LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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