Should she call security? No. Just because he wasn’t wearing a suit and tie didn’t mean he wasn’t invited. Every family had its rebel. “We have lobster thermidor or beef Wellington or—”

“You’re Tiffany Nesbitt?”

Who was this guy? “Yes.”

He reached across the table, grabbed her left hand and held it up to the light. Her ring caught one of the last rays of the setting sun, glittering brightly on her finger.

The man’s jaw tightened, his already harsh features grew more taut. She yanked back her hand somehow and suddenly felt the ring she loved was ostentatious and obscene. “And you’re . . . ?”

“J.D.”

Her stomach dropped. Her throat turned to sand. She was staring into the hard expression of the hellion.

“Philip’s brother.”

“I . . . I recognize the name.”

“Good.” His smile was as cold as death. “Looks like we’re going to be related.”

She couldn’t hide her dismay. While Philip was refined and polished, this guy was as rough and edgy as a cowboy fresh from a two-week cattle drive. She tried to retrieve her rapidly escaping manners. “Pleased to meet you, James.”

“No one calls me that.”

“But Philip—”

“Is a snob. The name’s J.D. or Jay.” He reached into the breast pocket of his T-shirt for a pack of cigarettes. “Let’s keep it simple.”

“Fine,” she said, feeling a general sense of irritation. What was James—oh, excuse me, J.D.—doing crashing the party in disreputable jeans and tattered jacket? He lit up, surveyed the crowd from behind his tinted lenses and rested a hip against the table. Tiffany tried to ignore him as she helped another couple of guests. But he never left her side. Standing in the shade of the tent, arms folded across his chest, lips razor thin and compressed, he smoked, then crushed the cigarette beneath the worn heel of his boot.

Tiffany hoped that Philip would return, that he would rescue her from having to make small talk with this guy; but her fiancé was busy, moving from one cluster of guests to the next, doing what he did best as vice president in charge of local sales for the winery.

She sensed rather than saw J.D. observing her, knew that he was watching her every move. She felt like a horse at an auction and was nervous, wary, her muscles tense.

“So what is it you do?” she finally asked, tired of the uncomfortable silence that stretched between them.

He slid his sunglasses from his nose and eyed her with a gaze that was as gray and cold as the barrel of a gun. “What do I do?” he repeated. “Depends upon who you ask, I guess.”

“Pardon me?”

“My father thinks I’m a borderline criminal, my mother thinks I can walk on water and my brother sees me as a big pain in the ass. Take your pick.”

“What do you think?”