Til Death Do Us Part

by Beverly Barton

  One thing was certain—J. T. Blackwood most definitely wasn’t the man Benjamin Greymountain had been. But then, maybe she wasn’t half the woman Annabelle had been.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  J.T. NODDED AT Tim Rawlins when he stepped up on Joanna’s front porch. Standing at the door, he hesitated before knocking. He’d given Joanna a couple of hours to be by herself and calm down, but he’d waited as long as he could. His patience had run out.

  He hadn’t meant for her to overhear his conversation with Elena. He could have kicked himself when he’d seen the look of hurt and disillusionment in her eyes. But who knows, he told himself, maybe it’s better this way. At least now, she knew exactly where they stood. He wanted Joanna, wanted her in the worst way a man could want a woman. But if she was expecting love and “forever after,” she had the wrong guy. Love wasn’t a word that existed in his vocabulary. And there was no such thing as “forever after.” He lived his life a day at a time.

  Joanna opened the door, took one look at J.T. and started to close the door in his face. He stuck his foot over the threshold and grabbed the edge of the door.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  She glared at his hand, then down at his foot. “Doesn’t look like I can stop you.” She stared directly at him.

  “I’d like to come in and talk to you, but I won’t crash my way in if you say no.”

  “Come in.” Turning her back on him, her spine stiff as a board, she marched into the living room.

  J.T. followed her over to the easel supporting Elena’s portrait. “You’re capturing my sister’s earthy beauty.”

  “We didn’t get a chance to do much work today,” Joanna said. “I need only a couple more sittings to be able to finish it. Elena wants it for Alex’s birthday present.”

  “Well, it’ll certainly be something he’ll treasure.”

  “I hope so.”

  J.T. stared at the unfinished portrait. “Elena looks a lot like my mother. The way I remember her from my early childhood. When I saw her again after so many years, she was dying and had aged terribly.”

  “You and Elena resemble each other some, enough to recognize the fact you’re brother and sister.” Joanna covered the portrait.

  “Elena was fifteen before I ever met her, before I even knew I had a half sister. One of my mother’s relatives called and told me my mother was dying.” J.T. strolled around the living room, surveying the changes Joanna had made in the old bunkhouse. She’d turned a ramshackle old building into a warm, comfortable home.

  J.T. glanced at the portrait of Annabelle Beaumont hanging over the mantel, and wondered if he should show Joanna the picture he had of Benjamin. His gut instincts told him that Annabelle had been the artist who had drawn his great-grandfather’s likeness in a stark, totally male black-and-white sketch. Suddenly J.T. noticed a small fire burning in the fireplace.

  “It’s too hot a day for a fire,” he said.

  “I needed to burn some trash.” She sat down on the leather sofa. “Is there a reason you came over here to see me?”

  J.T. took a closer look at the “trash” she had decided to burn. A tight knot formed in his throat when he recognized the notebook she had half-filled with sketches of him. Dammit! She must hate him. And he didn’t want her to hate him. All he wanted was for her to accept this thing between them for what it was. Lust. Good old plain lust. Nothing less, but nothing more.

  “Maybe you should go back to Virginia the way your mother wants you to,” he said.

  Snapping her head around, she frowned at him. “Why?”

  “Why? Well, you’d be better off without my being involved in the case. I think it’s pretty obvious that things aren’t going to work out between us. Our expectations are different.”

  “Oh, I see. So, you’re saying that if I return to Virginia and get a different bodyguard, I won’t wind up making a total fool of myself over you.”

  “Dammit, Jo, that’s not what I said.” J.T. slumped down in the overstuffed plaid chair across from the sofa. “If you go back to Virginia, neither one of us will wind up making fools of ourselves. I want something from you that you’re not willing to give, and you want something from me that isn’t in me to give. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Nothing’s ever that simple.”

  “If you want to go home to Virginia, I’ll call Simon Roarke and have him fly out here tomorrow and go back to Virginia with you whenever you’re ready to go.”

  “Who’s Simon Roarke?”

  “He’s been an agent with Dundee’s Private Security for several years. He’s top-notch. You’d be safe with him.” J.T. grinned, but there was no mirth in his smile. “Besides, your mother might approve of him. He’s pure Scotch-Irish all the way back to Adam. Not a drop of impure blood in him that I know of. But his folks were poor Southern farmers. Think that will disqualify him?”

  “It might disqualify him as husband material,” Joanna said, “but I think Mother would approve of him being my bodyguard.”

  “Then I’ll call him and have him catch the first flight—”

  “There’s no need to call Mr. Roarke. I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here in Trinidad, New Mexico, on the Blackwood ranch, and I’m holding you to your promise to stick around as long as I need protection.” She smiled, just barely turning up the corners of her mouth. Her green eyes glistened with triumph.

  “Your mother isn’t going to be happy.”

  “I really don’t care. I’m just sorry that you and Elena and Alex will have to endure her visit. She’s a charming Southern lady on the surface, but beneath that Virginia-belle facade, beats the heart of a born politician. She’s not above saying or doing whatever she thinks is necessary to get her own way.”

  “And that includes taking potshots at me.”

  “I’m not worried about you.” Joanna stood. “Your hide is pretty tough. I’m worried about Elena. She’s very protective of you, and she’ll jump to your defense if Mother casts aspersions on your ethnic heritage.” Joanna walked toward the front door. “I think we’ve discussed everything we needed to, don’t you?”

  J.T. stood. “Here’s your hat. What’s your hurry?” he said jokingly. “One question before you kick me out.”

  Shrugging, she nodded agreement. “All right. One question. Then you’ll leave.”

  He glanced at the notebook, now almost totally consumed by the blaze in the fireplace. “Why did you burn the sketch pad?”

  Every muscle in Joanna’s body tensed; her nerves jangled like a zillion tiny bells. She couldn’t bear the way J.T. was looking at her, as if accusing her of something sinful. How could she possibly answer him without lying? His thoughtless remark that nothing serious would ever happen between them had cut her to the quick. She didn’t want to admit to him how much he had hurt her. But he already knew. The burning sketch pad was all the evidence he needed to know the depth of her anger.

  “I understand exactly where we stand,” she said. “We are not our great-grandparents. There is no grand love affair in our future. You don’t want a serious relationship with me, and I don’t want any type of relationship with you, other than in a strictly business capacity.”

  “You’re a hard woman, Joanna Beaumont. You want all or nothing, don’t you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’ll keep a guard posted outside around the clock, and I’ll check in with you from time to time.” He walked over to her, hesitated momentarily; then, when she didn’t respond to his gesture, he opened the front door and stepped out on the porch.

  Just as she started to close the door, the telephone rang. She rushed across the room, grabbed the receiver and said hello. J.T. stood in the doorway and waited.

  “Hello,” she said again.

  “Hello, Joanna.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Don’t you recognize my voice, baby doll?”

  “No—no, I don’t.” But she did. She would never forget that cultured Southern dr
awl, that soft, effeminate voice or the “baby doll” endearment.

  “I’ve already talked to Claire and Libby. I told each of them that I’d be paying them a little visit anytime now. I didn’t want you to find out about all the attention I’m giving them and get jealous.”

  J.T. stepped back inside and closed the door behind him slowly. He watched Joanna. Her face paled. She clutched the telephone fiercely.

  Joanna glanced over at J.T. He mouthed the words, “Who is it? Plott?”

  She nodded her head. J.T. cursed softly under his breath.

  “What’s the matter, baby doll?” Lenny Plott asked. “Surely you’re not surprised to hear from me. After all, you knew it would be only a matter of time before I’d look up all my old friends. I suppose Lieutenant George told you what happened to poor little Melody.”

  “You strangled her.”

  “Is that all he told you?” Lenny Plott laughed—that shrill, diabolical laugh Joanna would never forget. “You know what else I did to her before I strangled her, don’t you, Joanna?”

  There was no way Joanna could keep Plott on the phone long enough to run a trace. From everything he’d found out about Leonard Plott III, J.T. knew the man might be deranged, but he wasn’t a fool.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” Lenny said. “But you don’t know when. You don’t have any idea who I’m coming after next. Will I go to Missouri or Texas or New Mexico? Who knows, maybe I’ll throw darts at a map.”

  “If you come after me, you’ll be sorry,” Joanna said. “I’ll kill you before I’ll ever let you touch me again.”

  “So brave, aren’t you, darling girl? Well, just remember this, you won’t recognize me when you see me. I’ve changed my appearance. I doubt my own mother would recognize me.”

  The line went dead. Joanna replaced the telephone receiver. J.T. grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he had changed his appearance enough that I wouldn’t recognize him, and that he knows where all three of us—Claire, Libby and I—are. We don’t know which one of us he’ll come after next.”

  “Look, Jo, he just told you that to try to frighten you even more than you already are. Our boy Lenny sounds like the type who likes to play head games.”

  “Phone Lieutenant George and let him know about this call,” Joanna said.

  “I’ll phone from the main house.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, soothing her. “Will you be all right here by yourself until I get back?”

  “Tim Rawlins is still outside. And I have my gun.” She pulled away from J.T. “There’s no need for you to come back over here.”

  “You’re wrong about that, honey. Plott knows exactly where you are now. I’m moving in here with you. It’s time for me to start acting as your private, around-the-clock bodyguard.”

  “No!” She backed away from J.T. “That’s not necessary.”

  “This isn’t up for discussion. We’re not taking a vote. From now until Lenny Plott is arrested, I’m not leaving your side. Do you understand?”

  Reluctantly, she nodded her head. Dear God, how had her life come to this? Lenny Plott had escaped from prison and was threatening her life. And J. T. Blackwood, a man she both desired and despised, was moving in with her.

  JOANNA STARED AT the shaving kit sitting on the left side of the vanity in her bathroom. She had never shared a bathroom with a man. Even when she’d been engaged to Todd, they hadn’t lived together. Having J.T. sleeping in the room next to hers, the two of them together twenty-four hours a day, seemed far too intimate. She might not like the idea, but she wasn’t going to ask J.T. to leave. In the sea of fear and uncertainty her life had become, J.T. was her lifeline—the one person standing between her and a deadly enemy.

  Dragging her gaze away from the leather kit, Joanna picked up the jar of cleansing cream, unscrewed the lid and delved her fingers into the solution. Smearing the cream on her face, she glanced in the mirror. Her green eyes stared back at her, mocking her, telling her she was a fool. Although her body longed for J.T. and her romantic heart cried out for his love, she knew they were all wrong for each other. She was a permanent type of woman; he was a temporary kind of guy. She believed in love; he didn’t. And to complicate matters further, she could not bring herself to fully trust J.T. She didn’t doubt his sincerity when he promised to protect her from Lenny Plott, but she didn’t dare trust him with her love. Of course, it didn’t really matter. He didn’t want her love. All he wanted was her body.

  She wiped off the face cream, washed her hands and lifted her silk robe from the wooden wall peg. She had thought about going to bed early, but had decided she would not stay in her room to avoid J.T. She had work to do, a life to live, an orderly routine to her days. She’d go crazy if she couldn’t maintain some semblance of normalcy in her life. She’d just have to get used to J.T.’s presence.

  Before leaving the sanctuary of her bathroom, she glanced back at the shaving kit.

  She found J.T. standing in front of the fireplace in the living room, gazing up at Annabelle Beaumont’s portrait. Joanna sucked in her breath. The sight of him, partially disrobed, left her breathless. He had removed his boots and socks, leaving his big feet bare. His unbuttoned shirt hung loosely about his hips. In that one brief moment before he turned and looked at her, Joanna saw a glimpse of what she thought might be the real J. T. Blackwood. Pensive, brooding and yet somehow vulnerable. And in desperate need of love.

  “I have something to show you,” he said. “Something you can have, if you want it.” He reached down in the plaid chair, picked up a large yellowed, frayed piece of paper and held it out to her.

  “What is it?” she asked, noticing that it seemed to be a sketch of some sort.

  “Here. Take a look.”

  He handed it to her. Holding the sketch by the edges, she gasped when she saw the strikingly bold features of a handsome Navajo man. Obviously the drawing had been done years ago. Over seventy years ago?

  “This is Benjamin Greymountain, isn’t it?” Joanna had always wondered what he’d looked like, if he’d truly been as handsome as Annabelle had thought. He had been.

  “Yep. That’s him.”

  “Where did you get—”

  “My mother. When I went to see her, shortly before she died…” Pausing for a split second, he swallowed hard. His jaw tightened, then relaxed. “She gave me her grandfather’s ring and this sketch of him. She told me the ring and picture went together.”

  “You know Annabelle sketched this,” Joanna said. “She couldn’t keep it, couldn’t take it back to Virginia with her and look at it day after day.”

  “What makes you think that? More than likely, she knew she’d have no use for it once she left New Mexico. She probably wanted to put her summer affair behind her.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Joanna stared down at Benjamin’s image. There was the hint of a resemblance between J.T. and his ancestor; a similarity in the eyes, in the cheekbones, in the full lips. “I knew that Annabelle had done several sketches of Benjamin. She wrote about them in her diary. She gave him one—” Joanna glanced down at the treasured portrait in her hands “—this one, as a keepsake, and she destroyed the others before she returned to Virginia. She said it was best if the only picture she had of him was the one forever etched on her heart.”

  J.T. swore under his breath. Snapping her head around, Joanna glared at him. She carried the sketch over to her work desk in front of the row of windows overlooking the porch. Reverently, she laid the image of Benjamin Greymountain down on top of the desk.

  “From what you just told me, I’d say your great-grandmother was quite a romantic.” J.T. hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his jeans and laid his palms flat on his hips. “She must have had a really miserable marriage to have spent so much time idealizing some summer affair she’d once had.”

  “I found the diary in an old trunk in my parents’ attic,” Joanna said. “I looked for things to
occupy my mind after… Well, needless to say, I was intrigued by my great-grandmother’s tragic love affair. Believe me, J.T., what she shared with Benjamin was far more than just some summer affair.”

  “I don’t see what was so damned tragic about it.” J.T. padded softly across the wooden floor, easing up behind Joanna.

  She knew he was hovering over her, only inches away. And he was waiting for her to turn on him, to denounce his insensitivity. Keeping her back to him, she glided her fingertips around the edge of the sketch.

  “If you’re right, and they weren’t deeply in love, then there was no tragedy. But if I’m right, just imagine how they felt—how you’d feel if you’d gotten to spend only a couple of precious months with the one true love of your life.”

  J.T. couldn’t imagine. He’d never been in love, didn’t believe in the nonsense and wished Joanna didn’t. If she were less of a romantic, their relationship would have a better chance. If only she could admit that wanting each other was enough, without clouding the issue with sentimentality.

  “Let’s agree to disagree,” J.T. said, wanting more than anything to ease her into his arms, untie her robe and slip it off her shoulders. She had such pretty shoulders. Soft, pale skin, with a light dusting of freckles just like the freckles that dotted her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

  “If you read the diary, you might change your mind.” Joanna felt his warm breath on her head. If she turned, would he take her in his arms? She pivoted slowly, facing him. “Would you like to read Annabelle’s diary?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. And you’d be better off if you locked the thing in a drawer and forgot about it.” He touched her then. Hesitantly. Tenderly. Reaching down, he lifted her hands into his. “I want you. You want me. There’s nothing wrong with that. As a matter of fact, I think it would be wrong if we denied ourselves the pleasure we can give each other.”

  J.T. held their clasped hands between their bodies. When Joanna glanced down, all she saw was their matching rings, the old silver gleaming faintly in the lamplight. She was tempted. Dear God, how she was tempted. But when their affair ended, what would she have left? Memories, some inner voice told her. But her memories would be tarnished, not golden the way Annabelle’s had been. Love made all the difference. It had to Annabelle. It did to Joanna.