Unlawfully Wedded

“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.