Unlawfully Wedded

“Mother,” she said, her eyes open and straining against her tight lids. “I’ve got to go out to Ashley Villas.”

“Where?”

“My mother’s home,” she said by way of explanation.

Tory deposited her coffee cup and turned toward the bedroom in a flurry of activity. It took several seconds for her brain to register the fact that J.D. hadn’t moved a blessed muscle.

“I don’t mean to be antisocial, Mr. Porter,” she said stiffly, “but I’ve got to go see my mother. Tell her...”

Nodding, J.D. rose and began buttoning his shirt. Tory refused to look, no matter how much she might want to.

“How long will it take you to get ready?”

“How long?” she gasped.

“Minutes? Hours? How long?”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know how soon to pick you up.”

“Why would you pick me up?”

“Because your car is still at the Rose Tattoo.”

“So,” she said, her voice faltering slightly. “I can grab the bus and pick it up.”

“No, you can’t.” J.D. dug into the front pocket of his jeans. Instantly she recognized her key ring as it dangled from his forefinger.

“Give me my keys,” she instructed, annoyance stiffening her spine.

“Can’t,” he drawled with an exaggerated sigh.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” he insisted, pretending to be hurt by her insinuation. “The doctor said you weren’t to drive for twenty-four hours after taking those pills.”

“Then I’ll make other arrangements,” she told him with a wave of her hand.

“Seems kind of stupid since I’m ready and able.”

But for what, exactly? her brain screamed. “I don’t think—”

“No thought required,” he said as he tossed her keys in the air, captured them in his big palm, then slipped them back into his pocket. “I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes.”

* * *

THE PURPOSE FOR the cold shower was twofold. First, J.D. hoped it might revive his sleep-deprived senses. But, more important, he was trying to cleanse the memory of her voluptuous body from his mind. Closing his eyes against the spray, his mind immediately brought forth the image of her pale skin...and the slope of her full breasts spilling over the lacy top of her bra. He didn’t have to touch the garment to know it was silk—like her skin. The vivid red lingerie set against her creamy skin reminded him of a ripe, red berry atop a snowdrift.

“God,” he groaned, earning himself a mouthful of cool, chlorine-scented water. He’d been too long without a woman. That was the only explanation for his body’s rigid and painful response to Tory.

He stepped from the shower, grabbed a towel and blotted the water from his skin. Droplets of water fell from his hair as he grabbed his razor. He was glad for a task that required his full attention.

J.D. vigorously towel dried his hair as he stepped into the master suite of his condo. Guilt tugged at his conscience as he paused to look at his surroundings. A king-size white rattan bed dominated the large space, with no fewer than three chests of drawers. There was a desk in the corner, his laptop lay open on it, gathering dust. His condo also included a living room, dining area and a kitchen that could have swallowed Tory’s entire apartment. His intellect reminded him that he’d had no way of knowing she would be a person of such modest means. But that knowledge didn’t seem to stem the surge of guilt as he tossed the towel into a pile of laundry that would be handled by the cleaning woman.

Selecting a fresh pair of jeans and a thin cotton shirt, J.D. tucked his wallet and keys into his pants pockets and took the stairs to the parking lot two at a time. He was greeted by a slap of humid air that barely fazed his well-conditioned body. The air in the red interior of his white Mercedes was stale before he flipped on the air-conditioning. He turned out into the midday traffic and tapped a disk into the CD player as he drove.

Ashley Villas. He repeated her words in his brain. It sounded like one of those golf and tennis communities that lined the southeastern seaboard like smooth shells. He tried to develop a mental image of Tory’s mother. The woman would probably be in her fifties and have a strong personality. He guessed she would be small, like her daughter, but more athletic than soft. Her skin would be wrinkled and weathered from too many trips around the back nine and not enough sunscreen. He grimaced, envisioning a brash woman wearing a white golf skirt and those funny little socks with the fuzzy little pastel balls that stuck out the back of her shoes. She was probably fiercely competitive. Tory was a fighter, that much he knew. That attribute was normally learned at home.

He frowned, suddenly realizing his thoughts were more suited to his inquisitive younger brother. Wesley was into analysis, not him.

Her apartment didn’t look much better in the light of day. It looked exactly like what it was—a garage converted into barely livable space.

She came through the door before he had an opportunity to kill the engine. Her dress forced a small smile to his lips. It fell far short of flattering, he mused as he watched her move toward him. It basically covered her from her throat to her ankles, a swirl of gauzy beige fabric designed specifically not to cling to her in any of the right places. His eyes fell to where her breasts strained against the material. He wondered if beneath that shapeless, colorless dress, she wore those wispy, sexy undergarments. His body responded uncomfortably to his imagination.

“You’re punctual,” she said as she slid in beside him.

“A regular Boy Scout,” he grumbled.

“Boy Scouts aren’t surly, as a rule,” she told him as she folded her delicate hands in her lap.

“Have much experience with Boy Scouts, do you?”

“Probably as much as you do.”

“I’ll have you know I almost made it to Eagle Scout,” he informed her, his chest puffed out slightly.

“Almost doesn’t count.”

His chest deflated. “I suppose not,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “Which way?”

“Take the Mark Clark.” She pointed north.

The expressway was crowded with minivans and trucks sporting business logos. But his attention was on the woman to his right. “You can relax, I won’t bite.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You don’t look it.”

“How can I not be relaxed? Sitting in this car is like sitting in your living room.”

“Not your living room, doll,” he promised her with a sidelong glance. “I slept on what you’ve got passing for a couch.”

“It serves its purpose,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

That small movement filled the interior of the car with the distinctive scent of gardenia. His mind immediately demanded to know if it was her soap, her shampoo or her cologne. Would he be able to taste it on her skin? Would he be able to keep his mind on the road long enough to prevent a ten-car pileup?

J.D. decided to concentrate on making polite conversation. “Did you call your mother to let her know you were coming?”