Unlawfully Wedded

“No,” Susan insisted, looking to J.D., who gave a small nod of encouragement. “He must have crawled in through the window before succumbing to bacterial pneumonia.”

“Bacterial pneumonia?” Tory echoed, feeling her eyebrows draw together.

“Sure,” Susan replied. “It’s very deadly if not treated. And it kills really fast.”

“Well, hell,” Tory said as she theatrically slapped her palm against her forehead. “The police are wasting their time investigating. Why don’t you run out there and tell them what happened. It’ll save the city a whole lot of time and money.”

J.D. folded his arms over the back of the chair, his eyes leveled on the redhead. His expression told Tory nothing of his thoughts.

“I think your theory has a few holes in it,” J.D. said.

“Really?”

“If the guy was on death’s door, how do you suppose he built the wall?”

“What wall?” Susan asked.

Shrugging his shoulders, J.D. tilted his head and looked directly at Tory as he answered. “The stones that covered him aren’t the same as the ones used in rest of the building. It’s my guess that—”

“You can’t be serious,” Tory cut in. “You’re suggesting that someone entombed that body in the dependency?”

“It’s a real probability,” he answered slowly.

“I think you’ve been watching too much television or something.” Tory dismissed his speculation with a wave of her hand. The lingering seed of doubt wasn’t as easily discharged.

His gaze didn’t falter as his eyes roamed over her face. Rubbing her arms against a sudden chill, Tory shook her head, hoping to rid her mind of sudden vivid images of that nameless, faceless person meeting such a gruesome demise.

“I think you’re being a bit melodramatic, J.D.,” she said with forced lightness.

“Maybe,” he agreed as he rose to his full height and went behind the bar.

Tory should have gone home. There was really no point in hanging around the Tattoo since the police had asked them to close down while vanloads of forensic teams scoured the area.

About an hour after the initial discovery, Shelby and Dylan Tanner arrived with their son Chad in tow. A pang of envy tugged at her heart as she watched the couple move toward her. Dylan was tall, dark and handsome; Shelby dark, exotic-looking and hugely pregnant. Dylan almost always had a tender hand on his wife—small, seemingly insignificant touches that proclaimed the extent of their deep emotional commitment to each other.

Chad was a different story. Polite people called him all-boy. He bounded into the room and immediately began pressing the buttons on the jukebox. Shelby’s stern warning to stay away from the machine fell on deaf ears. Chad had a mind of his own at the tender age of eighteen months. Tory liked that.

Tory ran over and scooped the squealing child into her arms, planting kisses against his plump tummy.

“How’s my favorite little man?” she asked.

“Man, man, man,” was his babbled response.

“Terror is more like it,” Dylan called as he draped his arm across his wife’s shoulders.

“Are you a terror?” Tory asked the small boy.

He shook his head vigorously, then said, “Man.”

“See?” Tory said as she shifted Chad in her arms. “He’s not a terror.”

“Then maybe Auntie Tory would like to take him for the weekend?” Shelby teased, a sarcastic light in her blue eyes.

“Anytime,” she said earnestly. “Right, little man?”

“Man,” Chad answered, nodding his dark head.

Looping his pudgy arms around her neck, Chad proceeded to give her a “skeeze.” The delight in her eyes faded somewhat when she noticed J.D. leaning against the bar, a long-neck bottle of beer balanced between his thumb and forefinger. When he began to move toward them, the word swagger flashed across her brain. His expression was sour, distracted. Why did such an unpleasant man have to exude such sensuality? she wondered.

“You must be J.D.,” Dylan said as he offered the taller man his hand.

“Guilty,” J.D. responded.

“Shelby is really excited about the work you’re going to do.”

J.D. turned those devastating eyes on Shelby, nodding politely. “I think adding a club will allow you to draw in a younger crowd.”

“That’s what we’re hoping,” Shelby answered as she rested her head against her husband’s shoulder. “And I know your mother is equally thrilled that you agreed to do the work.”

“For a hefty price,” Tory grumbled in a stage whisper.

Three sets of eyes turned on her. But it was the simmering hostility in J.D.’s expression that made her instantly regret the barb.

“Miss Conway thinks I’m overpriced and incapable of doing the job,” J.D. explained, though his eyes never left hers.

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Shelby insisted. “Tory?” she questioned. “Surely you know—”

“She knows that I prefer dramatic buildings,” J.D. interrupted. “And she’s right.”

“Well,” Tory said as she captured Chad’s hand in hers to prevent his sudden fascination with the buttons of her white blouse. “I don’t get a vote, now, do I, Mr. Porter? I’m nothing but a lowly waitress.”

Shifting the child on her hip, Tory returned her attention to the baby. It was much easier than having to suffer the intense scrutiny of his eyes. “How about we raid the fridge?” she asked. When she got no response, she added, “Ice cream?”

“Get it,” Chad answered, his fat legs bouncing with excitement.

“Not a lot,” Shelby warned.

J.D. watched her disappear into the kitchen, a knot of tension forming between his shoulders.

“What was that all about?” Dylan asked.

J.D. offered a noncommittal shrug. “Miss Conway believes I’m incapable of rehabbing the building because historical sites aren’t exactly part of my résumé.”

“Tory believes in preserving the city,” Shelby agreed. “Lord knows, she’s been studying it long enough.”

“She won’t be studying much longer,” J.D. said as he frowned. Why did he care if she’d lost her grant? He should be looking upon that bit of information as a gift from above. It could be the answer to his prayers. It was certainly a way to get Tory Conway out of his life.

“Why?” Shelby asked him.

J.D. had just finished recounting the visit by Dr. Greyson when Rose joined them. He felt the tension in his body grow worse. “So it looks like her academic career is history.”

“Not if I can help it,” Rose countered, patting the paperback directory.

J.D. noted a glint in his mother’s eyes that instantly had him on red alert.

“That girl’s entitled to her education. She’s worked damned hard and I’m going to see she finishes,” Rose huffed, tracing the edge of one line on her zebra-print pants.

Stifling a groan, J.D. sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “That might not be such a good idea,” he suggested. He wondered if any of what he had told his mother in confidence that morning had penetrated the layers of her lacquered curls.

“Leave that to me,” she told him. Her hand came out and hovered just above his arm. “I’ve got a plan.”

“Would someone like to clue me in?” Shelby piped up, her hand moving in a circular motion over her large belly.

“Upstairs,” Rose instructed.

J.D. was left alone in the dining room with Susan. He wasn’t much in the mood for company, he was feeling too restless. He was starting to wonder about this trip. Perhaps it would have been easier just to have ignored Rose’s request to come to South Carolina. He could have happily stayed in Florida, doing his kind of work. Rose would have remained nothing more than a name and a vague memory.

“Want me to do your palm?” Susan chirped.

“Excuse me?”

“Your palm,” she repeated, glancing at his balled fist. “I sense some really intense discord in your aura.”

“My aura?”

“Very telling,” Susan said, her brown eyes solemn. “I can usually tell everything about a person from their aura. Yours is red.”

“Red, huh?” he asked, faintly amused.

“That’s bad,” she insisted, genuineness dripping from each syllable. “If you let me have a look at your palm, I might be able to determine the cause of the red in your aura.”

“This ought to be a kick,” he mumbled as he took a seat across from her and offered his hand, palm up.

Susan bent forward and traced the lines on his hand. Her face was totally serious, as if she was completely absorbed in her examination. Her fingers were long and bony, and not nearly as soft as Tory’s.

He frowned, wondering why his mind would recognize such a traitorous thought. But his subconscious wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. As he sat there, he noted the many differences between the two waitresses. Susan was lanky and shapeless. Tory could only be described as voluptuous. Though he noted how hard she tried to conceal her attributes, her curvaceous body had not gone unnoticed. His frown deepened.

“I think you’re about to make a life-altering decision,” Susan predicted.

“Such as?”

“I’m not a fortune-teller,” Susan informed him haughtily. “I can only tell you what I see, based on the physical aspects of your palm.”

“Sorry.” J.D. managed to sound moderately sincere.

“And see here?” She followed one of the long lines on his hand. “This is your love line. It’s very long, but there’s a definite interruption.”

“Meaning?”

“Your love life won’t be a smooth one.”

Safe answer, he thought.

“But this is what concerns me,” she continued, tapping her blunt nail against the edge of his hand. “These lines dissecting your life line indicate that you’re in for a great deal of discord in your life. And they’re all clustered together, which probably explains your bad aura.”

“Come again?”

“Basically, lots of bad things will happen to you at one time. You’ll experience one disaster after another.”

“I can’t wait,” he groaned, wondering if this trip to South Carolina would prove to be the catalyst for this “disturbance of his aura.”

“But there’s hope,” Susan said brightly. “Once you get past that stuff, you should be very content with your life.”

“Great,” he mused aloud. “I’ll keep that in mind whenever my life starts going to hell.”

Susan’s dark eyes met his. “As for your aura, I think you might want to try some deep-breathing exercises. Relaxation techniques are quite effective in achieving a color change. You might even make it all the way to yellow.”

“There’s a goal,” he whispered as he gently pulled his hand away. “Thanks for the insights.”

“Anytime,” Susan answered. Grabbing her oversize nylon knapsack, the woman slung it over her thin shoulder as she got to her feet. “Practice that breathing,” she called out as she left.

He took a long pull on his beer and savored the bitterness as it went down. This was certainly one of the more interesting days in his life. He’d discovered a skeleton and had had his palm and aura analyzed. He began to chuckle.

“Something funny?”

Tory approached him with something akin to trepidation in her eyes.

“Susan just checked out my aura and my palm.”

His explanation erased the caution from her expression. Her half smile had a disturbing effect on him.

“Don’t let her hear you laugh,” he warned. “She takes that stuff seriously. I made that mistake when she warned me of impending doom.”

“Really? And what did our little soothsayer tell you?”

His eyes drifted to her shapely backside as she slipped behind the bar and filled a glass with soda.

“She’s convinced I’m about to have a life-altering experience. Something about too many intersections in my life line.”

J.D. felt his mouth curve in a wide smile. “It would seem that Susan is a one-trick pony,” Tory said.

“Why’s that?”

“That’s basically the same story she handed me.”

She stood next to the table, but made no move to join him. She brought the glass to her lips. It was the first time he’d really looked at her mouth. He guessed it would be soft.

“Want to join me?”

“No,” she answered quickly.

Too quickly, he thought.

“They were just placing that disgusting thing on a stretcher when I gave Chad back to Shelby.”

“He’s a cute kid.”

His observation was greeted by a surprised look.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Chad’s adorable.”

“So.” He paused long enough to take another swallow. “How come you’re hanging around?”

“I’m just waiting for the police to finish,” she told him. “They’ve got my car blocked in.”

“You could ask them to move it.”

“I could, but I don’t mind waiting.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

He could almost hear her spine stiffen.

“Why do you feel the need to mock me?” she asked pointedly.

“I wasn’t mocking. Simply making an observation.”

“Miss?”

Tory turned in answer to the male voice. One of the detectives marched forward, his badge dangling from the breast pocket of his tan suit jacket.

“Would it be possible for me to get a glass of water?”

“Sure,” Tory answered as she slipped behind the bar and filled a glass with ice.

“J. D. Porter,” he said, extending his hand to the man.

“Greer,” the detective responded, wiping his hand on his slacks before engaging in the handshake. “You’re Rose’s...”

“Son,” J.D. answered without inflection.

The detective regarded him briefly before Tory appeared with the glass. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s hot as all get-out today.”

“Have they taken the body away?” Tory asked.

“What was left of him.”

“Then it was a man?” J.D. asked.

“We’re pretty sure, based on the size and shape of the pelvic bones.”

“Any idea who he was?”

“Not a clue,” Greer answered. “But the lab boys think he’s been here a while. Some medical mumbo jumbo about the condition and density of the bone.”

“How creepy,” Tory groaned. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been near that building in the five years I’ve been working here.”

“That long?” Greer asked, immediately putting down his glass and feeling for his pad and pen.

“Yes, sir,” J.D. heard her answer. “I worked for the previous owner—Mr. Brewster.”

“Didn’t your family use to own this place before Brewster?” J.D. queried.

Tory shot him a quick glance of annoyance, then turned her attention back to the detective. “My father owned this place until about fifteen years ago.”

“Do you know where I can find Brewster?” Greer asked.

“He died,” Tory answered.

“How about your father?”

“I’m afraid you won’t have any luck there, either.”

“He’s deceased?” Greer asked.

J.D. watched as she lowered her eyes.

“He left town.”

“Do you have an address?”

“I haven’t heard from him,” she answered in a small voice.

J.D. felt a small stab of compassion for the woman. He knew all too well what it was like to have a parent suddenly disappear from your life. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged away from his touch.

“My father left us when I was ten. We never heard from him.”

“Sorry,” Greer mumbled as he flipped the notebook closed. “I guess there’s—”

“Detective?”

An obviously excited man dressed in a wilted uniform rushed into the room. A plastic bag dangled from his dirt-smudged hand.

“What have you got?” Greer asked as he cupped his hand beneath the item in the evidence bag.

“We found this in the soil after they moved the remains.”

J.D. moved closer, as did Tory. The item caught and reflected the light. “A ring,” Greer mumbled.

“Has initials, too,” the officer chimed excitedly.

“R.C.,” Greer read.

J.D. watched the horror fill Tory’s wide eyes. Her mouth opened for a scream that never materialized. She simply went limp, falling right into his outstretched arms. His handsome features grew faint and fuzzy, until she could no longer hold on to his image.

Chapter Three

His eyes opened reluctantly, followed almost immediately by a telltale stab of pain in his lower back. Using his legs for leverage, J.D. hoisted his stiff frame to a sitting position. Rubbing the stubble on his chin, he squinted against the harsh rays of morning light spilling over a faded set of clashing curtains. Holding his breath, he listened for sound. Nothing.

He found a clock on the kitchen wall. Well, he decided, as he began a burglar-quiet search of the cabinets, it wasn’t really much of a kitchen. Hell, he added, feeling the frown on his lips, it wasn’t really much of an apartment.

Leaning against the counter, he surveyed the single room, feeling his stomach lurch in protest to the stark surroundings. Tory Conway appeared to be living one step above poverty. For some unknown reason, that rankled.

The single-serving coffeepot gurgled behind him. In the center of the room there was a card table with two mismatched chairs, their seats little more than shredded strips of faded vinyl. The computer sitting on top of the table was antiquated, probably five years removed from the sleek electronic notebook he had so casually brought along from Miami. The first stirrings of guilt did little to improve his mood.

He found a coffee cup on the drain board and actually smiled when he realized it was from the Rose Tattoo. A quick check of the drawers indicated that the utensils and most of the other items were also from his mother’s restaurant.

Mother. His grimace returned with a vengeance. What in hell had he gotten himself into? he wondered as he poured the coffee and took a sip. The liquid scalded his mouth. Why had he listened to Wesley? This little exercise in closure had turned into an unmitigated disaster. He wasn’t a preservationist. He was an architect. And a damned good one. No matter what the sassy little blonde sleeping in the other room thought.

Stifling the groan that rose in his throat, J.D. returned to the lumpy sofa, which had served as his bed, and grabbed the telephone. Pounding the keypad, he cradled the receiver against his chin as he took another sip of the too strong coffee.

“Hello?”

“Wes, it’s me.”

“Big brother?” came the groggy reply. “Do you realize what time it is?”

He hadn’t realized, but he didn’t feel the inclination to apologize. “Early.”

“No sh—”

“I’ve got a problem.”

He could hear the rustle of bed covers, and he could easily envision his brother groping on the nightstand for his round, metal-framed glasses. Wesley was one of those people who couldn’t hear without his glasses.

“You and mother aren’t relating well?”

That I-just-got-my-degree-in-psychiatry, inflection-free voice was enough to make J.D. grit his teeth. He was beginning to think Wes’s budding medical career was going to be a stiff pain in his rump.

“We aren’t relating at all,” he answered flatly. “But that isn’t the problem.”

“How can that not be a problem?” Wes countered.

“Because I have a more pressing problem with a body.”

“Oh.” Wesley snickered. “And is this body a blonde, brunette or redhead?”

“I’m serious,” J.D. insisted. “It’s a dead body. Deceased. Not living.”

“She was married and you did something rash?”

“Good Lord, Wes! I thought psychiatrists were supposed to be good listeners. You’re not hearing me.”

“You’re serious?” his brother asked, his tone indicating he had finally grasped the situation.

“Hell, yes,” J.D. answered, raking his hand through his hair. “And it looks like the body might be the father of the girl I told you about.”

“Woman.”

“What?”

He heard his brother expel one of those condescendingly patient breaths. “The person you described was a woman, not a girl. We’re talking about Victoria Conway, right?”

“Right.”

“The one with pretty blue eyes, an incredible mouth and boobs that—”

“Yes,” he growled.

“Hey,” Wesley continued. “You’re the one who told me you were astounded she didn’t fall facedown from the weight of those hooters.”

“Thank you,” J.D. managed to say tightly. “Forget what I said before. Fact is, the body I found might just turn out to be her father.”

He heard a low whistle before Wesley said, “Gonna be kind of tough to shaft the lady when she’s in the midst of burying Daddy, isn’t it.”

“No kidding,” J.D. admitted. “And I wasn’t going to shaft her. I was thinking more along the lines of a nice, quiet buyout.”

“Think she’ll be interested in doing business with a man who originally judged her by her bra size?”

“Wesley,” J.D. said from between clenched teeth. “I called for your advice, not a lecture.”

“Then you shouldn’t have confided all your observations about the lady’s physical attributes.”

“Brothers are supposed to confide things like that. It’s part of the male-bonding process.”

Wesley’s laugh was low and easy. It served as a vivid reminder to J.D. of their inherent differences.

“Careful, big brother. That sounded dangerously like an introspective moment. Not your usual style.”

“Finding skeletons in walls isn’t par for the course, either.”

“I don’t know,” Wesley began arbitrarily. “If you’re willing to come to grips with the skeletons in your closet, one more in the wall should be no sweat.”

“You aren’t helping.”

“What would you suggest I do?”

“Get your butt up here.”

“In good time,” Wesley announced. “That was the deal.”

“But things have changed since we struck that bargain,” J.D. said on a breath.

“And you can roll with the punches,” Wesley said easily. “I think this may turn out to be a very healthy experience for you.”

“Right,” J.D. grumbled. His coffee had gone cold and it left a bitter taste in his mouth as he forced himself to swallow. “If you came up here, you could deal with the girl. She needs someone like you.”

“That’s not what you said the other evening,” Wesley countered. “You indicated that one night in your capable arms would have her eating out of your hand.”

“I was wrong,” J.D. admitted. Hearing his own arrogant words made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s not what I thought at first.”

“Wouldn’t let you in her pants, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

* * *

OPENING HER EYES, Tory blinked against the confusion clouding her lagging brain. Her hand ran over the surface of the rumpled comforter. The movement caused her to feel the coolness of the sheets against her skin. Too much skin, she thought as she threw the bedspread toward her feet. “What?” she mumbled as she discovered she was wearing nothing but her bra and panties. The flame red garments stood out against the stark white sheets. With wide eyes, she allowed her gaze to dart around the room as she tried to pry memories from her brain.

Her fingers feathered her bangs as she concentrated. Recall came slowly. Pain, followed by so many emotions that she lost count. Her father was dead. Had been all these years. A small groan escaped her slightly parted lips.

Images from childhood mingled with bits and pieces of the scene she had waged in the Tattoo. Images of her parents, recalled through the eyes of a mere child. Images of being in J.D.’s arms, remembered by a lingering heat on her skin.

Tory stood on wobbly legs. Only then did she recollect Rose forcing several pills down her throat last night. At least she thought it was last night. Everything seemed to be trapped in a haze. Grabbing her short robe off the hook, she tugged it over her shoulders and yanked open the door. Her eyes collided with a set of gray ones.

“What...?” She managed to tear the word from her constricted throat.

“Good morning,” he said easily, unfolding himself from the sofa.

Her mouth remained open as she took in the scene. J.D. had a tousled, rugged look that cemented her to the spot. His dark hair was mussed, as if someone had been running their fingers through it. His shirt was open, and the edges pulled farther apart as he rose to his full height of well over six feet. Tory’s eyes fell to the thick, black curls and then lower, where they tapered and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.