His leg still pained him when he walked, but he hitched the strap of his bag over his shoulder and made his way up a brick walk that needed more than its share of new mortar.

He tried not to notice the crumbling caulking around the windows and the trickle of rust that colored the downspouts as he climbed the two steps to the front door.

This house and its sad need of repair are not your problem.

Right, and the Pope wasn’t Catholic.

Everything Tiffany did affected him. Whether he wanted it to or not. She was the widow of his brother, mother of his niece and nephew, and the only woman whom he’d never been able to forget.

And trouble. Don’t forget the kind of trouble she is.

He jabbed on the bell, heard the chimes peel softly from the interior and waited impatiently. What could he say to her? That, unbeknown to her, he owned part of this old house, because her dead husband, his older brother, had been an inveterate gambler? That he thought it would be better if she sold the place, bought something newer and more modern, that it would be best if the kids were . . . what? Moved again? Uprooted to live close to the Santini enclave? He snorted at that thought. For years he’d avoided being roped into the tight-knit-to-the-point-of-strangulation clan, but then he was a man. It was different for him, wasn’t it? He didn’t have kids.

A black cat darted through the shadows of overgrown rhododendrons and azaleas. Footsteps dragged through the house and the door was opened just a crack.

“Yeah?” Suspicious thirteen-year-old eyes peered out at him through the slit.

“Stephen?”

The eyes narrowed. “Who’re you?”

J.D. felt a shaft of guilt. The kid didn’t even recognize him. That wasn’t Stephen’s fault so much as it was his. “I’m your uncle.”

“Uncle? You mean—?”

“J.D.”

“Oh.” Stephen’s voice cracked and his skin, olive in tone, was instantly suffused with color. A flicker of recognition flashed in his eyes. He opened the door farther, standing aside as J.D. hitched his way into the foyer.

“What happened to your leg?”

“An accident. Motorcycle. The bike won.”

“Yeah?” Stephen’s eyes gleamed and the hint of a smile slid over his lips. He would be a good-looking kid in a few years, but right now he was a little rough around the edges. Soon his jaw would become more defined and his face would catch up with his nose. The boy reminded J.D. of himself and his own misdirected youth. “You’ve got a motorcycle?” Stephen asked, obviously awed.

“I did. It’s in the shop.”

“What kind?”

“A Harley.”

“Cool.”

He couldn’t have impressed the kid more if he’d claimed to be a millionaire. “It doesn’t look so cool now. Funny what plowing into a tree does to a bike.”