Unlawfully Wedded
Kelsey Roberts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my stepdaughter, Bonnie, who has achieved personal and financial independence;

for my stepson, Eric, who is quite adept at selling his plasma when times get tough;

and for my son, Kyle, who will continue to be on the dole for the foreseeable future.

I would gratefully like to acknowledge the assistance of Pat Harding, Kay Manning and Carol Keane of Charleston, South Carolina: my crack research team.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Tory Conway—She’s forced to confront a mysterious past and an uncertain future.

J. D. Porter—He’s a reluctant bridegroom with a few too many secrets.

Rose Porter—She finally gains a daughter-in-law, but for how long.

Wesley Porter—He’s sticking around to see the fireworks.

Shelby Tanner—Co-owner of the Rose Tattoo; about to give birth.

Dylan Tanner—His sleuthing skills are always appreciated.

Chad Tanner—Mischievous, but cute.

Cliff Griffen (“Griff”)—A dear old friend of Tory’s…or so he thought.

Calvin Matthews—He’s made a success of his own restaurant over the years. Is he really just a friendly competitor?

Gloria Burrows—Did she move to Vegas for a fresh start, or was she running from the memories of a stale murder?

Evan Richards—Is he an accountant or an accomplished liar?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

J. D. Porter. She knew the initials stood for “Jackass Deluxe,” and he was sitting at a table in her station!

A frown curved the corners of her mouth as she donned an air of false confidence. Brushing a few strands of hair away from her eyes, Tory Conway pushed through the hinged kitchen doors of the Rose Tattoo, a tray clamped tightly to her chest.

With practiced aloofness, she held her breath as she marched past where he sat hunched over a mound of paperwork. The pleasant smell of his decidedly masculine cologne chased her behind the bar, threatening her resolve.

After placing the tray on the polished wooden surface of the horseshoe-shaped bar, Tory bent down and began collecting the salt and pepper shakers.

Her motion was halted in midstream when she felt long, tapered fingers close around her wrist. She rose slowly, trying not to devote too much thought to the devastating feel of his touch.

Their eyes collided—hers wide from the shock, his a deep, penetrating gray, the same shade as a South Carolina summer sky before a violent storm. She swallowed against the irrational belief that those eyes could see through her clothing. His lopsided, sexy display of even white teeth hovered somewhere very near a leer.

“Good morning, Miss Conway.”

Not from where I’m standing, she thought. She didn’t speak immediately, mostly because she had a sinking feeling that her words might come out in a squeaky, helium-high voice.

“No greeting?” he taunted, one dark eyebrow arched questioningly. “You wound me.”

“No,” she returned with a sweet smile. “But I’d be happy to, as soon as I’ve finished my setup.”

“Ouch,” he returned easily, placing his free hand over his heart.

Or, she thought, where his heart would be if he actually had one.

Annoyance crept up her spine when he refused her subtle request to be released when she gave his hand a small tug. “I have work to do,” she insisted through tight lips.

“So do I,” he said in a frustratingly calm voice that was just too smooth, too velvety to have emanated from such a massive man.

“Then why don’t you do it?”

The smile widened, accentuating the chiseled perfection of his angled features. “Would you like to do it? I’m game if you are.”

Tory groaned and sucked in a breath in exasperation. The man was infuriating. “Not in your lifetime, Sparky.”

The sound of his laugh was deep, rich. It caressed her ears and made her skin tingle. “Haven’t you heard of sexual harassment?” she managed to say between her clenched teeth.

“Doesn’t apply,” he returned easily. “You don’t work for me.”

“Thank God and anyone else responsible,” she grumbled. His hold on her wrist was getting on her nerves. She didn’t like being touched, especially by the visiting Neanderthal.

“You aren’t very friendly for a waitress, Miss Conway.”

“Depends on the customer,” she retorted.

“No wonder you can’t live off what you earn in tips.”

She bristled and might have stiffened her spine had it not been for the unfortunate fact that she had not yet fastened the top button of her uniform. The last thing she wanted, or needed, was to give Mr. Deluxe an eyeful of cleavage. Especially since he’d no doubt take it as a come-on.

“I live just fine,” she promised him. “And thanks for asking. Your concern is touching.”

“I’m not concerned, but I’d be happy to touch.” The last half of his statement was delivered in a low, sensual pitch that made her want to scream.

“Come on, J.D.,” she pleaded after a brief pause. “Can the double entendre and let me get ready for the lunch crowd.”

His eyes dropped to where his dark fingers encircled her small wrist. She followed his lead. His tanned, weathered complexion was a stark contrast to her pale skin. The grip loosened until all she was aware of was the feather-light stroke of his fingertip as it traced the pattern of small bones in her hand.

Tory snatched her hand away, feeling her face flush as the sound of his chuckle reached her ears. The man was maddening, she thought, fuming as she slammed various containers on the top of the bar. He was egotistical. He had enough arrogance for ten men, and he was the most attractive man she’d seen in all her twenty-five years.

My hormones are probably suffering from some sort of deprivation reaction, she reasoned as she arranged the half-empty jars and bottles on her tray.

Trying to ignore J.D.’s presence as she worked was like trying to ignore a rocket launch. Her peripheral vision was filled with images of his broad shoulders and that unruly mass of jet black hair he kept raking his fingers through as he quietly studied the piles of documents spread before him on the table. The worn fabric of his denim shirt clung to the definition of well-muscled arms. One booted toe kept time to the Elvis tune playing on the jukebox.

She didn’t like him—hadn’t from that very first day. J.D. was one of those stuck-up, abrupt sorts. His expression was always cool, aloof, giving her the impression that he somehow felt he was superior to the whole world. She guessed his attitude might have something to do with the truckloads of money he earned as one of Florida’s premier architects. Or, she thought glibly, it could just be the result of his being one of the most gorgeous men on the face of the earth.

“Tory!”

She turned in the direction of the familiar female voice, her eyes homing in on her boss’s harsh features. Rose Porter leaned against the kitchen door, her heavily jeweled hand patting the stiff mass of blond hair lacquered against her head.

“Yes?”

“There’s a guy here for you.”

Tory pointedly ignored J.D.’s apparent interest in Rose’s announcement. The woman’s stiletto heels clicked against the wood-planked floor as she held the door open wide.

Tory smiled as she caught sight of Dr. Mitchell Greyson, dean of student services at Oglethorpe College. Dr. Greyson shuffled in, his small body listing to the side where his hand toted a sizable briefcase. The scent of witch hazel reached her a fraction of a second before the rumpled, balding man. His appearance sent signals of disaster surging through her. Greyson only left his office to deliver bad news. She braced herself against the table....

“Miss Conway,” he greeted in his proper southern accent. “I’m sorry to trouble you at your place of employment.”

Tory’s grin grew wider. She was a waitress, not the CEO of some fancy corporation. Greyson acted as if he’d interrupted important merger negotiations.

“No problem,” she told him brightly, tucking a dish towel into the waistband of her apron. Gesturing to one of the chairs, Tory offered him a seat as she glared at J.D. He was leaning back in his chair, watching her as if she were the main feature at the theater.

J.D.’s expression didn’t falter when their eyes briefly met. That bothered her.

“I’m afraid I have some rather distressing news,” Dr. Greyson began as he sat down and placed his briefcase on the table, then slowly extracted a crisp, white sheet of letterhead, which he handed to her.

Taking the letter, Tory’s eyes scanned the neatly typed print. She read it again, sure she had somehow misconstrued its meaning.

“This isn’t possible,” she managed to say in a strangled voice.

Rose came over then, standing behind her with one hand comfortingly resting on Tory’s shoulder.

“What does it mean?” Rose asked.

“I’m dead,” Tory answered as the full impact of the news settled over her like a heavy blanket.

“Not necessarily,” Dr. Greyson cut in. “I’ve brought along a directory of college funding,” he said, pulling a tattered paperback from his briefcase.

Tory groaned. “I’ve been all through that. I couldn’t find a single one I qualified for.”

“Perhaps there are some new listings?” Greyson suggested.

“Maybe,” she responded dismally.

“You know,” Greyson said as he patted the back of her hand with his pudgy fingers. “You can take a year or so off. Perhaps by then the ‘forces that be’ will reinstate the program.”

“Maybe,” Tory repeated.

“I’ll keep my ears open,” Greyson promised as he scooted his chair back and rose to his modest height. “Perhaps the board of trustees...”

Of course, she knew the board could do nothing on her behalf.

“I’m finished,” Tory whispered, expelling an anguished sigh.

“Can we help?” Rose asked, taking the seat Greyson had vacated. “Shelby and I—”

“Are hardly in a position to cough up seventeen thousand dollars,” Tory finished. “Shelby has Chad and she’s expecting another baby any minute. And I know you have all your cash committed to the rehab of the outbuildings. Until you finish the work on the dependencies, you aren’t in any condition to loan me money.”

Rose’s painted red lips thinned and she adjusted the black leather belt cinching her waist. She reached forward and grabbed the directory that Dr. Greyson had left behind.

“Forget it.” Tory shrugged. “I’ve already maxed out my eligibility for student loans, along with every grant and scholarship known to mankind.”

“But you haven’t even tried to find alternative funding,” Rose argued with a snort.

“Rose,” Tory began slowly. “All you’ll find in that directory is a bunch of weird stuff. Scholarships for blue-eyed women with Spanish surnames born in the month of May. Grants for anyone born under the same star as some philanthropist’s Maltese.”

She followed the sound of the deep, throaty chuckle. Having J. D. Porter laugh when her whole world was shattering didn’t sit well.

“Amused?” she asked tartly. “I’m so glad you find my crisis funny.” She stood and braced her hands on her hips. “I need some air,” she told Rose. “If I don’t get away from him, I might just take out my frustrations on your useless son.”

She stormed out of the room, the vision of J.D.’s dancing gray eyes vividly etched in her brain. He had laughed at her! She fumed as she stepped into the early-June humidity. What kind of unfeeling jerk would laugh at a time like this? “Jackass Deluxe,” she grumbled as she stalked through the overgrown gardens behind the property.

The tall, damp grass licked at her ankles above her socks, leaving a sheen of moisture on her white aerobic shoes. The air was thick with the scent of the wild vines growing along the brick exterior of the dependency.

The scent inspired memories from the past. Memories of when her family had owned this place. She had been a ten-year-old princess and this had been her kingdom. Her hand reached out to touch the coolness of the weather-beaten stone wall. A small lizard skittered along the surface, then disappeared behind the growth of vegetation threatening to overtake the dilapidated building.

She was thrilled that Rose and Shelby had decided to restore the outbuilding of the Charleston single house. The dependency, which had once served as both kitchen and servants quarters, had been neglected for more than a hundred years. Her only misgiving was the man hired to do the work.

J. D. Porter was an architect known for his dramatic, modern structures. She frowned, imagining what Mr. Steel-and-Glass Towers might do to this historically significant structure. Cringing, she allowed her fingers to admire the stone. J.D. didn’t appreciate or even understand historical preservation. He didn’t appreciate Rose, either. He was charging his own mother an hourly rate for the renovation. “That man is a piece of work.”

“Thanks.”

Tory spun around and her hand flew to her mouth. Wide-eyed, she looked into the relaxed face and instantly felt her cheeks burn. “I didn’t...hear you,” she stammered.

J.D. shifted so that his large body cast a long shadow over Tory. Deep lines appeared on either side of his eyes as he squinted against the sunlight.

“I take it you’re being squeezed out of the world of academe.”

Tory felt her shoulders slump forward. “It seems that way.”

“What will you do?”

She shrugged and dropped her gaze to the front of his shirt. It was a stupid move, she realized too late. Her eyes lingered at the deep V where he’d neglected to button his shirt. A thick mat of dark hair curled over solid, tanned skin. She swallowed and forced her eyes to the ground.

“I may have to wait a year or so until I can get another grant.”

He shifted his weight again as his thumbs looped into the waistband of his jeans. “What about your family? Can’t they help with your tuition?”

“Interesting concept, coming from you,” she said as she met his eyes. “I don’t really have any family.” Needing to change the subject, Tory asked, “How can you charge your own mother top dollar?”

His expression grew dark, and something vaguely dangerous flashed in his eyes. “I’m a businessman, Tory. Not a philanthropist.”

Heartless creep! her mind screamed. “She’s your mother.”

“Biologically,” he qualified.

“It still counts,” Tory told him with a saccharine smile.

Lifting sunglasses from the breast pocket of his shirt, J.D. placed them on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. Tory was left to view her own reflection in their mirrored lenses.

“Want to give me a hand?”

“What?” she fairly squealed.

Her voice caused an immediate smile to cut the sharp angles of his face. “Assist me?”

“Doing what exactly?”

“I’m open for suggestions,” he countered with a wolfish grin.

“And I’m outta here,” she answered as she took her first step.

“Hey,” he said as his large hand closed around her arm. “I was just teasing you. No need to get huffy.”

“I don’t care for your brand of teasing, J.D. Everything that comes out of your mouth has some sort of sexual meaning behind it.”

“I’ll behave,” he promised, one hand raised in an oath.

“I’ll bet,” she told him wearily.

“Honest. I just want you to hold the tape while I measure.” He produced a shiny metal tape measure in support of his statement. “I need to get the dimensions of the outhouse so I can finish that ream of paperwork the historical society requires.”

“It isn’t an outhouse. It’s called a dependency. And the forms are necessary,” she told him with great hauteur in her voice. “We have to maintain the historical fabric of the city.”

His mouth thinned in a definite sneer. “Just because something is old, that doesn’t make it worth saving.”

“I’d save you, Mr. Porter.”

“Think I’m old, huh?”

“Not old,” she said with an exaggerated bat of her long lashes. “Historically significant.”

The skin of her upper arm tingled where his fingers gently held her. It was annoying that she felt herself respond to him, but she silently vowed not to show any reaction. She suspected J.D. would enjoy knowing his touch affected her—and she wasn’t about to give him that much power.

“Will you?”

“What?” she answered, wondering if he had psychic powers in his arsenal.

“Help me measure.”

“It’s almost noon,” she hedged. “The lunch crowd cometh.”

“So does Susan.”

“Susan isn’t working this shift.”

“She is now,” he stated. “Rose thought you might like to take the afternoon off in light of your sudden financial upheaval.”

“How is losing a day’s tips supposed to make me feel better?”

Nodding his dark head, J.D. used his free hand to stroke the faint growth on his deeply clefted chin. “Good point. Tell you what,” he said with a sigh, as if he were about to announce a change in world leaders. “I’ll pay you the going rate for helping me measure.”

“How generous,” she gasped. “Sure you can spare seven-fifty an hour?”

He leaned down, so close that Tory could feel the warmth of his breath against her ear. “For you? Anything.”

Her resolve not to react to this man disintegrated when the scent of his cologne lingered in the mere inches separating them. Shrugging away from him, Tory could still feel the imprint of his callused fingers against her skin. A smart person would cut and run. But then, a woman with less than a hundred dollars in the bank didn’t always act intelligently.

“Has your mother already called Susan?”

“Yes, Rose called.”

She stifled the urge to ask him why he wouldn’t call Rose “mom” or “mother.” “Then give me the tape.”

Reaching behind him, J.D. again produced the tape measure as well as a folded sketch of the dependency’s exterior. “Here,” he said, handing her the drawing and a mechanical pencil. “We’ll start on the south wall. We’ll measure it, then you mark the drawing.”

“Fine,” Tory said. She kept the bent end of the tape between her fingers as he took long strides through the dense foliage. He had a great derriere, she mused. Tight and rounded above those long, muscular legs. Absently, she fanned herself with the sketch, trying to convince herself that the heat she felt in the pit of her stomach was probably nothing more than the effect of having drunk too much coffee.

The strip of metal tape acted like an umbilical cord, connecting her to the large man. Dutifully, she followed his instructions as they spent the better part of an hour documenting the contours of the old building. She attributed her dry throat to the stifling early-summer heat. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that her eyes had been riveted to his body the entire hour. She wasn’t the type to be interested in things like the washboard-like muscles of his flat stomach, or the gentle slope of his back where his broad shoulders tapered at his waist. No—such things were irrelevant to a woman like Tory.

“You look hot.”

“I beg your pardon?” she yelped.

His smile was slow and deliberate. “I was referring to the temperature.” He swabbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “It must be near ninety.”

“Must be,” she agreed as she swallowed her guilt.

“Need a break before we tackle the interior?”

“Not me,” she told him. She wanted to get this over with—quickly. “The inside is a disaster.”

“I know. I took a cursory look when I was putting together the budget for the project.”

“I’m sure your estimate was high,” she said without looking at him.

“I’m sure it was reasonable.”

Ignoring the slight edge to his voice, Tory moved to the near-rotten door and grasped the knob. The door wouldn’t budge.

“Let me,” J.D. said, coming up behind her so that his thighs brushed her back.

Tory stepped out of his way almost instantly, feeling branded by the outline of his body.

J.D. wrestled with the humidity-swollen door for a short time before finally pulling it free of the frame. Reaching into his back pocket, he produced a small flashlight and directed the beam in front of them.

The air inside the building was stale and musty. “Let’s start on the left,” J.D. suggested.

The interior was a long, rectangular-shaped space with bowed stone walls and a few rotted timbers piled at the far end. Bars of yellow light filtered in from the boarded windows, imprisoning J.D. as he placed the measure against what was left of the old flooring.

“Sixty-three feet, seven inches,” he called.

Tory was about to mark the diagram when she noted the inconsistency. “The tape must be twisted.”

She heard his boots scrape as he checked the length of the tape. “Nope.”

“Then that back wall is three feet deep,” she told him.

J.D. took the sketch from her, his eyebrows drawn together as he looked from the drawing to the room, then back to the paper.

“This doesn’t make sense.”

“You must have measured incorrectly.”

He offered her a baleful stare before walking off to the back of the room. “Hold this,” he called, handing her the flashlight as she came up behind him.

Using his pocketknife as well as his fingers, J.D. loosened the stones by scraping away the limestone mortar.

“What are you doing?” Tory asked.

“I’m trying to find the other three feet.”

An oddly unpleasant odor accompanied the shower of small rocks as he created a small opening in the wall.

“Give me the light.”

J.D. stuck his arm through the opening, then she heard him suck in his breath.

“What?”

His arm came out of the hole and he faced her slowly. His expression was hard, his eyes wide. “We’d better go back to the Tattoo.”

“Why? What’s behind the wall?” she asked, frustration adding volume to her litany of questions.

“A body.”

Chapter Two

“I think he’s probably some poor, unfortunate homeless person who wandered into the building to escape the winter chill,” Susan was saying. The woman’s brown eyes were wide as she excitedly continued expounding her theory. “He must have been sick. And he probably assumed he was suffering from nothing more than a bad cold.”

“I think you’re letting your imagination run wild,” Tory cautioned. The pout the other woman offered was at odds with her athletically lean face. Susan was a runner and it showed in her slender build. She was forever hounding Tory about the lack of physical activity in her life. Thankfully, the discovery of the skeleton had provided a diversion from Susan’s usual boring reprimands on the perils of passivity.

“No,” Susan insisted, looking to J.D., who gave a small nod of encouragement. “He must have crawled in through the window before succumbing to bacterial pneumonia.”

“Bacterial pneumonia?” Tory echoed, feeling her eyebrows draw together.

“Sure,” Susan replied. “It’s very deadly if not treated. And it kills really fast.”

“Well, hell,” Tory said as she theatrically slapped her palm against her forehead. “The police are wasting their time investigating. Why don’t you run out there and tell them what happened. It’ll save the city a whole lot of time and money.”

J.D. folded his arms over the back of the chair, his eyes leveled on the redhead. His expression told Tory nothing of his thoughts.

“I think your theory has a few holes in it,” J.D. said.

“Really?”

“If the guy was on death’s door, how do you suppose he built the wall?”

“What wall?” Susan asked.

Shrugging his shoulders, J.D. tilted his head and looked directly at Tory as he answered. “The stones that covered him aren’t the same as the ones used in rest of the building. It’s my guess that—”

“You can’t be serious,” Tory cut in. “You’re suggesting that someone entombed that body in the dependency?”

“It’s a real probability,” he answered slowly.

“I think you’ve been watching too much television or something.” Tory dismissed his speculation with a wave of her hand. The lingering seed of doubt wasn’t as easily discharged.

His gaze didn’t falter as his eyes roamed over her face. Rubbing her arms against a sudden chill, Tory shook her head, hoping to rid her mind of sudden vivid images of that nameless, faceless person meeting such a gruesome demise.

“I think you’re being a bit melodramatic, J.D.,” she said with forced lightness.

“Maybe,” he agreed as he rose to his full height and went behind the bar.

Tory should have gone home. There was really no point in hanging around the Tattoo since the police had asked them to close down while vanloads of forensic teams scoured the area.

About an hour after the initial discovery, Shelby and Dylan Tanner arrived with their son Chad in tow. A pang of envy tugged at her heart as she watched the couple move toward her. Dylan was tall, dark and handsome; Shelby dark, exotic-looking and hugely pregnant. Dylan almost always had a tender hand on his wife—small, seemingly insignificant touches that proclaimed the extent of their deep emotional commitment to each other.

Chad was a different story. Polite people called him all-boy. He bounded into the room and immediately began pressing the buttons on the jukebox. Shelby’s stern warning to stay away from the machine fell on deaf ears. Chad had a mind of his own at the tender age of eighteen months. Tory liked that.

Tory ran over and scooped the squealing child into her arms, planting kisses against his plump tummy.

“How’s my favorite little man?” she asked.

“Man, man, man,” was his babbled response.

“Terror is more like it,” Dylan called as he draped his arm across his wife’s shoulders.

“Are you a terror?” Tory asked the small boy.

He shook his head vigorously, then said, “Man.”

“See?” Tory said as she shifted Chad in her arms. “He’s not a terror.”

“Then maybe Auntie Tory would like to take him for the weekend?” Shelby teased, a sarcastic light in her blue eyes.

“Anytime,” she said earnestly. “Right, little man?”

“Man,” Chad answered, nodding his dark head.

Looping his pudgy arms around her neck, Chad proceeded to give her a “skeeze.” The delight in her eyes faded somewhat when she noticed J.D. leaning against the bar, a long-neck bottle of beer balanced between his thumb and forefinger. When he began to move toward them, the word swagger flashed across her brain. His expression was sour, distracted. Why did such an unpleasant man have to exude such sensuality? she wondered.

“You must be J.D.,” Dylan said as he offered the taller man his hand.

“Guilty,” J.D. responded.

“Shelby is really excited about the work you’re going to do.”

J.D. turned those devastating eyes on Shelby, nodding politely. “I think adding a club will allow you to draw in a younger crowd.”

“That’s what we’re hoping,” Shelby answered as she rested her head against her husband’s shoulder. “And I know your mother is equally thrilled that you agreed to do the work.”

“For a hefty price,” Tory grumbled in a stage whisper.

Three sets of eyes turned on her. But it was the simmering hostility in J.D.’s expression that made her instantly regret the barb.

“Miss Conway thinks I’m overpriced and incapable of doing the job,” J.D. explained, though his eyes never left hers.

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Shelby insisted. “Tory?” she questioned. “Surely you know—”

“She knows that I prefer dramatic buildings,” J.D. interrupted. “And she’s right.”

“Well,” Tory said as she captured Chad’s hand in hers to prevent his sudden fascination with the buttons of her white blouse. “I don’t get a vote, now, do I, Mr. Porter? I’m nothing but a lowly waitress.”

Shifting the child on her hip, Tory returned her attention to the baby. It was much easier than having to suffer the intense scrutiny of his eyes. “How about we raid the fridge?” she asked. When she got no response, she added, “Ice cream?”

“Get it,” Chad answered, his fat legs bouncing with excitement.

“Not a lot,” Shelby warned.

J.D. watched her disappear into the kitchen, a knot of tension forming between his shoulders.

“What was that all about?” Dylan asked.

J.D. offered a noncommittal shrug. “Miss Conway believes I’m incapable of rehabbing the building because historical sites aren’t exactly part of my résumé.”

“Tory believes in preserving the city,” Shelby agreed. “Lord knows, she’s been studying it long enough.”

“She won’t be studying much longer,” J.D. said as he frowned. Why did he care if she’d lost her grant? He should be looking upon that bit of information as a gift from above. It could be the answer to his prayers. It was certainly a way to get Tory Conway out of his life.

“Why?” Shelby asked him.

J.D. had just finished recounting the visit by Dr. Greyson when Rose joined them. He felt the tension in his body grow worse. “So it looks like her academic career is history.”

“Not if I can help it,” Rose countered, patting the paperback directory.

J.D. noted a glint in his mother’s eyes that instantly had him on red alert.

“That girl’s entitled to her education. She’s worked damned hard and I’m going to see she finishes,” Rose huffed, tracing the edge of one line on her zebra-print pants.

Stifling a groan, J.D. sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “That might not be such a good idea,” he suggested. He wondered if any of what he had told his mother in confidence that morning had penetrated the layers of her lacquered curls.

“Leave that to me,” she told him. Her hand came out and hovered just above his arm. “I’ve got a plan.”

“Would someone like to clue me in?” Shelby piped up, her hand moving in a circular motion over her large belly.

“Upstairs,” Rose instructed.

J.D. was left alone in the dining room with Susan. He wasn’t much in the mood for company, he was feeling too restless. He was starting to wonder about this trip. Perhaps it would have been easier just to have ignored Rose’s request to come to South Carolina. He could have happily stayed in Florida, doing his kind of work. Rose would have remained nothing more than a name and a vague memory.

“Want me to do your palm?” Susan chirped.

“Excuse me?”

“Your palm,” she repeated, glancing at his balled fist. “I sense some really intense discord in your aura.”

“My aura?”

“Very telling,” Susan said, her brown eyes solemn. “I can usually tell everything about a person from their aura. Yours is red.”

“Red, huh?” he asked, faintly amused.

“That’s bad,” she insisted, genuineness dripping from each syllable. “If you let me have a look at your palm, I might be able to determine the cause of the red in your aura.”

“This ought to be a kick,” he mumbled as he took a seat across from her and offered his hand, palm up.

Susan bent forward and traced the lines on his hand. Her face was totally serious, as if she was completely absorbed in her examination. Her fingers were long and bony, and not nearly as soft as Tory’s.

He frowned, wondering why his mind would recognize such a traitorous thought. But his subconscious wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. As he sat there, he noted the many differences between the two waitresses. Susan was lanky and shapeless. Tory could only be described as voluptuous. Though he noted how hard she tried to conceal her attributes, her curvaceous body had not gone unnoticed. His frown deepened.

“I think you’re about to make a life-altering decision,” Susan predicted.

“Such as?”

“I’m not a fortune-teller,” Susan informed him haughtily. “I can only tell you what I see, based on the physical aspects of your palm.”

“Sorry.” J.D. managed to sound moderately sincere.

“And see here?” She followed one of the long lines on his hand. “This is your love line. It’s very long, but there’s a definite interruption.”

“Meaning?”

“Your love life won’t be a smooth one.”

Safe answer, he thought.

“But this is what concerns me,” she continued, tapping her blunt nail against the edge of his hand. “These lines dissecting your life line indicate that you’re in for a great deal of discord in your life. And they’re all clustered together, which probably explains your bad aura.”

“Come again?”

“Basically, lots of bad things will happen to you at one time. You’ll experience one disaster after another.”

“I can’t wait,” he groaned, wondering if this trip to South Carolina would prove to be the catalyst for this “disturbance of his aura.”

“But there’s hope,” Susan said brightly. “Once you get past that stuff, you should be very content with your life.”

“Great,” he mused aloud. “I’ll keep that in mind whenever my life starts going to hell.”

Susan’s dark eyes met his. “As for your aura, I think you might want to try some deep-breathing exercises. Relaxation techniques are quite effective in achieving a color change. You might even make it all the way to yellow.”

“There’s a goal,” he whispered as he gently pulled his hand away. “Thanks for the insights.”

“Anytime,” Susan answered. Grabbing her oversize nylon knapsack, the woman slung it over her thin shoulder as she got to her feet. “Practice that breathing,” she called out as she left.

He took a long pull on his beer and savored the bitterness as it went down. This was certainly one of the more interesting days in his life. He’d discovered a skeleton and had had his palm and aura analyzed. He began to chuckle.

“Something funny?”

Tory approached him with something akin to trepidation in her eyes.

“Susan just checked out my aura and my palm.”

His explanation erased the caution from her expression. Her half smile had a disturbing effect on him.

“Don’t let her hear you laugh,” he warned. “She takes that stuff seriously. I made that mistake when she warned me of impending doom.”

“Really? And what did our little soothsayer tell you?”

His eyes drifted to her shapely backside as she slipped behind the bar and filled a glass with soda.

“She’s convinced I’m about to have a life-altering experience. Something about too many intersections in my life line.”

J.D. felt his mouth curve in a wide smile. “It would seem that Susan is a one-trick pony,” Tory said.

“Why’s that?”

“That’s basically the same story she handed me.”

She stood next to the table, but made no move to join him. She brought the glass to her lips. It was the first time he’d really looked at her mouth. He guessed it would be soft.

“Want to join me?”

“No,” she answered quickly.

Too quickly, he thought.

“They were just placing that disgusting thing on a stretcher when I gave Chad back to Shelby.”

“He’s a cute kid.”

His observation was greeted by a surprised look.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Chad’s adorable.”

“So.” He paused long enough to take another swallow. “How come you’re hanging around?”

“I’m just waiting for the police to finish,” she told him. “They’ve got my car blocked in.”

“You could ask them to move it.”

“I could, but I don’t mind waiting.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

He could almost hear her spine stiffen.

“Why do you feel the need to mock me?” she asked pointedly.

“I wasn’t mocking. Simply making an observation.”

“Miss?”

Tory turned in answer to the male voice. One of the detectives marched forward, his badge dangling from the breast pocket of his tan suit jacket.

“Would it be possible for me to get a glass of water?”

“Sure,” Tory answered as she slipped behind the bar and filled a glass with ice.

“J. D. Porter,” he said, extending his hand to the man.

“Greer,” the detective responded, wiping his hand on his slacks before engaging in the handshake. “You’re Rose’s...”

“Son,” J.D. answered without inflection.

The detective regarded him briefly before Tory appeared with the glass. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s hot as all get-out today.”

“Have they taken the body away?” Tory asked.

“What was left of him.”

“Then it was a man?” J.D. asked.

“We’re pretty sure, based on the size and shape of the pelvic bones.”

“Any idea who he was?”

“Not a clue,” Greer answered. “But the lab boys think he’s been here a while. Some medical mumbo jumbo about the condition and density of the bone.”

“How creepy,” Tory groaned. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been near that building in the five years I’ve been working here.”

“That long?” Greer asked, immediately putting down his glass and feeling for his pad and pen.

“Yes, sir,” J.D. heard her answer. “I worked for the previous owner—Mr. Brewster.”

“Didn’t your family use to own this place before Brewster?” J.D. queried.

Tory shot him a quick glance of annoyance, then turned her attention back to the detective. “My father owned this place until about fifteen years ago.”

“Do you know where I can find Brewster?” Greer asked.

“He died,” Tory answered.

“How about your father?”

“I’m afraid you won’t have any luck there, either.”

“He’s deceased?” Greer asked.

J.D. watched as she lowered her eyes.

“He left town.”

“Do you have an address?”

“I haven’t heard from him,” she answered in a small voice.

J.D. felt a small stab of compassion for the woman. He knew all too well what it was like to have a parent suddenly disappear from your life. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged away from his touch.

“My father left us when I was ten. We never heard from him.”

“Sorry,” Greer mumbled as he flipped the notebook closed. “I guess there’s—”

“Detective?”

An obviously excited man dressed in a wilted uniform rushed into the room. A plastic bag dangled from his dirt-smudged hand.

“What have you got?” Greer asked as he cupped his hand beneath the item in the evidence bag.

“We found this in the soil after they moved the remains.”

J.D. moved closer, as did Tory. The item caught and reflected the light. “A ring,” Greer mumbled.

“Has initials, too,” the officer chimed excitedly.

“R.C.,” Greer read.

J.D. watched the horror fill Tory’s wide eyes. Her mouth opened for a scream that never materialized. She simply went limp, falling right into his outstretched arms. His handsome features grew faint and fuzzy, until she could no longer hold on to his image.

Chapter Three

His eyes opened reluctantly, followed almost immediately by a telltale stab of pain in his lower back. Using his legs for leverage, J.D. hoisted his stiff frame to a sitting position. Rubbing the stubble on his chin, he squinted against the harsh rays of morning light spilling over a faded set of clashing curtains. Holding his breath, he listened for sound. Nothing.

He found a clock on the kitchen wall. Well, he decided, as he began a burglar-quiet search of the cabinets, it wasn’t really much of a kitchen. Hell, he added, feeling the frown on his lips, it wasn’t really much of an apartment.

Leaning against the counter, he surveyed the single room, feeling his stomach lurch in protest to the stark surroundings. Tory Conway appeared to be living one step above poverty. For some unknown reason, that rankled.

The single-serving coffeepot gurgled behind him. In the center of the room there was a card table with two mismatched chairs, their seats little more than shredded strips of faded vinyl. The computer sitting on top of the table was antiquated, probably five years removed from the sleek electronic notebook he had so casually brought along from Miami. The first stirrings of guilt did little to improve his mood.

He found a coffee cup on the drain board and actually smiled when he realized it was from the Rose Tattoo. A quick check of the drawers indicated that the utensils and most of the other items were also from his mother’s restaurant.

Mother. His grimace returned with a vengeance. What in hell had he gotten himself into? he wondered as he poured the coffee and took a sip. The liquid scalded his mouth. Why had he listened to Wesley? This little exercise in closure had turned into an unmitigated disaster. He wasn’t a preservationist. He was an architect. And a damned good one. No matter what the sassy little blonde sleeping in the other room thought.

Stifling the groan that rose in his throat, J.D. returned to the lumpy sofa, which had served as his bed, and grabbed the telephone. Pounding the keypad, he cradled the receiver against his chin as he took another sip of the too strong coffee.

“Hello?”

“Wes, it’s me.”

“Big brother?” came the groggy reply. “Do you realize what time it is?”

He hadn’t realized, but he didn’t feel the inclination to apologize. “Early.”

“No sh—”

“I’ve got a problem.”

He could hear the rustle of bed covers, and he could easily envision his brother groping on the nightstand for his round, metal-framed glasses. Wesley was one of those people who couldn’t hear without his glasses.

“You and mother aren’t relating well?”

That I-just-got-my-degree-in-psychiatry, inflection-free voice was enough to make J.D. grit his teeth. He was beginning to think Wes’s budding medical career was going to be a stiff pain in his rump.

“We aren’t relating at all,” he answered flatly. “But that isn’t the problem.”

“How can that not be a problem?” Wes countered.

“Because I have a more pressing problem with a body.”

“Oh.” Wesley snickered. “And is this body a blonde, brunette or redhead?”

“I’m serious,” J.D. insisted. “It’s a dead body. Deceased. Not living.”

“She was married and you did something rash?”

“Good Lord, Wes! I thought psychiatrists were supposed to be good listeners. You’re not hearing me.”

“You’re serious?” his brother asked, his tone indicating he had finally grasped the situation.

“Hell, yes,” J.D. answered, raking his hand through his hair. “And it looks like the body might be the father of the girl I told you about.”

“Woman.”

“What?”

He heard his brother expel one of those condescendingly patient breaths. “The person you described was a woman, not a girl. We’re talking about Victoria Conway, right?”

“Right.”

“The one with pretty blue eyes, an incredible mouth and boobs that—”

“Yes,” he growled.

“Hey,” Wesley continued. “You’re the one who told me you were astounded she didn’t fall facedown from the weight of those hooters.”

“Thank you,” J.D. managed to say tightly. “Forget what I said before. Fact is, the body I found might just turn out to be her father.”

He heard a low whistle before Wesley said, “Gonna be kind of tough to shaft the lady when she’s in the midst of burying Daddy, isn’t it.”

“No kidding,” J.D. admitted. “And I wasn’t going to shaft her. I was thinking more along the lines of a nice, quiet buyout.”

“Think she’ll be interested in doing business with a man who originally judged her by her bra size?”

“Wesley,” J.D. said from between clenched teeth. “I called for your advice, not a lecture.”

“Then you shouldn’t have confided all your observations about the lady’s physical attributes.”

“Brothers are supposed to confide things like that. It’s part of the male-bonding process.”

Wesley’s laugh was low and easy. It served as a vivid reminder to J.D. of their inherent differences.

“Careful, big brother. That sounded dangerously like an introspective moment. Not your usual style.”

“Finding skeletons in walls isn’t par for the course, either.”

“I don’t know,” Wesley began arbitrarily. “If you’re willing to come to grips with the skeletons in your closet, one more in the wall should be no sweat.”

“You aren’t helping.”

“What would you suggest I do?”

“Get your butt up here.”

“In good time,” Wesley announced. “That was the deal.”

“But things have changed since we struck that bargain,” J.D. said on a breath.

“And you can roll with the punches,” Wesley said easily. “I think this may turn out to be a very healthy experience for you.”

“Right,” J.D. grumbled. His coffee had gone cold and it left a bitter taste in his mouth as he forced himself to swallow. “If you came up here, you could deal with the girl. She needs someone like you.”

“That’s not what you said the other evening,” Wesley countered. “You indicated that one night in your capable arms would have her eating out of your hand.”

“I was wrong,” J.D. admitted. Hearing his own arrogant words made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s not what I thought at first.”

“Wouldn’t let you in her pants, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

* * *

OPENING HER EYES, Tory blinked against the confusion clouding her lagging brain. Her hand ran over the surface of the rumpled comforter. The movement caused her to feel the coolness of the sheets against her skin. Too much skin, she thought as she threw the bedspread toward her feet. “What?” she mumbled as she discovered she was wearing nothing but her bra and panties. The flame red garments stood out against the stark white sheets. With wide eyes, she allowed her gaze to dart around the room as she tried to pry memories from her brain.

Her fingers feathered her bangs as she concentrated. Recall came slowly. Pain, followed by so many emotions that she lost count. Her father was dead. Had been all these years. A small groan escaped her slightly parted lips.

Images from childhood mingled with bits and pieces of the scene she had waged in the Tattoo. Images of her parents, recalled through the eyes of a mere child. Images of being in J.D.’s arms, remembered by a lingering heat on her skin.

Tory stood on wobbly legs. Only then did she recollect Rose forcing several pills down her throat last night. At least she thought it was last night. Everything seemed to be trapped in a haze. Grabbing her short robe off the hook, she tugged it over her shoulders and yanked open the door. Her eyes collided with a set of gray ones.

“What...?” She managed to tear the word from her constricted throat.

“Good morning,” he said easily, unfolding himself from the sofa.

Her mouth remained open as she took in the scene. J.D. had a tousled, rugged look that cemented her to the spot. His dark hair was mussed, as if someone had been running their fingers through it. His shirt was open, and the edges pulled farther apart as he rose to his full height of well over six feet. Tory’s eyes fell to the thick, black curls and then lower, where they tapered and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Realizing too late that such a brazen appraisal might prove dangerous, she lifted her gaze to his. His expression was intense, his eyes narrowed to a glistening silver. Again she realized the error of her ways too late. She could feel his eyes as they took in the lacy edges of her bra, could feel them linger at the valley between her breasts.

Feeling her skin color the same deep red as her lingerie, Tory grabbed the edges of her belt, twisting her exposed body away from the scrutiny of his examination. She’d given him an eyeful, she thought ruefully as she tied the belt so tightly that it actually made each breath painful.

“I made another pot of coffee,” he told her, his voice deep and as smooth as smoke.

“Thanks,” she said, willing herself into composure. “What are you doing here?” she asked as she padded into the kitchen. The vision of his eyes followed, narrowed with interest and a purely dangerous glint.

“Rose didn’t think you should be alone.”

“So she left you here with me?”

Tory turned to find that his expression had changed. His eyes were still narrowed, but she saw flashes of barely leashed anger that stilled her stiff movements.

“Any reason Rose wouldn’t trust us together?” he asked, one dark eyebrow arched high.

“We aren’t exactly close,” she offered, hoping her voice sounded more calm than she actually felt.

“Not because I haven’t tried,” he returned as a lazy half smile curved one corner of his mouth.

Tory directed a heavy sigh toward her bangs. “Don’t start, J.D.”

He moved with a quickness and grace that belied his size. Suddenly he was in front of her, his broad, bare chest dominating her vision. “Believe me, doll,” he began in a low hum, “when I start on you, you’ll know it.”

His words burned against her ears and she fought the instinct to raise a hand and slap his arrogant face. But she decided to stand her ground. She would not react. It was, she had learned, her only weapon against this man’s blatant maleness. “Well,” she said, clearing her throat on the word. “As you can see, I’m fine, so you can just go crawl back under your rock.”

She smiled up at him, fighting the constriction in her throat when she looked at him through the thickness of her lashes. J.D. didn’t move. Not at all. He simply allowed his body to heat the air between them. Forced her to breathe in the scent of his skin. Power fairly radiated from this man. Power that Tory was only beginning to comprehend. One thing she knew, she realized as she struggled to hold his gaze, J. D. Porter was way out of her league. She surrendered, closing her eyes before lowering her chin fractionally.

“Thank you for staying,” she said after a drawn-out silence, punctuated only by the even sound of his breathing. Perhaps graciousness might accomplish her goal of dismissing this disturbing man.

“No problem,” he said as he slowly stepped back. The edge to his voice was still there, but it wasn’t quite as sharp.

Tory turned back to the sink, thinking how helpful it might be to douse herself with cold water. J.D. somehow managed to ignite small fires in every cell of her body. She reached up into the cabinet in search of a coffee cup. His sharp intake of breath was as thrilling as it was disquieting. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that the action, however innocent, had resulted in her flashing the big man a goodly amount of leg. She lowered her arm slowly, snidely hoping to give him a healthy dose of his own medicine.

With a cup of coffee in hand, she finally mustered the nerve to look at him again. The flash of anger was gone, all right, but it had been replaced by something even more devastating. Hunger—raw, passionate and definitely frightening. A small voice of reason chanted that saying about playing with fire as she bolted for the living room.

J.D. followed, his pace slow, but determined. It conjured visions of a predator stalking its prey. Tory wasn’t at all sure she could handle being this man’s quarry.

“Rose called earlier,” he said conversationally.

His calm, businesslike demeanor only made her more aware of her own raging pulse. The man was obviously some sort of machine. She’d seen him do this time and time again during the course of their short acquaintance. J.D. could be in a rage one minute, calm as a gentle breeze the next.

“I should call and apologize,” Tory said, tracing the top of her cup with her fingernail.

“For what?”

“Falling apart yesterday.”

“Appropriate under the circumstances,” he said as he turned one of her metal chairs and mounted it. His well-developed forearms rested against its back.

Her interest fell to his exposed stomach, wondering absently how those ripples of muscle would feel beneath her fingertips.

“Don’t you think?”

“Sorry,” Tory mumbled as her attention dropped to study a polyurethaned knot in the wooden floor.

“I said, I thought your actions were appropriate under the circumstances. That must have been quite a shock for you.”

“It was,” she admitted softly. “I still can’t believe he’s been there all this time.”

“Where did you think he was?”

Sitting at the table and tucking her bare feet under the hem of her short robe, Tory placed the coffee cup on the table. “I just always believed he’d suffered some sort of midlife crisis and bolted.”

“Leaving his loving wife and daughter behind?”

Tory peered up at him through her lashes, trying to gauge his sincerity. Unfortunately, J.D. had the perfect face for poker. It revealed absolutely nothing.

Her lids fluttered closed as she felt a swell of emotion grip her chest. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve hated him all these years. How many times I’ve wished him dead for what he did to my mother.”

“You didn’t know.”

Somehow his words failed to bring absolution.

“Mother,” she said, her eyes open and straining against her tight lids. “I’ve got to go out to Ashley Villas.”

“Where?”

“My mother’s home,” she said by way of explanation.

Tory deposited her coffee cup and turned toward the bedroom in a flurry of activity. It took several seconds for her brain to register the fact that J.D. hadn’t moved a blessed muscle.

“I don’t mean to be antisocial, Mr. Porter,” she said stiffly, “but I’ve got to go see my mother. Tell her...”

Nodding, J.D. rose and began buttoning his shirt. Tory refused to look, no matter how much she might want to.

“How long will it take you to get ready?”

“How long?” she gasped.

“Minutes? Hours? How long?”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know how soon to pick you up.”

“Why would you pick me up?”

“Because your car is still at the Rose Tattoo.”

“So,” she said, her voice faltering slightly. “I can grab the bus and pick it up.”

“No, you can’t.” J.D. dug into the front pocket of his jeans. Instantly she recognized her key ring as it dangled from his forefinger.

“Give me my keys,” she instructed, annoyance stiffening her spine.

“Can’t,” he drawled with an exaggerated sigh.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” he insisted, pretending to be hurt by her insinuation. “The doctor said you weren’t to drive for twenty-four hours after taking those pills.”

“Then I’ll make other arrangements,” she told him with a wave of her hand.

“Seems kind of stupid since I’m ready and able.”

But for what, exactly? her brain screamed. “I don’t think—”

“No thought required,” he said as he tossed her keys in the air, captured them in his big palm, then slipped them back into his pocket. “I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes.”

* * *

THE PURPOSE FOR the cold shower was twofold. First, J.D. hoped it might revive his sleep-deprived senses. But, more important, he was trying to cleanse the memory of her voluptuous body from his mind. Closing his eyes against the spray, his mind immediately brought forth the image of her pale skin...and the slope of her full breasts spilling over the lacy top of her bra. He didn’t have to touch the garment to know it was silk—like her skin. The vivid red lingerie set against her creamy skin reminded him of a ripe, red berry atop a snowdrift.

“God,” he groaned, earning himself a mouthful of cool, chlorine-scented water. He’d been too long without a woman. That was the only explanation for his body’s rigid and painful response to Tory.

He stepped from the shower, grabbed a towel and blotted the water from his skin. Droplets of water fell from his hair as he grabbed his razor. He was glad for a task that required his full attention.

J.D. vigorously towel dried his hair as he stepped into the master suite of his condo. Guilt tugged at his conscience as he paused to look at his surroundings. A king-size white rattan bed dominated the large space, with no fewer than three chests of drawers. There was a desk in the corner, his laptop lay open on it, gathering dust. His condo also included a living room, dining area and a kitchen that could have swallowed Tory’s entire apartment. His intellect reminded him that he’d had no way of knowing she would be a person of such modest means. But that knowledge didn’t seem to stem the surge of guilt as he tossed the towel into a pile of laundry that would be handled by the cleaning woman.

Selecting a fresh pair of jeans and a thin cotton shirt, J.D. tucked his wallet and keys into his pants pockets and took the stairs to the parking lot two at a time. He was greeted by a slap of humid air that barely fazed his well-conditioned body. The air in the red interior of his white Mercedes was stale before he flipped on the air-conditioning. He turned out into the midday traffic and tapped a disk into the CD player as he drove.

Ashley Villas. He repeated her words in his brain. It sounded like one of those golf and tennis communities that lined the southeastern seaboard like smooth shells. He tried to develop a mental image of Tory’s mother. The woman would probably be in her fifties and have a strong personality. He guessed she would be small, like her daughter, but more athletic than soft. Her skin would be wrinkled and weathered from too many trips around the back nine and not enough sunscreen. He grimaced, envisioning a brash woman wearing a white golf skirt and those funny little socks with the fuzzy little pastel balls that stuck out the back of her shoes. She was probably fiercely competitive. Tory was a fighter, that much he knew. That attribute was normally learned at home.

He frowned, suddenly realizing his thoughts were more suited to his inquisitive younger brother. Wesley was into analysis, not him.

Her apartment didn’t look much better in the light of day. It looked exactly like what it was—a garage converted into barely livable space.

She came through the door before he had an opportunity to kill the engine. Her dress forced a small smile to his lips. It fell far short of flattering, he mused as he watched her move toward him. It basically covered her from her throat to her ankles, a swirl of gauzy beige fabric designed specifically not to cling to her in any of the right places. His eyes fell to where her breasts strained against the material. He wondered if beneath that shapeless, colorless dress, she wore those wispy, sexy undergarments. His body responded uncomfortably to his imagination.

“You’re punctual,” she said as she slid in beside him.

“A regular Boy Scout,” he grumbled.

“Boy Scouts aren’t surly, as a rule,” she told him as she folded her delicate hands in her lap.

“Have much experience with Boy Scouts, do you?”

“Probably as much as you do.”

“I’ll have you know I almost made it to Eagle Scout,” he informed her, his chest puffed out slightly.

“Almost doesn’t count.”

His chest deflated. “I suppose not,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “Which way?”

“Take the Mark Clark.” She pointed north.

The expressway was crowded with minivans and trucks sporting business logos. But his attention was on the woman to his right. “You can relax, I won’t bite.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You don’t look it.”

“How can I not be relaxed? Sitting in this car is like sitting in your living room.”

“Not your living room, doll,” he promised her with a sidelong glance. “I slept on what you’ve got passing for a couch.”

“It serves its purpose,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

That small movement filled the interior of the car with the distinctive scent of gardenia. His mind immediately demanded to know if it was her soap, her shampoo or her cologne. Would he be able to taste it on her skin? Would he be able to keep his mind on the road long enough to prevent a ten-car pileup?

J.D. decided to concentrate on making polite conversation. “Did you call your mother to let her know you were coming?”

“It isn’t necessary.”

He sensed a tension in her voice that piqued his interest. “You two that close?”

“I love my mother.”

He realized instantly that she hadn’t actually answered his question. This from the woman who had not bothered to spare her tongue when it came to his strained relationship with Rose.

“Do you think she saw the newspaper?” he asked, nodding to the folded copy lying on the seat between them.

“No.”

“She’s not a reader?”

“No.”

“How do you think she’ll take the news about your father?”

“Calmly.”

His only hint that she wasn’t quite as composed as her limited answers implied was the sight of her hand as she played with the strands of wheat-colored hair sculpted around her slender throat. The tremor in her fingers was undeniable.

“You tense?”

“Tense?”

“Nervous? Agitated? Upset?”

She didn’t answer right away. He glanced over once, only to have his eyes fall on the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deeply through her slightly parted lips.

“I’m just not sure how Mama will handle the news.”

J.D. gripped the wheel a bit more tightly. “Her long-lost husband is dead. If she loved him, I’m sure she’ll be devastated.”

“What do you mean ‘if she loved him’?” Tory fairly shouted at him.

He saw the spark in her ice blue eyes and was glad to see some of the life come back to her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, lifting his hands off the wheel in a brief gesture of mock surrender. “I just meant that it’s been, what? Fifteen years? Love and memories fade.”

She turned her head so that he could no longer get a fix on her expression.

“How about you?”

“How about I what?” she answered dully.

“How are you holding up?”

“Are you asking me if I read the newspaper article?” Tory asked, gesturing toward the paper between them.

“Yes.” He realized he was holding his breath, not certain why he had suddenly broached this potentially dangerous subject.

“I don’t believe everything I read in the papers.”

“Smart approach.”

“But,” she said as she turned, “if the police are correct in their early assessment of the case, my father didn’t desert me. He was murdered.”

“They weren’t clear on that point,” J.D. told her.

“One of them stated that there appeared to be a bullet wound in the skull—”

“But that they needed to run tests.”

She scooted closer to the door, as if she wanted as much distance between them as possible.

“I must admit, Tory,” he began in a deliberately soft, nonthreatening tone, “I’m astounded by your composure. If someone told me my father might have been murdered, I think I’d go ballistic.”

“As strange as this may sound, hearing their theory made me feel strangely comforted.”

“How so?”

“Because it means he didn’t choose to walk out of my life. It means he didn’t leave me.”

J.D. hated the effect her soft, almost choked, words were having on his gut. Feeling compassion for this woman was dangerous.

“Turn here,” she said as they approached an exit.

Silently, J.D. followed her instructions for the next several miles. The landscape was little more than swampy grasses and clusters of evergreens. Hardly an ideal sight for a golf and tennis community.

His eyes fixed on a wooden sign about a hundred yards down the road. It swayed gently on the currents of the passing cars, but he could still make out the bold, black print.

“Ashley Villas Convalescent Center?” he read aloud as he pulled into the lot, threw the car into park and killed the engine.

“None other,” she responded, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Your mother lives in a convalescent center?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered as she opened the door and stepped from the car.

Grabbing the folded newspaper, J.D. tucked it under his arm and then jogged to catch up to her. “You could have said something.”

“I did,” she responded without looking at him. “I told you I would have preferred coming alone.”

He inclined his head in respect as he held open one of the center’s shining glass doors.

“Tory!” a male voice bellowed down the otherwise silent corridor. Tory smiled wanely at the dark-haired man sauntering toward her. “I should have guessed I’d run into you here today. Tough thing about your dad.”

He watched as she accepted the huge hand from the man he guessed to be about fifty, though his physique belied his age. His clothes told J.D. two things—first, the guy definitely had bucks; and second, he dressed for the sole purpose of attracting women.

“Cal Matthews,” she said, almost as an afterthought, “This is J.D. Porter.”

The two men shook hands.

Tory continued, “Cal used to work for my dad.”

“Sorry I can’t stay,” Cal cut in, making a point of looking at the Rolex on his wrist, “but you know how it is.”

Tory nodded. J.D. wanted to question her about the guy, when a plump nurse approached

“Poor child,” the large woman with skin the color of chocolate came shuffling forward, her arms held open.

“Hello, Gladys,” she answered before being enfolded in the woman’s ample bosom.

Gladys gave him a once-over that made J.D. feel as if he were back in Sunday school. He didn’t think he’d passed inspection, either—not judging from the wary look on the nurse’s round face.

“I read all about what happened in the paper,” Gladys said, crooking Tory beneath her arm in a purely protective fashion. Her dark eyes continued to assess J.D. “And who is this young man?”

“J.D. Porter,” Tory said. “He’s in Charleston visiting Rose.”

“You told me about him,” Gladys said with a thoughtful nod. “This is the man who’s going to ruin the Tattoo?”

“The same,” Tory admitted without so much as a trace of apology in her expression. “J.D., this is Gladys Halloday, R.N.”

“I prefer to think of my work as improving the property,” J.D. corrected as he offered his hand to the rather imposing woman.

“Change can be good,” Gladys said with a nod of her graying head.

Arms locked, the two women began to move down the hall. J.D. followed, feeling much like an intruder.

The place reminded him more of a hotel than a nursing home. There was no ammonia smell, no hiss of oxygen tanks. The place had carpeting and wallpaper, comfortable chairs and a bulletin board full of scheduled activities.

“There’s Dr. Trimble. He’s been waiting for you,” he heard Gladys say. “He spent a lot of time with your mama this morning.”

J.D. saw a paternalistic look appear in the doctor’s eyes when the man spotted them moving down the hall. It was becoming obvious to J.D. that Tory was a frequent and popular visitor here.

The doctor uttered words of condolence and didn’t bother giving J.D. a second glance. His face was a palette of concerned lines as he took both of Tory’s hands in his.

“I’m afraid I didn’t get any reaction when I told her about Robert.”

“None?”

He watched as the doctor’s expression grew sad. “I’m sorry, Tory. There was nothing.”

“I’d like to see her now.” Tory glanced over her shoulder but didn’t quite meet J.D.’s eyes. “Alone,” she added.

Gladys planted herself in the center of the hallway, her expression all but daring him to try to push past her. J.D. wasn’t about to take on the nurse. He’d learned a long time ago when to back down from confrontation. And this was definitely one of those times. He watched Tory disappear into the last room on the right.

For the next forty minutes, he sat in a small lounge under the watchful eye of his self-appointed guard. J.D. thumbed through the paper, wondering what Tory and her mother were discussing. No reaction at all. The words filtered back through his brain. He finished reading the paper and piled it on the seat next to him. He looked up to find Gladys away from her post.

Feeling restless and a bit intrigued, J.D. got up, telling himself that he was only going to walk far enough to stretch the cramped muscles of his legs.

His walk took him past the lookout station, down to the last door on the right. The door was ajar and he gave a soft push, widening the crack.

He was shocked by what he saw. At first glance, he could have been looking at a child, she was so tiny. Then he saw her face. Tory’s mother couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds. The white sheets nearly swallowed her frail, limp body. But it wasn’t her size as much as her face that forced him to suck in a breath. She looked barely older than her daughter. Her pale skin was smooth, nearly devoid of lines. The difference was in the eyes. The woman in bed stared blankly into space, apparently untouched by the things and people around her.

“You would have laughed, Mama.” He heard Tory’s voice and followed it. She was framed by the light from the window, her back to him. “You remember when I was ten and I started to develop? That nasty David Coultraine paid two of his friends to hold my arms while he peeked down my blouse? And I screamed that I’d hate all boys until my dying day?”

She paused, as if awaiting a response that never came.

“After I stopped crying, you told me one day I’d be swooning over boys. Well, you should have seen me last night. I fell right into a man’s waiting arms, just like you said.”

J.D. nearly jumped back when she turned and moved to the bed, sitting on, but barely rumpling, the neatly tucked bed coverings. The woman didn’t move, he noted. She gave no indication that she was even aware that her beautiful daughter sat at her side. J.D. swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat.

“The doctor said he told you about Daddy,” Tory said as she continued her monologue. The pauses, he quickly realized, were the result of a long history of these one-sided conversations.

Tory lifted the woman’s limp hand. Something glittered in the light. J.D. moved closer to pull the object into focus. It was a ring, a copy of the one that the cops had found with the skeleton. From its placement on the lifeless hand, he guessed it was her wedding band.

“He didn’t leave us, Mama. No matter what else, he didn’t run off.”

Tory took the hand to her face and forced it along the side of her cheek, simulating a loving, motherly stroke.

“That day after he left,” Tory began, her voice dropping to a hard-to-hear whisper, “you told me he wasn’t coming back. You sat me on top of the bar and told me that.”

J.D. could easily imagine the scene. He felt it in the twisted knot of his stomach.

“Please, Mama,” she begged, holding the hand to her heart. “Please tell me you didn’t kill him.”

Chapter Four

J.D. backed out of the doorway slowly, soundlessly pulling on the door as he made his exit.

Confusion caused deep lines of concentration to tug at the corners of his mouth. Glancing down the corridor, he spotted Dr. Trimble flipping through a chart near the nurse’s station. J.D. reached him in three purposeful strides.

“Dr. Trimble?”

The man peered at him over the top of his half glasses. His graying eyebrows thinned above his clear brown eyes.

“I’m J. D. Porter,” he said, offering his hand. “I came with Tory.”

The doctor nodded, apparently approving on some unspoken level. “Nice of you to come along. I’m sure today has been particularly difficult for her.”

“Yes,” J.D. agreed quickly.

“Of course, she’d never admit it,” Trimble added with a wry smile. “But I’m sure you already know that about her.”

“Sir?”

“She has this incredible capacity for only focusing on the positive. Heaven help her if she ever loses that defense mechanism.”

J.D. stifled a groan. This guy sounded exactly like his brother. Why the hell couldn’t they just say it in plain English? he wondered.

“About her mother,” J.D. began.

The doctor nodded, making him wonder if the gesture was some sort of technique taught in medical school. Wesley nodded a lot, too.

“Mrs. Conway didn’t respond when she was informed of her husband’s fate,” Dr. Trimble said.

“Stroke?”

The doctor’s eyebrows drew together and he regarded J.D. with sudden interest. “Tory hasn’t explained her mother’s illness?”

J.D. shook his head. “You know Tory,” he said with a shrug.

His seemingly innocent remark appeared to relax the other man. “I suppose it’s still quite difficult for her to verbalize her feelings.”

“Very,” J.D. agreed.

“I’ve suggested counseling on several occasions,” he said as he placed the chart on the counter and pulled the glasses off the bridge of his nose. “Especially after her grandmother died. I felt, and still feel, that Tory is unwilling to accept the finality of her mother’s condition.”

“Cancer?” J.D. said.

The doctor smiled sadly. “Nothing quite so socially acceptable, Mr. Porter.”

“AIDS?”

The doctor’s laugh was even sadder than his smile. “Tory’s mother has suffered a complete and total personality break. It is my opinion that she will never recover.”

“Personality break?”

“Nervous breakdown times ten,” Dr. Trimble explained. “She hasn’t moved or spoken for almost fifteen years.”

“Sweet Jesus,” J.D. uttered between clenched teeth.

“I don’t think Jesus will listen if you speak to Him in that tone,” a familiar female voice said.

J.D. spun on the heels of his boots, feeling his face burn under the accusation in Tory’s eyes.

“I wasn’t trying to pry.”

“Not much.”

“I think it might be good for you to share your confidences with your friend,” Dr. Trimble told her.

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m in the company of a friend.”

J.D. heard the shuffling of paper behind him as the doctor continued. “I know this is probably an awkward time, Tory, but you need to contact the business office on your next visit.”

J.D. watched what little color there was drain from her face. Her thick lashes fluttered before her eyes closed tightly. Without making a sound, she sucked in several deep breaths and nodded to the doctor.

“I’m ready to leave,” she informed him in a frosty tone.

J.D. followed her from the building, knowing he should apologize, but unable to find the appropriate words. No more grant; no more father; and the next worst thing to no mother. The reality of her life pierced some private part of his heart. He unlocked the car door for her and held it open.

“I forgot my paper,” he said just as he slammed the door.

He disappeared into the building and came back ten minutes later with the paper tucked beneath his arm.

“I could have suffocated in here,” she told him when he slid behind the wheel. “If I were a dog, you might have thought to leave the window open a crack.”

“If you were a dog,” he told her as his finger flicked the underside of her chin, “you’d be better trained.”

* * *

TWO WEEKS AFTER the discovery of the body, Tory was dutifully back waiting tables at the Rose Tattoo. It was Friday, she thought with a resigned sigh. Payday for most folks, which usually meant decent tips for her. The week she’d taken off had cost her dearly. She’d be pulling double shifts for the rest of the month just to meet her bills. Forget luxuries like food.

“Evening, girlie.”

“Hi, Grif,” she said, smiling at the old man’s watery blue eyes. “The usual?”

“And keep ‘em coming.”

Sliding a napkin in front of him, she tugged the pencil from behind her ear and made a note on her pad. Grif—short for Cliff Griffen—had occupied that particular table every Friday and Saturday night for nearly twenty years. Tory liked him—liked the comfort his continuity brought.

Placing her tray on the side bar, she waited until Josh the bartender sauntered over, towel draped over one shoulder.

She said, “Dewars and water—”

“Easy on the water,” they said in unison.

“How is old Grif this evening?”

“Fine,” Tory answered just before popping an olive in her mouth.

“You aren’t supposed to do that,” Josh chided. “They’re for paying customers.”

Good-naturedly, she stuck out her tongue, careful to hide the gesture as she moved off, drink balanced in the center of her tray.

“Miss?”

“Be right there,” she promised the man before depositing the drink in front of Grif.

Quickly, she retraced her steps. “Yes, sir?”

“Our food?” he demanded in a huff.

“I’ll go check,” she said, offering a smile.

“We have theater tickets,” he announced, as if that alone would charbroil the salmon fillets faster.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She went directly to the kitchen, hoping the hostility she sensed from “Mr. Theater Tickets” wasn’t going to set the tone for the evening.

“My dinners?” she called to the chef.

He looked up from his grill and said, “Almost ready.”

Snagging a halved cherry tomato and popping it in her mouth, she got up on her toes and looked out into the dining room. “Theater Tickets” looked restless.

“C’mon, Mickey,” she yelled. “Customer’s waiting.”

Clutching her tray, Tory felt an odd tingling at the base of her spine. She turned slowly and saw him lingering in the doorway.

His dark head was tilted to one side, shrouding his eyes with a disturbing shadow.

“Miss Conway,” he drawled as he pushed himself away from the doorjamb.

“Mr. Porter,” she returned with false friendliness. She surveyed his clothing and added, “I didn’t know they made silk paisley ties in clip-on.”

His laughter was deep and the sound circled her like a caress. “Mind that sharp tongue, doll. You might cut yourself.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said sweetly, “but I’ve got more important fish to serve.”

“I think you mean fry.”

For once in her life, her timing was perfect. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Mickey placed the plates of grilled fish up on the serving counter. Placing them on the tray, Tory escaped the heat of the kitchen, trying not to notice the smoldering gray eyes that bore into her back.

Over the next several hours, Tory didn’t have time to think, let alone to wonder where J.D. was hiding. The pockets of her apron began to fill to a comfortable level of tips at about the same time her feet gave out. She was bone-tired and filled with relief when the crowd thinned to just a single couple and Grif, who sat nursing his fourth drink as he watched out the window.

“Need another?” she asked cheerfully as she leaned against his table.

“Not tonight,” he said in that raspy voice that spoke of too many cigarettes. “I’m going hunting in the morning. Ever hunt with a hangover?”

“Can’t say as I have,” Tory answered with a laugh. She patted the back of his callused hand, her fingers brushing the gaudy gold band on his pudgy pinkie. “I’ll ring you out.” She often wondered why he wore that awful ring when his clothing fairly screamed aging yachtsman.

Susan was perched on one of the bar stools, counting her tips. Tory smiled as she watched the methodical way her mystical friend placed all the bills in the same direction, matching the edges on all four sides. Susan’s reverence for all things metaphysical was surpassed only by her reverence for all things monetary.

“Have a good night?” Tory queried as she ran a check through the register.

“I had a walk-out,” Susan complained. “They stuck me with two rounds of shooters with beer chasers. I hate frat boys. No class.”

“No argument,” Tory said with feeling.

She gave Grif and the couple at her other table their checks and waited to collect their money.

Rolling her head around her stiff shoulders, Tory stood on one foot and cleared her throat. The bartender managed to drag himself away from a swaying redhead to strut to her end of the bar. “Could you ring these two before you play your nightly game of roulette?”

“I’m careful, Tory.”

“The CDC would probably beg to differ,” she countered, some of the teasing gone from her voice. “They would classify you as engaging in dangerous behavior.”

“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,” he retorted. “I’ll be happy to keep tomorrow night open for you.”

“She’s busy tomorrow night.”

Tory stifled her groan when she recognized that deep voice. She was too tired to spar with J.D.

She turned in a sleek, slow movement, tilting her chin so that she met his gaze straight on. “You’re right, J.D.,” she purred.

She knew the surprise wouldn’t register anywhere other than his eyes, so that’s where she kept her attention. She waited until the gray turned dark, almost smoky. “I’m working tomorrow night.”

She brushed past him, holding crisp bills in her fist. The bartender tried to hide his laugh behind his hand. Tory felt triumphant as she placed the change in front of Grif.

“What d’ya say to him?” Grif asked, nodding in the direction of J.D.

“I told him no,” she replied honestly.

“Good for you,” Grif grumbled, peeling off some of the bills before pocketing the rest. “But he don’t look too inclined to take no for an answer.”

That wasn’t her concern, she told herself as she lingered, clearing off the tables. She even checked Susan’s tables, delaying her return to the bar until she could find no other alternative.

She noted J.D. quietly watched her from his seat near the jukebox, taking the occasional pull on a long-neck bottle of beer. His scrutiny was wreaking havoc with her nerves. I’m just tired, she insisted to herself as she re-counted one stack of crumpled bills for the third time. She soon gave up and settled for an estimate of her earnings, then divided out the appropriate percentage for the bartender.

“Thanks,” she called down to him, waving the bills and tucking them beneath an ashtray.

“Are you finished?” J.D. asked.

“Time to go home,” she answered without looking at him.

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