The Good Daughter by Jane Porter

porch.
    Polly gave a shout from upstairs. “Looks like your Hell’s Angel is back.”
    Kit’s stomach leaped and fell. “I know.” She wasn’t sure if she should lock the door and hide, or open it and stand on the porch like a brave frontier woman facing an Indian war party.
    Not that it was PC to think in those terms, of course.
    Although when she was thirteen she loved the western historical romances in which a beautiful young white woman was kidnapped by a hostile Indian war party and forced to marry a handsome savage against her will and live happily ever after. Butthe lurid western romance had fallen out of favor decades ago and she’d grown up. Being kidnapped and held hostage by a man wasn’t romance.
    Kit opened the front door and stepped outside just as his boot hit the porch’s bottom step.
    “Hi,” she said, voice slightly tremulous. She was nervous. This bad-boy, badass biker guy was on her doorstep and she didn’t know what he wanted. “How did you find me?”
    “Wasn’t hard. I asked around. Apparently everyone knows the Brennan sisters.”
    She didn’t know where to look, what to focus on—his black hair, his long nose, his unsmiling mouth. He had to have Native American blood because he was making her think of that whole
Twilight
-Jacob-werewolf craze her students were into a couple of years ago. And her Twi-hards would have loved him.
    “My family’s owned the house for years,” she said, not knowing what to say. He wasn’t helping things by standing so close to the door. His feet were planted wide on the porch and he took up space, sucking all the air and energy into him.
    His dark gaze narrowed, swept the house, the porch. “I’ve been here, to this house, before.”
    “You have?”
    “I sat there,” he said, pointing to the right of the covered columned porch with its jumble of painted wicker furniture and antique rocking chairs.
    Kit saw the old pieces through his eyes. Mom never replaced old furniture and so every couple of years Sarah or Meg would spray-paint the wicker and add fresh cushions, striving to give the porch the look of shabby chic rather than thrift-store leftovers.
    “On that little couch,” he added, nodding at the wicker love seat that could use fresh paint now, “but it was aqua not white.”
    The wicker set had been a darker aqua, almost teal, in the late eighties and early nineties. Aqua paint paired with peach floralcushions. Back then, a massive grapevine wreath with silk colored flowers and seashells had hung on the wall. It was supposed to look French Country. Kit nodded, masking her surprise. “It
was
aqua.”
    “Had lemonade.” The corner of his firm mouth lifted. “Your friend or sister or whoever it was wanted me to spike it. But I didn’t have any vodka on me.”
    So he’d met Bree. They’d probably partied together. Maybe even slept together. Kit tried not to feel judgmental. Brianna wasn’t exactly promiscuous, but she’d certainly enjoyed sex. “Sounds like my sister. So how did you meet Bree?”
    “Bree?”
    “Brianna.”
    He shook his head. “That wasn’t her name.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Positive.”
    “Petite redhead…slim—”
    “No.” His forehead creased and a straight inky lock of hair fell forward. Impatiently he pushed it back, behind his ear. “She was dark blond, very tan, tall, great body. Killed it playing beach volleyball.”
    Kit’s heart fell.
Sarah
. He hooked up with Sarah? Sarah liked to flirt, but she’d never been easy. “That’s my younger sister. Sarah.”
    “Sarah. That’s it.” His frown cleared. “So did she become a lawyer?”
    “No.”
    “But she did graduate from UCLA?”
    “Yes.” Kit hesitated, wanting to understand the nature of his relationship with Sarah, but not at all comfortable imagining him with her baby sister. “Did you two…date?”
    “No. She was into my friend, and I was the wingman. Wassupposed to keep her girlfriend happy but I can’t even tell you what she