Книга - The Other Woman’s Son

The Other Woman's Son
Darlene Gardner


Clay Dillon is everyone's hero–especially to his family. So when his kid sister needs a kidney, he tracks down Jenna Wright. Jenna's the only one who can help, but to gain her trust he has to lie.Jenna believes Clay can be everything to her until she finds out who he really is–the son of the woman who ruined her life. In that instant Jenna's dreams for a future with Clay dissolve.Jenna is in so deep, she actually considers doing what Clay asks. But how can she help his family at the expense of her own?









The Other Woman’s Son

Darlene Gardner







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Ebony Brown, for graciously answering my

questions about dialysis and kidney failure.

I couldn’t have asked for a better source

and you couldn’t be a more worthy advocate.

Any mistakes, of course, are mine.

And to my buddies in basketball,

Marian Covino and Beth Marson,

because we’ll always have Memphis.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE


JENNA WRIGHT BOPPED down the stairs to the beat of a song she’d heard that funny man John Belushi singing in the movie she’d watched last night with her big brother.

“Gimme some lovin’,” she sang, then sang it again, those being the only words she remembered.

She hit the ground floor running, her small bare feet slapping against the kitchen tile. Maybe she could talk Mom into getting her a black hat and black sunglasses like the cool guys in the Blues Brothers movie wore.

“Gimme some…”

She skidded to a stop beside the wall phone, the words dying on her lips. Mom had been talking on the phone when Jenna got the idea to put on her bathing suit and cool off with the water sprinkler in the backyard. Even though the window air-conditioning units were running, the house still felt hot.

Where was Mom?

Jenna scratched her head, feeling her sloppy ponytail get even messier. Mom wouldn’t like it if Jenna didn’t ask permission. Mom didn’t like much since they moved from the big house in Memphis to this tiny one in Little Rock.

But Jenna so wanted to get wet. Maybe then some of the kids on the street would come over and she’d have friends like she used to in Memphis.

She was about to yell for Mom when she heard a sob. Then another. And another.

Jenna’s heart jumped like the frog she’d seen down by the creek when her brother Jeff took her for a walk. She followed the sounds to the family room and froze.

Mom sat in a chair, her face in her hands, her body sort of shaking. Jeff must have heard Mom first, because he was moving toward her. He looked real sad, like he had on the day they’d left Memphis.

“Are you okay, Mom?” he asked.

Mom’s head jerked up. She wiped at the tears on her cheeks and smiled, but not her happy smile. The smile she’d used when the kid next door asked where Jenna’s daddy was.

“I’m fine, Jeff.”

Jenna was only eight, but she could see that Mom wasn’t fine. Jeff must have known it, too, because he put a hand on Mom’s still-shaking shoulder. Jenna felt so scared she thought she might throw up.

“Was that Dad on the phone?” Jeff asked. A pretty dumb question. Whenever Dad called, Mom usually yelled, mostly about “that woman.”

Mom rubbed her head like it hurt, then shook it. “No, honey.” Her voice was all slow and tired like. “It was your Grandma Wright. She called about your Dad and Margo.”

Jenna grew even more still. They didn’t talk about Margo. Ever. If Dad hadn’t met her, they’d still be living with him in the big house in Memphis and Mom wouldn’t cry so much.

Mom squeezed her eyes tight but tears still ran down her face. “They had a baby girl. Darcy.”

Jenna’s mouth dropped open. She knew that Margo had a son about her age, but Jenna couldn’t picture her with a baby. Jenna had only seen Margo once, in front of a restaurant back when Mom and Dad were still married. Margo didn’t look like a mom. She looked like a model in a magazine.

“Grandma wanted to tell you Dad won’t be coming to visit this weekend after all,” Mom said.

Jenna’s stomach felt like it dropped to the floor and splattered. Since they moved to Little Rock, Dad had only been to see them once. Jenna didn’t remember exactly when that was but it had been cold enough that she’d been wearing her red winter jacket.

And now Dad wasn’t coming to visit because of the baby who was making Mom cry.

Maybe Dad loved the baby more than he loved her and Jeff. Jenna got a yucky feeling behind her eyes and blinked hard a couple times to try to get rid of it.

“I’m going upstairs for a little while.” Mom squeezed Jeff’s hand, then got slowly out of the chair.

Mom took the other way out of the family room, away from where Jenna still stood. But the house was so small that Jenna heard Mom sobbing again on the stairs. Jeff left the house, the screen door leading to the cement back porch banging shut.

Jenna blinked some more, then followed him outside. Jeff would make things better. He always did.

She found him sitting in the shade on the cracked top step, staring at the water spraying from the sprinkler. He barely glanced at Jenna when she sat down beside him.

“I heard you and Mom talking,” she said.

“Then you know about the baby.” His voice sounded funny, like he was trying not to cry, too. Her heart jumped again, like that frog was trapped inside her. Jeff had just turned thirteen. She hadn’t heard him cry in forever.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Mom said they named her Darcy.”

“A dumb name for a dumb baby,” Jeff spat out.

They sat in silence, watching the water soak the brown grass. The grass even smelled dry. Jenna heard birds singing, dogs barking and, in the distance, what sounded like a baby crying.

Jenna liked babies. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that Margo and Dad had one. Their baby would be real tiny so of course Dad had to stay with it in Memphis this weekend. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t come to visit Jenna and Jeff other times.

He might even bring the baby. Before they’d left Memphis, Jenna’s best friend Rachel’s dad had a baby girl with his new wife. Rachel lived with her mom but told Jenna the baby was her sister.

“Jeff,” Jenna asked softly, “is baby Darcy our sister?”

He whirled on her, his face all scrunched up and fierce looking. “No!”

“But if she’s Dad’s baby, wouldn’t she be our—”

“No,” Jeff snapped. “And don’t you ever say that again.”

That horrible feeling behind Jenna’s eyes returned. “But why?”

“Didn’t you hear Mom crying? Dad left her for Margo. He left us for Margo, too.”

“But he still loves—”

“If he loved us, he’d come visit. He loves Margo and the baby now. And Margo’s son, too.”

Jenna tried to stop her tears from coming, but her eyes still got as wet as the grass. She no longer felt like singing a Blues Brothers tune or playing in the sprinkler.

Long moments passed before Jeff awkwardly patted her thigh. “Aw, don’t cry, Jenna. Mom and me are all the family you need.”

For the first time Jenna could remember, Jeff hadn’t made her feel better. That could be because he was crying, too.




CHAPTER ONE


Twenty-two years later

CLAY DILLON COVERED his sister Darcy’s much smaller hand with his, hoping the dread flowing through his veins like icy river water hadn’t chilled his skin.

She glanced at him with wide blue eyes, and he tried to convey with his expression that they’d get through this crisis no matter what the news.

Their mother Margo sat rigidly on the opposite side of Darcy, her pink lipstick standing out starkly on a face that had gone pale despite her expertly applied makeup.

If the patient consultation room hadn’t been rather richly redecorated and the slim, somber man behind the gleaming mahogany desk hadn’t lost three-quarters of his hair, time would seem as if it had rewound.

Dr. Phillip McIntyre tapped his chin, a habitual gesture Clay recognized from the last time the family had dealt with him. It meant the doctor was having difficulty putting his thoughts into exactly the right words.

“I’m sorry to have to inform you of this, but the biopsy confirmed our suspicions.” His somber voice contrasted vividly with the Memphis sun streaming through the blinds. “The kidney is indeed failing.”

Clay’s stomach plunged like a skydiver realizing that his parachute wouldn’t open. The diagnosis, though, came as no surprise. The creatinine levels in Darcy’s blood had been rising, an early indication her kidney wasn’t filtering out waste products the way it was supposed to.

The doctor’s compassionate gaze zeroed in on Darcy, who’d inherited their mother’s heart-shaped face and blond good looks. Except now Clay let himself notice that her complexion appeared sallow and her skin puffy. Clay tightened his hand on hers. Blood seemed to rush to his head, clogging his ears, making it seem like Dr. McIntrye’s voice came from a distance.

“Darcy, we need to put you back on the transplant list.”

A voice in Clay’s mind screamed at the injustice, but he schooled his features and said nothing. Neither did Darcy, whose right hand sheltered the spot where the doctor had extracted a sample of tissue from her kidney to be biopsied.

“But she was doing so well.” The anguished protest erupted from their mother. “And you said the kidney could last for decades.”

Dr. McIntyre pushed the glasses up his nose and tapped his chin some more. The sunlight shone on him through the skinny slats of the blinds, casting his face in both light and shadow. “I said that although there have been cases of cadaver kidneys lasting for decades, those instances were isolated. We hoped the kidney Darcy received would last longer than five years, but that isn’t a terrible result for a cadaver organ.”

Had it really been five years?

The ordeal actually began even longer ago than that. Darcy had been only ten or eleven when the family’s new pediatrician discovered that a previously undiagnosed strep infection had damaged Darcy’s kidneys. Still, it had come as a shock to learn that Darcy had end-stage organ failure at age sixteen.

The shock precipitated a nightmare that Clay remembered as vividly as if it had happened yesterday.

Four-hour dialysis sessions three times a week that purified his sister’s blood but drained her of energy. The dawning realization that she needed a transplant. The agonizing wait for a cadaver organ. Then the anxiety-filled predawn trip to the transplant center when a matching kidney finally became available.

The transplant had been successful, and the nightmare ended. Until today, when it started again.

“You’ll have to go back on dialysis until a donor organ becomes available. The sooner, the better,” Dr. McIntyre told Darcy. “Let’s see. Monday’s Memorial Day. So I’d suggest you start the treatments Tuesday.”

Today was Friday. A muscle in Darcy’s jaw tensed, but other than that she exhibited no outward sign of the disappointment that must be raging inside her. Her silence worried Clay more than an outburst would have done. Even at her sickest, Darcy was the most unremittingly cheerful person Clay knew.

“How long do you think it will be before my daughter can have another transplant?” Their mother’s voice shook, and Clay wished he’d sat between the two females so he could hold both of their hands.

The doctor gazed at the open file on his desk and shuffled papers before raising his eyes and peering over the top of his rimless glasses. “I can’t seem to find the information here, so refresh my memory on how long the wait was last time.”

“Nine months,” their mother answered immediately.

Nine interminable months, Clay thought.

Darcy had barely recovered from one dialysis session when it came time for another. She’d fallen hopelessly behind in her classes, eventually being forced to repeat her junior year of high school.

“Ah, yes,” Dr. McIntyre said. “I remember Darcy was extremely lucky to get that kidney. Unfortunately, we can’t count on something like that happening this time. You do recall the problems associated with the blood type. Type-O blood means she can only receive a donated organ from another individual with type-O blood. But since type-O is the universal donor, those cadaver kidneys can and do go to sicker patients of other blood types. Added to that, Darcy has an uncommon tissue type that makes it even tougher to find a match.”

“Give us a ballpark estimate of the wait time,” Clay said.

“Ballpark, I’d say two to four years if we’re lucky, but it could be even longer.”

Clay fought to keep himself from recoiling, which wouldn’t help his silent sister. Even two to four months on dialysis was too long.

“You do know, of course, that matching kidneys from living donors tend to last significantly longer and function better than cadaver kidneys,” Dr. McIntyre said. “But I recall that several members of your family have already been tested.”

Clay had volunteered first, armed with the knowledge that blood relatives presented the best chance for a match. He’d quickly learned about the importance of tissue typing, the blood tests comparing six specific antigens between the potential donor and recipient. None of Clay’s mirrored Darcy’s, and further testing determined him to be a poor match.

“Everybody was tested but nobody was a suitable donor,” their mother replied.

“Then we have no choice than to proceed with the plan of action I’ve outlined.” The doctor began to explain about the transplant team being assembled to work on Darcy’s case, but Clay no longer listened.

No choice.

In Clay’s experience, there was always a choice.

When the bar he owned in downtown Memphis had come up for sale, the first loan officer he visited had informed him no bank would lend him the money for a down payment. So he’d traded in his new Mustang for an old clunker, sold his condo to cash in what little equity he’d accrued and visited every bank in the city until one put together a loan package.

No choice.

That simply wasn’t true.

His mother misspoke when she claimed everybody in the family had been tested. Clay could think of two notable exceptions, although Clay himself was no relation to either Jenna or Jeff Wright.

He was surprised he even remembered the names of his stepfather’s children from his first wife. His mother had married Donald Wright when Clay was eight years old, making Darcy his half sister. It had always troubled him that Darcy’s two other half siblings, who were around his age, had never bothered to meet her.

Clay had strongly suggested those half siblings be tested the last time Darcy needed a transplant, but his stepfather shot down the notion after discovering a cadaver kidney was an option. Donald claimed his first wife, and her children by extension, harbored a grudge the size of the state of Tennessee.

Donald couldn’t veto the idea anymore: He’d died two years ago after a sudden heart attack.

Clay knew little about his late stepfather’s oldest two children except that they’d been so far estranged from their father they hadn’t bothered to attend his funeral. That wouldn’t stop Clay.

No choice.

Clay would see about that.



JUST SAY NO.

Great advice, if you could bring yourself to say it.

Jenna Wright hadn’t managed it, which was why on Friday night she found herself passing under the larger-than-life bird painted over the entrance to the Blue Mockingbird Saloon in downtown Little Rock.

She could have legitimately claimed she didn’t have the time. For the past nine years she’d worked for Morgan and Roe, a full-service public accounting firm specializing in assisting private corporations and high net-worth individuals.

If not for her job and the personal financial statement it had been imperative she finish for an important client, she wouldn’t be arriving with only—she glanced at her watch—two minutes to spare.

Yes, she should have said no.

Even though she hadn’t really wanted to.

She consciously slowed her pace once inside the bar, as though she hadn’t just dashed from the third floor of a nearby parking garage after fighting heavy Friday-night traffic.

Customers filled the Blue Mockingbird, the happy hour crowd having not yet headed for the door. Some of them milled about, drinks in hand, laughing and talking. Others, like the raucous group of men with two half-full pitchers of beer, jammed tables.

The crowd surrounded her, but nobody seemed to pay attention to her entrance except the petite woman who met her at the foot of the stage clutching an acoustic guitar. She was dressed in a clinging ebony pant outfit that accentuated her long, black hair.

“I’ve never been so happy to see someone in my entire life.” Only Corrine Sweetland could make over-the-top relief seem charming.

Jenna and Corrine had instantly hit it off as University of Arkansas freshmen when they’d both been members of the Jazz Club. Although Jenna dropped out of the club to concentrate on her accounting classes and Corrine left college before her sophomore year, they’d remained friends.

Corrine had waged a constant struggle to eke out a living throughout the ensuing decade, playing the guitar and singing backup vocals for a succession of rhythm-and-blues and jazz bands that never hit it big.

Jenna enjoyed attending Corinne’s gigs whenever her busy schedule permitted, but had never gone back on stage herself, keeping to her long-ago decision to give up singing.

Jenna still wasn’t exactly sure how Corrine had talked her into performing at the Blue Mockingbird. At first Jenna had listened sympathetically as a panicked Corrine relayed how she’d made arrangements for the gig before her latest band had splintered. Jenna had agreed that Corrine, as band manager, ran the risk of getting a reputation for not fulfilling commitments if she couldn’t figure out a solution this time.

Before Jenna knew it, she was the lead singer for a temporary rhythm-and-blues duo called Two Gals. Corrine was the guitarist and back-up vocalist.

“You might not be glad I’m here after I start singing,” Jenna told Corrine, glancing over her shoulder at the noisy happy-hour crowd. She felt her heart speed up, like the sticks of a drummer playing eighth notes. “The audience might not be, either.”

Corrine pinned her with the huge hazel eyes that stood out against her pale skin even when she wasn’t accentuating her lashes with coal-black mascara. “I’ve heard you sing. Trust me, they’ll love you.” She made a face. “As long as you don’t croak the first song,” Corinne teased.

“I warmed up my voice in the car on the drive over.” Jenna nodded at a nearby wall clock, which showed the time as seven o’clock. The owner of the Blue Mockingbird had insisted on an early start time to provide the happy-hour crowd a reason to stick around once the prices went up. “So we can start anytime.”

“Anytime after you lose the jacket.”

Jenna tugged the lapels of the cream-colored fitted blazer she wore with chocolate-hued slacks. “What’s wrong with my jacket?”

“You look like you’re heading to the office.”

“I just came from there,” Jenna said even as she shrugged out of the jacket and laid it on a nearby table. “How’s this?”

“Undo the top two buttons of your shirt and roll up your sleeves.” Corrine surveyed her critically. “Not bad. But before our next performance, girlfriend, we’re going shopping. You got it, so we should flaunt it.”

“I’d rather leave the flaunting to you.”

“I’ve got no problem with that. We’re performers, Jenna. We’re supposed to flaunt it.” Corrine executed a shimmy with her shoulders, then smiled encouragingly. “Let’s do this.”

The time of reckoning upon her, Jenna positioned herself behind one of two microphones on the stage. She grabbed it and gazed out into the maze of people. The sprawling bar featured dozens of tables, banks of big-screen televisions on two of the walls, a circular bar in the center of the main room and a billiards room off to her right. The stage seemed almost like an afterthought.

“Good evening and welcome to the Blue Mockingbird. I’m Jenna Wright, and this is Corrine Sweetland. Together, we’re Two Gals.”

Nothing. None of the patrons indicated they’d heard her. Panic seized Jenna, causing her lungs to feel like something was sitting on them. How could she have let Corrine talk her into this? She hadn’t sung in public since college. A spot under her eye twitched, the way it did when she was nervous.

Her gaze darted to Corrine. Her friend nodded, her expression encouraging. You can do this, she mouthed. Jenna inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly and faced the disinterested crowd. She’d intended to explain their repertoire included blues, jazz and soul and that most of the songs were new renditions of old favorites. But nobody was listening.

“Our first song,” she spoke into the microphone, “is ‘Today I Sing the Blues.’”

Corrine strummed her guitar, and the bluesy beat seemed to penetrate Jenna’s skin and sink into her. Singing had come easily to Jenna from the time she was a small child and the church choir director noticed her big voice.

Others had noticed, too, eventually leading to invitations from various bands to join them. She’d been confident enough in her voice back in high school that she’d been a natural performer, but doubts crept up on her now.

She drew in another deep breath to guard against the shaky, uncontrolled sounds nerves caused, then determinedly launched into the song, a mournful ballad about the loser in a love affair.

Despite the precaution, she felt her neck muscles contract and her blood pressure elevate. Signs that her voice was about to start trembling unless she did something quick. An old trick came back to her, and she swung her gaze wildly around the bar, searching for friendly faces.

A blonde with a spiky haircut who would have fit in at a punk-rock concert set down her glass and swayed to the music, a contented smile curving her lips. Jenna’s shoulders relaxed.

A craggy-faced man with deep lines bracketing his eyes and mouth nodded as she sang about walking the darkest avenue. Jenna’s blood pressure fell back to its normal level.

She lowered the pitch of her voice to wring out the full effect from the song, probing the crowd for somebody else to provide unwitting encouragement.

Her gaze collided with a pair of dark eyes attached to one of the most interesting faces she’d ever seen. She wouldn’t label the man handsome, exactly. But high cheekbones, heavy brows, a long nose, a sensuous mouth and eyes she could tell were coal-black even from this distance made it impossible to look away.

Not until she tripped over a lyric she’d practiced a dozen times did she muster the will to wrench her gaze to the opposite side of the room.

Who was he?

Somebody distracting her from the song, an internal voice warned. A grave error for a singer. If she didn’t feel the music, how could she expect the audience to?

Avoiding the man’s gaze, she finished the song, heartened by the applause. Now that she and Corrine had captured the audience’s attention, she recited the spiel she’d originally intended to open with.

“Now that we know each other better, what do you say we get down to earth with some…” She paused, lowering her voice a full octave. “…‘Downhearted Blues.’”

Despite her resolve not to look at him, a quarter of the way through the song her gaze swung to the dark-haired man. And found his eyes locked on her.

She couldn’t say for certain why she’d picked him out of the crowd. Even though he was sitting down, she could tell he was a tall man. She preferred men who were less physically imposing and not so…intense.

She didn’t need to look at him again to know he still regarded her with that same single-minded concentration. She drew energy from that knowledge, pouring it into her music, infusing it into her voice. By the end of the set, she’d thoroughly captured the crowd’s attention.

“This is great. Did you hear the groan when you announced the break?” Corrine asked when they stepped off the stage.

“I did,” Jenna said.

“Keep it short. I like the idea of striking when the crowd is hot for us.”

The adrenaline that had fueled Jenna through the performance dropped off, and she collapsed into a chair beside the wooden table nearest the stage. Corrine sat down next to her.

“You knocked them dead.” Corrine reached for her hand, briefly squeezing it. “But next time, take pity on my nerves and show up on time.”

“I couldn’t help it. I warned you it’s tough to get out of the office Friday nights. I have a job, remember?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, but I have to say this. Singing should be your job.”

“Singing’s a guilty pleasure,” Jenna said. “Accounting pays the bills.”

To bolster her position, Jenna could have pointed out the struggles Corrine endured to be a musician: Low pay, irregular bookings and zero job security. Before Corrine had married personal trainer Maurice Sweetland, her friend had worked on and off as a waitress to supplement her income.

“So you keep saying,” Corrine said, but her attention wasn’t on Jenna.

Following Corrine’s gaze, Jenna spotted the dark-haired man navigating the labyrinth of tables. She guessed his age at about thirty, his weight at maybe two hundred pounds, his height at six feet two. Too tall, she thought. His lean, hard body hinted that he worked out with weights. There was nothing soft about him except, perhaps, the texture of his thick hair, the ends of which nearly reached his collar. Too long. He wore jeans and a collarless, short-sleeved knit shirt in a deep shade of brown that hugged his chest. Too casual.

It quickly became clear that the man was headed for their table. Jenna’s heart took a leap worthy of Dwyane Wade, her oldest nephew’s favorite NBA player.

“Do you know that guy?” she asked Corrine.

“Never seen him before. But even us married ladies can enjoy the view. Besides, you’re the one he’s coming for.”

He stopped shy of the table, standing there for long seconds, drinking her in with those midnight eyes that complemented brown hair so dark it verged on black. Jenna’s cheeks grew warm, a puzzling response. She never reacted this way to a man, especially to a man who was so not her type.

“At the risk of telling you something you’ve heard before, you, lady, can really wail.” He delivered the line in an understated southern accent with a charming half grin that softened the angular planes of his face.

“She has heard it,” Corrine interjected with a friendly smile. “From me. About thirty seconds ago.”

“Then you’re as smart as you are talented.” The man smiled back at Corrine. “You play a mean guitar.”

He wants something, Jenna thought. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with the suspicion it might be her. She dated semiregularly, but usually she met the men through work or friends. She didn’t let herself get picked up in a bar.

“We appreciate the compliments.” Corrine included Jenna in her reply. “You know, with a tenor like yours, you can probably wail yourself.”

His half grin become full fledged. “You’d be the one wailing if you heard me sing. In pain, I’m afraid. I’m Clay Dillon.”

The name seemed vaguely familiar but Jenna would remember if she had ever encountered this man before. She was closer to him than Corrine so she was the one to whom he offered his hand.

“Jenna Wright.” She fought off her reluctance to touch him and shook. His skin was warm, his touch firm, the feeling it elicited uncomfortable. He might not be her type, but he’d managed to get her to notice him. “And this is Corrine Sweetland.”

He let go of Jenna’s hand, turning to shake Corrine’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. You ladies mind if I join you?”

“If it’s okay with Jenna, it’s fine by me,” Corrine said, obviously charmed.

When her friend stated it that way, Jenna could hardly refuse his company without seeming rude. “Sure.”

He settled into his seat with long-limbed grace, aiming his dark gaze at Jenna. “I confess I have an ulterior motive for coming over here.”

“Oh?” Jenna had already made up her mind to refuse should he proposition her, but her pulse rate still rocketed. “And what is that?”

“I’d like to hire Two Gals to play at my bar in Memphis.”



CLAY KEPT HIS EYES fastened on Jenna Wright, refusing to feel guilty for not telling her they shared a half sister.

He could see nothing of Darcy in her, except a certain gentleness in her expression he might be imagining because he wanted it to be there.

She seemed to have gone through pains to play down her appearance. She’d rolled up the sleeves of a fawn-colored blouse more suited for the office than the stage. She hadn’t bothered to play up her appealing features with makeup, which rendered them ordinary from a distance. And she wore her auburn hair in a conservative shoulder-length cut instead of long and loose.

He’d been watching the entrance so had noticed her arrival but hadn’t pegged her as the singer until she took the stage. The transformation from inconspicuous to vibrant had been amazing, as though a different woman lived inside this button-down version.

Tracking her down had been surprisingly easy. He’d pumped his stepfather’s former law partner for information, yielding no clues about Jeff Wright but discovering his sister Jenna worked as an accountant at a firm called Morgan and Roe in Little Rock.

After the friendly secretary at Jenna’s office blabbed that Jenna would be singing tonight at the Blue Mockingbird, Clay had hopped in his car for the two-hour trip from Memphis to Little Rock. He’d turned over various ways to approach her as he drove but ruled them all out when she started to sing.

He would have disagreed the end justified the means before Darcy became ill, but he no longer believed that. Since Jenna hadn’t recognized his name, fate was on his side.

“I guarantee the offer’s on the level,” he said. “My bar is called Peyton’s Place.”

Corrine’s expression brightened. “Like that TV soap opera from the sixties? My mom used to talk about that.”

Clay didn’t bother to correct her, finding it smarter not to reveal the true inspiration for the name. “I bought the bar a year ago. Recently, I decided live entertainment would help business.”

Recently, as in about an hour ago.

Jenna’s eyes seemed to narrow, but Clay could be imagining her skepticism. Despite everything, his conscience panged.

“I’ve grown up listening to rhythm and blues. I can recognize talent, and you ladies have it,” he continued. “I couldn’t walk away tonight without making you an offer.”

A heavy dose of truth ran through his proposal. Jenna and Corrine had a rare chemistry, made extraordinary by the raw, sensual power of Jenna’s voice. Persuading the duo to perform at Peyton’s Place could help the bottom line—even if assuring Jenna had regular contact with the half sister she might come to love was his main objective.

Corrine placed her elbows on the table, as though readying herself to get down to business. A very good sign. “So where in Memphis is this bar of yours?”

“Beale Street.” The legendary Home of the Blues, Beale Street was the second most-visited street in the south, trailing only Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Musicians made reputations there. “It’s on the very end of the section of street blocked off to traffic, but it’s still a great location.”

“Anywhere on Beale’s a great location,” Corrine declared.

“How long are you under contract to the Blue Mockingbird?” Clay asked.

“Only until the end of the long weekend,” Corrine said. “The owner might want to extend our gig, but we’re free to entertain other offers.”

“Wait, Corrine.” Jenna placed a hand on the table. Clay noticed she’d painted her fingernails bright red, an interesting quirk in such a conservatively dressed woman. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Corrine looked beseechingly at Jenna, something unspoken passing between the two women. “What’s wrong with listening to what Clay has to say? C’mon, Jenna. This is Beale Street.”

Jenna hesitated, then conceded, “I guess it can’t hurt to just listen.”

Sensing resistance, Clay named a figure higher than what good sense dictated for an establishment that had just started to turn a profit. “If that’s not more than the Blue Mockingbird is paying, I’ll top their offer. I’ll also commit to a six-week engagement. How does Wednesday through Saturday nights sound?”

“Impossible.” Jenna emphasized her response with a shake of her head. “I should have told you right away I can’t perform in Memphis. I have a job here in Little Rock.”

A job that would blow Clay’s plan apart. His heart seemed to slam to a stop.

“Jenna’s an accountant.” Corrine sighed, as though sharing that bit of information pained her.

Jenna straightened her spine, and her mouth tightened. “That’s right. I am an accountant. Singing’s a hobby.”

“You’re talented enough to sing full-time,” Clay said.

“And give up my job security? No, thanks. I wouldn’t be singing at all if Corrine hadn’t been obligated to the Blue Mockingbird. Once this job’s over, I’m through singing. I certainly can’t run off to Memphis for half the week.”

Clay deliberately misunderstood the thrust of her argument. “What if the performances are only on Friday and Saturday nights? The bands on Beale don’t get going until about nine, so you could leave Little Rock after work Fridays.”

“It’d be fun, Jenna,” Corrine interjected. “We can drive down to Memphis together. You’re the one who always says we don’t hang out enough.”

Sensing Jenna’s reluctance to disappoint her friend, Clay jumped in. “I’ll sweeten the pot by paying for your weekend hotel stay.” An expense he really couldn’t afford.

“We can’t turn that down, Jenna.” Corrine had definitely gotten into his corner. “I know you feel strongly about the singing being temporary, but it’s only six weeks. That’s no time at all.”

The jukebox stopped playing, signaling the time had come for Two Gals to begin its second set. The bar crowd generated an impressive amount of noise, but silence resonated at the table.

“What do you say, Jenna?” Clay prodded.

Jenna gazed back and forth from Clay to Corrine, who practically vibrated while she waited for her friend’s answer. The silence stretched into what seemed like an eternity. “I suppose we can give it a try.”

“Awesome.” Corrine clapped her hands.

Clay tried to hide his overwhelming relief. “I’ll have a contract drawn up, but for now a handshake will do. Corrine, you’re the deal maker, right?”

“Right.” Corrine eagerly stuck out her hand.

Clay clasped Corrine’s hand but watched Jenna. She appeared wary, as though she didn’t entirely trust him. She shouldn’t, considering his whopper of an ulterior motive.

He shook off the image of himself as a fraud, preferring to think of himself as a loving brother trying to provide Darcy with a chance at a normal life.

Jenna would surely offer to get tested once she knew and loved Darcy. If the tests determined Jenna could be Darcy’s kidney donor, Clay would console himself that the end really did justify his means.




CHAPTER TWO


“DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. I’ll be fine.”

After her declaration, Darcy Wright deliberately raised the edges of her lips. The way she’d trained herself since learning four days ago that she needed a second kidney transplant.

Darcy’s mother, standing in front of her dressed in a trendy tennis outfit, expected that sort of blind optimism. So did her brother Clay. Besides, if Darcy let the happy mask she’d worn during the Memorial Day weekend slip, she might not be able to put it back on.

“This doesn’t feel right, Darcy. I shouldn’t be playing tennis at the country club while you’re getting your first dialysis treatment.”

“I appreciate that, Mom. I really do. But I’ve gone through dialysis before. I know what to expect. And it’s not like I’ll be there all alone. Kenny’s coming with me.”

After breaking the news to her boyfriend of six months that her kidney was failing, Darcy had let her stiff upper lip quiver and asked him to keep her company at her initial session. He’d been as sweet as the sugar-coated chewy candy she used to snack on years ago, before doctors instructed her to carefully monitor her diet.

“I adore Kenny. You know that. But I’m your mother. I should be there, too.”

Not if Darcy could help it. She’d learned from experience that her mother had an even harder time watching Darcy go through dialysis than Darcy did experiencing it.

“I don’t need both you and Kenny there. Honest,” Darcy said. “I already had to get special permission for Kenny. The people at the center would flip if I tried to bring both of you into dialysis.”

Her mother shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and Darcy absently noticed her tennis shoes featured pink Nike swooshes. “Are you sure?”

“Definitely.” Darcy boosted the corners of her mouth higher. “I’d hate for you to miss your Tuesday tennis match because of me, especially because you’re looking so good.”

“In this old thing?” Her mother swept a hand over the hot pink lycra top she’d paired with a navy blue and pink skirt that showed off her excellent figure. She’d tied her shoulder-length blond hair in a ponytail that showed off the pretty face she pampered with skin-care products. “I’m dying to get a new outfit but so far I’ve resisted.”

“That one looks great.” Darcy hoped it had finally gotten through to her mother that the household cash flow had died with Darcy’s father. They could still afford the house and Darcy’s college tuition, but not much else. Certainly not a country club membership. Her mother was going as a guest.

“I suppose I should head out then.” Her mother’s reluctance showed through in every word.

“Have fun.”

“I’ll try. But I’ll be thinking about you every single minute.” She kissed Darcy on the cheek, the light scent of her perfume lingering even after she left the house.

Darcy didn’t allow her face to relax until the engine of the Jaguar her father had paid off before he died roared to life. She blew out a breath and massaged the muscles that had held up her smile.

Constantly reassuring her mother and brother that everything would be okay could be exhausting. Kenny, at least, didn’t hover. They hadn’t seen each other since she’d filled him in on her situation Friday night.

He’d gone through with plans to leave Saturday morning with some college buddies for a three-day canoeing trip. She hadn’t dreamed of asking him to cancel but wouldn’t have minded a phone call to see how she was doing.

Shoving the thought aside, she moved over the terrazzo floors through the house that her mother had hired a top interior designer to decorate in a southwestern motif. Fabric-covered sofas, leather accent chairs and throw rugs artfully scattered on the floor reflected the red, tan and brown colors of the desert. Original landscapes by local artists hung from the walls but the most stunning view was that of the Mississippi River through the bank of large windows lining the back side of the house.

The home sat along a mile-long sidewalk situated on a bluff above a gently curving street running along the mighty river, but it was reachable by car only from the front side.

The window above the hammered copper sink in the kitchen afforded a view of the road. Darcy poured herself a half glass of ice water from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, then sipped it while she watched for Kenny Coleman’s Mustang. Since dialysis patients had to limit their fluid intake, the cool water sliding down her throat felt like a luxury.

She tried to mentally talk herself out of being disappointed that Kenny hadn’t called. Instead, she’d think about how his presence would help her avoid worrying about the future while she was hooked up to the dialysis machine.

Fifteen minutes after he was supposed to arrive, Kenny’s red Mustang convertible finally swung into the driveway. Even from inside the house, Darcy could hear rock music blaring from the car stereo.

She gathered up her backpack and went quickly out the door, striving to convey an eagerness to get the treatment over with. She was loath to let anyone, even Kenny, know how much she dreaded it.

He met her halfway up the driveway, looking like a college coed’s dream in sunglasses, khaki shorts, a University of Tennessee T-shirt and flip-flops. The sun had kissed the ends of his brown hair, and his tanned skin glowed with health and vitality.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

That was Kenny, Darcy thought. The king of charm, able to sound sincere even though Darcy realized she’d probably never looked worse.

“Hey, Kenny.”

He leaned down to close the eight-inch gap in their heights and kissed her on the mouth, the contact brief and almost chaste. She got a whiff of a peppermint breath mint before he took the backpack dangling from her hand. “Ready to go?”

She summoned her smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He opened the passenger door, dumping the backpack in the backseat before stepping aside to let her in and closing the door. Like a true gentleman. That had been one of the things that attracted her to him in the first place.

They’d met at the University of Tennessee after she brushed too close to a display of texts at the campus bookstore. The stack had toppled, raining tomes onto the floor. Kenny helped her pick them up, making her laugh by apologizing for not noticing disaster was imminent. He’d carried her purchases to the cash register, claiming the only thing he’d accept as thanks was a date. They’d been together ever since.

A bonus in dating Kenny was that he lived not even ten miles away, which would enable them to see each other as often as they liked now that the spring semester was over.

“How’d the canoe trip go?” she asked after he slowed the Mustang to a crawl to give a sanitation truck room to pass on the narrow road.

“It was a blast.” He turned the radio down slightly. “You’ve met Harv, right? Tall, skinny guy with long sideburns and a soul patch. He told us he’d been on the river plenty of times. First thing he does is steer the damn thing straight into a huge rock. We hit so hard, I fell off my seat.

“Then he hangs us up on some smaller rocks and has the bright idea to get out of the canoe to jostle us loose. So me and the canoe are drifting downstream and Harv’s swimming as fast as he can behind to catch up. Jake and B.B. were laughing so hard they couldn’t row.”

Kenny kept up a lively commentary the entire drive to the transplant center, which featured its own dialysis facilities. He didn’t seem to notice Darcy had to make an effort to laugh. She was almost glad when they pulled up to the center, because she didn’t think she could fake it much longer.

Bypassing the parking lot, he pulled up to the horseshoe-shaped curb in front of the building and put the Mustang into Park. Darcy’s muscles froze, rebelling at the prospect of walking into the building alone.

“You don’t have to let me off here.” She kept her voice light. “From what I remember, everybody’s pretty understanding if you show up a few minutes past appointment time. So I can walk with you from the parking lot.”

“About that…” His voice trailed off, then started up again. “B.B’s starting his new job Wednesday. He didn’t get a chance to move his stuff into his new apartment yet because of the canoe trip. So I kind of told him I’d help him. You don’t mind, do you?”

Her throat constricted, preventing speech. She managed to move her head, but she wasn’t sure in what direction.

“Didn’t think you would.” His voice got louder, more cheerful. “It’s not like I can do anything when you’re on that machine but sit there.”

His dark sunglasses rendered it impossible for her to read his eyes and figure out how he’d arrived at that stunningly bad conclusion.

“But—” she began.

“So what time should I pick you up?” He tapped the clock on the dashboard, which showed a few minutes past ten o’clock. “How about one-thirty? If that’s not good, call me on my cell.”

She nodded wordlessly and got stiffly out of the car, as though she were a robot somebody had programmed to move. She barely acknowledged the short beep of the horn as he drove away.

Her lower lip trembled so much that she caught it with her upper teeth to still it. She’d counted on Kenny to help get her through this first treatment, but now she had to face it alone.

She put one foot in front of the other, drawing inexorably closer to the center. A handsome older man who looked like Kenny might in twenty years opened the door for her. She tried to smile when she stated her thanks, but couldn’t.

The faint smell of antiseptic that she associated with the center hit her like a blast from a fan when she stepped into the lobby. Her steps slowed. She couldn’t do this. Not by herself.

She blindly whirled back toward the exit, nearly plowing into a tall, solidly built man. He reached out his arms, placing them on her shoulders to steady her.

“You all right, Darcy?”

She blinked until the moisture that had started to gather in her eyes cleared and the man’s face came into view. Clay, her brother, a deep V of concern drawing his dark brows together.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

“What kind of question is that to ask your big brother? I’m here to keep you company.” The smile he wore looked even less genuine than the ones she usually pasted on. His gaze flickered over the lobby. “Where’s Mom?”

“You know how she gets in places like this. I convinced her not to come because Kenny would be with me.”

“Then where’s Kenny?”

Darcy swallowed, unable to tell him how Kenny had bolted. “He’ll be by to pick me up.”

His expression hardened, and she got the strong impression he’d heard what she hadn’t said. “No need for that. I’ll still be here when you’re finished.”

Relief flooded through her like water cascading over a broken dam. But she couldn’t ask Clay to spend four hours holding her hand, not when he already did so much for her.

“You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ll be just fine,” she said, her tone less convincing than she would have liked. “I understand you have a business to run.”

“My business can wait.” Flinging an arm around her shoulders, he steered her toward the elevator.

Her heart felt somewhat lighter, the prospect of four hours hooked up to a machine not as daunting. But she was well aware that the treatment marked the beginning of a long, difficult journey.

If Clay realized that, why hadn’t Kenny?



TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.

Her brother Jeff’s words echoed in Jenna’s mind that Friday as she and Corrine stepped into the hotel elevator from the floor where they were sharing a deluxe double room during their first weekend in Memphis. Clay Dillon had made good on his word, putting them up at the Peabody, one of downtown Memphis’s classiest and best-known hotels.

Corrine was strangely silent, giving Jenna time to reflect on her brother Jeff’s reaction to the Memphis gig. She’d told him the news earlier that afternoon when she phoned his brokerage firm to cancel their weekend dinner plans.

“Something about this sounds too good to be true,” he’d said. “What do you know about the guy who owns the bar, anyway?”

“I know he thinks I can sing.”

“Of course you can sing, but you haven’t performed in years. You said yourself you were rusty. So why you?”

“He hired me and Corrine, Jeff, not just me.”

Even as she responded, Jenna feared her answer was misleading. From the moment her eyes had met Clay Dillon’s, she’d gotten the impression it was about her.

“I have a call on another line so I’ve got to go.” He sounded rushed, the same way he always did. “But do me a favor and check him out. People aren’t always what they seem.”

Excellent advice. Too bad he’d issued it too late to take him up on it. She should have thought to check out the tall, dark and mysterious Clay Dillon herself, of course, but she’d been swamped at work.

“Do we know for certain Clay Dillon is legitimate?” she asked Corrine as the elevator car descended to the lobby floor.

Corrine shifted her guitar case from one shoulder to the other and released an audible sigh. “Could you stop already?”

“Stop what?”

“Making me feel guilty for dragging you into this. My career hasn’t exactly played out like I imagined it would. And, well, chances like this don’t come around very often. I appreciate you coming on board.”

“I know that, Corrine. I agreed so you could get the exposure you deserve.” Jenna ignored the internal voice that suggested the pleasure she got from performing had something to do with it, too. “I’m simply asking how closely you checked out Clay Dillon.”

“I took a trip to Memphis to see Peyton’s Place before I sealed the deal.”

“That’s checking out the bar, not the man.”

“The man owns the bar. The bar’s on Beale Street.” Corrine had reported the bar was “cozy,” which probably meant it was tiny. “What are you so worried about? Clay put us up at the Peabody, just like he said he would.”

The Peabody was a Memphis institution, as much a tourist attraction as a hotel courtesy of the ducks that marched to and from the sculpted fountain in the Grand Lobby twice daily to a John Philip Sousa tune. On a red carpet, no less.

Corrine had talked excitedly of witnessing the duck parade after learning where they’d be staying, but hadn’t even complained they’d arrived too late for the show.

Come to think of it, Corrine had been subdued all day.

The elevator opened to the Grand Lobby, the focal point of which was an expansive bar area featuring the sculpted fountain where the mallard ducks spent their days before retiring to a rooftop cage. Stately columns, plush furniture, a stained-glass ceiling and deco-style lights added to the drama of the Lobby Bar, where patrons with drinks in hand were thanking God it was Friday.

As they walked through the richly appointed space, Jenna touched her friend’s arm. “You okay, Corrine?”

“Sure.” Her brittle smile didn’t reach her eyes, but Jenna knew Corrine well enough to realize she wouldn’t talk about what was bothering her until she was good and ready.

The Peabody was on Union Avenue in the heart of downtown Memphis, just a few blocks from the segment of Beale Street closed to traffic every evening. Summer hadn’t yet officially arrived, but the June night was balmy, the air settling heavily over the city and dampening Jenna’s brow by the time they arrived on Beale. They walked the long way, so they could take in the atmosphere.

Shops, restaurants and clubs lined the street, with neon lights proclaiming the names of establishments and live music drifting from doorways. The party crowd didn’t stick to the sidewalks, straying into the middle of the street. Some held huge plastic cups of ale they’d bought at the sidewalk counter advertising Big Ass Beer.

An Elvis impersonator in a sequined outfit and blue suede shoes belted out a song on a street corner, his tip jar in front of him. A massive man with a parrot perched on his shoulder strolled in front of them. Conversation, nearby traffic noise and music blended together, bombarding the senses.

“Wow. It’s crowded,” Jenna said.

A large, noisy group of twentysomethings passed by, nearly separating them. Corrine hooked an elbow through Jenna’s. “It’s always packed on weekends. But why don’t you know that? You grew up here.”

“Mom, Jeff and I moved to Little Rock when I was seven.” Jenna didn’t have to tell Corrine how traumatic the move had been for all of them. Her friend already knew Jenna’s heartbroken mother had left Memphis after a younger, prettier woman had broken up her marriage. “I haven’t been back to Memphis in years.”

Jenna vividly remembered her last visit eight years ago when her boss signed her up for a financial analysis seminar. The seminar had ended unexpectedly early, which Jenna took as a sign to call the father she hadn’t seen in years.

She remembered her fingers shaking when she dialed his office number and her voice trembling when she asked if he was free. He pronounced it wonderful to hear from her and arranged to meet her for a drink at a downtown bar.

After a single martini and some awkward silences, he apologized for having dinner plans and left. Her father had lived six more years, but that was the last time Jenna talked to him. She hadn’t been back to Memphis until today.

“I’m glad you’re here with me.” Corrine nudged her elbow, a quintessential Corrine gesture. The closer they got to Peyton’s Place, the more whatever had been bothering her friend took a backseat to her excitement.

They continued walking along the four-block section of street, the crowd thinning exponentially until Clay Dillon’s bar came into view. The building had a brick facade with bay windows flanking the doorway, over which green neon letters spelled out Peyton’s Place.

The interior of the establishment was long and narrow, with a bar featuring green rails and corrugated steel running half the length of one mirrored wall. Photos of jazz and blues legends hung on the opposite wall above a series of green vinyl booths. A smattering of tables filled the space between bar and booths. Fans and lights on chains hung from a ceiling that had been painted the same shade of green found in the green-and-black checkered linoleum floor.

At first it seemed as though the raised stage was at the very rear of the place, but Jenna spotted a corridor lined with more booths that probably led to the kitchen and restrooms. She couldn’t decide whether Peyton’s Place really was bigger than it looked or only seemed that way because it couldn’t have been more than one-quarter full.

“Let me guess. You two are Two Gals.” A petite woman with long, curly red hair and the tattoo of a butterfly on her upper arm approached them, gesturing at Corrine’s guitar case. “I’m Vicky. Clay asked me to tell you to get started whenever you’re ready.”

“Where is Clay anyway?” Corrine asked.

“He went to pick up a friend of his he just hired to tend the bar.” Vicky shook her head and muttered, “As though giving the guy a job when he knows nothing about mixing drinks wasn’t doing enough.”

“Why’d he hire him then?” Jenna asked.

“The guy needs the paycheck. But, geez Louise. We need a bartender who knows what he’s doing.” She made a face, perhaps realizing she’d said too much. “Anyway, Clay’ll be here soon.”

Jenna followed Corrine onto the stage, then excused herself to find a restroom while Corrine tuned her guitar. Only two stalls occupied the small space, both of which were empty, so she began her vocal warm-ups. She used the same ones she’d learned as a child, hissing like a snake and buzzing like a bee. She was midhiss when she emerged from the restroom.

“I hope you’re not directing that hiss at me.” Clay Dillon suddenly appeared in front of her, heading the opposite way down the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms.

She’d been sitting when they met so hadn’t realized how tall he was, probably a good six inches taller than her five-eight. Too tall, she thought. He was dressed similarly to the other night, in jeans and a collarless shirt, this one in black. The shirt wasn’t so tight that it showed off the definition in his chest, but she noticed how powerfully built he was all the same. Too muscular.

“No, of course not,” she said. “I was just warming up my voice.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Once word gets around about how good you are, we’ll start filling up this place.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and she felt silly for suspecting him of God only knew what. He was a bar owner trying to increase business, and she was a means to that end. “How’s the Peabody? The room okay?”

“The room’s beautiful.” She itched to get back to the stage, but guilt over her previous mistrust of him caused her to prolong the conversation. “I hear you have a new bartender.”

“Oh, yeah. Nick. He’s a friend from high school who just got married. He and his wife had a baby a month ago.”

The new wife and baby vividly explained why his friend needed a job. She couldn’t help admiring Clay for providing one, even if his friend did lack experience.

“I should be getting back to the stage,” she said. “It’s almost time for us to start.”

“Of course.”

She moved to pass him but the hallway was so narrow that her body brushed his. Their eyes met, and awareness washed over her, as surprising as it was acute. She took a breath and caught his scent, a pleasant blend of soap, shampoo and warm male skin.

“Sorry,” he said, continuing past her as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

She moved to the stage without looking back, telling herself she’d imagined the moment. She drew her share of male interest, but she was hardly a femme fatale who knocked men dead with her stunning looks. And he certainly hadn’t done anything to indicate he’d hired her for anything more than professional reasons.

Clay Dillon, by all indications, was a stand-up guy who gave jobs to friends in need and thought Two Gals could improve his bar’s bottom line.

Jenna disregarded her lingering suspicion about the gig being too good to be true. In a very short time her temporary singing career would come to a screeching halt. She intended to enjoy her good fortune before it did.



CLAY STOOD BEHIND THE BAR, his arms crossed over his chest. The rich texture of Jenna’s voice washed over him as she sang an Aretha Franklin song. Her dark slacks and button-down shirt were only slightly less casual than the clothes she’d worn in Little Rock. She again seemed like a different woman on stage than off: more spontaneous, less guarded and lit by an inner passion he couldn’t detect while talking to her.

He felt the unwelcome pull of attraction, but pushed it aside. It could only lead to complications in a situation already complex enough. She finished the song, acknowledged the applause from the light crowd, then sipped a glass of water while Corrine took center stage with an instrumental version of a Ray Charles song.

“Clay, did you hear a word I said?”

Vicky Smith, the best waitress in Memphis, stared up at him from across the bar, her elbows perched on the wooden surface. She stood about five feet nothing, but what she lacked in height she made up for in personality.

“You need a couple drafts?” he guessed.

“Not right now, I don’t. All my customers have what they need.” Her gaze challenged him to try again.

“You were complaining about Seth?”

“That doesn’t prove you were listening,” she rejoined. “I always complain about Seth.”

“I was listening. You said he accused you of having an affair.”

“He always does that, too, the big jerk. He’s gentle as can be with me but swears he’ll tear apart the guy I’m sleeping with. As though I’d fool around with one guy while dating another. You know I’m not that kind of woman, right?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Then why doesn’t he?”

“He’s got a jealousy problem.”

“You think?”

“I know.” With difficulty he tore his attention from the stage and focused his full attention on Vicky. “Guys like Seth, they don’t change, Vick. If he’s this jealous now, it’ll only get worse if you marry him.”

“If? You’re saying I should rethink the engagement?”

Hell, yeah, except he would have used the word “break” instead of “rethink.” This was a conclusion Vicky needed to reach on her own. “I’m saying I want you to be happy. Since you started dating this guy, I haven’t seen a whole lot of smiles from you.”

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.”

Clay said nothing, his eyes steady on her as she talked.

“We moved into a tiny house that was too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. We were all homesick for Memphis. Those first few years, my mother cried all the time. We rarely saw my father. But eventually things got easier and we got through it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Clay asked when she paused to gather her thoughts.

“Because my mother used to say the three of us were all the family we needed.” She sucked in some oxygen, finding the tale hard to tell. “That’s the way it was. That’s the way it still is. So I want to make it clear I won’t have a relationship with your sister.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “How about me? Will you have a relationship with me?”

She fidgeted, annoyed at herself for reading nuances into the question that weren’t there. He was talking about a business relationship, not a personal one.

“I realize it would be impossible not to because you own the bar. But we don’t have to be…” She groped for a word. “…friendly.”

He uncrossed his arms, leaned his strong forearms on the table and looked at her from under long, male eyelashes. “So sitting here like this, talking together, that’s out?”

She had to clear her throat before she could manage a reply. “Unless it’s about business, yes.”

“Will you be unfriendly to Darcy, too?”

“Not if you don’t try to push us together. That’s why I came here today. To get assurances from you that you’ll respect my desire not to get to know her.”

He expelled an audible breath through his nose. “I can hardly tell my sister she’s not welcome to drop by my bar.”





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