But the dull ache around her heart only increased. She walked to the window to look through the branches of the night-darkened tree when she noticed his briefcase, open, and a document spread upon the table.

Don’t look at it.

But she saw her name—and Philip’s—on the contract.

The contract?

With trembling fingers she picked up the pages and read each of the pages. Slowly, as she sifted through the legalese, she understood the reason why J.D. Santini had come to Bittersweet. It wasn’t just to buy a winery. It wasn’t to see his niece and nephew. It wasn’t to check on her. No, the reason he’d shown his face down here and rented an apartment from her was because he was checking out his father’s investment in this house, this Victorian manor she’d called home. Her heaven.

Only it wasn’t hers.

Santini Brothers owned the lion’s share of it. Philip had signed away most of what she had assumed was her equity. Nothing much was left.

And it had been J.D.’s job to come and give her the news. Only he’d chickened out.

Tears burned behind her eyes. Betrayal raged through her soul. How had she trusted him? Believed in him? Made love to him?

Because you’re a fool for that man. You always have been and you always will be.

Her knees turned to jelly and she sagged against the table. The first tears began to rain from her eyes and she heard the sound of an engine. Swallowing hard, she looked out the window and braced herself as J.D.’s Jeep came into view. Her fingers curled over the damning papers and she forced her leaden legs to move. It was time to have it out, once and for all.

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

“Who do you think you are?” Tiffany flew across the dry grass like an avenging angel. Her eyes were as bright as twenty-four-karat gold. her face flushed, her beautiful lips compressed into a furious pout, her black hair streaming behind her. In one hand she had papers, legal papers, clutched into a wad.

J.D.’s stomach tightened. Every muscle in his body tensed as he climbed out of the Jeep. He knew why she was furious. Stephen didn’t.

“Mom—”

“Go into the house, Stephen,” she ordered.

“But—”

“You heard me!” So angry she was shaking, she stopped at the Jeep’s fender. Her eyes, luminous and burning with wrath, focused on J.D. “Your uncle and I have something important to discuss.”

“We took care of it,” Stephen said.

“You what?” Her perfectly arched eyebrows drew together.

“At the police station—”

“She’s not talking about the Isaac Wells case,” J.D. clarified.

Tiffany stumbled backward a step. “Isaac Wells? Police?” She looked at her son for the first time. “What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?” Stephen asked.