A Family Kind of Gal

  “Brotherly duty.”

  “Above and beyond the call, if you ask me.” She poured herself another glass of wine, though she was already light-headed. She was a widow. A widow, for goodness’ sake. The future, once so certain, seemed suddenly bleak as it stretched endlessly before her. “Join me?”

  “I think I’ve had enough.”

  “Me, too.” But she took a long swallow of last year’s Santini Brothers premium pinot noir. Feeling dead tired, she kicked off her high heels and leaned over to rub her arch.

  “I’ll help you to bed.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know. But don’t fight it.” He eyed the wine bottle and scowled. “Didn’t the doctor prescribe some tranquillizers for you?”

  “Haven’t taken any.”

  “Don’t. Not until you’re sober.”

  “I am sober,” she argued, and defiantly drained her glass.

  “Come on, I’ll help you upstairs.”

  “I don’t need any help,” she lied, determined to appear independent. She’d fall apart when she was alone.

  “Fine.”

  She started for the staircase and nearly stumbled. J.D. caught her and sighed. “Come on, Tiff. I know it’s been hard.”

  His gentle words, so unexpected and sincere, caught her off guard. With a tender smile, he managed to pierce the emotional armor she’d worn since the accident. Tears gathered in her eyes for the first time since the funeral service. “I’m…I’m okay.”

  “So you’ve been trying to convince everyone.”

  “But I am.”

  “Sure.”

  She swayed again, and he picked her up, swinging her off her feet as deftly as if she weighed nothing. “Come on, Tiff, let’s put it to rest.” He carried her upstairs and down a long hallway to the bedroom she’d shared with Philip. Once there, he placed her carefully on top of the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “It’s all right to break down, you know.”

  Her chin wobbled and tears drizzled from her eyes.

  “You were married to the guy.”

  “I’ll miss him.”

  His jaw hardened. “It’s only natural.”

  She dabbed at her eyes and sighed. “Oh, God,” she admitted, “I’m so scared.”

  He stared down at her for a long moment, then shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair and lowered himself on to the bed beside her. The old mattress squeaked as if in disapproval. “You’ll be all right,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. His breath whispered across her hair, and she let go of the storm of tears that had been building for days. Sobs racked her body as he held her, keeping her safe, whispering soft words of encouragement. She didn’t fight him but let him hold her, and by the time she fell asleep, emotionally and physically exhausted, the front of his shirt was wet with her tears and smudged by her makeup.

  During the night, he’d pulled the covers around them, and when she awoke sometime before dawn, her head aching, she turned and found him staring at her with eyes a deep, smoky gray. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. He kissed her gently. Once. Twice. A third time.

  Something inside her stirred. They kissed again—longer this time—and his lips were warm and gentle; his hands, when they touched her, were loving.

  He didn’t ask.

  And she didn’t say no.

  Yet they took comfort in each other. Loving, kissing, stroking and finding solace in their shared grief.

  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.

  Well, he couldn’t just turn tail and run. No, he had to face her. Until he’d finished his business down here and could return to Portland.

  To
what?

  An empty apartment.

  A domineering father.

  A worrywart of a mother.

  A job he detested.

  “Hell,” he ground out, then decided he had to do something—anything to keep his mind off her and his hands occupied. He’d start with the fence. One section of the old boards sagged, and that was just the beginning. There were more projects around here to keep him busy. The porch was rotting, the windows losing their seals, and the roof and gutters needed attention. He could keep himself busy for a couple of weeks and maybe do some good for his sister-in-law and her kids. Just stay away from her, Santini. He found his shoes and hitched his way down the stairs. His leg still bothered him, but it was healing without the physical therapy that his mother seemed so focused upon.

  On the second floor he hesitated outside Christina’s room, then poked his head inside the partially open door and saw that the little girl was still sleeping. The bed was rumpled, the one-eyed rabbit on the floor again, but the imp was tucked into a fetal position, her thumb near her lips, as if ready to be sucked at any moment. He smiled to himself and walked the few paces to Stephen’s room where he rapped gently on the door, despite the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from its knob.

  No response.

  He knocked a little more loudly.

  “What?” was the groggy response.

  J.D. took that as a sign to enter. He twisted the knob and shoved the door open to gaze upon a mother’s nightmare. The kid’s room was a mess. Clothes, towels, magazines, CDs and guitar picks were strewn all over the floor. A sleeping bag, unrolled, was kicked into the corner, and the wastebasket overflowed with candy wrappers and empty fast-food drink cups. Stephen’s guitar, with one string broken and curled, was propped against the end of the bed, and a set of weights was rolled against a wall housing a low bookcase. “What d’ya want?” Stephen asked, then opened his good eye a crack and spied J.D. His demeanor changed instantly from surly to wary.

  “You could lend me a hand.” J.D. stepped inside, crunching a corn chip beneath his shoe.

  “Doin’ what?” Stephen rubbed his face groggily and, with an exaggerated groan, sat up in the bed.

  “Some things to help your mom. A couple of downspouts need to be replaced, the gutters cleaned, the rail of the porch should be shored up, there’s a broken step on the back porch, the windows need recaulking—”

  “I get the idea.” Stephen flopped back on the bed. “Maybe later.”

  “In half an hour.”

  “How about three hours?”

  “Be ready.” J.D. didn’t give the kid a chance to worm out of the chores. He found Tiffany in the kitchen, wearing a soft yellow bathrobe and slippers as she poured pancake batter on to a griddle already sizzling with oil. At the sound of his footsteps, she glanced over her shoulder. Hot color washed up her neck and cheeks, and her eyes, gold in the morning light, slid away from him.

  “Morning, Jay,” she said as if he’d come down her stairs at eight in the morning every day of her life. She plucked a few fresh blueberries from a colander and dropped them on to the heating griddle cakes.

  “Hi. I stopped by Stephen’s room and tried to nudge him out of bed.”

  She smiled and cleared her throat as if neither of them were thinking about last night and the kisses they’d shared on the bench outside. Just at a whiff of the memory, his damn crotch tightened.

  “How’d that go over?”

  “Oh, you know, like the proverbial lead balloon.”

  “I’ll bet. He usually sleeps in on Sunday. No summer school.” She smiled and showed the hint of a dimple. “Stephen’s not known for being overly enthusiastic in the morning.”

  “Is any teenager?”

  She shook her head, the dark strands gleaming in the morning light that streamed through the windows of the nook. “There’s coffee in the pot if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks.” He poured himself a cup from the glass carafe and tried not to notice how her hips shifted invitingly beneath the terry cloth. “I’ve been thinking, Tiffany.”

  “Always a dangerous sign.”

  “About Stephen.”

  All her muscles tensed, and her spine stiffened slightly. “What about him?”

  “We both know he’s not involved in Isaac Wells’s disappearance.”

  “Of course he isn’t,” she snapped testily. “He’s only thirteen, for crying out loud! How could he be involved?”

  “He’s not. You’re right. But my guess is that he knows more than he’s saying.”

  “Knows what?” She kept her back to him as she worked, but he knew he had her undivided attention. “Oh, this is ridiculous. He’s just a boy.”

  “Then why didn’t he come clean weeks ago?”

  “What are you saying, Jay?”

  “It could be he’s protecting someone.”

  “Who?” she asked, looking over her shoulder, her eyes darkening to the shade of amber he found so mesmerizing. In the terry-cloth bathrobe with her hair piled haphazardly on her head and the barest touch of makeup, she was damned near irresistible.

  “I thought you might have the answer to that one.”

  Sighing, she blew her bangs from her eyes. “Stephen doesn’t confide in me all the time.” She flipped the pancakes deftly. “You know I think this is all a wild-goose chase on your part and the police’s, but I’ll ask him.”

  “Good.” He wondered what the kid knew. What was eating at him. Sipping from his cup, J.D. opened one of the windows near the kitchen table and tried to ignore the scent of Tiffany’s skin. Ringlets, still wet from her shower, framed her face and straggled invitingly at her nape. Again his groin tightened. His blood stirred as it always did when he thought about Tiffany and what sweet pleasure it was to make love to her. There were so many barriers between them—most of his own making, but barriers that needed to be scaled. “About last night—”

  “Last night?” She froze, one hand holding the spatula.

  “In the backyard.”

  “Oh.” The back of her neck turned a vibrant shade of red. “I, uh, I don’t think we should talk about it.” She waved her spatula in the air as if she could physically block the train of conversation.

  “Why not?”

  “Because... Because... Oh, I don’t know.” Because you confuse me. Everything about you makes me challenge my own convictions. “Let’s just chalk it up to bad timing, okay?”

  “It was more than that.”

  Was it? Oh, Jay, part of me wants to believe you, but I just can’t. “I don’t want to hear this.” She scraped the pancakes from her griddle and tossed them expertly on to a platter.

  “We can’t run away from it.”

  “Sure we can.” She poured more batter on to the griddle and, as the pancakes started to cook, turned to face him. “I’ve got a lot to deal with, Jay. A helluva lot. I don’t need or want any man—even you, believe it or not—complicating things.”

  He smiled and she rolled her eyes, grabbed another handful of berries and tossed them on to the cakes.

  “I’m not trying to complicate anything.”

  “Oh, right.” She shook her head and sighed theatrically. “Maybe you can’t help it,” she said. “Maybe it’s a part of your makeup, in your genes.” She smiled a little. Goodness, he was handsome, even in the early morning. Unshaven, his black hair a little too long and shaggy to be fashionable, he looked rugged and hard and unbending. A man to avoid at all costs.

  “I just thought we should discuss what happened.”

  “What happened was a mistake. Period. You’re my brother-in-law. Nothing more. Even though Philip’s dead and your family already despises me. My kids are dealing with the loss of their father in their own ways, and I don’t think that I have any right, or…or…desire—” He lifted one eyebrow, silently calling her a liar, and she sighed. “Okay, bad choice of words, but you know what I mean. I’m not ready to, well, you know, make things more difficult for anyone. Including myself.”


  Smothering a smile, he took a sip from his cup, then set it on the counter. “You’re kidding yourself, Tiff.”

  “No way.” She turned the pancakes, and he came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. She wanted to push him away, but she couldn’t find the strength, or the desire. He dragged her closer, nestling her buttocks between his legs, allowing her to feel that he was already aroused. Deep inside she sensed a dangerous warmth spreading through her bloodstream. “Jay, don’t—” she started to protest, then stopped. Because she wanted him. That was the simple and horrid truth.

  He nuzzled the back of her neck, and she let out a soft moan. “I’m warning you—”

  “Good.” His arms tightened around her slim waist. “Warn all you want.”

  “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “The worst,” he agreed.

  “I mean it, Jay.”

  “You’re gorgeous in the morning. Well, really, you’re gorgeous at night, too.”

  “And you’re incorrigible.”

  “I can only hope.” Turning her in his arms, he rested his forehead against hers. Morning sunlight glistened through the windows, and the odors of drying herbs and sizzling griddle cakes mixed with her feminine scents of soap and lavender. His lips found hers, and she opened her mouth as easily as a flower to the sun. The bathrobe slid open, and his hands slipped around her waist, feeling her bare skin, the weight of her firm breasts unencumbered by a bra.

  “Jay,” she whispered as he lowered himself to his knees. She closed her eyes, and he kissed first the top, then the underside of one breast before leaving a wet kiss on the nipple. “Oooh,” she whispered, and he took the anxious bud into his mouth. He teased its tip with his tongue and teeth, and she leaned against the counter for support. With his hands, he parted the skirt of her robe, and his fingers skimmed the insides of her legs. She sagged a bit, and he reached higher just as she started.

  “The breakfast,” she gasped, and looked down at him in horror. “Oh, no, no, no.” What had she been thinking, letting him kiss and touch and pet her so thoroughly right in the middle of the kitchen on a bright sunny day? The kids could have come downstairs or Mrs. Ellingsworth could have shown up on the back porch and caught them acting like a couple of hot-blooded teenagers. “For the love of Saint Jude,” she whispered, scraping the burning pancakes off the griddle and tossing them into the sink to be devoured by the disposal. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said, pouring the last of the batter on to the griddle.