“No. Please, Jay.” Somewhere deep in her being there was a rendering, painful and filled with remorse. Her heart was pounding so loudly he could surely hear its erratic cadence. “I . . . I don’t think we should be talking like this,” she said in a voice she barely recognized as her own.

“You asked.”

“But . . .” Somehow it seemed wrong, such a betrayal of Philip’s memory. “It’s just that what happened between you and me was . . . was . . .”

“Not supposed to,” he finished for her, his jaw tight, his nostrils flaring slightly. A muscle worked in the corner of his jaw and his hands balled into fists of frustration as he gazed upon the still waters of the pond and saw past its clear depths to the bottom of his own soul, his private hell. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“I had no intention—”

“Neither did I,” he said crisply, as if to dismiss the subject. They walked down the natural bowl in the hill to the pond and a thicket of cottonwood, pine and oak that guarded one bank. The sky was turning a deep shade of lavender and a soft breeze raced across the pond.

Guilt, never far away, nudged even closer. She’d been faithful to Philip, never so much as touched another man. Her heart had been with her husband. Always. Except for a few lonely moments when she’d thought of J.D., of his kiss, or what might have been. But she’d never said a word, never lifted the phone to call him, never uttered his name in the middle of the night when Philip, off on business or a gambling junket, hadn’t been around. She rubbed her arms to ward off a chill before she realized how warm the evening was.

A hawk flew overhead, lazily circling in the dusky sky, but Tiffany hardly noticed because of the man beside her. Rebel. Black sheep. Hellion. Names she’d heard Philip call his younger brother. Foolish names that weren’t true.

“On to better things,” he said, as if he’d chased the ghosts of his past away. From the backpack he withdrew a bottle of wine. “I thought we should christen this place.”

“And how did you want to do that?” she asked, her stupid heart racing at the prospect.

“I’ll show you.” He pulled a jackknife from the pocket of his jeans and flipped out the corkscrew. “Santini Brothers’ award-winning private reserve.” With an exaggerated flourish, he uncorked the bottle. “Want to sniff the cork?”

“I’ll trust you,” she said, then saw the stiffening of his spine. “I mean—”

“I know what you meant.” He set the bottle on a flat rock near the edge of the pond to let it breathe, but he was tense, his muscles flexed. “And the fact of the matter is you don’t trust me.” He looked at her with eyes that flashed a silver gray. “You never have.”