Unlawfully Wedded
highlight_author
Kelsey Roberts
highlight_reads
17,0K
highlight_chapters
18
Chapter One
J. D. Porter. She knew the initials stood for “Jackass Deluxe,” and he was sitting at a table in her station!
A frown curved the corners of her mouth as she donned an air of false confidence. Brushing a few strands of hair away from her eyes, Tory Conway pushed through the hinged kitchen doors of the Rose Tattoo, a tray clamped tightly to her chest.
With practiced aloofness, she held her breath as she marched past where he sat hunched over a mound of paperwork. The pleasant smell of his decidedly masculine cologne chased her behind the bar, threatening her resolve.
After placing the tray on the polished wooden surface of the horseshoe-shaped bar, Tory bent down and began collecting the salt and pepper shakers.
Her motion was halted in midstream when she felt long, tapered fingers close around her wrist. She rose slowly, trying not to devote too much thought to the devastating feel of his touch.
Their eyes collided—hers wide from the shock, his a deep, penetrating gray, the same shade as a South Carolina summer sky before a violent storm. She swallowed against the irrational belief that those eyes could see through her clothing. His lopsided, sexy display of even white teeth hovered somewhere very near a leer.
“Good morning, Miss Conway.”
Not from where I’m standing, she thought. She didn’t speak immediately, mostly because she had a sinking feeling that her words might come out in a squeaky, helium-high voice.
“No greeting?” he taunted, one dark eyebrow arched questioningly. “You wound me.”
“No,” she returned with a sweet smile. “But I’d be happy to, as soon as I’ve finished my setup.”
“Ouch,” he returned easily, placing his free hand over his heart.
Or, she thought, where his heart would be if he actually had one.
Annoyance crept up her spine when he refused her subtle request to be released when she gave his hand a small tug. “I have work to do,” she insisted through tight lips.
“So do I,” he said in a frustratingly calm voice that was just too smooth, too velvety to have emanated from such a massive man.
“Then why don’t you do it?”
The smile widened, accentuating the chiseled perfection of his angled features. “Would you like to do it? I’m game if you are.”
Tory groaned and sucked in a breath in exasperation. The man was infuriating. “Not in your lifetime, Sparky.”
The sound of his laugh was deep, rich. It caressed her ears and made her skin tingle. “Haven’t you heard of sexual harassment?” she managed to say between her clenched teeth.
“Doesn’t apply,” he returned easily. “You don’t work for me.”
“Thank God and anyone else responsible,” she grumbled. His hold on her wrist was getting on her nerves. She didn’t like being touched, especially by the visiting Neanderthal.
“You aren’t very friendly for a waitress, Miss Conway.”
“Depends on the customer,” she retorted.
“No wonder you can’t live off what you earn in tips.”
She bristled and might have stiffened her spine had it not been for the unfortunate fact that she had not yet fastened the top button of her uniform. The last thing she wanted, or needed, was to give Mr. Deluxe an eyeful of cleavage. Especially since he’d no doubt take it as a come-on.
“I live just fine,” she promised him. “And thanks for asking. Your concern is touching.”
“I’m not concerned, but I’d be happy to touch.” The last half of his statement was delivered in a low, sensual pitch that made her want to scream.
“Come on, J.D.,” she pleaded after a brief pause. “Can the double entendre and let me get ready for the lunch crowd.”
His eyes dropped to where his dark fingers encircled her small wrist. She followed his lead. His tanned, weathered complexion was a stark contrast to her pale skin. The grip loosened until all she was aware of was the feather-light stroke of his fingertip as it traced the pattern of small bones in her hand.
Tory snatched her hand away, feeling her face flush as the sound of his chuckle reached her ears. The man was maddening, she thought, fuming as she slammed various containers on the top of the bar. He was egotistical. He had enough arrogance for ten men, and he was the most attractive man she’d seen in all her twenty-five years.
My hormones are probably suffering from some sort of deprivation reaction, she reasoned as she arranged the half-empty jars and bottles on her tray.
Trying to ignore J.D.’s presence as she worked was like trying to ignore a rocket launch. Her peripheral vision was filled with images of his broad shoulders and that unruly mass of jet black hair he kept raking his fingers through as he quietly studied the piles of documents spread before him on the table. The worn fabric of his denim shirt clung to the definition of well-muscled arms. One booted toe kept time to the Elvis tune playing on the jukebox.
She didn’t like him—hadn’t from that very first day. J.D. was one of those stuck-up, abrupt sorts. His expression was always cool, aloof, giving her the impression that he somehow felt he was superior to the whole world. She guessed his attitude might have something to do with the truckloads of money he earned as one of Florida’s premier architects. Or, she thought glibly, it could just be the result of his being one of the most gorgeous men on the face of the earth.
“Tory!”
She turned in the direction of the familiar female voice, her eyes homing in on her boss’s harsh features. Rose Porter leaned against the kitchen door, her heavily jeweled hand patting the stiff mass of blond hair lacquered against her head.
“Yes?”
“There’s a guy here for you.”
Tory pointedly ignored J.D.’s apparent interest in Rose’s announcement. The woman’s stiletto heels clicked against the wood-planked floor as she held the door open wide.
Tory smiled as she caught sight of Dr. Mitchell Greyson, dean of student services at Oglethorpe College. Dr. Greyson shuffled in, his small body listing to the side where his hand toted a sizable briefcase. The scent of witch hazel reached her a fraction of a second before the rumpled, balding man. His appearance sent signals of disaster surging through her. Greyson only left his office to deliver bad news. She braced herself against the table....
“Miss Conway,” he greeted in his proper southern accent. “I’m sorry to trouble you at your place of employment.”
Tory’s grin grew wider. She was a waitress, not the CEO of some fancy corporation. Greyson acted as if he’d interrupted important merger negotiations.
“No problem,” she told him brightly, tucking a dish towel into the waistband of her apron. Gesturing to one of the chairs, Tory offered him a seat as she glared at J.D. He was leaning back in his chair, watching her as if she were the main feature at the theater.
J.D.’s expression didn’t falter when their eyes briefly met. That bothered her.
“I’m afraid I have some rather distressing news,” Dr. Greyson began as he sat down and placed his briefcase on the table, then slowly extracted a crisp, white sheet of letterhead, which he handed to her.
Taking the letter, Tory’s eyes scanned the neatly typed print. She read it again, sure she had somehow misconstrued its meaning.
“This isn’t possible,” she managed to say in a strangled voice.
Rose came over then, standing behind her with one hand comfortingly resting on Tory’s shoulder.
“What does it mean?” Rose asked.
“I’m dead,” Tory answered as the full impact of the news settled over her like a heavy blanket.
“Not necessarily,” Dr. Greyson cut in. “I’ve brought along a directory of college funding,” he said, pulling a tattered paperback from his briefcase.
Tory groaned. “I’ve been all through that. I couldn’t find a single one I qualified for.”
“Perhaps there are some new listings?” Greyson suggested.
“Maybe,” she responded dismally.
“You know,” Greyson said as he patted the back of her hand with his pudgy fingers. “You can take a year or so off. Perhaps by then the ‘forces that be’ will reinstate the program.”
“Maybe,” Tory repeated.
“I’ll keep my ears open,” Greyson promised as he scooted his chair back and rose to his modest height. “Perhaps the board of trustees...”
Of course, she knew the board could do nothing on her behalf.
“I’m finished,” Tory whispered, expelling an anguished sigh.
“Can we help?” Rose asked, taking the seat Greyson had vacated. “Shelby and I—”
“Are hardly in a position to cough up seventeen thousand dollars,” Tory finished. “Shelby has Chad and she’s expecting another baby any minute. And I know you have all your cash committed to the rehab of the outbuildings. Until you finish the work on the dependencies, you aren’t in any condition to loan me money.”
Rose’s painted red lips thinned and she adjusted the black leather belt cinching her waist. She reached forward and grabbed the directory that Dr. Greyson had left behind.
“Forget it.” Tory shrugged. “I’ve already maxed out my eligibility for student loans, along with every grant and scholarship known to mankind.”
“But you haven’t even tried to find alternative funding,” Rose argued with a snort.
“Rose,” Tory began slowly. “All you’ll find in that directory is a bunch of weird stuff. Scholarships for blue-eyed women with Spanish surnames born in the month of May. Grants for anyone born under the same star as some philanthropist’s Maltese.”
She followed the sound of the deep, throaty chuckle. Having J. D. Porter laugh when her whole world was shattering didn’t sit well.
“Amused?” she asked tartly. “I’m so glad you find my crisis funny.” She stood and braced her hands on her hips. “I need some air,” she told Rose. “If I don’t get away from him, I might just take out my frustrations on your useless son.”
She stormed out of the room, the vision of J.D.’s dancing gray eyes vividly etched in her brain. He had laughed at her! She fumed as she stepped into the early-June humidity. What kind of unfeeling jerk would laugh at a time like this? “Jackass Deluxe,” she grumbled as she stalked through the overgrown gardens behind the property.
The tall, damp grass licked at her ankles above her socks, leaving a sheen of moisture on her white aerobic shoes. The air was thick with the scent of the wild vines growing along the brick exterior of the dependency.
The scent inspired memories from the past. Memories of when her family had owned this place. She had been a ten-year-old princess and this had been her kingdom. Her hand reached out to touch the coolness of the weather-beaten stone wall. A small lizard skittered along the surface, then disappeared behind the growth of vegetation threatening to overtake the dilapidated building.
She was thrilled that Rose and Shelby had decided to restore the outbuilding of the Charleston single house. The dependency, which had once served as both kitchen and servants quarters, had been neglected for more than a hundred years. Her only misgiving was the man hired to do the work.
J. D. Porter was an architect known for his dramatic, modern structures. She frowned, imagining what Mr. Steel-and-Glass Towers might do to this historically significant structure. Cringing, she allowed her fingers to admire the stone. J.D. didn’t appreciate or even understand historical preservation. He didn’t appreciate Rose, either. He was charging his own mother an hourly rate for the renovation. “That man is a piece of work.”
“Thanks.”
Tory spun around and her hand flew to her mouth. Wide-eyed, she looked into the relaxed face and instantly felt her cheeks burn. “I didn’t...hear you,” she stammered.
J.D. shifted so that his large body cast a long shadow over Tory. Deep lines appeared on either side of his eyes as he squinted against the sunlight.
“I take it you’re being squeezed out of the world of academe.”
Tory felt her shoulders slump forward. “It seems that way.”
“What will you do?”
She shrugged and dropped her gaze to the front of his shirt. It was a stupid move, she realized too late. Her eyes lingered at the deep V where he’d neglected to button his shirt. A thick mat of dark hair curled over solid, tanned skin. She swallowed and forced her eyes to the ground.
“I may have to wait a year or so until I can get another grant.”
He shifted his weight again as his thumbs looped into the waistband of his jeans. “What about your family? Can’t they help with your tuition?”
“Interesting concept, coming from you,” she said as she met his eyes. “I don’t really have any family.” Needing to change the subject, Tory asked, “How can you charge your own mother top dollar?”
His expression grew dark, and something vaguely dangerous flashed in his eyes. “I’m a businessman, Tory. Not a philanthropist.”
Heartless creep! her mind screamed. “She’s your mother.”
“Biologically,” he qualified.
“It still counts,” Tory told him with a saccharine smile.
Lifting sunglasses from the breast pocket of his shirt, J.D. placed them on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose. Tory was left to view her own reflection in their mirrored lenses.
“Want to give me a hand?”
“What?” she fairly squealed.
Her voice caused an immediate smile to cut the sharp angles of his face. “Assist me?”
“Doing what exactly?”
“I’m open for suggestions,” he countered with a wolfish grin.
“And I’m outta here,” she answered as she took her first step.
“Hey,” he said as his large hand closed around her arm. “I was just teasing you. No need to get huffy.”
“I don’t care for your brand of teasing, J.D. Everything that comes out of your mouth has some sort of sexual meaning behind it.”
“I’ll behave,” he promised, one hand raised in an oath.
“I’ll bet,” she told him wearily.
“Honest. I just want you to hold the tape while I measure.” He produced a shiny metal tape measure in support of his statement. “I need to get the dimensions of the outhouse so I can finish that ream of paperwork the historical society requires.”
“It isn’t an outhouse. It’s called a dependency. And the forms are necessary,” she told him with great hauteur in her voice. “We have to maintain the historical fabric of the city.”
His mouth thinned in a definite sneer. “Just because something is old, that doesn’t make it worth saving.”
“I’d save you, Mr. Porter.”
“Think I’m old, huh?”
“Not old,” she said with an exaggerated bat of her long lashes. “Historically significant.”
The skin of her upper arm tingled where his fingers gently held her. It was annoying that she felt herself respond to him, but she silently vowed not to show any reaction. She suspected J.D. would enjoy knowing his touch affected her—and she wasn’t about to give him that much power.
“Will you?”
“What?” she answered, wondering if he had psychic powers in his arsenal.
“Help me measure.”
“It’s almost noon,” she hedged. “The lunch crowd cometh.”
“So does Susan.”
“Susan isn’t working this shift.”
“She is now,” he stated. “Rose thought you might like to take the afternoon off in light of your sudden financial upheaval.”
“How is losing a day’s tips supposed to make me feel better?”
Nodding his dark head, J.D. used his free hand to stroke the faint growth on his deeply clefted chin. “Good point. Tell you what,” he said with a sigh, as if he were about to announce a change in world leaders. “I’ll pay you the going rate for helping me measure.”
“How generous,” she gasped. “Sure you can spare seven-fifty an hour?”
He leaned down, so close that Tory could feel the warmth of his breath against her ear. “For you? Anything.”
Her resolve not to react to this man disintegrated when the scent of his cologne lingered in the mere inches separating them. Shrugging away from him, Tory could still feel the imprint of his callused fingers against her skin. A smart person would cut and run. But then, a woman with less than a hundred dollars in the bank didn’t always act intelligently.
“Has your mother already called Susan?”
“Yes, Rose called.”
She stifled the urge to ask him why he wouldn’t call Rose “mom” or “mother.” “Then give me the tape.”
Reaching behind him, J.D. again produced the tape measure as well as a folded sketch of the dependency’s exterior. “Here,” he said, handing her the drawing and a mechanical pencil. “We’ll start on the south wall. We’ll measure it, then you mark the drawing.”
“Fine,” Tory said. She kept the bent end of the tape between her fingers as he took long strides through the dense foliage. He had a great derriere, she mused. Tight and rounded above those long, muscular legs. Absently, she fanned herself with the sketch, trying to convince herself that the heat she felt in the pit of her stomach was probably nothing more than the effect of having drunk too much coffee.
The strip of metal tape acted like an umbilical cord, connecting her to the large man. Dutifully, she followed his instructions as they spent the better part of an hour documenting the contours of the old building. She attributed her dry throat to the stifling early-summer heat. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that her eyes had been riveted to his body the entire hour. She wasn’t the type to be interested in things like the washboard-like muscles of his flat stomach, or the gentle slope of his back where his broad shoulders tapered at his waist. No—such things were irrelevant to a woman like Tory.
“You look hot.”
“I beg your pardon?” she yelped.
His smile was slow and deliberate. “I was referring to the temperature.” He swabbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “It must be near ninety.”
“Must be,” she agreed as she swallowed her guilt.
“Need a break before we tackle the interior?”
“Not me,” she told him. She wanted to get this over with—quickly. “The inside is a disaster.”
“I know. I took a cursory look when I was putting together the budget for the project.”
“I’m sure your estimate was high,” she said without looking at him.
“I’m sure it was reasonable.”
Ignoring the slight edge to his voice, Tory moved to the near-rotten door and grasped the knob. The door wouldn’t budge.
“Let me,” J.D. said, coming up behind her so that his thighs brushed her back.
Tory stepped out of his way almost instantly, feeling branded by the outline of his body.
J.D. wrestled with the humidity-swollen door for a short time before finally pulling it free of the frame. Reaching into his back pocket, he produced a small flashlight and directed the beam in front of them.
The air inside the building was stale and musty. “Let’s start on the left,” J.D. suggested.
The interior was a long, rectangular-shaped space with bowed stone walls and a few rotted timbers piled at the far end. Bars of yellow light filtered in from the boarded windows, imprisoning J.D. as he placed the measure against what was left of the old flooring.
“Sixty-three feet, seven inches,” he called.
Tory was about to mark the diagram when she noted the inconsistency. “The tape must be twisted.”
She heard his boots scrape as he checked the length of the tape. “Nope.”
“Then that back wall is three feet deep,” she told him.
J.D. took the sketch from her, his eyebrows drawn together as he looked from the drawing to the room, then back to the paper.
“This doesn’t make sense.”
“You must have measured incorrectly.”
He offered her a baleful stare before walking off to the back of the room. “Hold this,” he called, handing her the flashlight as she came up behind him.
Using his pocketknife as well as his fingers, J.D. loosened the stones by scraping away the limestone mortar.
“What are you doing?” Tory asked.
“I’m trying to find the other three feet.”
An oddly unpleasant odor accompanied the shower of small rocks as he created a small opening in the wall.
“Give me the light.”
J.D. stuck his arm through the opening, then she heard him suck in his breath.
“What?”
His arm came out of the hole and he faced her slowly. His expression was hard, his eyes wide. “We’d better go back to the Tattoo.”
“Why? What’s behind the wall?” she asked, frustration adding volume to her litany of questions.
“A body.”
