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rattled between blue fingers. He couldn’t get them in the lock. He leaned against the car, spent and frozen. She knew he would collapse.
    She stepped forward and went to him, standing several feet away. She said something, something cool and aloof and undoubtedly sarcastic. She couldn’t remember exactly what, now.
    And then she’d taken the keys from his hand, helped him into the car, driven him to his home, stripped off his clothes and led him to the shower.
    Oh, God.
    That was it. The beginning of the end. Even now, the memory was so sharp it cut and, with an effort, Sherry thrust it away. Shivering, she took a step back from the motel window. Her fingers dug into her cheeks. She’d helped him and he’d thanked her for saving his life.
    But that wasn’t all. Oh, no, there had been so much more…
    Snatching up her small suitcase, Sherry unzipped it and began unfolding her clothes. She couldn’t think about the past anymore tonight. Recalling every word and gesture was exquisite torture, and although she was here to resolve the hurt, there were still areas she refused to touch. She couldn’t. It was just too painful.
    Tomorrow, she thought shakily. I’ll face the rest of it tomorrow.

VALENTINE’S CHILD — NANCY BUSH
    Chapter Three

    “Is that you, J.J.?” Patrice Beckett called from her sitting room, her voice dry from years of bitterness. It rubbed against Jake’s flesh like sandpaper, a near-physical sensation.
    He stood just inside the front door, in the circular entryway beneath the crystal teardrop chandelier. Before him was the sweeping staircase his mother had sued a wood craftsman over, demanding each post be re-lathed, each step be shortened, each board be reset until the man had quit the job and his occupation and retired to a small fishing town on Puget Sound, beaten and old.
    The wood — a polished, glossy, deep reddish-brown mahogany that looked as rich as caramelized frosting — shone softly in the spreading light. Everything smelled sweet, like cinnamon and apple, and Jake’s gaze flicked to the crystal bowl of potpourri on the hall sideboard. Everything oozed sweetness for the Becketts and looked even more so. Patrice made certain of it.
    “J.J …?”
    He almost corrected her. Everyone else these days who made that mistake got a tongue lashing, but telling Patrice Beckett to call him Jake instead of J.J. was an exercise in futility, so he bit back the automatic retort and strode down the hallway to the room at the end from which a yellow light melted outward.
    He found her just where he’d expected in a stiff-backed leather recliner, half-moon pewter glasses perched at the end of her aristocratic nose, a New York Times crossword in her lap. She was a widow, and it seemed she had been for nearly as long as Jake could remember, although truthfully his father had lived until Jake was in college. Rex Beckett just hadn’t been around. Inherited wealth had made him self-indulgent and family life wasn’t for him.
    Rex’s father, Elijah Beckett, had made a pile of cash buying up beachfront property years ago, selling it off little by little, then buying it back again at bargain prices because most of the subsequent purchasers found themselves in dire need of ready cash sooner or later. Young Rex never lifted a finger to help out, as near as Jake could tell. He didn’t know exactly how his father had spent his youth, but it hadn’t been as a model for the Protestant work ethic. And that attitude had spilled into adulthood because as a husband and father, Rex had spent his days depositing money in the bank, making love to young women with long legs, then kissing Patrice’s expensive cheek with dry lips before retiring to his own bedroom.
    Rex’s self-indulgent life-style had produced a few minor scandals. It was rumored that Rex had fathered more than one child outside his marriage. Jake used to lie awake and wonder about his other brothers and sisters. Apart from Heather, his elder