A Family Kind of Gal by Lisa Jackson Read Free Book Online

walk through the kitchen and press a shoulder against the swinging door to the hallway. She wondered if his limp was permanent but decided it didn’t matter. Any way you looked at it, J.D. Santini was a very sexy man. Just the kind of man she didn’t need around here.
    â€œJ.D.’s a jerk,” Stephen said as she returned to the house and set the empty saucepan in the sink.
    â€œLet’s not tell him, okay?” Tiffany flipped on the faucet and rinsed the small pot.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œ`Cause it’s not nice,” Christina said with a knowing nod that caused her curls to bounce precociously.
    â€œBig deal. I thought we were always supposed to tell the truth.”
    Tiffany placed a bowl of pasta salad on the table, zapped some leftover garlic bread in the microwave and decided to ignore her son’s need to vent some of his anger. How could she defend J.D.? The man was an enigma and someone she was certain would only cause her trouble.
    She poured the kids each a glass of milk and hesitated, thinking she might have a small glass of wine, then discarded the idea. As long as J.D. was living here, she would need a clear head.
    Who knew really why he was in Bittersweet? Judging from past experience, she realized she couldn’t trust him.
    J.D. was and always had been dangerous. If she were smart, she’d stay as far away from him as possible.
    Even if he was living in her house.
    * * *
    The kid was already in trouble with the law.
    â€œHell.” J.D. sat on the edge of his new bed and ignored the mental image that leveled a guilty finger in his direction. It wasn’t his fault that Stephen had decided to rebel. What thirteen-year-old wouldn’t? Stephen had lost his father, been uprooted and moved to a new town, and become the man of the family all in one fell swoop.
    It was too much for any boy. No wonder the kid was full of piss and vinegar.
    What a mess. And J.D. wasn’t going to make it any better. He rifled through his duffel bag until he found a crisp manila envelope. Inside the packet was the deed, bill of sale and proof that this house—Tiffany’s home since the accident that had taken Philip’s life—belonged to the Santini family. Well, at least most of it. A portion—one-fourth, to be exact—was still hers; the rest had been signed away to pay off Philip’s gambling debts.
    â€œGreat,” J.D. said, tossing the envelope on to the foot of the bed and wishing he hadn’t agreed to step into Philip’s shoes in the first place. He’d never wanted to work for his father, had avoided anything to do with Santini Brothers Enterprises for years, but then, after Philip’s death, he’d felt obligated. His parents had been devastated by the loss of their eldest, and his father had hoped to “step down,” or so he’d claimed. At the same time J.D. had become jaded with the law, tired of the constant courtroom battles and legal arguments he’d once thrived upon, sickened that settlements and awards were always more important than justice.
    His motorcycle accident had been his own personal epiphany. When a colleague had suggested he sue the manufacturer of the bike, or the highway department, or the parents of the kid he’d swerved to avoid, he’d decided to chuck it. J.D. had been pushing the speed limit, the accident had been his fault; he’d nearly lost his life, and he wasn’t going to blame anyone or anything but himself.
    But the accident had made him take a good long look at himself and what he did for a living.
    When his father had offered him the job, he’d accepted, as long as they both understood it was temporary. He wasn’t going to be sucked permanently into the fold.
    For the time being he took the job that Philip, in dying, had vacated. Carlo kept talking about retiring and had tried to lure J.D. into becoming more involved—about someday running the multifaceted