Envious

by Lisa Jackson

  “Great! I’ll set it up with Bliss and we’ll meet you at the Blue Moon Cafe. They’ve got outdoor tables.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Tiffany promised and hung up. Great. She was going to have to deal with her sisters whether she wanted to or not.

  She heard the front door open.

  “Tiffany?” J.D.’s voice rang through the house. Tiffany braced herself. The tension between them had been so thick she was certain it could have been sliced with a butcher knife.

  “In here.” She was in the hallway when he met her.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “Out for a couple of hours or so. Christina’s with Mrs. Ellingsworth and Stephen’s with some friends at the movies—”

  “Great.”

  Great? Why didn’t she think so?

  “It’s time we took a little time off and celebrated.”

  Something in his voice gave it away. She felt a cold. dark emptiness as she said, “A celebration. Why? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. It’s because you’re leaving.”

  He paused, his gray eyes holding hers for an intimate second. “It’s what you’ve wanted since the moment I walked in your front door.”

  Oh, dear God. No. The thought of the house without him caused a new dread to fill her heart. “But—but your lease is for six months.”

  “I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the knots of tension in his muscles. “But I’ll keep the apartment because I’ll be back.”

  Her stupid heart soared at the thought. “When?”

  “Off and on, probably a couple of days a month.”

  “That’s all?”

  A smile slid from one side of his mouth to the other. “Don’t tell me you’ll miss me.”

  She managed a cold smile. “In your dreams, Santini.”

  “Always.”

  She froze and something in his eyes beckoned her, touched that part of her soul she’d tried to keep hidden. “Come on, Tiff,” he said, his voice low. “ There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  “What?”

  His flinty eyes sparked as if with a very private secret. “The reason I can leave sooner than expected.”

  “Oh,” she whispered and felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut. “Sure.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Yes. No.” Confusion tore at her. She’d told herself a million times over that if only J.D. would go back to Portland, or L.A. or Timbuktu, for that matter, her life would be better, but now, faced with the fact that he would be gone, she felt none of the elation she’d hoped for. “I, uh, don’t know.”

  His eyes searched her face, as if hunting for a hidden message, a silent clue to her feelings. For a second she thought he would kiss her. Instead he pulled on her hand. “Come on, Tiff.”

  She couldn’t resist.

  Before she could come up with one bit of argument she was inside his Jeep, sitting close to him and staring out the windshield as the main streets of town faded behind and they were on a winding country road, slowing for a tractor pulling a mower, whipping around a truck towing a horse trailer, and avoiding squirrels that dashed frantically across the strip of asphalt that carved through the hills.

  “Ever heard of the Zalinski place?” J.D. asked. The windows of the Jeep were open and the hot breeze that filtered in ruffled his hair and tugged at her ponytail.

  “I’ve met Myra Zalinski at the agency. They moved.”

  “But they hadn’t sold their farm. Until today.”

  “You bought it?”

  “Actually, Santini Brothers did.” He drove past Isaac Wells’s property and Tiffany felt a chill as cold as death when she wondered what had happened to the old man. Where was he? And what, if anything, did Stephen know about his disappearance? Nothing. He knows nothing! Remember that, Tiffany. Trust your son.

  A little farther up the road J.D. turned into a winding drive that was little more than two graveled ruts. Tall weeds grew along the sides of the lane and between the tire tracks, scraping the bottom of the Jeep. A few cattle stood in the surrounding fields and a creek, little more than a trickling stream in the late summer, wound its way into a tiny valley where the house sat, its windows shut tight, the curtains drawn.

  “What made you choose this place?”

  “Size, price, proximity to the freeway, the general appearance of the land, and a gut feeling.” He slid her a knowing glance as he parked the Jeep near an ancient oak tree with spreading branches. “It’s not a done deal yet,” he said, “but it looks like it should fly.” His mouth drew tight at the corners and he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just what Dad was looking for.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Part of her wanted to tell him adios so that she could get back to living her life the way she wanted, without Santini eyes watching her every move and judging her. Another part had decided that she liked having him around, that he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as his father, that he really did care about his niece and nephew. Yet another part—one she didn’t scrutinize too closely—wanted him to stay because she was fool enough to love him. An ache had already begun to settle around her heart and she tried desperately to ignore it.

  “So you think you can grow grapes down here,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted, while a part of her was withering inside.

  “Not just grapes. The best grapes.”

  “Oh, right.” She couldn’t even summon a laugh. He was leaving. Leaving. A cold wind swept through her soul and she suddenly felt empty and desolate inside.

  “Well, Santini Brothers won’t be the first winery. There are quite a few vineyards between Bittersweet, Ashland and Jacksonville. We’ll just have to see if we can make our mark.”

  “And grab your share of the market.”

  “If Carlo has his way.”

  “He always does, doesn’t he?” she said, and for a second he hesitated, as if he wanted to tell her something that hovered on the tip of his tongue. Clearing his throat, he looked away and lifted a shoulder. “Most of the time. Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  He reached into the back seat and pulled out a backpack that he slung over one shoulder before getting out of his Jeep. “For the celebration,” he explained as they walked to the house, a stone cottage that was nestled in a grove of trees. A swing set that had seen better days was rusting by the side of the house and an herb garden, now going to seed, had encroached upon a flagstone patio that overlooked the creek.

  “It’s beautiful—well, it will be.” Forcing her thoughts away from the heart-wrenching fact that she’d have to patch her life back together without him, Tiffany tried to show some interest in her father-in-law’s next project. She looked past the obvious need for repairs to the house and grounds. On the far side of the cottage, away from the shade, a vegetable garden with an arbor flanked an orchard of fruit trees and a small raspberry patch. A breezeway separating the garage from the house was trimmed with lattice that stretched into a grape arbor.

  “The first season’s harvest,” J.D. joked, lifting one of the hundreds of clusters of tiny green grapes. He grabbed her hand, linking their fingers and causing a silly little thrill to climb up her arm.

  Don’t think about it, she told herself. For once, enjoy the moment. He’ll be gone soon and then where will you be? Alone. Again. Hasn’t every man who ever was a part of your life left? First your father, then your husband, now J.D. Her throat turned to cotton and a pain, needle sharp and hot, ripped through her heart.

  She told herself that she was being a ninny, that he didn’t care for her, had never cared for her, and any feelings she was harboring for him were just silly, romantic whimsies.

  Remember, Tiffany, you can’t love this man. You just can’t!

  But she did. The simple, unalterable and painful fact was that she loved him. Wrong or right. For better or worse. Cringing inside at the turn of her thoughts, she was just a step behind him as he showed her around the grounds, pointing out reas
ons this farm was better than the others he’d seen.

  The sun dipped below the horizon and the few clouds hanging low over the western hills blazed brilliant orange and magenta as J.D. followed a path from the house to the barn. Swallows were nesting in the rafters and screeched their disapproval of anyone in the vicinity. A few frogs began to croak and in the distance a coyote sent up a lonely howl.

  “It’s peaceful out here,” she said. “Different from the city.”

  “Just a tad.” The barn door was on rollers and he shoved it open. It creaked and groaned, as if protesting their entrance before finally giving way.

  “Needs a little oil,” she observed.

  “A lot of oil. The whole place needs work. Obviously, but not more than I expected. Both the house and this barn are over a hundred years old and even though they’ve been updated, the wiring’s shot, plumbing needs to be redone and the house reroofed. But with some time, money and effort I think the cottage could be restored and turned into a gift shop and this place could be converted into a winetasting room.” He motioned to the musty interior with its time-darkened beams, wide stalls and hayloft. High overhead a round window let in the last shafts of daylight and an owl, disturbed, fluttered in the rafters.

  J.D.’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as if he were already imagining what the converted farm would look like. He led her through a back door where the pasture dropped off steeply into a natural bowl. “This could be tiered and landscaped into a natural amphitheater that could be rented for parties, or summer concerts or weddings.”

  “Just like the vineyard where you and I met,” she said automatically, then felt like a fool for mentioning something so personal.

  “The same idea.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t think you remembered.”

  “How could I forget?”

  He eyed her for a second, as if trying to read her mind. A small smile toyed at his lips. “You were catering the wedding and trying your best to look grown-up.”

  “And you were doing your best I-don’t-give-a-damn-about-anything impression.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Oh, yeah. Big time. Everyone who saw you thought you were the reason we’d hired security guards.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “That was a long time ago.”

  “A lifetime,” she admitted, a trifle breathlessly. It was happening again, this feeling of closeness and intimacy that she wished didn’t exist.

  “You weren’t married yet.”

  “Neither were you,” she retorted.

  “Never have been.”

  “Why not?” she asked, but before he could answer, she added, “And don’t give me the line about not finding the right woman, Santini, because I wouldn’t believe it.”

  He hesitated for a second and when his gaze returned to hers it was dark, intense. The wind seemed to have died and it was so quiet she heard the sound of her heartbeat in her ears. “Maybe I found her, but she was promised to someone else.”

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “In fact, she was engaged to my brother.”

  Oh, God. There it was. So many times since Philip’s death she’d wondered. Had the one night she’d spent with J.D. been, as she’d told herself, just two people trying to console each other in their grief? Or had it been more? This was dangerous territory, very dangerous, and yet she couldn’t resist stepping over the imaginary line she’d drawn in her mind. “For me,” she said, swallowing against a lump in her throat, “commitments aren’t to be broken.”

  “I know.”

  “I . . . I loved your brother.”

  His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

  “I know your family thought I married him for his part of the Santini estate, or for the fact that I never knew my own father and was searching for a replacement, but the truth is I fell in love with Philip. It might not have been the wild passion people expect to find, and it certainly changed and became . . . more difficult as the years went by, but I loved him nonetheless.”

  J.D. snorted. “So did I.” His lips flattened into a thin, self-deprecating line. “Why do you think I stayed away for so long?”

  “I . . .I didn’t know.”

  “Why do you think I’m leaving now?”

  “Oh, God, don’t say it—”

  “Because I can’t stand the thought that I want my brother’s wife.” His expression was grave. “I saw your marriage falling apart,” he admitted. “I know that Philip became . . . less enchanted and I beat myself up because a part of me wanted it to fail.”

  “No. Please, Jay.” Somewhere deep in her being there was a rendering, painful and filled with remorse. Her heart was pounding so loudly he could surely hear its erratic cadence. “I . . . I don’t think we should be talking like this,” she said in a voice she barely recognized as her own.

  “You asked.”

  “But . . .” Somehow it seemed wrong, such a betrayal of Philip’s memory. “It’s just that what happened between you and me was . . . was . . .”

  “Not supposed to,” he finished for her, his jaw tight, his nostrils flaring slightly. A muscle worked in the corner of his jaw and his hands balled into fists of frustration as he gazed upon the still waters of the pond and saw past its clear depths to the bottom of his own soul, his private hell. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  “I had no intention—”

  “Neither did I,” he said crisply, as if to dismiss the subject. They walked down the natural bowl in the hill to the pond and a thicket of cottonwood, pine and oak that guarded one bank. The sky was turning a deep shade of lavender and a soft breeze raced across the pond.

  Guilt, never far away, nudged even closer. She’d been faithful to Philip, never so much as touched another man. Her heart had been with her husband. Always. Except for a few lonely moments when she’d thought of J.D., of his kiss, or what might have been. But she’d never said a word, never lifted the phone to call him, never uttered his name in the middle of the night when Philip, off on business or a gambling junket, hadn’t been around. She rubbed her arms to ward off a chill before she realized how warm the evening was.

  A hawk flew overhead, lazily circling in the dusky sky, but Tiffany hardly noticed because of the man beside her. Rebel. Black sheep. Hellion. Names she’d heard Philip call his younger brother. Foolish names that weren’t true.

  “On to better things,” he said, as if he’d chased the ghosts of his past away. From the backpack he withdrew a bottle of wine. “I thought we should christen this place.”

  “And how did you want to do that?” she asked, her stupid heart racing at the prospect.

  “I’ll show you.” He pulled a jackknife from the pocket of his jeans and flipped out the corkscrew. “Santini Brothers’ award-winning private reserve.” With an exaggerated flourish, he uncorked the bottle. “Want to sniff the cork?”

  “I’ll trust you,” she said, then saw the stiffening of his spine. “I mean—”

  “I know what you meant.” He set the bottle on a flat rock near the edge of the pond to let it breathe, but he was tense, his muscles flexed. “And the fact of the matter is you don’t trust me.” He looked at her with eyes that flashed a silver gray. “You never have.”

  “I think that goes both ways, Jay. From the moment you laid eyes on me you went out of your way to let me know that I wasn’t good enough to marry your brother.”

  “It wasn’t a matter of being good enough.”

  “No?” She didn’t believe him. “Then what?”

  “I thought you were too young for Philip.”

  “It really wasn’t any of your business, was it?” she demanded, stepping closer to him, elevating her chin and skewering him with a stare meant to melt steel.

  He didn’t so much as flinch. “I guess I made it my business.”

  “But you had no right,” she said, all the years of pentup frustration surfacing. “Just like you have no right to come down here and force yourself into my life.”

&n
bsp; “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “Yes! You seem to think that you . . . you can do anything you please and damn the consequences.”

  “Not true, Tiffany. If it were, then things would be different between us.”

  “Would they? How? Oooh!”

  He grabbed her. Strong arms surrounded her and his mouth, hard and unyielding, pressed firmly over hers. Her breasts were crushed against his chest and she couldn’t breathe, could barely think as he pushed the tip of his tongue to the seam of her lips.

  A thrill swept through her and she opened her mouth willingly. A thousand reasons to push him away slid into her mind. A thousand-and-one reasons to hold him close chased them away. His tongue explored her mouth, touching, tasting, tickling, and her knees turned liquid.

  Large, callused hands massaged her back, moving sensuously over the light cotton of her T-shirt. Fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her shorts and heat invaded her blood.

  Her resistance fled. Common sense failed her.

  His weight pulled them to the ground and he trembled as he kissed the patch of skin exposed by the neckline of her shirt. Her fingers tangled in his hair and she refused to pay attention to any lingering doubts still clouding her mind. She didn’t protest when he lifted her T-shirt over her head, didn’t offer any objections as he kissed the top of each breast so sensually that she ached for more.

  She pulled his shirt over his head, mussing his hair, then touched the thick mat of hair covering his chest. She traced the indentations of his muscles and she felt his abdomen contract when she toyed with the rim of his navel.

  “You’re asking for trouble,” he whispered.

  “I know. I just hope I’m going to get it.”

  “Oh, yeah, lady.” He unhooked her bra and stripped it away. “Oh, yeah.” His breath was hot and seductive, his fingers pure magic as they skimmed over her.

  She arched upward as he kissed and licked her breast, teasing and toying as she writhed beneath him. Like a slumbering animal, desire awoke, stretching and yawning deep inside her, aching to be filled.