shook his head in frustration before he climbed into his truck and headed toward the ranch, thirty miles from town.
What could she want—he glanced his watch—at close to midnight on a Friday night? Hadn’t the woman caused him enough trouble?
He remembered the night before she left. She’d been sleeping in a guest bedroom earlier in the week, which wasn’t unusual when she didn’t get her way about something. By that time in their marriage, he felt he had done everything he could to make her happy and had learned to ignore her sulking. Despite her princess attitude, he’d loved her. He’d hoped that, given time, she would eventually mature into the woman he got glimpses of from time to time.
When he awakened that night and felt her in bed with him, he thought she’d gotten over her latest snit and was ready to make up. He’d sometimes wondered if she picked fights with him because she enjoyed their ritual of reconciling. Whatever her reason, he hadn’t put up much resistance, he remembered ruefully.
When he’d left the house at dawn the next morning, as was his habit, he believed that everything was fine between them. When he returned to the house later that day, she was gone, having taken all her possessions as well as some of his.
Within hours, he’d been served with divorce papers. That was when he knew she hadn’t been making up with him. She’d been saying goodbye.
They’d been divorced long enough now for him to recover from the shock and devastation he’d felt at the time. They’d been married almost four years when their relationship had blown up in his face.
Of course, he should have known that a Dallas socialite wouldn’t be happy living in the country but she’d insisted she didn’t care where they lived as long as they were together, and he had been too besotted to realize that their marriage wouldn’t work. She’d said what he wanted to hear and he had believed her.
Anyone with half a brain would look at the woman and know that Tiffany Rogers of the Dallas Rogerses would never be content as his wife. He hadn’t seen it at the time, probably because his brain hadn’t been the part of him making his decisions. Later, during one of her frequent tirades, she’d told him the only reason she’d married him was that he was a Crenshaw—a member of one of the most wealthy and powerful families in the state.
Their divorce had been far from amicable, as the lawyers liked to call a divorce where the husband rolls over and plays dead while the wife walks off with everything. Four years hardly constituted a long-term union and his lawyer—and poker-playing friend, Curtis Boyd—had vigorously fought her when she’d asked for an outrageous amount of money for alimony. He and Curtis knew she didn’t need the money. She’d just wanted to get back at him because he refused to let her stomp all over him.
The day he walked out of the courthouse a free man, he made a vow to himself never to get married again. He’d learned his lesson well. Marriage might be great for other people, but he wanted no part of it. He was content to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life.
Now she was back here for God only knew what reason, and once again he was being forced to face her.
The road to the ranch had little traffic at this time of night. He followed its winding path through picturesque hills until he had to slow for the turn into the ranch entrance.
The entrance was framed on either side by curving walls of limestone fashioned years before he was born. He and his brothers used to play king of the mountain on their broad surfaces until the time their dad caught them. Tonight, Jake scarcely noticed the entrance as he continued along the paved private road that eventually led to the main ranch house.
When he reached the house and parked, Jake noticed a black limousine sitting in the shadows beneath the trees. That would be Tiffany, all right, always traveling in style.
With an irritated sigh, Jake got out of the cab of the truck, slammed the door with a satisfying sound and strode toward a side entrance. The sharp sound of his boots on the patio echoed his impatience. He stepped inside the door that opened into the kitchen.
He stopped just inside the doorway. Tiffany sat at the kitchen bar, calmly sipping a glass of iced tea. She’d cut her hair since he’d last seen her and she had on slacks and an open-necked shirt, looking as though she were waiting for a modeling shoot, her hair and makeup impeccable.
As soon as she saw him, Tiffany slipped off the stool and faced him, smiling brilliantly. He recognized—only because he knew her so well—that she was nervous.
Smart woman.
It took a lot of nerve for her to walk into his house when he wasn’t there and make herself at home.
He leaned against the doorjamb, folded his arms and waited, his eyes shaded by his hat.
Her smile dimmed.
“Hello, Jake,” she said in her sultry voice.
There had been a time when that voice had done all kinds of things to him. He was considerably older and a great deal wiser now.
“What’re you doing here?”
A tiny frown appeared between her brows as she fluttered her lashes in simulated surprise. “Is that any way to greet me?” she finally replied, her bottom lip sliding out enough to form a provocative pout. “Ed brought me all the way out here to see you. You could at least be polite.”
“I’m not feeling particularly polite at the moment. Who’s Ed?”
“Edward James Littlefield Jr.”
“Never heard of him.”
She made a face. “Of course not. He and his family are quite well known in the Dallas area…banking, you know.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
She clasped her hands together and attempted another smile, her nervousness more obvious as her bracelets jangled around her wrists.
“I brought you something.”
He straightened and started toward her. “Cut out the games, Tiffany. They don’t work any more. I don’t want anything from you. So if that’s why you’re here—”
She turned and hurried across the room toward the hallway and said, “But you haven’t seen what I brought you, yet,” she said over her shoulder.
He strode after her. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked once he reached the front foyer.
“You’ll see,” she replied lightly as she ran up the wide, curving staircase toward the second floor. She didn’t look back.
Damn, but she was irritating! Always playing games, never saying what she actually meant. He shook his head in disgust and followed her. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, she was hurrying toward his wing of the house as if she knew he would stop her if he caught up with her.
He wanted to shake her silly. Once he reached her, he would haul her butt out of his house, but by the time he was close enough, she was already entering one of the bedrooms. Surely she didn’t actually think he’d hop in bed with her, did she? He reached the bedroom door and peered inside. She stood beside the bed, her finger to her lips. A night-light that wasn’t
