Unlawfully Wedded

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.”