” She kept her voice devoid of emotion. “We don’t need you.”
The lie hovered between them for a second. He stared deep into her eyes as if in so doing he could search her soul. She wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to tell him that she loved him—Dear God, she loved him?
That thought scared her to the bone, turning her blood to ice. Of all the men in the world, she couldn’t fall in love with J.D. Santini.
Never.
Before he could guess the turn of her thoughts, she fumbled for the door latch, scrambled out of her seat and raced across the lawn as fast as if Lucifer himself were on her heels. She only hoped that she could run away from the awful truth. She couldn’t love J.D. Santini. Wouldn’t!
Behind her she heard the Jeep’s engine fire again. With a screech of tires, J.D. backed out of the drive. Tiffany didn’t turn around, just dashed up the two steps of the porch and propelled herself through the front door. He was leaving. Good. The more distance between his body and hers, the better. But it was only temporary. He’d signed a lease for six months.
Six months!
Inside, she slammed the door shut and sagged against the wall. She was perspiring and gasping for breath, her mind spinning in restless, unending circles. She’d never make it. Never. She couldn’t face living in the same house with him for the next two days, let alone half a year.
She couldn’t see J.D. again. Not now. Not ever.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice.
CHAPTER TEN
“Write up an offer. Five percent less than the owners are asking. Make it contingent on the soil analysis and water report.” J.D. eyed the surrounding acres of the Zalinski farm and told himself that he wasn’t making a hasty decision, that these three hundred acres were the right piece of property, that he wasn’t grasping at straws just to leave Bittersweet and Tiffany in his dust.
It had been days since the wedding, and he’d barely seen her since. The tension between them was stretched to the breaking point; it was time to leave.
Max Crenshaw tugged at his tie and grinned widely. Beads of sweat slid down from his bald pate, over his fleshy cheeks and along his neck to disappear beneath his collar. “This is a good choice,” he said with a wink. “And the sellers are motivated. The offer shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good.” J.D. liked what he saw. The farm consisted of a stone house, barn and outbuildings set in rolling hills with a creek that zigzagged through the fields. Pine and oak trees offered shade around the buildings as well as fringed the neat acres now planted in grass. A few head of cattle grazed on dry stubble while sheep and goats occupied pens closer to the barn, and a tractor with a trailer hitched behind was parked on the knoll of one grassy field. The exposure and drainage looked right, the soil was known to produce high-quality grapes for Santini Brothers’ Sémillon, a white Bordeaux wine. The cabernet sauvignon and merlots would be perfect for a new blend of red wine his father wanted to try. As far as J.D. could see, this place would be perfect.
And he could leave.
Before he got too entangled in Tiffany’s life.
Before his heart was involved.
“I’ll stop by your office later today and sign the offer, then fax a copy to my father in Portland,” J.D. told the Realtor. “He’ll want to see all the information you’ve got on this place. If there is any problem with water rights or the property being sublet or rented, he’ll need to know about it.”
“Shouldn’t be a concern. The Zalinskis have already moved, and the acres are being used by a cousin who lives near Ashland, but he knows that they’re trying to sell. He’ll move his animals and equipment on the spot. Not a problem,” Max said with a congenial nod. J.D. could almost see the wheels turning in the real estate agent’s mind as he mentally calculated his commission on this place. “I’ve done some digging with the title company, and I think we’re all right. Aside from a small mortgage with a local bank, the property is free and clear. But I’ll get a title report and see that all the paperwork is done.”
“Fair enough.” J.D. slid into Max’s car and told himself that this was the first step. Soon he’d be able to extricate himself from this little town and return to Portland where he could start working for his father in earnest.
The thought made his jaw tighten. He’d never been one who pursued his own happiness or worried much about it. He considered life a challenge, one with rewards as well as disappointments, and he’d prided himself on being his own man, not his father’s flunky as Philip had been.
But he’d changed. Absently J.D. rubbed his thigh, the old pain from his accident returning with a twinge of conscience.
Max turned the car around in the dry grass by the garage and headed down the long, winding lane to the main road. He was still going on and on about the location of the property, resale value and such, but J.D. wasn’t paying much attention because as they drove toward town, the dry acres of Isaac Wells’s ranch came into view. “Let’s stop here,” he said suddenly, and Max shot him a glance.
“But you’re already making an offer on the Zalinski place.”
“I know, I know. I just want to check something out.”
&nb
sp; Always one to please, Max turned into the drive and cut the engine.
“I’ll be right back,” J.D. assured him and ignored the No Trespassing sign posted on the gate. He climbed over the graying slats and hopped to the ground on the other side. His leg pained him a little, but he jogged around the side of the small house with grimy windows, overgrown garden and weed-choked lawn. Behind the house was a woodshed and farther back, a huge barn. A padlock kept the door in place, but one window was open a crack, and J.D. looked into the gloomy interior to see four automobiles parked inside. The concrete floor was swept clean, and the smell of oil filled his nostrils. Tarps had been thrown over the vehicles, and from the accumulation of dust, he concluded that none of the cars had been moved in months.
The barn was surprisingly neat and tidy, as if Isaac had prided himself on the old car collection. Tools, all neatly placed on racks, covered one wall; shelves filled with books, wax, cleaning supplies and small replacement parts filled another. Hubcaps and old license plates were hung higher on the empty wall space, as if Isaac had spent a lot of time out here.
Odd.
Why would a man just up and leave?
Had he been forced? Had there been foul play? Or had he just left voluntarily for reasons known only to himself?
It just didn’t make any sense.
But Stephen had some idea of what was going on. J.D. was willing to bet on it. He just had to find out what the boy knew. J.D. owed it to the kid. To Philip. To Tiffany. His jaw tightened again as he started back towards Max’s car.
Tiffany. How the devil was he going to erase her from his mind? He could leave Bittersweet; that part was easy. But he had a deep worry that he’d be taking her with him—in his head and, dammit, in his heart.
He kicked at a dirt clod, sent it reeling against the barn and told himself it didn’t matter. He just had to get the hell out.
* * *
“That Dean boy was over here again,” Mrs. Ellingsworth said as Tiffany tossed her jacket over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. The scents of cinnamon, vanilla and nuts filled the room.
“Mommy!” Christina, standing on a chair near the sink, raised her flour-smudged hands.
“Hi, sweetie.” Tiffany dropped a kiss on to Christina’s crown and touched the tip of her daughter’s tiny nose with her finger. “What’re you up to?”
“Ellie and me is making cookies.”
“I see that,” Tiffany said, and held her tongue rather than corrected her daughter’s grammar. “What kind?”
“Peanut butter and jelly.”
“Just peanut butter,” Ellie said. “When this batch is done, we were planning to go out and get a hamburger, then go to the library for story time, then stop at the park on the way home and play in the fountain.”
“And feed the ducks!” Christina said.
“And feed the ducks.” Ellie chuckled deep in her throat and winked at the little girl she’d affectionately dubbed, “the granddaughter I’ll never have.”
“Can you come, too?” Christina asked her mother.
“I hope so. I’ll try to meet you there,” Tiffany promised, and gave her daughter a hug.
“You bring Unca Jay.”
“Him, too?”
“Yep.” Christina nodded her head sharply as if she called all the shots. “I like him.”
Ellie lifted a knowing brow. “So do I,” she said.
Me, too, Tiffany thought, but kept her feelings to herself. J.D. Santini was a pain. A sexy, intelligent, stubborn, pain in the backside. And she was falling in love with him.
As Christina turned back to the ball of dough on a flour-dusted cutting board, Tiffany dragged her thoughts away from her brother-in-law. “You said that one of the Dean boys was here. I assume it was Miles.”
“Whichever one is the older.” Ellie wiped her hands on the oversize apron that covered her clothes. “I never could keep those two straight.”
“Miles is a few years older than Laddy.”
“Then he’s the one. He came around here right after Stephen got through with summer school, I think. You know, I usually get along with kids—all kids, no matter how old they are. But that one, he makes me uncomfortable, let me tell you. Shifty-eyed, like he couldn’t tell the truth if his life depended on it.” Ellie picked up a spatula and wagged it under Tiffany’s nose. “That father of his is a no-account, I’m afraid. He’s been in and out of prison for as long as I can remember.”
“I know,” Tiffany said, fighting a headache that was pounding behind her eyes. “It’s not Miles’s fault that he’s got Ray Dean for a dad.”
“No, but it’s not your fault, either, and now he seems to be your problem all of a sudden.”
Tiffany couldn’t argue that point.
“Anyway, the two of them, Stephen and Miles, left a little while ago, but they’re supposed to be back by six.”
“Good.” She told herself not to be nervous. So Stephen was hanging out with Miles again. It wasn’t the end of the world. Or was it? When Stephen and Miles were together, there was always trouble brewing.
The timer dinged, and Ellie put on an oven mitt before removing a batch of cookies. “Okay, pumpkin, you and I, we’ve got ourselves a date.” She untied her apron and helped Christina from her chair. Aside from the one cookie sheet and Christina’s messy cutting board, the kitchen was clean.
“I finally managed to say a few words to the new tenant,” Ellie commented as she reached for her purse. “Handsome devil.”
“Is he?” Tiffany wasn’t going to rise to that bait. From the minute Ellie had moved in, she’d been playing matchmaker.
“Almost as good-looking as that brother-in-law of yours.”
Tiffany cocked an eyebrow at the friendly older woman. “Almost?”
“That J.D.’s got something, honey, and don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. On top of that, he’s lots more outgoing than Luke.” She looked through the window to the carriage house and wiggled a finger at the upper story. “Luke’s been in the place for what—several days now? Gee, almost a week, I guess—I can’t keep track—but I haven’t hardly seen him.”
“Maybe he’s avoiding you,” Tiffany suggested with a smile.
“Don’t be teasing, now. I think you might be on to something there. He’s not avoiding me, per se, but everyone in general. A real recluse. Probably has some deep, dark secret from his past.”
“Probably,” Tiffany said, swallowing a smile. Sometimes the older woman’s imagination ran away with her. In Tiffany’s opinion it was because of all the spy and mystery novels Ellie devoured.
“Ah, well.” The older woman sighed and turned her attention away from the window. She took Christina’s small hand in her wrinkled one. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Right, Chrissie?”
“Right!” Another strong nod of affirmation. “Bye, Mommy.” Christina held up her arms to be hugged, and Tiffany swung her off her feet.
“Be a good girl for Ellie, won’t you?”
“I will.”
“She always is,” Ellie insisted, but Tiffany rolled her eyes.
As they left, Tiffany finished washing and drying the last of the cookie sheets, then went upstairs to change. Pausing at the open door leading to the third floor, she ran a hand down the woodwork and wondered about her brother-in-law. Since their last argument on the night of John Cawthorne’s wedding, she and J.D. had avoided each other and kept to themselves.
Grudgingly she had taken his advice and tried to reason with Stephen, but her son seemed to be slipping away from her. She knew that it was only natural. As the years progressed Stephen would start withdrawing from her, but she wasn’t ready for it, nor could she turn a blind eye to his rebellion. The strain in the house had been nearly palpable, and everyone was feeling the pressure.
Even Christina had sensed the stress and been grouchy from the tension in the air. The little girl was finally getting over a summer cold that had caused her to sniffle and cough for three days. But she hadn’t woken up
screaming. During the past week Christina had slept through the night.
That was the good news.
J.D. was the bad.
James Dean Santini. The enigma. She’d tried to avoid him, but it had proven impossible with him living upstairs. Every night she’d thought about him, only one floor away, as she’d lain in her bed.
There weren’t enough cold showers in the world to keep her mind from replaying in sensual detail the few kisses they had shared, the intimate caresses. You’re just lonely, she’d told herself over and over again. And it’s been a long time since you’ve been touched or held by a man. What you’re feeling is normal. It’s just too damned bad you’re feeling it about J.D. Santini.
She walked into her bedroom and kicked her shoes into the closet. Aside from the tense atmosphere at home, she’d suffered an incredibly long day at the office. The fax machine had refused to work, the new insurance rates from the company had caused a dozen customers to call in with complaints or ideas about how to lower their premiums, she’d helped two clients fill out accident reports, and, to top it all, the computers had decided to take the day off.
She pulled on a pair of shorts and a V-necked T-shirt, then snapped her hair into a ponytail.
Barefoot, she padded to Stephen’s room and eyed his clutter. Empty pop cans and dishes littered the room. His bed was unmade, and there were magazines, comic books and video-game cartridges scattered across the floor.
Whether he liked it or not, the kid would have to clean up the mess. She only hoped it wouldn’t take a fire hose and an exterminator to get the room clean again. The phrase “A man’s home is his castle” flitted through her mind, and she thought a more apt description would be “A boy’s room is a garbage dump.”
At the sound of an engine, she crossed to the window, her naive heart soaring at the thought that she would see J.D. again. Instead she spied Luke Gates’s pickup pulling into the drive. Ellie was right. He was an interesting but mysterious man. He was quiet, kept to himself and hadn’t caused any problems so far. Crossing her fingers, she hoped against hope that he’d turn out to be a perfect tenant, because she needed the money to stay in the black.