A Family Kind of Gal (3 page)

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.”

“He's got one of each.”

“Half siblings who don't live with him.” She'd advanced upon him as he'd sat in his chair, holding the newspaper firmly in white-knuckled fists, his jaw set, his nostrils flared in a seething, silent rage. “I didn't plan to have this baby, but now that it's coming, I consider it a gift and you should, too.”

“I'm too old to be a father again.”

“But I'm not too old to be a mother. It'll be all right,” she'd said, aching inside. She wanted this baby so badly. “I'll make it right.”

His snort of derision and snap of the sports page had been the end of the argument.

Tiffany had been crushed by Philip's attitude but determined to bear this child and bring it into a loving world.

Eventually, after brooding and pouting for a week or two, Philip had come to terms with the prospect of diapers, formula and interrupted sleep. He'd come home with a bouquet of spring flowers and told her that another baby, though not in his plan for the future, might be the best thing that had ever happened to him—to them and their marriage. “It'll either keep me young or make me old real fast,” he'd said.

Tiffany felt a pang of remorse for a man she'd thought she loved, then stepped out of the room as Christina yawned and sighed softly, her eyelids slowly lowering.

J.D. was waiting for her, his hips resting against the balustrade, arms folded across his chest, jaw set with determination. As she closed the door gently behind her, he cocked a thumb at the open door to the third floor. “You've got an empty room upstairs.”

Obviously, he'd already checked it out.

“That's right. I'm hoping to rent it soon.”

His grin was slow-spreading and positively wicked. “Well, Ms. Santini, I guess this is your lucky day.”

No!
She steeled herself. Surely he wasn't suggesting...

“That's right, Tiff,” he said, as if reading her expression. “It just so happens I need a place to stay while I'm in town.”

No way. She couldn't have him this close. He was too intrusive, too damned sexy. But then, he always had been.

“Sorry, Jay, but I don't rent week to week, or, uh, month to month, for that matter. I, uh, always insist upon a six-month lease, first and last month's rent, and both a cleaning deposit and a security deposit.”

“Do you?” One dark eyebrow lifted in mocking disbelief.

“Always.”

“Fine,” he said, his eyes gleaming as if he loved calling her bluff. “Just show me where to sign.”

“T
his is crazy,” Tiffany muttered under her breath as she climbed the curved stairs to the top floor. J.D. followed after her, his steps uneven as he hauled his damned duffel bag and briefcase with him. As if he really intended to rent the place.