LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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