A Family Kind of Gal (15 page)

He lifted up the bottle. “I brought this as a peace offering.”

She stopped only inches from him and lifted a dark, suspicious brow. “Because—”

“Of our disagreement.”

She shook her head and laughed. The sound was musical and vital. “If you buy a bottle of wine every time we disagree, you're going to go broke fast.”

“You think?”

“No, I know.”

“Then,” he said, placing the glasses on the rail of the porch and beginning to slice the foil surrounding the cork with the tip of the corkscrew, “maybe we should just call a truce.”

“You think that's possible?”

He skewered her with a look that made her swallow hard. “Anything's possible, Tiffany. You know that.”

She looked quickly away as he placed the bottle between his knees and pulled the cork.

“It's late.”

“Yeah, but where're you going?”

“Upstairs. To bed.”

He left that line alone and poured them each a glass. “You can spare a few minutes.”

She looked as if she wanted to bolt but took the glass, and together they sat on a bench beneath a willow tree in the backyard.

“How about a toast?” he asked.

“To what?”

“Better days?”

She smiled sadly, and he was undone. For an unreasonable second he wanted to enfold her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right. Instead he studied the ruby-dark depths of his glass. She squared her shoulders and nodded. “Better days,” she agreed, touching the rim of her glass to his. “Lots of them.”

“Amen.”

They both took a sip, and the night seemed to hold them closer. Faint light fell from the windows of the nook where the candle burned, and somewhere down the street a dog gave a soft “Woof.” Crickets chirped from hidden crevices, and the rumble of traffic, slow-moving and sparse, was barely audible.

“So,” she finally said as if the silence between them was unbearable. “How did you just happen to show up at the police station today?”

“When I got back here, I heard what was going on from Mrs. Ellingsworth.”

“Ah,” she said, taking a swallow. He tried not to watch the motion of her throat, but it was impossible. “Discretion isn't one of Ellie's strong points.”

“No?”

She frowned at her glass. “No. But she's honest, kind, loving, fun, and she adores my children.” With a half smile, she added, “I guess I can live with her need to gossip.”

“She's just lonely. Wants someone to talk to.”

Tiffany nodded and twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers. “So how's the search coming?” she asked. “Have you found a place for the winery?”

“I'm narrowing it down.”

“To—?”

“A couple of places. One of which is the Wells ranch.”

Tiffany sighed. “It seems we never can get away from that place, can we?”

“I told you I'd help,” he said.

“And I told you I don't need any.” She took another long swallow from her glass, and he drained his.

“You're a lousy liar, Tiffany.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You need a lot of help. You've got a house that's falling down around you and a job that takes a lot of your time. On top of that you're worried about your son, and I don't blame you. Right now Stephen's rebelling all over the place. Maybe it has to do with Philip's death, but maybe it runs deeper. No one knows, but the simple fact is that he looks like he's been in a prison fight, and he's probably still in some trouble with the police. Whether you admit it or not, you're afraid that he's somehow connected with Isaac Wells's disappearance.”

“He's just a boy!” she protested.

“A boy who might know too much. He's running with a rough crowd, getting into fights, and you don't know how much else, but the fact of the matter is he ended up with Isaac Wells's keys.”

“It was a dare.”

“One he shouldn't have taken,” J.D. said, seeing her face whiten in the night.

“Then there's your daughter.”

She gasped. “Christina's fine.”

“Is she? Why the nightmares every night?”

Tiffany bristled and set her drink on the ground. What was J.D.'s game? What did he want? “What do you expect, Jay? She was barely three when she watched her father die, for God's sake. Of course that's going to cause some trauma. But it's normal. She's been to a child psychologist.” Tiffany crossed her arms under her breasts and glared at him. What did he know about raising kids? About becoming a single parent? About dealing with a truckload of guilt because your husband died in an automobile accident while you survived? About facing yourself every morning knowing that you were at the wheel of the car when it slid out of control? Her stomach twisted into painful knots, and she cleared her throat.

“I'm just concerned,” he said so quietly that for a split second, she believed him.

“Why all of a sudden? Most of Stephen's life you haven't been around.”

“I had my reasons,” he said.

“Which were?”

He leveled her with a gaze that caused her heart to knock. “You don't want to know.”

“Of course I do.”

He lowered his glass to the ground and grabbed her bare shoulders in his big, callused hands. She started to shrink from him, but held her ground and inched her chin up a notch. “If you want to know the truth—”

“I do.” Or did she?

“Most of my reasons for staying away had to do with you, Tiffany.”

“With me?” she whispered, then stared into his eyes. Dark with the night they made promises of slow seduction, of a forbidden desire that no amount of time could erase. Memories cascaded through her mind, erotic images that tumbled, one after another, of the one night, just after Philip's death, when she'd given in to him, of the few desperate hours when she'd clung to him in her tormented and anguished grief. “You're right,” she said, swallowing hard and trying with all her heart to forget those painful-yet-bittersweet memories. “I don't want to know.”

“Too late.” His fingers tightened, he lowered his head, and his mouth slanted over hers as familiarly as if they'd been lovers just last night.

A small sound filled her throat—not the note of protest she'd intended, but a soft plea. His arms surrounded her, and she knew she should pull back from him, slap him across his cocky jaw, but she couldn't find the strength. Instead she closed her eyes, and for one glorious, taboo moment she kissed him back, opening her mouth, feeling the slick penetration of his tongue.

Her skin tingled. Her pulse clamored. Her blood heated.

He wound his fingers through her hair, and the rubber band holding it in place broke, allowing the thick tresses to tumble free.

Stop this madness, Tiffany, stop it now. While you still can.
But her protests were forgotten as his lips moved to her cheeks and eyes. His body pressed against hers, and her nipples tightened expectantly.

Deep inside she began to palpitate, with a quivering need that chased away all her doubts.

“Tiffany,” he said on a sigh, and his breath was hot against her skin. He kissed the length of her neck and rimmed the circle of her throat with his tongue.

Her head lolled backward, and silently she offered him more. A dozen reasons to push him away entered her mind, only to be thrust aside by the greater urge to love and be loved, to feel a man's hands, his lips, his tongue.

His fingers scaled her ribs, and his thumbs reached forward, each warm pad pressing against breasts, seeking and finding that taut button beneath her dress, then moving in gentle circles, stirring her blood, stoking the already heated fires of desire that made her skin so hot that perspiration dotted her skin.

He found the front buttons of her dress, easing each pearl fastener through its hole, parting the fabric so that the warm night air caressed her suddenly bare skin. An ache formed deep between her legs, and she knew in an instant that she wouldn't stop him; that no matter how far he wanted their lovemaking to progress, she would gladly receive him.

His tongue licked her collarbone, and she whispered his name.

“Jay, oh, please—oooh!”

He kissed her through the lace of her bra, and she cradled his head against her as his lips found her nipple. Through the fabric he suckled, and she could barely keep her balance on the bench. One of his hands reached around her, rubbing her buttock as he teased and kissed her breast.

“Aaaahhh!” A terrified scream pierced the night.

“Christina!” Tiffany sat bolt upright. J.D. released her.

Buttoning her dress and calling herself a moron, she raced to the house, up the back steps and through the door.

“Mommy!” the little girl cried. “Mommeee!”

“I'm coming, sweetheart!” Tiffany flew up the stairs. J.D. was on her heels.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

“I'm here, baby,” Tiffany said, running down the hallway and tearing into her daughter's room. “Right here.”

Christina was in the middle of her bed, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down her little face. Tiffany scooped her daughter up and held her tightly, kissing her cheeks, holding her buttocks with one arm and her head with the other. “It's all right, Chrissie, Mommy's here. I'll always be here.”

Sobbing, Christina clung to her. “I scared.”

“I know, honey, I know. But there's nothing to be scared about. I'm here.” She dabbed at her daughter's eyes and, taking up Chrissie's favorite blanket, sat in the rocker near the bookcase, the rocker she'd used when the children were infants. J.D. stood in the doorway, looking as if he wanted to say something, but he held his tongue, and a second later Stephen, his hair at odd angles, half staggered into the room.

“Nightmare?” he asked and Tiffany nodded.

“Bad dream!” Christina whispered.

“You gotta do somethin' about it,” Stephen said, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“I'm trying. Shhh.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stephen rolled his eyes at his uncle, then returned to his own room.

“Can I do anything?” J.D. asked, his face tense.

She shook her head but held his gaze as Christina, giving up a tiny sigh, snuggled against her. “We're fine,” Tiffany said and ignored the doubts in his eyes. “Just fine.” She picked up the well-loved, floppy-eared stuffed rabbit and tucked it into her daughter's arms. “Here's Bub.” Then she pressed a kiss to her daughter's curly head and kept rocking.

Thankfully J.D. took the hint. “If you need anything—”

“I won't.”

“I'll be upstairs.” She held her breath as she heard him climb the steps to the third floor. Christina calmed as she always did, and her eyelids slowly lowered as the tempo of her breathing steadied. Humming softly, Tiffany continued to rock until she felt her daughter's bones turn to butter.

Gently Tiffany tucked Christina into the bed and tiptoed into the hallway. She left the door ajar and walked toward her own room, pausing for a second at the open door to the third floor.

It was an invitation from her brother-in-law. She let her fingers run alongside the edge of the door and thought long and hard about his silent offer. A part of her longed to dash up the stairs and throw herself into his arms. Another part restrained her. J.D.'s invitation was one she couldn't accept. She'd been a fool to kiss him tonight. Letting him touch her and feeling all those long-buried sensations was tantamount to emotional suicide. With renewed determination and more than a trace of regret, she closed the door and walked to her room.

She could never, never let J.D. get close to her again. It was just too dangerous.

Slowly she unbuttoned her dress and caught a glimpse of herself in the freestanding mirror. Her hair was mussed, her dress wrinkled, her face still flushed. “Oh, Tiffany,” she said. “Be smart. For your kids' sake.”

She tossed her dress into the hamper and slipped on a cotton T-shirt, then slid between the sheets of her bed and turned off the lamp. Why couldn't she just tell J.D. to take a hike? To leave her and her small family alone?

Because you want him, Tiffany. It's just that simple.

And oh, so complicated.

Once before, she'd given in to temptation, and she'd lived to regret it. She shuddered and closed her eyes. It had all started with the accident, the damned accident that had altered the course of her life forever. She'd been driving down from the mountain after a day of skiing. Philip had dozed off in the passenger seat. The kids had been in the back of the sedan, Christina strapped in her toddler seat while Stephen, exhausted and half asleep, was listening to his headphones. It had been nearly nine months ago, but she remembered it as vividly as if the horrible night had just been this past week.

The snow had been blinding as she'd eased down the steep hillside, not realizing that within minutes her entire life would change...

The snow just wouldn't let up. Fat flakes fell on to the windshield before the wipers could scrape them off. Ice had collected on the wiper blades, and the steady glare from the headlights of the cars driving up the mountain were giving her a headache.

She'd never liked driving in the snow in western Oregon where it usually began to melt only to freeze over again, leaving a layer of ice on the pavement.

Road crews were working around the clock, and she comforted herself with the fact that the road past Government Camp on Mount Hood had been sanded and plowed and resanded. Yet her studded tires slid a little as she rounded a corner, and she looked forward to finding dry, or wet pavement, at the lower elevations.

She was wearing gloves and her ski clothes, and the heater was blasting hot air, yet she felt chilly inside. She punched a button on the radio, hoping to catch the weather forecast, but the signal was weak at this altitude, with the craggy peaks of the Cascade Mountains causing interference, so she settled for an old Otis Redding song that crackled and sputtered through the speakers.