Homecoming by Rochelle Alers

Dana had come back to Hillsboro to clear her family’s name, she loathed having to reopen her father’s murder trial. Her grandmother had not permitted her to discuss the murder investigation, or visit the courtroom during her father’s trial. Georgia also had ignored her pleas to visit Harry in jail while he’d awaited trial.
    The presiding judge had denied Harry’s attorney’s request for bail, declaring he was a possible flight risk. Bailed denied, Harry languished in jail for more than three months before he took his own life, an hour before he was to be transported to a state prison for a term of life in prison without the possibility of parole.
    Dana had come to dislike her father for his selfishness as much as she’d loved him for his gentleness. The day she celebrated her eleventh birthday, Dr. Harry Nichols had changed his daughter’s life forever. She’d lost her mother, her father, and been wrested from all that was familiar. Georgia had hastily packed a bag, purchased two tickets, boarded a train, and brought Dana to live with a relative in upstate New York.
    It had taken a long time, but after years of therapy, Dana had finally forgiven her father for making heran orphan. On the other hand, every man she met still became Harry—someone she couldn’t trust, because she always believed he would desert her when she needed him most.
    The doorbell rang, shattering her reverie. The only other sound in the house was the dulcet voice of Billie Holiday singing her jazz classic “Strange Fruit.” Dana had sent Georgia the five-set CD anthology, “Ken Burns Jazz—The Story of America’s Music,” for Christmas because she knew how much her grandmother loved jazz.
    Walking down a narrow hall, she acrossed the living room, she made her way through an entryway to the front door. The late Georgia Sutton had been proud of her house. The two-story structure was immaculate and tastefully furnished. It contained three bedrooms, a large modern kitchen, living and dining rooms, and a spacious screened-in back porch.
    Georgia had always paid someone to cut the grass in the front and rear of her property after her husband died, but personally maintained her flower and vegetable gardens. Dana remembered eating fruits and vegetables from her grandmother’s garden all year long.
    The outer door stood open to catch any breeze for the house, and was protected from intruders by a locked screen door. Standing on the other side of the screen was Tyler Cole. He’d exchanged his silk shirt, khakis, and loafers for a stark-white T-shirt, faded jeans, and a pair of jogging shoes.
    Seeing him again sent Dana’s pulse racing along her nerve endings. She stared mutely, shocks of surprise and awareness tearing through her scantily clad body.
    Tyler held up a small black leather case. “I brought the salve for your hand.”
    Dana unlatched the door, pushing it open to permithim entry. The heat of his body intensified the fragrance of his cologne, the perfect complement to his body’s natural masculine scent.
    Tyler felt his stomach muscles contract. He hadn’t expected to see so much of Dana’s silken flesh displayed, a pair of white shorts riding low on her slim hips and the matching skimpy tank top bearing her flat midriff. Turning, he stared at the perfection of her legs: firm thighs, curvy calves, and slender ankles. However, it was her high firm breasts under the top that captured his rapt attention. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and he forced his gaze not to linger on the outline of the prominent nipples showing through the cotton fabric. His stare was bold, blatant, and when she turned to face him, Tyler was certain she could see the smoldering flame in his eyes.
    Dana’s heart pounded an erratic rhythm as she felt the heat from Tyler’s gaze on her face. They stood less than a foot apart, their chests rising and falling in unison, and for the first in a long time she felt a strange shiver of desire settle in her