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Jefferson opened one eye and stared at his brother. Tristan was the youngest of the Clay brothers. And the biggest. At six foot five, his blond head practically brushed the top of the wide doorway leading from the foyer into the great room. “You sound like Squire.”

  Tristan grinned. “Flattery’ll get you nowhere.” He dropped his hulking length into an oversize leather wing chair and draped one leg over the arm.

  “Wasn’t flattery.”

  Tristan chuckled soundlessly. “No kidding.” He swung his leg. “Speaking of our father, have you talked to him lately?”

  “No.”

  “Plan to?”

  “No.”

  Tristan snorted softly. “I guess that’s clear then. How about Matt? Daniel? Sawyer?”

  Jefferson shook his head at each mention of their other three brothers. When he could feel his baby brother’s eyes drilling into him, he lifted his head and cocked one eyebrow. “They’re all okay.”

  “How would you know?” Tristan asked mildly. “We haven’t heard from you in more than two years.”

  Jefferson closed his eyes and leaned his head back again. “I’ve kept track of them.” Except for those nine months, anyway. Then, before Tristan could poke his nose in, he said, “I’ve kept track of you, too.” Jefferson rolled his head to one side and looked at his brother. “You’ve done well for yourself.” He lifted his chin, indicating the comfortably spacious house that his baby brother called home. “I saw an article in Time a few months ago. ’Bout that hacker you tracked to Sweden.”

  Tristan shrugged. “It sounded more exciting than it was. How’d you get all busted up?”

  “Emily’s bringing in some groceries,” Jefferson pointed out abruptly. “Why don’t you get off your butt and go help her.”

  “And butt out of your business.” Tristan concluded accurately. He tugged on his earlobe, then straightened from the chair. “You’ll spill it eventually.” His good nature was still evident.

  “Don’t count on it,” Jefferson warned.

  His brother’s mouth curved in silent laughter and he went out to help Emily, leaving Jefferson to wonder when the hell his baby brother had gotten all grown up. His leg was aching, and his toes were numb, but he pushed himself slowly to his feet and crossed the room to the wide bay window overlooking the front of the house. The sun still hadn’t fallen below the horizon, and through the delicate, off-white lace, he watched his brother lope down the shallow brick steps to the street level where Emily was pulling grocery sacks from the trunk.

  As he watched, she set a bag down on the first step and leaned against the cherry red car. A picture of weariness. She was shaking her head to something Tristan was saying, then she raked her long hair back from her face and stared off down the street. Even from a distance, Jefferson could see the fine arch of her cheekbone. The sculpted curve of her lower lip. Her upraised arms tightened the loose-fitted white vest across her chest, and Jefferson knew that his little Emily was grown up, too.

  The last time he’d allowed himself to really look at Emily had been when she was nineteen. His gut still tightened, thinking of that time. She’d been incredibly lovely then. Sweet. Fresh as a spring flower. And way too innocent. His jaw tightened.

  She was still incredibly lovely. But she was seven years older. And he should be shot for the dog he was for wondering if she was still the innocent she’d been back then.

  Her arms lowered, and her hair, heavy glistening strands of dark brown silk, settled about her shoulders. She shook her head again, her hand slicing through the air. But Tristan caught the hand and pulled her to him. Tristan’s size engulfed her slender form and, mouth tight, Jefferson turned away from the sight.

  Emily pushed out of Tristan’s arms. “I’m okay,” she insisted.

  Tristan stopped her from reaching for the grocery bags sitting on the step. “He probably won’t stay long.”

  “He never stays anywhere for long.” She avoided Tristan’s eyes. They were shades lighter than Jefferson’s dark blue, but they could be every bit as piercing. She stepped away from his reach and hefted up the grocery bags. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “I’m not going to fall apart simply because Jefferson has returned.” She could read Tristan’s thoughts almost as well as he could read hers. “And I won’t fall apart when he leaves.”

  “Something is wrong this time.” Tristan removed one of the bags from her arms and started up the steps. “Deep down. He’s changed.”

  Emily didn’t question how Tristan was so sure about that. Tristan just knew things. Always had. And she’d given up, years ago, asking him how, since her curiosity always met with glib non-answers. And now, regardless of Tristan’s uncanny insight, Emily didn’t want to think about whether Jefferson had changed. She didn’t want to worry about how he’d gotten himself into such a bad condition. She didn’t want to think about him at all. She wanted to drive to the stable where she boarded her horse, Bird, saddle up and ride for hours until she could manage to tuck away the ultimately futile feelings that Jefferson’s presence always roused within her.

  “He’ll tell you about it if he wants,” she said, stooping at the top of the steps to thread her fingers through the handles of the plastic bags she’d already carried that far. “Jefferson will tell you things he never tells any of the rest of us.”

  “He didn’t tell me about what happened between the two of you,” Tristan said as he grabbed up the rest of the sacks. “Not that I couldn’t figure it out for myself.”

  Emily stopped in her tracks. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Right.”

  “Tris—”

  “All right,” his big shoulders lifted innocently. “Don’t get your shorts in a knot.”

  “Charming,” she remarked, shouldering her way through the door and heading down the hall toward the kitchen. “It’s no wonder you can’t get a decent woman to go out with you.”

  He laughed. “Honey pie, when I’m on a date, I’m not looking for decency.”

  Rolling her eyes, Emily felt her mood lighten a fraction. Tristan was good at that. He dumped the grocery bags on the pristine white-tiled counters and she waved him off. “Go bug your brother,” she ordered, pulling out the rectangular boxes of frozen pizza and turning toward the wide freezer. “Supper will take a while.”

  Tristan stepped between her and the refrigerator and pulled out two apples from the crisper. “Whenever.” He buffed one of the apples against his faded T-shirt and removed himself from her way.

  Once he was gone, Emily’s hands slowed and she closed her eyes. She could get through Jefferson’s visit, she told herself. She would. A day or two at the most, and he’d be off again on some adventure or other.

  An hour later she set a steaming pan of enchiladas in the middle of the kitchen table, alongside a large, tossed salad. She’d had to force herself not to set supper in the dining room. When her traitorous thoughts had swayed toward setting the table with china and crystal, she’d resolutely plucked a package of paper plates from the pantry. She and Tristan never ate in the formal dining room. To do so now would only heighten the man’s insatiable curiosity.

  She eyed the table. Then, with a huff, she snatched up the paper plates and hastily replaced them with their casual white stoneware.

  “Smells good,” Tristan remarked, appearing in the doorway. She hastily shoved the plates in the garbage beneath the sink.

  Jefferson, sans cane, followed more slowly. Emily turned to the refrigerator but not soon enough to miss the way he favored one leg as he pulled out a chair. “What do you want to drink? We’ve got iced tea, lemonade—” she said, automatically reaching for a bottle of beer for Tristan. He passed behind her and she shoved the cold bottle into his hands. “Grape juice, soda, coffee, milk, beer, wine…”

  Jefferson’s lips twitched. “Beer’s fine.”

  She shut her mouth and reached for two more bottles and elbowed the refrigerator closed. Tristan was sitting in his usual chair and reaching for the enchiladas whe
n she pointedly placed a glass mug in front of him. As usual, he ignored it and deliberately picked up his bottle to take a long drink.

  “Squire should have sent you to school to learn manners,” Emily announced, and started to pull out her own chair, but Jefferson, leaning over, did it first. She aimed a small smile in his direction, happy that she could do so without actually looking at him.

  Jefferson slowly unfolded a napkin and dropped it in his lap. Emily had slapped Tristan’s hands away from mangling any more of the enchiladas, and she deftly scooped a hefty portion onto Tristan’s plate, then Jefferson’s. All she put on her own plate, however, was salad, at which she proceeded to pick.

  Jefferson silently watched his brother and Emily. And wondered.

  “I take it that’s a rental parked in the driveway?” Tristan asked.

  Jefferson nodded, gingerly taking a forkful of the steaming enchilada. The temperature was nothing compared to the spiciness, and it scorched all the way down. He almost knocked over the mug of beer when he abruptly reached for it. “Geez,” he muttered when he could draw breath. “Think it’s peppery enough?”

  Tristan caught Emily’s gaze and grinned sadistically. “Getting soft in your old age?”

  Jefferson smirked. “You wish.” Prepared this time, he forked another bite of enchilada into his mouth. By his fourth bite, he didn’t even have to wash it down with a chaser of ice cold beer. “Is this the type of cooking they taught you in that fancy school in New Hampshire?”

  Emily shook her head and carefully laid her fork on her mostly full plate. “No. There, they taught me how to set a fine table and serve Cordon Bleu. Squire got what he paid for,” she assured Jefferson dryly. It had been a long time since she’d gotten over her anger at Jefferson’s father for sending her to boarding school when she was a teenager. She nodded toward the enchilada dish. “I took a Southwest cooking class a year ago at the community college to learn how to do that.”

  “Thank God, too,” Tristan inserted. “I was getting sick of watercress and—” The telephone rang, and he leaned back in his chair to grab the cordless unit with a long arm. “Yup,” he answered lazily. His eyebrows rose as he listened. “Well, sweetheart, I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather do than have supper with you this evening.” Tristan grinned wolfishly at whatever “sweetheart” had to say, and he rose, ignoring the fact that he’d just packed away a good portion of supper already.

  “You want me to wear what? Why you naughty girl….” Ignoring Jefferson and Emily, he wandered out of the kitchen, the phone tucked at his ear.

  Emily rolled her eyes at Tristan’s back. “Girlfriend 372.” She smiled faintly and reached for her own beer.

  Without the easygoing presence of his overgrown baby brother to provide a buffer, Jefferson silently concentrated on his meal. “I was surprised to discover you’re living out here,” he said finally.

  Emily sipped her beer. Well, now she knew for certain that he hadn’t come to San Diego to see her. “Here, as in San Diego? Or here, as in Tristan’s house?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “I’m an accountant,” she reminded.

  “I know. I’d have thought you’d return to the Double-C. Help Matthew with the books or something like that. Start your own business, even.”

  She shrugged, pleased with her nonchalance. “Pay’s better here. Besides, Matt handles the books just fine on his own. I’d have been bored stiff.” She studied her beer.

  He frowned. “Liar.”

  Emily glanced at him, then lowered her gaze. She wasn’t about to tell him that he was the reason she hadn’t returned to live at the ranch that had been her home since she’d been seven years old. She lifted one shoulder and sipped at her beer. “Think what you want. But the fact is, once I passed the CPA exam, I was offered too good a job to turn it down. The corporate office just happened to be in San Diego. Tristan was already out here. Living with him is…convenient.”

  His jaw ached. “Convenient.”

  Emily smiled mockingly, and Jefferson caught a glimpse of the spirited teenager she’d been. “Yes. Convenient.”

  “What does Squire think of this?”

  Her delicately arched eyebrow rose. “Do you think he wouldn’t approve?” Her lips twisted as the past suddenly twined between them. A bittersweet, tangible thing. “He figures that by living with Tristan, my…virtue…is well protected.”

  “Does he?”

  “What?”

  “Does Tristan protect your virtue?”

  Emily’s dark eyes narrowed until only a slit of pansy brown remained. “I don’t need any one of the infamous Clay brothers to protect my virtue. I can do that just fine, when I choose to, on my own, thank you very much.” She rose and began clearing the dishes.

  Jefferson wiped his mouth with the napkin and crumpled it in his fist. “I hope you’re being smart about it,” he warned softly.

  She looked over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  “When you’re choosing.”

  Her lips curved. “Good Lord, Jefferson. Are you trying to tell me to practice safe sex?” She laughed abruptly. Harshly. “That’s just too sweet.”

  “You never used to be such a brat.”

  Emily flipped on the water and began rinsing plates. “Yes, I was. You just weren’t around to notice.” She shot him a flippant smile and bent to stack the dishes in the dishwasher.

  “I wasn’t always gone.”

  Emily paused, then straightened and reached for another plate. “That was a long time ago,” she said brusquely.

  He held out his empty mug and she reached for it. “Feels like yesterday.” He held on to the mug as she tugged at it. “Sometimes.”

  Her short-lived bravado died a quiet death. “I’m not going to talk about this with you.”

  “I didn’t plan on talking about it, either.”

  Her eyes, when they rose to his, were pained. “Then why are you? We’ve managed to see each other a few times since—” She could count on half the fingers of one hand the few times they’d seen each other since the week of her nineteenth birthday. And she could count on the other hand the number of words they’d exchanged.

  “You can’t even say it, can you.”

  Emily let go of the mug. She reached for the green-and-white dish towel hanging from the oven door and slowly dried her hands. Staring blindly at the smoked-glass oven door, she felt him moving around the island counter to stand behind her. “What do you want from me, Jefferson? Do you want me to tell you that Tristan and I aren’t involved?” She folded the towel in a neat rectangle. “Is that what’s bugging you? Well, we’re not. He’s my best friend. My brother.”

  “He’s no more your brother than I am.”

  “Well.” She refolded the towel. “I guess that puts me in my place, doesn’t it. My last name is, after all, Nichols. Not Clay. I’m just the kid your father took in when my parents died in the crash. Because of some absurdly remote familial relationship we have. What was it? His great-grandfather’s second wife was my mother’s second cousin’s aunt’s mother-in-law’s uncle?”

  “Dammit, Em. That’s not what I meant.”

  She flipped the towel over the oven door handle. She knew that wasn’t what he meant. But this was far safer than touching on that. Waving her hand, she stepped away and went back to the table to continue clearing the dishes. “Just forget it, would you, please?”

  He leaned back against the refrigerator and crossed his arms. Emily stifled a sigh as she couldn’t help noticing the way he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The way his sinewy forearms tapered into long, narrow wrists. They were golden brown. Just like the rest of him. She’d never known a man with such intrinsically strong wrists. Just looking at them made her want all sort of indecent—

  She blinked and began gathering up the used napkins.

  “The men in California can’t be blind,” Jefferson finally said. “There must be someone you’re involved with.”

  Flattening he
r palms on the table, Emily bowed her head. “For God’s sake, Jefferson. Your nosiness exceeds even Tristan’s.”

  “It’s not being nosy to want to know what’s going on in my sister’s life.”

  She shook her head. “We’ve established already that you’re not my brother.”

  “I’ll just find out from Tris.”

  She moistened her lips and dropped into a chair. “Let me just get this straight. Are you asking me if I’m dating anyone? Do you want their names, addresses and phone numbers so you can personally check them out to find out if they are suitable for your nonsister? Or are you asking me if I’m sleeping with anyone?”

  His eyes were dark. Inscrutable. “Are you?”

  “Are you?” She fired back.

  “No.”

  “My condolences.”

  His eyes never wavered. “Save ’em. I answered. Now it’s your turn.”

  “I’m not sleeping with anyone,” she announced slowly, deliberately. If it had been anyone but Jefferson questioning her this way, she’d have told them to take a flying leap. “Are you satisfied? Is the inquisition over? May I be excused now like a good little girl? Though, first perhaps I should ask a few questions, too.” She turned her face away. “Like where have you been for the past two and a half years? Building bridges, still? Or working on an oil rig? Not that you’ve ever told us exactly what you do.

  “How did you injure yourself? Why didn’t you even call Squire to let him know you were okay? Alive.” She hesitated. “Or have you lost that sense of family responsibility that used to be so all-fired important to you?” She looked at him.

  He silently looked back, a shadow coming and going in his deep blue eyes. After a moment, he turned and slowly limped out of the kitchen.

  “Dammit,” Emily buried her head in her arms on the table. This is what happened when she and Jefferson talked too much. If they’d just keep their exchanges in the realm of “nice weather we’re having” and “what team do you think will make the Super Bowl” everyone would be happier. She couldn’t put all the blame on Jefferson, either. She shared the responsibility.