Or had she?

J.D. really didn’t give a damn. He only had to do his job down here, find the right piece of land for the new winery, then make tracks. He’d check on the kids, make sure the widow Santini was handling things okay, inform her about the ownership of the house, then return to Portland.

He couldn’t wait.

He tucked the legal papers inside his bag again and stuffed the duffel into a drawer. Walking stiffly across the room he sat on the edge of the windowsill and looked into the backyard where Tiffany, in the gathering dusk, was watering some of the planters near the carriage house. She was humming to herself, seemingly at peace with the world, but J.D. sensed it was all an act. The woman was restless; disturbed about something. Ten to one it had to do with her little foray down to the police department today. She set down her watering can and glanced up toward the window.

He didn’t move.

Through the glass their gazes met. J.D.’s stomach tightened. His pulse raced. As he stared into those amber eyes, something inside him broke free. Memories he’d locked away emerged and turned his throat to dust. He remembered touching her, kissing her, feeling her sweet, forbidden surrender. God, she was beautiful.

She licked her lips and his knees went weak at the silent, innocent provocation.

Or was it innocent?

Damn it all to hell. Sweat tickled the back of his neck. Desire crept through his blood.

She looked away at first, as if her thoughts, too, had traveled a sensual and taboo course. She turned her attention back to the planter boxes and J.D. snapped the blinds closed. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not ever.

His fascination for his deceased brother’s wife was his personal curse, one he’d borne from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her.

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

“Did you hear that we’re getting a new neighbor?” Doris, the owner of the small insurance agency where Tiffany worked, asked the next day. Tiffany was just settling into her chair, balancing her coffee cup in one hand while reaching for the stack of mail sitting on the corner of her desk.

“Who is it this time?” Tiffany took a swallow of coffee and snagged her letter opener from the top drawer. In the small cottage converted into offices there had been everything from acupuncturists to a toy store, a bead shop and a phone-card business. All had failed.

“An architect,” Doris said with a wry smile.

Tiffany froze. “You don’t mean—?”

“Yep. Bliss Cawthorne’s going to be right next door.”

“Great.” Tiffany sliced open the top envelope as if her life depended upon it. She didn’t need to be reminded of her half-sister, her legitimate half-sister. Not this week.