J.D.’s eyebrows slammed together. “And you don’t think this is serious.”

“Serious enough,” she admitted, though she wasn’t going to let her bachelor brother-in-law, a man who’d never had any kids, know just how worried she was. It was too easy for him to criticize. “Stephen will be all right.”

“If you say so.”

“He’s a teenager—”

“Barely.”

Tiffany bristled. She stepped closer to him and tried vainly to keep her temper in check. “Don’t start passing judgment, J.D. You remember how much trouble you can get into during those years, don’t you? According to Philip, your adolescent exploits were practically legendary.”

His jaw hardened and he climbed to his feet. He winced, then hitched himself across the room to stare out the window over the sink.

“What happened?” she asked, angry with herself for being concerned. J.D. Santini was the last man she should care about. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Tore a couple of tendons. It’s not a big deal.”

“When?”

“A few months ago. Motorcycle accident.”

“Oh.” So there was still a bit of the rebel in him. Good. For some reason she didn’t want to examine too closely, she found that bit of information comforting, but she couldn’t dwell on it. Wouldn’t. “No one told me.”

“Why would they?”

“Because, dammit, I am still part of the family.”

“I was laid up for a few days. No big deal. Believe me, if it had been life-threatening, you would have been notified.”

“Before or after the funeral?”

His jaw tightened. “You act as if you’re ostracized. The way I remember it, you came down here and cut the ties, so to speak, because you wanted to.”

That much was true. She’d run fast and hard to get away from the suffocating grip of the Santini family.

“Let’s not get into all that,” she suggested. “It’s water under the bridge, anyway. Why don’t you tell me why, if you’re working for the company, you’re in Bittersweet?”

“Dad’s interested in buying some land around here someplace. Potential winery.”

“And you’re the expert?” This wasn’t making a lot of sense.

“Looks like.”

She didn’t remember him being so evasive. In fact, the J.D. she’d known had been blunt and direct, a man who could make you squirm with his intense, no-nonsense gaze, thin-lipped mouth that rarely smiled and somewhat harsh demeanor. With raven-black hair, thick eyebrows and sculpted features, he never gave an inch and was known to call them as he saw them. And never had he worked for his father. The way Philip had told it, J.D. the renegade, eleven years his junior, was forever at odds with his old man. But then who could get along with Carlo Santini, patriarch with the iron fist and closed mind?