Envious

by Lisa Jackson

  Grudgingly Stephen hopped to the ground and started striding toward the lane where the Jeep was parked.

  “Tiffany!” Katie, holding her skirt in one hand was waving frantically as she weaved in and out of the haphazardly parked cars. “You’re not leaving already, are you?”

  “I think it’s time.”

  “But we never even got to talk—Oh, hi,” she said to Stephen. “I’m Josh’s mom, but you know that, don’t you?” She turned her thousand-watt smile on J.D. “Don’t tell me, you’re Philip’s brother.”

  “J.D. Santini.” He extended his hand and Katie shook it in both of hers.

  “Glad to meet you. But please, don’t leave yet. The party’s just beginning. I’m just thrilled that you decided to show up. I know it means a lot to John and to my mom. They have this wild notion that we can all become one of those big blended-patchwork kind of families.”

  Tiffany hazarded a glance at her son. Was that what he wanted? A large family, complete with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents? How could she blame him? Hadn’t she, at his age, longed for the very same thing? “Maybe, in time, it’ll all work out,” she offered and didn’t add, But I wouldn’t hold my breath.

  “Sure.” Katie seemed convinced. “It won’t be easy, but, hey—” She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t it work? We’re all adults—well, most of us,” she added, winking at Stephen. “I’m looking for Josh right now. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”

  “He was, uh, playing in the hayloft with some of the younger kids,” Stephen said, obviously uncomfortable, as if he’d broken some code of honor by telling a parent where to find her son.

  Katie rolled her eyes. “He’s probably ruined his new slacks and jacket. I just bought them for this deal and I was hoping that he wouldn’t grow out of the blazer before he wore it again—say, for Bliss’s wedding—but now it’s probably ruined. Oh, well, such is the life of a single mother.”

  Tiffany thawed a little. Katie’s warmth and enthusiasm were downright infectious. Besides, she and Katie had so much in common. Not only were they John Cawthorne’s illegitimate daughters, but they were both struggling as single parents and working women.

  “We really do have to go,” Tiffany said. It wasn’t a lie. Mrs. Ellingsworth had been pressed into duty to watch Christina, and Tiffany wanted to take Stephen home and set down the rules.

  “Then call me for lunch someday,” Katie replied.

  “I will.” Tiffany didn’t know if she was ready to embrace this ready-made family, but one lunch wouldn’t matter. As Katie headed for the barn, Tiffany asked Stephen, “Didn’t you bring your skateboard?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ll get it.” He jogged over to a shiny Dodge pickup, reached into the back and withdrew his wheels. “I, uh, got a ride out here from the wedding,” he explained when he rejoined them.

  “You went to the ceremony?”

  “Uh-huh.” He lifted a shoulder.

  “Who gave you a lift out here?” She bristled, as she didn’t recognize the truck. She hoped he wasn’t foolish enough to ride with strangers.

  “Trevor McBaine.”

  One of Katie’s twin brothers. Part of the extended family. Perfect, she thought with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  “He’s got a kickin’ truck.”

  “That he has,” Tiffany said tightly. She didn’t know whether to throttle her son or hug him close and beg him not to pull any more stunts like this.

  They climbed into J.D.’s Jeep and didn’t say a word all the way home. J.D. stared through the windshield as he drove and Tiffany, rather than blast her boy, fiddled with the controls for the radio until she found a station that was clear.

  The atmosphere inside the Jeep was tense, and the ride, only twenty minutes long, seemed to take forever. Before the truck had stopped completely in the driveway, Stephen had unbuckled his seat belt and was out the door and across the lawn. He slammed up the back steps and Tiffany told herself to give him time to cool off. But she couldn’t. She was too angry herself.

  J.D. cut the engine. Tiffany unclasped her seat belt and reached for the handle of her door, but J.D. caught hold of her shoulder, restraining her. “Give him time to think things over before you rip into him.”

  “I think he needs to know what he put me through.”

  “I know,” J.D. said with an exaggerated patience that made Tiffany’s blood boil. “I don’t have a doubt that you want to tell him exactly how you feel, but wait until you’ve both had time to think about it.”

  Irritated, she retorted, “Is this the voice of experience talking?”

  “It is.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “Since when did you become a parent?”

  His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. “I was talking from the kid’s point of view—a troubled kid. I’ve been there.”

  “Forgive me for thinking like a mother, okay? But I think it’s more important to be a parent than a friend.” She jerked her arm away from him. “If I remember correctly you were the one who pointed out that I was having trouble with my son.”

  “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 be
tween 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 clench. 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.”

  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 clenched 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 onto 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 correct 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 storytime, 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 gr
anddaughter 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.