“I was just curious, okay? It’s not a crime.” He stopped short at his own words, blushed and punched another button on the dash. Settling back in his seat, he chewed on a fingernail and closed his eyes as a song Tiffany recognized from one of his Nine Inch Nails CDs thrummed through the speakers.

Leave it alone, she told herself. This isn’t the time. She drove through town and tried not to worry. Everything was going to be all right. Stephen had his share of troubles, but he wasn’t a criminal, for goodness’ sake. He was just a thirteen-year-old boy who was confused by his father’s death and his recent move. For the first time she wondered if uprooting him had been a good idea. There was a chance he would have felt more secure in Portland with his old friends.

Now he was scared.

And so was she.

* * *

J.D. couldn’t concentrate. Seated at the small table in his apartment, he shuffled the papers he’d received from the real-estate agent—information about the half-dozen properties that would work for his father’s latest idea for expansion into a new winery and vineyards, but the words blurred.

He unscrewed the cap of his thermos and poured hours-old coffee into his cup. Frowning at the bitter taste, he added a splash of bourbon he’d bought for just that purpose.

For all of his life, he’d never had a problem keeping his thoughts on track. In high school, despite the fact that he’d spent more time rebelling than studying, he’d breezed through his classes. College hadn’t been tough and he’d managed to work full-time and attend law school.

When he’d finally started working for a large firm in Seattle, he’d been able to spend hour after hour in the law library, or at his desk, poring over old cases, reviewing and researching, and generally working eighteen-hour days. He could get by on four hours’ sleep and kept in shape by running the hills of the city while honing his thoughts on whatever case he was working on at the time.

He had chased ambulances—or, as he preferred to call it, he’d been a “personal injury” lawyer. That was where the money had been; that was where he could help individuals fight corporations, insurance companies, hospitals or whoever had wronged them.

He’d never been one to lose sight of his goals. Never been unprepared. Never been distracted. Well, almost never. The women he’d dated, slept with, or nearly loved, hadn’t been interesting enough to deter him.

Except for his brother’s wife.

Tiffany Nesbitt Santini had been the exception—and, he was afraid, his undoing.

Swearing under his breath, he took a long swallow from his cup and felt the coffee and alcohol hit his stomach in a warm, welcome flood.

Tiffany had gotten to him from the start.