A Family Kind of Gal

  “Something stronger?”

  “Later, maybe.”

  “Later?” she asked, her gaze moving to his duffel bag and her eyes narrowing enough that he noticed the curl of her eyelashes. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on staying?”

  “For a while.”

  She tensed. “How long a while?”

  “Till I accomplish what I set out to do.”

  “Don’t talk to me in riddles, okay?” She arranged the roses in the vase, added water and set the bouquet in the center of the old table. Christina hovered near the back door. “Can I do drawing?” she asked.

  “Great idea,” her mother replied, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She reached for a pack of crayons on the counter, only to have her daughter turn up her little pug nose.

  “I want to draw outside!”

  “Outside?”

  “With the chalk.”

  “Why not?” Tiffany scrounged in a drawer filled with cards, pencils, keys, batteries—anything a person could imagine—until she came up with a box of colored chalk.

  Beaming, Christina snagged the prize from her mother’s outstretched hand and scurried out the back door. The screen slammed behind her as she rushed to plant herself on the cracked concrete patio, upon which she began to doodle in pink, yellow, green and blue.

  Tiffany watched her daughter until she was engrossed in her task, then turned to face J.D. “So, brother-in-law, to what or to whom do we owe the honor of your presence?” she demanded, then shook her head at the question. “No—” she held out her hand as if to ward off his words “—let me guess. You’re here on a mission. Just checking up on your brother’s widow. Trying to figure out if she really is the right kind of mother to raise Philip’s kids.”

  She’d always been smart. Calculating. He leaned a hip against the center island. “I’m here on business.” That wasn’t a lie. Well, not much of one.

  “Sure. That’s why you’re standing in my kitchen. With your bag. Come on, Jay, you can do better than that.” She closed the short distance between them, and a hint of her perfume teased his nostrils. It was the same fragrance she’d worn the last time he’d seen her. Touched her. He gritted his teeth and decided it was time to take the offensive.

  “Before we get into all that, why don’t you explain what you were doing with the juvenile authorities.”

  “I don’t really think it’s any of your business.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I can handle my children,” she said with a cold smile. “No matter what the rest of the Santini family thinks.” With a quick glance through the screen door to assure herself that her daughter was safely out of earshot, she lowered her voice. “I know what your father thought of me when I met Philip. I know he tried to convince Philip that I was a no-good, gold-digging woman who was barely an adult, one who looked at Philip as a…a father figure,” she said, pain sweeping through her eyes.

  You don’t know the half of it, he thought with another stab of guilt.

  “And I heard that you tried to talk Philip out of marrying me.”

  The muscles in J.D.’s shoulders tensed. “Careful, Tiff,” he said. “I had my reasons.”

  She flushed, and her eyes sparked with anger. For a second he thought she might slap him. “None of them good, Jay,” she said through lips that barely moved. “None of them good.”

  “Good, no. Valid, yes.”

  “Philip and I had a…a strong marriage.” Her chin inched up a notch as if she dared him to challenge her.

  “If it worked for you.”

  “It did.”

  He bit back a sharp retort and stared down at her. His gaze lingered on her lips for a second before lowering to the neckline of her blouse, where her skin was flushed with anger, her pulse leaping at the base of her throat. His bad knee throbbed, his stupid crotch was suddenly tight, and he realized that he still wanted her. As he always had. Hell, what a mess.

  “Mind if I sit down?” he asked, then didn’t wait for an answer but slid into one of the tall ladder-back chairs that flanked an old claw-footed table.

  “Suit yourself.” She ran stiff fingers through her hair, then seemed to realize she was being too defensive. Waving with one hand, as if to disperse the cloud of fury surrounding her, she said, “Come on, Jay. Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing down here? If it isn’t to spy on me, there must be a reason. The last I heard, you hated all things that had to do with me or this town.”

  “Hate’s a pretty strong word.” But she was right. He didn’t trust her, and as far as Bittersweet, Oregon, went, he had plenty of reasons to despise this small town filled with small-minded citizens.

  Folding her arms over her chest, she lifted one delicately arched eyebrow, silently urging him on.

  “As I said, I’m here on business.”

  “In Bittersweet?” She shoved a lock of blue-black hair from her eyes. “Don’t tell me you chased an ambulance all the way from Portland down here.”

  That stung. “I left the firm.”

  “No way.” She cocked her head as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “But I thought you were a partner.”

  “I was. Sold out.”

  “So,” she encouraged, suddenly wary, “why?”

  “Dad offered me a job with his company.”

  She laughed without a drop of mirth. “Come on. Don’t give me that worn-out line about an offer you ‘couldn’t refuse,’ Jay.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, this is rich. You with Santini Brothers. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Neither did I.” He stretched his bad leg and rubbed at the pain in his knee through his jeans. “Since I was down here on business anyway, I thought I’d check up on you and the kids.”

  “Ah. As I suspected.” Her shoulders slumped a bit, and she looked at her nails. “Since when do you care?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  She always had been forthright. Nearly to the point of being rude. Well, two could play that game. “I’ve always cared.”

  Her eyes darkened for a second. A shadow flickered in their whiskey-colored depths, and the pulse in the hollow of her throat, above the deep V of her blouse, beat a fraction more rapidly. Hell, she was beautiful. No wonder his brother hadn’t been able to resist her. Neither had he.

  “So how have you and the kids been doing?”

  “I already told you. We’re fine.”

  “No problems?”

  Her jaw tensed a bit. “None that we can’t deal with, Jay,” she said and wished he’d just disappear. She glanced out the window and spied Christina drawing stick figures on the walk. “You can tell your dad that we’re doing fine. No, change that.” She waved expansively. “Tell him we’re great. Not a care in the world.” She’d never gotten along with Philip’s father, Carlo, nor with his mother, for that matter. As his second wife, so many years younger than her husband, Tiffany had been looked upon as a bimbo, a fraud, a little girl who didn’t know her own mind and worst of all, as someone who was after all the Santini family’s wealth. Considering the circumstances, all those thoughts were nothing but a cruel, ironic joke.

  And what did J.D. care? When had he ever? Her heart pumped a little at the sight of him, and she silently called herself an idiot. He was just as ruggedly male as she remembered him, with his long, jeans-clad legs, black hair in need of a trim and penetrating silver-gray eyes.

  “What about the juvenile authorities?”

  Her fingers tightened into fists. “Don’t worry about it.”

  His smile was cynical and downright sexy. If a woman noticed. Tiffany told herself she didn’t. She’d known J.D.—James Dean Santini—too many years to trust him. She’d let down her guard a couple of times, and in both instances she’d gotten herself into trouble—the worst kind of jeopardy. It wouldn’t happen again. Too much was at stake.

  “You know, Tiff, you’re still a member of the family.”

  “Since when?” she retorted, skewering him with a look that, she was certain,
could kill. She pointed a long finger at him. “I’ve never been considered a part of the family. Over fourteen years of marriage and neither one of your parents accepted me.” Nor did you, she silently seethed, but held her tongue. There had been enough pain borne on both sides. She had always longed to be part of a real family, one with a father and mother and siblings, unlike her own small group of relatives. Shivering inwardly, she pushed those thoughts aside and stubbornly refused to think of them, even though, at the end of this very week, her father—her biological father, for that was all he really was, a man who had donated his share of genes to her DNA—was marrying his longtime mistress.

  Wrapping her arms around her middle, she walked to the window that overlooked the backyard. A smile teased her lips as she watched her daughter.

  Right now, the little girl was chasing after the cat, Charcoal, as he darted between the shrubs.

  “What kind of trouble is Stephen getting himself into?” J.D. persisted. She’d forgotten how determined and maddeningly single-minded her brother-in-law could be.

  “Nothing that serious.”

  “Just serious enough that you had to talk with the authorities.”

  Silently counting to ten, she rotated her neck and worked out the kinks. “You know, J.D., the last thing I need right now is to be grilled or given some kind of lecture by you. I don’t know why you’ve decided to come to visit right now, but I’m sure it wasn’t just to harass me.”

  He snorted. “Just a simple question.”

  “Don’t give me that. Nothing you’ve ever done is simple or without a purpose.”

  “And you’re dodging the issue.”

  “Because it’s none of your business, counselor.”

  “The kid’s my nephew.”

  She whirled on him. “And you’ve never given a damn.”

  “I’m giving one now.” His expression was hard and demanding, just as she remembered, his eyes relentless and piercing. He hadn’t changed much except for the fact that she’d never before seen him seated in one position for so long. He’d been too restless, too filled with nervous energy. But now he was waiting.

  “He got caught with alcohol about a month ago,” she admitted as if it wasn’t the big deal she knew it was.

  “At thirteen?”

  “Yes, at thirteen. He was with an older boy, the brother of one of his friends, who was throwing a party. Anyway, the neighbors complained, the police showed up, everyone ran, but Stephen and a couple of other kids were caught. Even though Stephen hadn’t been drinking, he got himself into some hot water. A juvenile counselor was assigned to his case, and just a few minutes ago I was speaking with her.”

  J.D.’s eyebrows slammed together. “And you don’t think this is serious.”

  “Serious enough,” she admitted, though she wasn’t going to let her bachelor brother-in-law, a man who’d never had any kids, know just how worried she was. It was too easy for him to criticize. “Stephen will be all right.”

  “If you say so.”

  “He’s a teenager—”

  “Barely.”

  Tiffany bristled. She stepped closer to him and tried vainly to keep her temper in check. “Don’t start passing judgment, J.D. You remember how much trouble you can get into during those years, don’t you? According to Philip, your adolescent exploits were practically legendary.”

  His jaw hardened, and he climbed to his feet. He winced, then hitched himself across the room to stare out the window over the sink.

  “What happened?” she asked, angry with herself for being concerned. J.D. Santini was the last man she should care about “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Tore a couple of tendons. It’s not a big deal.”

  “When?”

  “A few months ago. Motorcycle accident.”

  “Oh.” So there was still a bit of the rebel in him. Good. For some reason she didn’t want to examine too closely, she found that bit of information comforting, but she couldn’t dwell on it Wouldn’t. “No one told me.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Because, dammit, I am still part of the family.”

  “I was laid up for a few days. No big deal. Believe me, if it had been life-threatening, you would have been notified.”

  “Before or after the funeral?”

  His jaw tightened. “You act as if you’re ostracized. The way I remember it, you came down here and cut the ties, so to speak, because you wanted to.”

  That much was true. She’d run fast and hard to get away from the suffocating grip of the Santini family.

  “Let’s not get into all that,” she suggested. “It’s water under the bridge, anyway. Why don’t you tell me why, if you’re working for the company, you’re in Bittersweet?”

  “Dad’s interested in buying some land around here someplace. Potential winery.”

  “And you’re the expert?” This wasn’t making a lot of sense.

  “Looks like.”

  She didn’t remember him being so evasive. In fact, the J.D. she’d known had been blunt and direct, a man who could make you squirm with his intense, no-nonsense gaze, thin-lipped mouth that rarely smiled and somewhat harsh demeanor. With raven-black hair, thick eyebrows and sculpted features, he never gave an inch and was known to call them as he saw them. And never had he worked for his father. The way Philip had told it, J.D. the renegade, eleven years his junior, was forever at odds with his old man. But then who could get along with Carlo Santini, patriarch with the iron fist and closed mind?

  Something wasn’t right. She sensed it and began to perspire. She cracked open the windows in the kitchen nook. “You know, Jay, you’re the last person, the very last, I expected to cave in and join the family business.”

  “Life has a way of not turning out the way you expect it, Tiffany. Haven’t you learned that by now?” His lips barely moved, his eyes caught hers in a breathtaking hold that she hated, and she felt the first trickle of sweat slide between her shoulder blades. Her stomach did a slow, sensual roll, reminding her of just how easy it was to fall prey to his charm.

  But not now. Not again. Never.

  She swallowed hard and avoided his eyes. Suddenly the kitchen was much too small. Too close. She needed a reason to break up this unexpected atmosphere of intimacy with J.D.

  “Oh, gosh, it’s almost three,” she said, staring pointedly at her watch. “Christina,” she called, looking through the window and spying her daughter drawing on the side of the garage with a piece of yellow chalk. “Time for your nap.”

  “No nap!” The little girl dropped the chalk.

  “Excuse me,” Tiffany said, hurrying out the back door and feeling the much-needed breath of a breeze touch her face and bare arms. It had been a long, strained week capped by a hellish day speaking with Stephen’s counselor. On top of it all, she’d learned that her father—John Cawthorne—actually expected her to show up at his wedding after thirty-three years of pretending she didn’t exist. Fat chance!

  Charcoal, who had been rolling over in a spot of sunlight, scrambled to his feet and dashed under the porch. “Come on, sweetheart,” Tiffany cajoled her daughter as she picked up broken bits of chalk and stuffed them into the tattered pack.

  “I not tired.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “No, I not!” Christina’s lower lip protruded, and she folded her chubby arms across her chest.

  “Well, Bub and Louie are tired, and they’re waiting upstairs in bed for you. It’ll just be for a little while.” She hoisted her daughter into her arms, and Christina, still pouting, didn’t protest.

  Unfortunately J.D. had watched the entire display from the kitchen window. Tiffany wished he’d just go away. She didn’t need any member of the Santini family, especially not J.D., intruding into her life right now—or ever, for that matter. She knew they all thought she hadn’t been good enough for Philip while he was alive, so they could all just go and take the proverbial leap.

  She carried Christina into the back of the house,
mouthed, “I’ll be back in a few minutes” to her erstwhile guest, then lugged the tired three-year-old through the hallway and up the stairs to her room.

  This part of the house, aside from the addition of the bathroom, was as it had been for nearly a hundred years, and Christina’s room was a small alcove that overlooked the fruit trees in the backyard. The bedroom next door belonged to Stephen, and Tiffany’s was across the hall. There were two occupied apartments in the basement and a third one—an empty studio—on the top floor. The ground floor of the carriage house that flanked the backyard was rented, while the upper level was, at the moment, standing empty.

  “There you go,” she said, as she tucked Christina under a hand-pieced quilt her grandmother had made. She arranged Bub, a floppy-eared stuffed rabbit missing one eye, and Louie, a black-masked toy raccoon, beside her daughter.

  “Just a little while,” Christina insisted.

  “That’s right.” Tiffany leaned over and planted a soft kiss on the little girl’s forehead. Christina, who Tiffany had dubbed the “miracle” baby, had been an unexpected blessing three years ago, long after she and Philip had decided that one child—Stephen—was enough. Philip had two nearly grown children from his previous marriage, and he hadn’t thought it was necessary to “overpopulate the world,” especially when he’d already been “paying a fortune” in child support

  Gazing down at her daughter now, Tiffany was thankful that God had seen otherwise, and that despite the use of birth control and Philip’s lack of interest, Christina had been conceived. “Destiny,” she’d told her husband upon learning the news.

  “Or a curse,” Philip had replied with a scowl. “How many kids do you think I can afford?”

  “It’s just one more.”

  “That you planned,” he’d stated flatly, insisting that she’d intentionally tricked him by not using her diaphragm. The fight had simmered for days, with Philip brooding and spending more time at the office. Philip had slept in the den for nearly two weeks, acting as if she wasn’t even in the same house with him until she’d confronted him and flown into a rage.

  “I want this baby!” she’d told him. “Stephen needs a sister or brother.”