The Other Woman's Son

She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, he saw resignation. “I knew there was a reason I go to you with my problems. Sometimes you’re pretty smart.”

“Sometimes? Mensa would be lucky to have me,” he teased.

“I said sometimes, and I meant sometimes. You hired Nick, didn’t you?” She nodded toward the new bartender, who consulted a book while mixing what looked to be a gin and tonic. “By the way, you should go for it.”

He brought his gaze back to Vicky. “Go for what?”

“The singer. You can’t take your eyes off her.”

Had it been that obvious? “That’s because she’s talented.”

She snorted. “Yeah, right.”

Vicky left to tend to her tables. Clay wondered how the waitress would react if he confided the primary reason for his interest in Jenna, not that he was free to do so. Darcy had begged him not to tell anyone at the bar about her kidney problems.

No matter. He’d done what he needed to get Jenna to Memphis. His next step was bringing Darcy to Peyton’s Place so the half sisters could finally meet, which could happen tonight because he’d suggested Darcy stop by with her boyfriend to hear the duo.

“Hey, Clay.” Darcy appeared at the bar as though his thoughts had conjured her up. But, no. If he imagined his sister, her smile would be genuine. She usually appeared lit from an inner glow, but her essence seemed dimmed today.

“Hey, Darcy. Can I get you something?”

“What I’d really love is a big old glass of wine,” she said wryly, “but I suppose tonic water will have to do. Half a glass, please.”

“Coming right up,” he said.

As he filled the glass part way and topped it with a lemon, he mentally reviewed what he knew of her dialysis routine. The physically taxing treatments took her out of commission for the rest of the day, but she usually bounced back on off days. She’d settled on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays for the treatments, so today was an off day. Still, if her rate of kidney failure had increased…

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked as he handed her the tonic water.

“Shh.” She brought a finger to her rosebud lips and raised the light-colored eyebrows that marked her as a true blonde. “If your employees hear you, they’ll ask me how I’m feeling every single time they see me, the same as you do.”

He couldn’t argue her point. Most of the people who worked for him knew Darcy, either from when she’d helped out at the bar last summer or her impromptu visits.

He was careful to keep his voice down. “I wouldn’t keep asking if you promised to tell me when you don’t feel well.”

“I feel fine today,” she said.

It didn’t escape his notice that she’d qualified her statement with “today” and that she hadn’t made any promises. “Then what’s wrong?”

“Am I that transparent?” She rolled her eyes, seemingly more at herself than him. “It’s Kenny.”

“Is he parking the car?”

“I don’t know where he is. We were supposed to hang out, but he cancelled on me at the last minute.”

Clay felt his back muscles tense. First Kenny let Darcy down on her first day of dialysis and now this. “Did he say why?”

“He thinks he might be coming down with something.”

Clay hadn’t forgiven the younger man for not realizing how much Darcy needed his support during her first dialysis treatment, but he couldn’t fault Kenny for canceling tonight’s date. Not when kidney disease compromised his sister’s immune system.

“You can’t afford to get a cold, Darcy,” Clay said.

“I can’t live in a bubble, either.” If another female had answered him that way, she would have sounded snappish. But Darcy managed to convey her point with wry good cheer. “I didn’t feel like staying in, so I called a couple girlfriends but they already had plans. So here I am.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” He reached across the bar and patted her on the cheek. “As long as you don’t stay out too late.”

This time she very definitely directed her eye roll at him. On stage, Corrine’s impressive guitar work on the instrumental piece concluded, Jenna grabbed for the microphone.

“How ’bout I give you something to talk about?” she asked, then launched into the Bonnie Raitt song of the same name, interjecting the lyrics with a country twang. Corrine expertly accompanied her on slide guitar, but it was Jenna’s throaty voice that filled every corner of the bar.

Darcy listened for a few moments, obviously enraptured. “She’s good.”

“She is,” Clay confirmed.

“Hey, Clay, is a Long Island Iced Tea the sweetened or unsweetened kind? And where do we keep it?” Nick, the new bartender, cupped his hands around his mouth so Clay could hear his shouted question.

Hiding a groan, Clay held up a finger to indicate he’d be with Nick momentarily.

Darcy leaned over the bar and asked, “Did your bartender really just ask that?”

“He’s new. A friend from high school.”

“You want me to help him out?”

He wanted Darcy to take it easy and get well. “I’ll handle it. You enjoy the music.”

“Not a problem,” Darcy said, her eyes on Jenna. “I’m going to find a table nearer the stage.”

She left before Clay could say anything more. He frowned, realizing he hadn’t thought past getting Jenna to Memphis. He didn’t plan to keep her connection to Darcy a secret, but neither had he considered how to break the news.

“I got a customer waiting.” Nick sidled over to him, panic in his wide, unknowing eyes. The seats at the bar had started to fill up, something Clay had failed to notice.

“A Long Island Iced Tea is a mixed drink, Nick. Equal parts vodka, rum, gin, tequila and lemon, with a splash of Coke for color. It’s listed in that bartender’s guide to mixed drinks I gave you.”

Nick’s brow furrowed. “Vodka, gin, whiskey and what else?”

“Not whiskey. Rum and tequila. But never mind. I’ll make it. You help some other customers.”

The next half hour passed in a blur even though the bar wasn’t near capacity, mostly because of Nick’s inexperience.

“I asked for a Vodka Collins and got a Vodka Martini,” a customer groused to Clay. “Took a long time to get it, too. If not for the music, I’d be out of here.”

“We’ve got a new bartender,” Clay said. “Tell you what. The martini’s on the house, and I’ll personally make your next drink. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds like I’m staying through the next set. Where’s the duo from anyway? They’re terrific, especially the singer.”

“Little Rock. First time performing in Memphis. Tell your friends,” he said into the silence that signaled the band was taking a break. Music from the jukebox kicked in.

He glanced at the wall clock, noted the time at nearly eleven and looked up to check on Darcy only to find the table where she’d been sitting empty. Unease pricked the back of his neck as he scanned the bar. Surely she’d have told him if she planned to leave.

Vicky approached, curly red hair streaming behind her, barking out a drink order to Nick as she came. “Three Bud drafts and a glass of white wine.”

Clay made sure Nick pulled out the right glasses, then met Vicky at the bar. “Hey, Vick. Do you know where Darcy is?”

Vicky nodded toward the exit. “She followed that singer outside a couple minutes ago. Said she wanted to tell her how much she likes her singing.”

CHAPTER THREE

AFTER SPENDING THE PAST few hours inside Clay Dillon’s bar, Jenna expected the fresh air to invigorate her but humidity still hung heavily over the night.

“You were good in there,” a man old enough to have listened to his share of the blues told her. “Kind of reminded me of Etta James.”

“Thank you.” She couldn’t hide her delight at being compared to a blues great. Getting out into the humid air had reinvigorated her after all.

Peyton’s Place was situated at a portion of the street that had a much quieter feel than the busiest part of Beale.

Not many people milled about except for herself and a quartet of young men, drinks in hand, clustered around a young blonde who’d exited Peyton’s Place. Sensing trouble when the tallest and broadest of the four released a piercing wolf whistle, Jenna started toward them.

“Wanna party with us?” the big guy asked the blonde.

“Sorry, boys. I don’t drink,” the blonde said firmly but sweetly.

“Who said anything ’bout drinking?” The shortest of the four slurred his words and took what Jenna perceived as a threatening step toward the young woman.

“Mind your manners,” the blonde scolded, still in the same sweet tone. “What would your mama say if she heard you?”

The other three erupted into good-natured laughter, ribbing their drunk friend until he was laughing, too.

“Give Peyton’s Place a try tonight,” she told them. “My brother owns the bar and he brought in a fabulous rhythm-and-blues duo.”

The sweet little blonde who’d deftly handled the four raucous young men was Clay Dillon’s sister? Able to drum up business for her brother’s bar with the brilliance of her smile?

“We’ll do that,” the man who’d whistled at her said.

“You won’t be sorry.” She walked away from the men, straight toward Jenna, not stopping until she reached her. “I just had to come out here and tell you how much I love your singing.”

“Thank you,” Jenna said. “I’m a fan of yours, too. I saw the way you handled those guys just now.”

“Oh, that was nothing.” She waved a hand in the general direction of where the men had been. “They were harmless. Just had a little much to drink, is all.”

A slight southern accent softened her syllables, adding appeal to her voice. No more than five feet four with delicate features and golden-blond hair, she looked fabulous although dressed casually in jeans and a blue V-necked tee. Jenna couldn’t determine the color of her eyes, but she was betting on blue.

“I heard you say Clay’s your brother.” Jenna didn’t mention that she’d never guess they were related if she hadn’t.

She brightened. “My big brother. Couldn’t ask for a better one. A smarter one, either. He hired you, didn’t he?”

Jenna laughed. “We’ll see how that works out for him. Corrine and I aren’t exactly an established act.”

“But you’re so good,” she enthused, then made a face. “I’m gushing, aren’t I? My excuse is that I was bowled over by your singing. Are you saying you’re just starting out?”

“Starting over is more like it. Corrine’s the professional musician. I’m an amateur who hasn’t sung in ages.”

“Why not?” No sooner had she asked the question than the young woman put a hand to her lips. “Listen to me, prying into your private life when I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Darcy.”

“Darcy Dillon, that’s cute. I’m Jenna.”

“The name’s actually Darcy Wright. Clay and I have different fathers.”

All sound—tires swooshing over pavement on a cross street, guitar music from a street-corner musician, the voices of the other people nearby—seemed to cease.

Darcy Wright.

Although she hadn’t heard the name spoken in years, Jenna recognized it immediately. It had been branded into her brain on that day her grandmother called to report her father’s new wife Margo had given birth to a baby girl.

A baby girl named Darcy who had grown into a pretty blonde who looked uncannily like Jenna’s memory of Darcy’s mother. Jenna had only seen Margo Wright once, with Jenna’s father in front of a restaurant when Jenna’s parents were still married, but she’d never forgotten.

“Jenna. Are you alright?” Darcy cocked her head, her bow-shaped mouth pursed in concern.

Jenna hadn’t used her surname in the introduction, and her first name obviously hadn’t resonated with Darcy. The limited contact Jenna and her brother had with their father had dwindled in the years after their parents divorced until his visits had stopped. Eventually, so had his phone calls and birthday cards. Jenna didn’t imagine her father had often spoken of her to his second family, if at all.

“I’m fine.” Jenna gestured to the bar. “It’s just that I’ve got to get back inside.”

“Oh, yes. Clay will be wondering where you’ve gone, especially when his customers start clamoring for you to start singing again.”

The shock of finding herself face-to-face with Margo’s daughter wearing off, Jenna belatedly processed the information and realized exactly who Clay Dillon was. Margo’s son. The eight-year-old who’d moved into her father’s grand old house after Jenna, Jeff and their wounded mother had been shunted aside.

The knowledge that Jeff had been right about Clay Dillon shocked her to her core.

Clay and his offer really had been too good to be true.

CLAY SWEPT PAST THE FOUR young guys who came into the bar carrying plastic cups of beer, not bothering to direct them to a table or tell them it was against bar policy to bring in outside alcohol.

He burst through the exit into the humid night, his frantic gaze searching the immediate vicinity. The streetlight caught the sheen of Darcy’s blond hair, but he was too late.

His sister stood facing Jenna Wright, who held herself more stiffly than the giant replica of the Statue of Liberty that one of the downtown Memphis churches had erected a few years back.

He half walked, half jogged toward the two women, intent on damage control.

“Clay, there you are.” Darcy greeted him with her customary smile. “If you’re here for Jenna, I’m through flattering her. So you two can go on back inside.”

Darcy hadn’t guessed who Jenna was, he thought, his mind turning over ways to tell her. His gaze moved to Jenna, whose glare could have frosted the Memphis air.

Jenna had figured it out.

A car horn sounded from the cross street. He looked up and saw his mother’s Jag idling at the curb.

“I called Mom to pick me up so I’ve got to run. Jenna, nice meeting you. Maybe next time I’ll be able to keep my eyes open longer so I can hear more of you.” Darcy stood on tiptoes, kissing Clay on the cheek. “Bye, Clay.”

She headed toward the Jaguar, her steps not as quick as they could have been. Was she leaving because she didn’t feel well? Or had her stamina simply given out? Her next dialysis treatment, Clay knew, was ten the next morning.

“That’s her in the car, isn’t it?” Jenna’s voice couldn’t have been colder. “That’s Margo.”

The way she said his mother’s name spoke of unresolved anger, another variable Clay hadn’t anticipated. He thought any residual anger on her part should be directed at her late father.

Jenna didn’t wait for his reply. “This isn’t a coincidence, is it? You knew who I was all along.”

“I can explain,” Clay said.

“I doubt that.” Her eyes flashed with the inner fire she’d displayed in a much more positive light on stage. Her hair seemed fiery, too, the streetlamp highlighting the auburn hue. “There’s no possible way you can justify not telling me who you were the minute you introduced yourself.”

“I did tell you. Clay Dillon, owner of Peyton’s Place.”

“Don’t play games. You knew I didn’t recognize your name.” Her voice trembled with anger. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me.”

“Like I said, I can explain.”

“Go ahead,” she challenged, taking a step closer and glaring up at him. “Explain.”

Clay hesitated. If he told Jenna about Darcy’s need for a donor kidney now, before she had time to process what a truly amazing person Darcy was, she’d walk away and never come back.

“I’m waiting,” she snapped.

He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of what he could say that wouldn’t make the situation worse. “You’re right. It wasn’t a coincidence. I found out you were singing at the Blue Mockingbird and went to Little Rock to persuade you to get to know Darcy.”

“Why?”

Although he couldn’t reveal the whole truth yet, he could tell her part of it. “It seemed wrong that you two had never met. She’s as much your half sister as she is mine.”

“I don’t think of her that way. How could I after your mother broke up my parents’ marriage?”

Clay bristled. He suspected his mother had been involved with Donald Wright before Donald was divorced, but he loved her all the same. “My mother wasn’t the one who left your family. She didn’t make any vows to anybody.”

“You’re twisting things around.” With a slash of her hand, Jenna completely dismissed his argument. “Nothing you say can justify you tricking me into coming to Memphis, anyway. What kind of a man does something like that?”

A man desperate for his sister to live a long, healthy life, he thought.

“I didn’t plan it. I was blown away by your voice. Even if you weren’t Donald’s daughter, I’d have tried to hire you.”

Skepticism descended over her face. “That doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me you were Margo’s son.”

“Would you have agreed to sing at my bar if I had?”

“Definitely not.”

“You’ve proved my point.”

She aimed a finger at him. “Your point seems to be that you feel justified in manipulating me. And manipulating your sister, too. She obviously doesn’t know who I am.”

Clay didn’t like the way her accusation made him sound but could hardly argue. “I meant to tell Darcy, the same way I meant to tell you, but I haven’t managed to find the right time.”

“Don’t tell her,” she retorted. “She seems like a nice girl, but she’s not someone I want in my life.”

“That’s crazy. She stops by the bar pretty regularly.” He threw up his hands. “How can you expect to keep something like that from her?”

“Easy. I’m not going to keep singing at your bar.”

His breath caught at the implication of what that would mean to Darcy. “But Corrine signed a contract.”

“And you’d hold us to it? After the secret you kept from me?” She annunciated every word, her expression incredulous.

He’d do almost anything to help his sister, but forcing Jenna to sing at Peyton’s Place wouldn’t accomplish that goal.

Helping her reach the decision not to abandon the gig was a different matter.

“Maybe not,” he said. “I know you’re not looking to make singing your career, but Corrine’s eager for a chance to prove herself.”

He started to ask if Jenna could take that chance away from Corrine but swallowed the question when he realized how manipulative it would sound. He wasn’t so blinded by Darcy’s condition that he couldn’t understand Jenna’s anger.

She glared at him, her dislike as visible as the neon signs that dotted the Beale Street establishments. He didn’t like himself very much at the moment, either.

“Jenna, where the hell have you been?” Corrine, her face appearing pale beneath her fall of black hair and matching dark clothes, rushed toward them on stacked heels. “We were supposed to go on ten minutes ago.”

The guitarist tapped the toe of her right shoe, communicating her impatience.

Clay couldn’t have orchestrated a scenario that would demonstrate more clearly how Corrine felt about performing at Peyton’s Place. He glanced at Jenna, but she wouldn’t look at him.

“It’s my fault, Corrine.” Clay returned his attention to the guitarist. “So it’s okay with me that you’re running behind schedule.”

“I’d hate for the customers to get restless and head off to find live music somewhere else.” Corrine talked fast, as though every moment spent away from the stage pained her. “Are you coming, Jenna?”

Clay felt his gut tighten as he waited for Jenna’s answer.

Corrine started to walk toward the bar, but Jenna didn’t move, didn’t speak. Time seemed to lengthen, although no more than a few seconds elapsed.

Obviously realizing Jenna wasn’t following her, Corrine stopped and turned. “Jenna. Come on.”

Jenna cast a final fierce glance at Clay before replying, “I’m coming.”

Clay tried to relax as he watched Jenna trail her smaller friend into the bar, but relief wouldn’t come. Jenna would perform as scheduled tonight, but there was no guarantee she’d take the stage tomorrow.

CORRINE WAITED UNTIL JENNA left the hotel room in search of coffee and a danish on Saturday morning before she auto dialed her home phone number. She listened to the phone ring at the house in Little Rock, her hands sweating so badly she could hardly grip the phone.

One ring.

Her husband Maurice loved to indulge himself on Saturday mornings by sleeping late, claiming he didn’t have the chance any other day of the week.

Two rings.

Although Maurice had been known to sleep as late as ten, he usually rolled out of bed at around nine-thirty.

Three rings.

Corrine couldn’t remember the last time he’d awakened before eight-thirty.

Four rings.

The time on the hotel’s bedside alarm clock read seven fifty-nine.

“Yo. Talk to me, man.”

Corrine’s relief at hearing Maurice’s trademark greeting was so great she almost dropped the phone. “Maurice, I—”

“If you’re someone me or Corrine wants to talk back to, one of us will give you a call.”

A beep sounded, confirming that the answering machine, and not Maurice, had picked up her call. He must have forgotten to tell her he’d changed the recorded greeting.

She disconnected the call without leaving a message, then cradled her head in her hands. He should have answered. They kept a phone beside the bed, because Maurice couldn’t stand the thought of not being reachable if one of his aging parents should need him.

A full five minutes must have passed before she told herself not to jump to premature conclusions and lifted her head. Maurice always kept his cell on when he wasn’t home. She speed dialed his number, the way she had last night when she couldn’t reach him at home. He picked up on the third ring. “Yo.”

“Maurice, it’s Corrine.”

“Hey, babe,” he mumbled, as though he’d been awakened from a sound sleep. “Didn’t we just talk a couple hours ago?”

He’d claimed to be at his friend Eddie’s house at a poker game that was just breaking up. He’d said he was heading home.

She swallowed and supplied the excuse she’d invented to justify her early morning call. “I was afraid the dehumidifier would flood the basement. I think I left it running.”

“I’ll check,” he said.

She listened carefully, she wasn’t sure for what, but couldn’t hear any noises in the background.

“I called home before I tried your cell.” Her heart beat so fast she thought she might pass out. “Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I must have been outside getting the newspaper. I thought I heard the phone.”

She didn’t ask why he hadn’t checked the answering machine for a missed call when he got back inside the house. He’d have an explanation. Maurice always had an explanation.

“You’re up early today,” she remarked.

“Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t have you next to me.” He pitched his voice low and sexy, reminiscent of the way he sounded when they made love.

Despite her suspicions, she melted. A favorite memory of him getting down on one knee flashed through her mind. She could hear him proposing, saying he wanted to spend the rest of his life with the woman he loved.

She was probably letting her imagination get the best of her. Yes, he’d smelled of what she thought was perfume after poker night last week, but he’d had a ready excuse. It wasn’t perfume at all, but the air freshener his friend’s girlfriend used to mask the scent of smoke in the house.

The hotel room door swung open. Jenna entered, holding two stacked coffee cups in one hand and anchoring them with her chin. She held the key card in the other.

“I should go,” Corrine told Maurice. “Jenna just got back with caffeine.”

“Tell Jenna I appreciate her being good to my girl. Love you, babe.” He hung up, leaving Corrine listening to nothing.

“You, too,” she whispered, then flipped her cell phone closed.

“The restaurant was crowded so I skipped the danish and got coffee to go. I thought you might like one, too.” Jenna handed Corrine the extra cup. “Double cream, double sugar, right?”

“Right. Thanks.”

Jenna sat down at the plush chair beside the mahogany desk and removed the plastic lid from her cup. “Were you talking to the charming Maurice?”

“You think Maurice is charming?”

Jenna’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed your husband has a way with words?”

And with women.

“It’s hard to miss.” Corrine deliberately changed the subject. “It’s just that you ignore Clay’s charms so well, I was starting to think you were immune.”

Jenna brought her coffee cup to her lips and drank before asking, “Why would you say that?”

“I saw the two of you talking last night. He’s obviously into you.”

“Not for the reason you think.”

“What’s that mean?”

Jenna cradled her coffee cup in both hands, staring down at the brown liquid before looking up at Corrine. “Nothing. He likes the way I sing, is all.”

“I’d be surprised if that’s all he’s interested in.”

“That’s all it is,” Jenna reiterated firmly. “What are you going to do today?”

“Catch the duck parade, then I was thinking about heading to Graceland.” The idea of visiting Elvis Presley’s former home had just occurred to her, but it seemed like a good one. Elvis could help take her mind off Maurice. “Want to come?”

“No, thanks. I brought some work with me, and this afternoon would be the perfect time to do it.”

“No way,” Corrine exclaimed in dismay. “The weekends are supposed to be about the music.”

“I’ll be singing the blues Monday morning if I don’t get this stuff done, but we could go to the exercise room together. The caffeine’s starting to kick in, so I have enough energy for a workout.”

Corrine noticed for the first time that Jenna was dressed in yoga pants and a dri-fit top. “Are you kidding me? I burn plenty of calories playing my guitar, thank you very much.”

After Jenna’s laughter faded and Corrine was once again alone in the hotel room, her gaze fell on the cell phone she’d left on the bedside table.

If she called home now and Maurice answered, she’d know he was telling the truth about getting the newspaper when she phoned the first time. If not…

She heard the seconds tick by on the bedside clock radio until one minute had passed, then two. Before the minute display could click over a third time, she anchored her hands on the bed and rose.

As she rummaged through her suitcase for the clothes she’d change into after her shower, she pointedly ignored the phone still lying where she’d left it.

JENNA STEPPED INSIDE Peyton’s Place and removed the sunglasses that had shielded her eyes from the brightness of the Saturday afternoon sun.

The bar looked different than it had the night before, the green of the tile and the booths more vivid, the wooden surface of the bar more glossy, the crowd even thinner.

But she could still feel the energizing thrill that infused her when she sang to the crowd—and the anger that had engulfed her when she learned the reason she’d gotten the opportunity.

Determination had replaced the sharp edge of the anger, fueling her steps as she marched up to the bar. She’d finished her accounting work hours ago, but now needed to take care of the real reason she’d skipped the trip to Graceland.

“Is Clay Dillon around?” she asked a tall, shaggy-haired bartender of about twenty-five who hadn’t been on duty the night before.

“He’s in the kitchen. Should be right out. Can I get you a drink while you’re waiting?” He had an engaging manner which made Jenna like him instantly.

“I’d love a double shot of whiskey,” she said, thinking it would help her get through the confrontation to come, “but I don’t drink in the afternoon.”

His grin transformed his long, narrow, freckled face into something special. “How about a cola then?”

“No, thanks,” she said. “All I need is for you to let Clay know I’m waiting.”

“Sure thing.”

She chose a booth farthest from the bar and a good distance from the other customers. Then she drummed her fingers on the table, fighting fatigue from her poor night of sleep. She wasn’t sure whether her tossing and turning had kept Corrine awake or vice versa.

It hurt that Corrine hadn’t confided what was bothering her, but then Jenna hadn’t shared her problems, either. From past conversations, Jenna was well aware that Corrine believed she should become acquainted with Margo’s daughter.

Corrine didn’t understand how Jenna felt. She couldn’t. Corrine hadn’t been the one who’d watched her mother struggle to rebuild her life. Or who’d grown up in a house with a gaping hole where a father should have been.

A warm, male laugh drew Jenna’s attention. Clay, his dark eyes crinkled at the corners, his lips split into a grin as he traversed the passageway leading from the kitchen. The grin disappeared as the bartender gestured to her table, but Clay didn’t waste time in approaching her.

He moved with the grace of an athlete and the confidence of a man comfortable in his own skin. The soft blue shirt he wore with faded jeans of almost the same shade softened his appearance, but Jenna wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating what he’d do to get his way.

“Jenna. I didn’t expect to see you.” If he were anxious about encountering her at Peyton’s Place in the middle of the afternoon, he didn’t let on.

“You didn’t expect to see me right now or you didn’t expect to see me at all?” she challenged.

He slid into the booth across from her, his expression guarded. “I’m an optimist. I was betting on you showing up tonight.”

“I’ll be here tonight. And I’ll keep coming until the terms of the contract are up.”

He nodded, neither gloating nor showing surprise, as though he’d expected her to say what she’d said. It ticked her off all over again, because he didn’t know anything about her.

“We moved to Little Rock after the divorce, because my mother couldn’t stand the thought of running into your mother,” Jenna said. “She got child support but no alimony, so she worked menial jobs during the day and went to school at night. I was seven. My brother Jeff was twelve. He watched me night after night, because my mother didn’t have the money for a babysitter.”