Книга - Family Treasures

Family Treasures
Kathryn Springer


Image consultant Caitlin McBride is moved by the preteen's letter.Jenny fears that unless her single father looks more like a "dad," he'll lose custody of his children. Caitlin knocks on Devon Walsh's door to find a very handsome man in need of a personality makeover. He grumbles that Caitlin cares more about a person's exterior than what's inside.He shoos her away, only to appear at her office with a heart-tugging request. To do whatever is necessary to save his family. A family about to change in so many blessed ways…







“I’m here for our appointment,”

Caitlin said brightly.

“I don’t think so,” Devon answered.

Caitlin blinked at the terse statement, but decided to ignore it. She focused again on the man beside the door. “I’m an image consultant. I explained that to your secretary on the phone.”

If anything, he looked more skeptical. “So you go door-to-door, selling makeup?”

Caitlin bristled. She didn’t know what kind of game Devon Walsh was playing, or why he was pretending to be ignorant of their appointment, but she knew one thing. The guy needed a personality makeover more than a haircut.

“No. Our meeting was to discuss the essay Jennifer wrote for the contest.”

The girl peeking out from behind Devon’s legs let out a tiny gasp, but her father didn’t seem to notice.

The wariness in Devon’s eyes turned to confusion. “Contest?”

“The makeover contest for Twin City Trends magazine.”

“Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Jenny entered a makeover contest?”

“No—”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“She entered you.”




KATHRYN SPRINGER


is a lifelong Wisconsin resident. Growing up in a “newspaper” family, she spent long hours as a child plunking out stories on her mother’s typewriter and hasn’t stopped writing since! She loves to write inspirational romance because it allows her to combine her faith in God with her love of a happy ending.




Family Treasures

Kathryn Springer








By wisdom a house is built, and through

understanding it is established; through knowledge

its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures.

—Proverbs 24:3–4


To Mom…who faithfully (and patiently) tweaks

my manuscripts, finds lost words and always

knows when to use “affect” instead of “effect”

(someday I’ll get it right!). You go above and

beyond the call of duty, and your encouragement

and enthusiasm keep me pressing on.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION




Chapter One


Another Monday.

And if the early morning traffic jam and the ten voice-mail messages waiting for her attention weren’t enough proof it was Monday, Caitlin McBride knew she could add the three grueling hours she’d just spent shopping with the daughter of one of her clients. What should have been a fairly easy search for the perfect “little black dress” had quickly turned into a battle of wills when the teenager revealed that she did like the color black—but only as the background for hundreds of tiny skulls.

Caitlin had won in the end—she always did—but at the moment she needed to rebound with a cup of strong coffee and the piece of dark chocolate tucked away in her desk drawer.

She didn’t break stride as she swept past her assistant’s desk. “Sabrina, I have an appointment with Dawn Gallagher at Twin City Trends this afternoon. Don’t forget to leave the entries for the makeover contest on my desk before you take your lunch break.”

“Um, Ms. McBride?”

Judging from the undercurrent of misery in Sabrina Buckley’s voice, the chocolate was going to have to wait.

Caitlin paused and pivoted slowly on one stiletto heel. “Yes?”

“I’m, ah, having a little…trouble with the elimination round.”

Caitlin sighed. Why leadership seminars continued to claim that “delegating responsibility” was a positive thing, she didn’t know.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, you told me to divide the entries into two piles.” Sabrina gestured to the overflowing bins on her desk. “One for women who already look like models and just want to be featured in a magazine. And one for average, everyday-looking women who could potentially bring new clients to IMAGEine after their makeover.”

“That’s right. Two piles.” The toe of Caitlin’s shoe tapped against the plush carpeting. “So what seems to be the problem?”

“This one.” Sabrina held out a photograph. “It doesn’t exactly fall into either…category.”

“Of course it does,” Caitlin said firmly, retracing her steps back to the reception desk. “Let me see….”

That.

The sentence ended in something that sounded suspiciously like a gurgle.

“It’s a…man.”

Her assistant grinned. “It certainly is.”

Caitlin ignored the sudden, irreverent sparkle in Sabrina’s eyes as she studied the photo and made a swift assessment of the subject’s rugged masculine features. Fathomless dark eyes. Arrogant jaw. A shaggy mane of hair the color of espresso.

Perfect cheekbones…

“He sent in an essay?”

“Not exactly him. No.” Sabrina squirmed briefly in her chair.

Caitlin exhaled and counted to five. Out loud. And then she tried again. “But he entered the contest?”

“Not exactly him. No.”

“Sabrina—” Caitlin’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ll show you.” Sabrina’s hand disappeared into the pile of papers and she unearthed an entry form, waving it in front of Caitlin like a white flag. “You have to read this. Then it will make sense.” The young woman nibbled on the tip of her ragged fingernail. “Maybe.”

“Fine.” Caitlin felt a tension headache sink its hooks into the base of her neck as she plucked the paperwork and the photo out of Sabrina’s hands. “Let me know when my next appointment arrives.”

“Yes, Ms. McBride.”

Caitlin retreated to her office, sat down at her desk and slipped off her shoes, careful to line them up just so, before glancing at the entry that had her assistant in a tailspin.

Not that she blamed her. In the five years since IMAGEine, Caitlin’s Minneapolis-based image consulting business, had teamed up with Twin City Trends for their annual makeover contest, this was the first time they’d received an entry from a man.

She deliberately turned the photograph over to escape the intensity of those deep-set, charcoal-gray eyes.

“Now, Mr….” Caitlin glanced at the name at the top of the entry form. “Walsh. What’s your story?”

She turned the application over to skim the “in one hundred words or less tell us why you need a makeover” portion of the entry form and was surprised to find it handwritten rather than typed. And even more surprised to see the neat penmanship dominated by carefully rounded letters; the lower case ones graced with decorative, curly tails.

Okay….

Caitlin lightly cleared her throat.

As she skimmed the essay, unexpected emotion grabbed hold of her heart. And squeezed. No wonder Sabrina hadn’t known what to do with this particular entry.

She didn’t know what to do with it, either.

And Caitlin always knew what to do about everything.



“Are you kidding me, Caitlin? You can’t disqualify this entry. It’s our winner!” Dawn Gallagher picked up the entry form and read the opening lines of the essay out loud.

“‘Dear Twin City Trends Makeover Team,

My name is Jennifer Walsh. I’m twelve years old, and I’m writing to you because my dad needs a makeover…’”

“This is pure gold. Gold that happens to have a high rate of exchange at the newsstand.”

“A person has to be eighteen or older to enter,” Caitlin reminded her, wishing she’d followed her first instinct and quietly discarded JenniferWalsh’s entry form instead of showing it to Dawn. Blame it on the fact that she’d been charmed by the sweet formality of the girl’s essay and thought Dawn might be, too. She’d had no idea the style editor would insist they’d found their winning entry.

“He is over eighteen,” Dawn argued.

“But he didn’t enter the contest.”

“An insignificant detail.”

“There is no such thing as an insignificant detail,” Caitlin felt the need to point out.

Dawn stared at her for a moment and then dropped into the leather chair opposite Caitlin’s desk. Caitlin waited, knowing from past experience that Dawn wasn’t admitting defeat. She was plotting her next move.

“My senior editor posted the stats on the last issue, and I have to admit they’re pretty dismal.” Dawn’s smile was strained. “Subscription sales have declined ever since our competition decided to publish a cheaper version of the magazine. Jillian is hoping the annual makeover edition will turn things around. In fact, she’s hinted if that happens, she’ll think about making the contest a monthly feature.”

“With you in charge.”

“Possibly.” Dawn shrugged but couldn’t hide the ambitious gleam in her eyes. “But might I remind you, if there’s no increase in sales, there’s no makeover feature. And if there’s no makeover feature, there’s no need for a style editor.”

“I see your dilemma,” Caitlin said dryly.

“You can’t deny how much buzz this could create,” Dawn continued. “A man featured in our contest. The entry sent in by his twelve-year-old daughter. It’s fresh. It’s intriguing.”

“It has…potential.”

Dawn’s eyes sparkled. “And you have to admit, this guy…Devon Walsh…is mega-handsome. A diamond in the rough.”

Caitlin frowned. A diamond in the rough? Had she missed something?

“You see it, don’t you?” Dawn held up the photo. “He looks like an aging rock star. Silky dark hair. Mysterious eyes. Bad-boy stubble…”

Bad-boy stubble? Oh, please.

She’d definitely missed something.

“…unless you aren’t sure you could improve on this.” Dawn shrugged.

“Believe me, a shave would be an improvement,” Caitlin shot back, aware of her friend’s tactics but still a little offended that Dawn would question her ability.

“You’ve been hoping to increase your male clientele for the past few years. Who knows? If you can transform this particular frog into a prince, execs will be lining up around the block to schedule an appointment at IMAGEine.”

Caitlin thought the frog/prince analogy wasn’t exactly a fair one. Devon Walsh might be on the scruffy side but he did have great cheekbones. And she couldn’t deny that one of her goals included expanding her client base to include more men. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if the whole thing wasn’t a setup.

“Are you sure about this? For all we know, Devon Walsh is a wannabe actor or model who put his daughter up to this, knowing we’d take the bait.”

Hook, line and show-me-the-rise-in-subscriptions sinker.

“Your cynicism is showing, my friend, but if it makes you feel better, pay Jennifer Walsh and her dad a visit to make sure this is legit before we sign on the dotted line. If it isn’t, we’ll go with your top pick. Plain and simple.”

Plain and simple.

It sounded good in theory. So why did Caitlin have the uneasy feeling that her life was about to get complicated?



Just before lunch, Devon Walsh noticed that an eerie silence had descended over the house.

An eerie silence could only mean one thing. His children were studying instead of playing.

He pushed his chair away from the desk and stalked toward the door as he formulated a slight variation of the lecture he’d been serving up like spaghetti over the past few months. A lecture he’d guarantee couldn’t be found in one of the numerous parenting books he’d been reading. The ones that gave advice on how to give children roots, wings and make them mind without losing his.

Devon was beginning to think the reason he hadn’t discovered a fool-proof parenting technique was because his children didn’t exactly fit the typical “kid” mold….

Sure, blame them. It’s not like you’re the poster child for Father of the Year….

Not that he wasn’t trying.

It’s just that three out of the four Walshes in the house weren’t cooperating.

He decided to track down Josh and Brady, his nine-year-old twins, first. Just the fact there were two of them doubled the volume and usually made them easier to locate. Jenny was the tough one. Shy and introspective, she could make herself practically invisible when she wanted to be. And she wanted to be. A lot.

Coaxing Jenny out of her shell was a challenge Devon didn’t feel prepared for.

Who was he kidding? Parenting was a challenge he didn’t feel prepared for.

Strength for the moment, right, Lord?

It had become his mantra over the past six months.

“Brady? Josh?” Devon veered to the right when he reached the foot of the stairs, assuming he’d find the boys in the parlor—a quaint, old-fashioned term for a drafty room with scuffed hardwood floors, uncomfortable furniture covered in itchy, burgundy velvet and heavy drapes that blocked out the light with the efficiency of an eclipse. For reasons Devon couldn’t begin to explain, it had become his children’s favorite room in the house.

He’d only taken a few steps in that direction when the twins materialized in front of him.

“Hi, Dad,” Josh said cheerfully.

Too cheerfully, in Devon’s opinion. And even if the chapter on “pushing boundaries” he’d read the night before wasn’t still fresh in his mind, he would have been suspicious.

Brady pulled his ever-present stopwatch out of his pants pocket and flipped open the cover. “You’ve got thirty-five minutes left to write, Dad. What’s up?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“Ah…nothing much. Just hanging around.” Josh casually tossed a miniature football into the air and scrambled to catch it again. He missed and it bounced off his shoe and hit the wall. “Playing football. You know.”

Devon’s eyes narrowed. The boys had never shown an interest in any of the sports equipment he’d purchased. A decoy toy, no doubt about it.

“Where is Jenny?” Devon took a step toward the parlor and found his path blocked by identical brown-eyed obstacles.

“She’s…somewhere.” Brady shrugged.

“Not here, though.” Josh’s ears turned red.

Devon suppressed a smile. Those ears gave him away every time. More reliable than a lie-detector test.

“Is she in the parlor?”

“No!” The twins’ voices blended together in an ear-splitting, off-key soprano.

Devon winced. He wasn’t in any hurry for the boys to grow up but he did look forward to the day their voices changed.

“Will you help us put together the train track, Dad?” Brady asked.

“You want to put together the train track?” Devon repeated. “Now?”

The twins nodded vigorously.

“Yeah.”

“We want to get started.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re talking about the model train that’s been sitting in the box since I brought it home? A month ago?”

Josh and Brady exchanged is-this-a-trick question frowns and then reverted to the silent mode of communication that had unnerved Devon when they’d first moved in with him. It had taken Jenny to put it in perspective.

“It’s a twin thing, Dad,” she’d said. “It’s like trying to figure out how peanut butter gets on the ceiling.”

And because the whole peanut-butter phenomenon was another unsolved mystery in his household, Devon took his daughter’s advice to accept what he couldn’t explain and move on. It was easier—and maybe a little safer—that way.

“We were waiting for the right moment.” Brady, official timekeeper for the Walsh family, grinned at him.

If it weren’t for Josh’s ears, now a deep shade of crimson, Devon might have fallen for it.

He decided right then and there to get a refund on every single parenting book stacked up next to his bed. Or maybe he should just chuck his next mystery novel and write a parenting book instead. At least it wouldn’t take long. He could probably finish the entire five pages in an hour.

The door leading to the parlor flew open and Jenny appeared.

“Is she here yet…?” A tiny squeak replaced the rest of the sentence when the girl spotted her father standing in the hallway.

Devon frowned. “Is who here yet?”

“Dad!” Jenny gulped. “What are you doing down here? It isn’t break time for—”

“Thirty-one minutes,” Brady supplied helpfully.

Devon’s gaze zeroed in on his daughter. “Did I miss something? Are we expecting company this morning?”

“N-no.”

“I’m not expecting company,” Josh interjected. “Are you expecting company, Brady?”

“I’m not expecting company—”

Devon’s head started to swim and he held up his hand. “Now that we’ve established the fact none of us is expecting company, maybe we should all go into the kitchen and rustle up something for—”

The doorbell interrupted him and Devon’s eyebrows shot up.

“Mmm. I wonder who that could be.” He took a step forward and all three children attached themselves to him like ticks on a deer.

“It’s probably the mailman,” Jenny said. “I’ll get it.”

“Yeah, Dad. You go upstairs and write. You still have…” It wasn’t easy but Brady managed to wrestle his stopwatch out of his pocket again and keep a death grip on his father. “Twenty-eight minutes until lunch.”

“Oh, this is much more interesting than lunch—”

A piercing shriek interrupted him, cutting through the last mournful notes of the doorbell.

Devon closed his eyes. “Josh, did you put Sunny back in her cage after breakfast?”

There was one long, supercharged moment of silence.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

His children still clinging to him, Devon strode toward the door to revive whoever was on the other side. Because the way the morning continued to unravel, the poor woman—and the shriek had definitely been feminine—had probably fallen over in a dead faint.

Devon yanked the door open, ignoring the loud protests of his soon-to-be-grounded-for-life children—because according to the books, grounding was a perfectly acceptable form of discipline—and braced himself to find an unconscious woman sprawled across the welcome mat.

It was a woman, all right.

A very attractive, very conscious woman. Classic features. Glossy dark hair with a faint mahogany sheen. Eyes the same shade of blue as his favorite pair of jeans.

She was standing on the porch wearing a stylish black suit paired with ridiculously high heels.

And was holding Josh’s iguana in her arms.




Chapter Two


It was a good thing, Caitlin thought, that her youngest sister taught middle-school science. Because it meant Evie always had a veritable zoo of creatures living in her classroom—creatures she insisted Caitlin learn to appreciate by getting up close and personal with them when she visited.

If not for the benefit of that prior Wild Kingdom education, the sight of the two-foot-long lizard, curled up on the enclosed sun porch next to a sleeping dachshund of roughly the same size, might have really freaked her out.

As it was, the reptile had managed to wring a brief but embarrassing scream out of her. But that was only because the moment she’d dismissed the motionless creature as a realistic chew toy made out of some high-tech scaly fiber, it had come to life and barreled toward her as if she were a long-lost cousin. Apparently not caring that the closest kinship Caitlin could claim to a member of his species was the faux alligator-skin bag hanging in her closet.

Not sure of the creature’s intent but knowing that one assertive move deserved another, Caitlin had bent down and simply picked it up. The lizard then draped itself comfortably over her arm and proceeded to study the gold and sapphire earring dangling from her ear.

As she contemplated the odds of those intimidating claws not doing irreparable damage to her silk blouse, the front door opened. Judging from the expressions on the faces of the people crowded together in the doorway, she now had the honor of being the strangest creature on the porch.

One of the little boys, a mirror image of the other, darted forward, flashed a smile more mischievous than apologetic, and took the iguana from her.

Officially making it five—no, make that six because she probably should include the dachshund—against one.

Caitlin turned her attention to Devon Walsh—not only the tallest one in the group but instantly recognizable by his bad-boy stubble—and felt her heart skip a beat.

The photo hadn’t done him justice.

Oh, his hair was on the shaggy side, and he obviously wasn’t in a committed relationship with a razor. But she’d only noticed the brooding eyes and had somehow missed the lines fanning out on either side of them. Intriguing pleats that looked ready to capture the fall-out from his next smile.

Too bad she wasn’t going to witness that smile. Because at the moment he was scowling at her as if she were trespassing on private property.

Maybe because you are? She thought.

Not exactly true, so Caitlin ignored the pesky voice. After all, Devon Walsh was expecting her. And she hadn’t seen any No Trespassing signs posted, although the formidable iron-scrolled gate surrounding the perimeter of the Walsh’s yard had given her pause. For that matter, so had the house itself. The gloomy Gothic-style Victorian, sporting a coat of blistered gunmetal-gray paint and cloaked in ivy, resembled an abandoned Hollywood movie set more than a home. It looked as out of place in the tidy row of well-kept homes as an ordinary rock tossed into a jewelry box.

Caitlin took a careful breath but before she could say a word, Devon Walsh stepped forward and propped his hands on his lean hips, effectively blocking the children from view.

Caitlin had the strangest feeling that that was his intent.

“Can I help you?” The question was polite even though his tone implied it was the last thing he wanted to do.

“I’m Caitlin McBride. I have an appointment with you this morning and—”

“I don’t think so.”

Caitlin blinked at the terse interruption but then decided to ignore it. “I left a message yesterday, and your secretary called me back to set up our meeting.”

Devon shook his head. “That’s a new one. You’re a lawyer, right? Vickie sent you.”

“A lawyer? No.” Caitlin gave a choke of disbelief and glanced down at the outfit she’d chosen that morning. Not that she expected a man who wore a ratty tweed sweater with suede elbow patches to understand that a female attorney wouldn’t pair a multicolored chain-link belt with a conservative business suit. The only reason she could get away with it was because she pretended that it worked. Which, in turn, made it work. Confidence. It was her favorite accessory. “I’m an image consultant. I explained that on the phone.”

If anything, he looked even more skeptical. “So you go door-to-door, selling makeup?”

Caitlin bristled. She didn’t know what kind of game Devon Walsh was playing, or why he was pretending to be ignorant about their appointment, but she knew one thing. The guy needed a personality makeover more than a haircut.

“No. I. Do. Not.” Caitlin forced the words out through gritted teeth. “Our meeting,” she emphasized the words to jog his memory, “was to discuss the essay Jennifer wrote for the contest.”

The girl peeking out from behind Devon Walsh’s long, denim-clad leg let out a tiny gasp but her father didn’t seem to notice. Nor did he notice his children—all three of them—suddenly pull a disappearing act that would have made Houdini envious.

Even the dachshund vanished through the doggy door.

The wariness in Devon’s eyes turned to confusion. “Contest?”

“The makeover contest for Twin City Trends magazine.”

“Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that Jenny entered a makeover contest?”

“No—”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“She entered you.”



Devon heard three words—Twin City Trends—and suddenly found himself wishing that Caitlin McBride was a lawyer. Because magazines meant reporters…and reporters meant publicity. And publicity? Well, that was something he’d successfully managed to avoid. Until now.

But if Caitlin McBride was telling the truth, somehow his daughter—his serious, sweet, painfully shy daughter—had brought it right to their front door.

The question was, why?

“Would I be correct in assuming you didn’t know anything about the contest, Mr. Walsh?” Caitlin’s question tugged Devon back to reality. And scraped against his senses. Somehow her husky, bluesy voice didn’t match up with the stylish clothes and cool demeanor.

Devon didn’t let himself dwell on the intriguing contradiction. Not when his relationship with Caitlin McBride was only destined to last another fifteen or twenty seconds. Tops.

“Oh, you’d definitely be correct about that.”

“And that you don’t have a secretary?”

“Two for two, Ms. McBride. I’m sorry you wasted your time coming here this morning. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.” Devon forced a polite smile, started to close the door and suddenly discovered Caitlin McBride standing next to him in the foyer.

“Good idea.” She smiled up at him. “I’m a little curious myself.”

Devon blinked, wondering if he could blame his momentary lapse in homeland security on the scent of Caitlin’s perfume—a rich blend of exotic spices that definitely packed a punch to the senses. Or maybe it was her smile. The one that warmed up the indigo eyes like sunlight on water.

Get a grip, Walsh. Somehow she’s involved with the media.

“No offense, Ms. McBride, but this is a family matter.”

“A family matter I received a personal invitation to when Jennifer entered you in the makeover contest.”

Makeover contest.

Devon winced at the reminder while silently scrolling through his options. If he told Caitlin to leave, it was possible she’d turn up again with reinforcements. That had been his brief but memorable experience with the press in the past. She might claim to be an “image consultant” but it didn’t mean she wasn’t employed by the magazine. Or that a single headline wouldn’t disrupt his life. Again.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Devon decided to take the old adage to heart. And because he couldn’t figure out which category Caitlin McBride belonged in, he decided to let her stay.

All he had to do was get Jenny to admit she’d entered him in the contest as a practical joke and Caitlin would be on her way. To find another victim.

“Roundtable meeting, Jenny,” Devon bellowed as he passed the staircase. “Parlor. Five minutes.”

He strode down the hall, surprised that Caitlin managed to match him step for step in shoes jacked up by pencil-thin heels. And even though she stared straight ahead, Devon had the strangest feeling she was taking in everything around her.

Great.

Devon was well aware the house had its shortcomings, but he still considered it an answer to prayer. Proof that God wasn’t silent and far away but close and listening. And real. That the ramshackle Victorian needed a lot of work hadn’t bothered him. And even though it would have sounded strange if he tried to put words to it, from the moment Devon had glimpsed the For Sale sign in the knee-high grass behind the fence, he’d felt an immediate kinship with the house.

After he’d signed the papers and accepted the overwhelming task of remodeling it room by room, the project had done more than fill long hours. It had started the healing process.

Not something the average visitor would understand or even appreciate. And he wasn’t going to apologize for the multitude of little things that still needed attention…

Devon sent Rosie’s rawhide bone spinning out of the way with a discreet kick and then noticed the innocent-looking cardboard box positioned against the wall just outside the parlor door.

His lips twitched. Subtle, the twins weren’t. Thank goodness.

Lately, they’d started to act out scenes from the book he’d been reading to them after supper. A book that happened to be an action-adventure novel—loaded with peril and cool gadgets—about Matt and Marty Ransom, teenage brothers on a quest to find their missing father while staying one step ahead of the resident villain.

Without even auditioning for the part, Devon had been drafted into their reenactments and cast in the role of evil Dr. Chamberlain. Over the past two days, he’d found a miniature tape recorder hidden in his medicine cabinet and the bedroom doorknob dusted with something Devon guessed was a homemade version of “fingerprint” powder. He even stumbled into an ingenious trap made out of paper cups and shaving cream.

Devon was thrilled. For two boys whose lives had been scheduled down to the last second of the day, their imaginative play over the past few weeks had been a major breakthrough.

Not that he could begin to explain all that to the woman walking beside him. He slanted a glance at Caitlin McBride and saw her lips flatline as she stepped delicately over the misshapen bedroom slipper that Sunny and her favorite partner in crime, Rosie had been wrestling over that morning.

No, Caitlin McBride wouldn’t understand. And because he doubted she’d find a shaving-cream bomb humorous, he paused before approaching the box.

“Wait here for a second.”

Caitlin blinked. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Apparently not. Because instead of answering her question, Devon sidled up to an ordinary cardboard box as cautiously as a bomb-squad tech. Caitlin’s back teeth ground together. She was convinced the man was deliberately trying to drive her crazy in an attempt to get her to leave.

Not that it wasn’t tempting. But she’d made the decision to stick around a split second after Devon had smiled politely and tried to shut the door in her face. And only one thing had prevented her from admitting defeat and calling the runner-up in the contest.

Jenny.

When the girl had peeked around her father, Caitlin had had a flashback of herself at the tender age of twelve. Confused. Hopeful. Scared. A bundle of conflicting emotions reflected in that pair of large copper-brown eyes.

My mom is gone and my Dad needs some advice on clothes. He thinks he looks okay but he could use some help from a professional….

The rest of Jennifer’s earnest essay had replayed in Caitlin’s mind. She couldn’t deny that Jennifer’s father did need both help and advice but she had a feeling he wasn’t the type of person who would accept it graciously.

And that’s why she’d decided to stay. Because whatever Jennifer’s reasons were for sending in that contest entry, Caitlin was going to make certain the girl wasn’t punished for it.

Devon picked up a piece of hose hanging out of the side of the box and spoke into it. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to put this box out with the recyclables.”

Caitlin held back a smile as his words raised a duet of muffled protests from inside the box. Devon ignored them and motioned for her to follow him. When they reached the end of the narrow hall, he stood to the side.

“It should be safe in here.”

The warmth of the room surprised Caitlin. Granted, the old-fashioned parlor, painted a soft, seashell-pink and trimmed with oak crown moldings, needed a serious update but there was a certain “shabby chic” charm to the brushed-velvet furniture and hand-hooked wool rugs scattered on the hardwood floor.

A round coffee table anchored the center of the room like the hub of a wheel with four colorful, oversized pillows arranged like spokes around it.

While Caitlin silently worked out the challenge those pillows presented to a knee-length skirt without a kick pleat, Jenny slipped into the room.

Now that the girl wasn’t hiding behind her dad, Caitlin had a chance to study her more closely. Already tall for her age, Jennifer Walsh’s final growth spurt would put her at a willowy five foot nine or ten inches. At the moment, though, she was all arms and legs and awkward motion.

Jenny’s hair, as dark as her father’s and with a natural wave she probably hadn’t learned to appreciate yet, was subdued in a long ponytail. The wire-frame glasses that had slipped halfway down her nose magnified the unusual color of her eyes.

Eyes that widened in panic when they met Caitlin’s.

Caitlin gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile and perched on the edge of a Windsor chair next to the sofa.

“Take a seat.” Devon motioned to a pillow and Jenny hesitated. The uncertainty on the girl’s face made Caitlin’s mouth dry up.

Was she afraid of her father?

Parent and child stared at each other across the table and Caitlin discreetly fished around in her purse until her fingers closed around her cell phone. Just in case.

Devon crossed his arms. “Okay, Jenny—you’ve got some ’splainin’ to do.”

Caitlin sucked in a breath. Devon’s voice had changed. But it wasn’t angry or threatening. It sounded suspiciously like an impersonation of Ricky Ricardo from an episode of I Love Lucy.

Jenny giggled.

Devon gave his daughter a teasing wink and a smile.

And Caitlin forgot how to breathe.

Because the wink erased any remaining signs of a scowl. And the tender smile he aimed at Jenny…

Dawn had been right. Devon Walsh’s smile alone would launch a thousand subscriptions.

He reached out and tweaked the girl’s foot. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on so we can get on with our day and Ms. McBride can get back to work?”

“I entered you in a…makeover contest I heard about on the radio last week,” Jenny admitted.

“As a joke, right? Did the boys put you up to it?”

“No!”

Devon frowned. “You think I need a…makeover?”

Jenny looked at Caitlin, who nodded imperceptibly. Yes, tact was the key word here.

“You…I, um…”

Caitlin came to her rescue. “Would you like me to show your dad the essay you wrote?”

The girl didn’t say so out loud, but the relief mirrored in her eyes had Caitlin reaching into her purse once again. She handed Devon the entry form.

Devon scanned the short paragraph on the back and if anything, he looked more confused than before.

“Professional help,” he muttered and glanced up at Caitlin.

She inclined her head in answer to the unspoken question.

Yes, that would be me. The professional.

“I don’t understand, Jenny.” Devon plowed his fingers through his hair. “Why didn’t you talk to me about this first?”

Jenny twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I heard you talking on the phone to Aunt Vickie,” she finally said in a low voice. “She wants to take you to court to get us back—”

“Jenny!” Devon’s gaze cut to Caitlin as his daughter rushed on.

“And she called you a…bum. I thought if you won the contest, the magazine people could help you look good in front of the judge. Then we’d be able to stay with you.”




Chapter Three


A dozen thoughts crashed over Devon at once, immobilizing him.

Jenny had overheard his recent phone conversation with her aunt, Vickie Heath. And even though Jenny hadn’t heard both sides, somehow she’d guessed the woman’s intentions correctly. Which probably had something to due with the fact that Vickie had shown up at the airport to confront Devon the day he’d arrived to take his children home.

Not caring that her niece and nephews were huddled together within earshot, Vickie had claimed he was an unfit parent. A selfish recluse who planned to deny Jenny and her brothers the life of privilege and opportunity that Ashleigh, their mother, had wanted them to have.

If Devon remembered correctly, Vickie had also thrown the words worthless bum into the mix.

Until Vickie’s phone call, he’d assumed his former sister-in-law’s tirade at the airport was simply a release of the stress and grief over Ashleigh’s untimely death. Never in a million years had he dreamed that his ex-wife’s sister planned to contest the placement of the children.

His children.

Somehow Jenny had gotten wind of Vickie’s intentions and decided that if a judge had to choose a parent, it wasn’t going to be the guy with unfashionably long hair and faded blue jeans who didn’t appear to have a steady job.

Devon stifled a groan. By bringing Caitlin McBride, an image consultant who had a professional relationship with Twin City Trends, to their door, Jenny had complicated the situation instead of helping it. All it would take was a few careless words from Jenny or the boys and he’d have reporters camped out on the sidewalk.

Devon wasn’t about to sign his family up for that three-ring circus again.

Lord, it took so long to get the kids back. To be a family. I don’t want to lose them now.

Even as Devon sent up the silent appeal, he couldn’t think of one thing to say to Jenny that wouldn’t allow Caitlin further access to their family business. It was bad enough she’d heard the reason that prompted Jenny’s contest entry; there was no telling what Caitlin would do if she knew the rest of the story.

Their eyes caught and held over Jenny’s head.

It was time to show the lady the door. Again.

“Ms. McBride—”

She didn’t let him finish.

“One of the contest rules is that the person chosen for the makeover must be over eighteen. But because of Jenny’s well-written essay we made an exception,” Caitlin interrupted, aiming a warm smile in his daughter’s direction. “I stopped by today to congratulate you, Jenny, and let you know your entry took second place. My assistant will be sending you a gift certificate for a style analysis from IMAGEine.”

Devon gaped at Caitlin as she rose to her feet and held out her hand. To his daughter.

“Congratulations. It was nice to meet you, Jenny. And you, Mr. Walsh.”

Automatically, Devon followed her lead and extended his hand, too. After a slight hesitation, Caitlin pressed her fingers against his. He expected her touch to be as cool as her eyes, but instead the brief touch sparked a current that jump-started a part of his heart he’d thought lay dormant.

Maybe that was the part of the reason Devon didn’t realize the truth until later on in the day, when he replayed the unusual conversation that had taken place in the parlor.

Caitlin McBride wouldn’t have bothered to set up an appointment to meet with them if Jenny had come in second place. They would have received a polite letter of congratulations, accompanied by the gift certificate she’d mentioned, and that would have been the end of it.

Jenny had won the contest.

But for some mysterious reason, Caitlin had walked away.



“You have a warm skin tone, so that means you want to choose clothing from this color palette.” Caitlin spread some swatches out on the table for her client to look at. “Something on the order of this gold satin would be perfect for the dress you’ve been looking for to wear to your anniversary party.”

“I don’t know.” Maxine Butterfield fidgeted with the enormous jade elephant dangling from a gold chain around her neck. “What about pink? People always compliment me when I wear pink.”

Caitlin resisted the urge to demand names and phone numbers. “I’ll drape a piece of this fabric around your shoulders and you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Caitlin saw the light on the telephone blink out a rapid SOS from Sabrina Buckley.

“Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Butterfield.”

Maxine smiled and immediately reached for a swatch of pink suede as Caitlin walked back to her desk.

“Sabrina, I’m with a client right now so—”

“He’s here.” Sabrina cut her off with an excited whisper.

“Who’s here?”

“Him.”

“You have to be a little more specific.”

“Him. Mr. Makeover. From the contest. You know…the guy you said has awesome cheekbones. Devon Walsh.”

“He’s in the office?” Standing next to your desk? Listening to every word you just said about awesome cheekbones?

And it wasn’t even Monday.

“He wants to see you.”

Caitlin’s heart skipped a beat. Over the past week, she’d tried to put the whole episode with the Walsh family out of her mind. It hadn’t been easy. Because for some odd reason, in the rare moments when Caitlin’s thoughts weren’t focused on her clients, they kept returning to Devon Walsh like a compass needle irresistibly drawn to the north. And she couldn’t forget the stricken expression on his face when Jenny told him why she’d entered him in the contest.

We’ll be able to stay with you.

Caitlin firmly pushed the memory aside. IMAGEine was her business, she reminded herself, not the Walsh family.

“He just poured himself a cup of coffee.” Sabrina kept up a whispered play-by-play. “Now he’s looking at the before-and-after photos on the wall.”

And he can still hear every word you’re saying.

“Tell Mr. Walsh that I’m booked solid for the next three weeks but if you check my calendar, you might be able to pencil him in after the etiquette class a week from Wednesday.”

“He said he doesn’t need an appointment.”

Caitlin blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Of all the nerve. Only her immediate family, consisting of her father and her sisters, Evie and Meghan, had permission to bypass standard office protocol.

“Everyone needs an appointment.”

“He said he doesn’t need an appointment because he has a gift certificate.”

A gift certificate.

The one she’d asked Sabrina to drop in the mail the day after she’d been at the Walsh’s. The one she’d promptly forgotten about because she assumed it would end up lining the bottom of an iguana cage.

“Is this a chocolate factory, Sabrina?”

“Ah…” Sabrina hesitated a fraction of a second. “No?”

“So a gift certificate from IMAGEine isn’t the equivalent of a golden ticket from Willy Wonka, is it?”

“Are you talking about the original or the remake? Because I heard there were some differences, and I saw the one with Johnny Depp but missed the first one with that other guy so I’m not sure—”

“Sabrina.”

“Right. He needs an appointment. But he—”

Caitlin heard Maxine laugh gleefully as she unearthed a bright raspberry, chiffon swatch from the summer color palette. “Just a second, Sabrina. Mrs. Butterfield…look at that attractive pumpkin-and-black houndstooth check.”

Maxine’s double chin wobbled, warning Caitlin she’d already lost ground.

“He says he doesn’t mind waiting,” Sabrina rushed on.

“Fine. I’ll be done in an hour. If Mr. Walsh doesn’t want to set up an appointment, I can spare five minutes after that.”

“Oh.” Sabrina’s upbeat tone deflated like a balloon animal in a room full of preschool children.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s just that I have a date for dinner tonight, remember? If you add in rush-hour traffic, a shower and twenty minutes to fix my hair, I’ll be late. And you always stress how important it is to be punctual….” Sabrina’s voice trailed off into a hopeful silence.

Caitlin suppressed a smile. Hoisted with her own petard. “I’ll close up tonight.”

On time, Caitlin thought as she hung up the phone. She was confident Devon would view an hour spent in the reception area, with nothing to read but fashion magazines, with the same enthusiasm he’d have while waiting in a dentist’s office for a root canal.



The longer Devon waited for Caitlin to make an appearance the more he questioned his sanity.

If the glossy style magazines artfully fanned out on chrome-and-glass-topped tables hadn’t convinced him that he didn’t belong there, the wall of pictures featuring IMAGEine’s clients should have sent him running from the building. The photos provided all the proof he needed that Caitlin’s entire business centered around the warped philosophy that the only thing that really mattered was what a person looked like on the outside.

Because a First Impression Lasts…

The words, stenciled in gold letters below the IMAGEine logo on the wall, made Devon wonder why Caitlin hadn’t put her business’s tagline around a full-length mirror.

If it hadn’t been for Jenny, he wouldn’t be here at all.

Unfortunately, it had been his daughter’s turn to pick up the mail the day the letter arrived with IMAGEine’s return address stamped in the corner.

Jenny had immediately tracked him down and extracted the gift certificate with an enthusiasm Devon hadn’t seen since she and the boys had moved in with him. But when Devon had hemmed and hawed about actually exchanging the gift certificate for a free style analysis—whatever that was—Jenny’s copper-brown eyes had darkened with concern.

“You have to use it, Dad. You’re the one who’s over eighteen. Ms. McBride’s feelings will get hurt if you don’t.”

And because he cared about his daughter’s feelings, he’d given in. Jenny didn’t have to know that he planned to give Ms. McBride the gift certificate back and suggest she give it to someone else.

Someone who needed it.

“Mr. Walsh?”

Devon looked at Sabrina Buckley, wondering if Caitlin’s assistant ever spoke above a whisper. Studies did prove that a stressful work environment took a toll on a person.

“It’s two minutes to five. I have a date tonight and it takes twenty minutes to straighten my hair with a flat iron so I’m going to scoot out now.”

Whatever a flat iron was, it didn’t sound like something that should be used in the same sentence as hair. But what did he know?

“Have fun.”

Sabrina flashed a charming smile as she gathered up her things. When she reached the door, she paused and looked back. “It’s a shame you’re too busy to be in our makeover contest, Mr. Walsh. You do have really great cheekbones.”

“Thanks.” I think.

The young woman slipped out of the office, and Devon tilted his head thoughtfully.

It’s a shame you’re too busy to be in our makeover contest.

So that was the spin Caitlin had put on the situation. And it affirmed that his original suspicion had been right. For some inexplicable reason, she had let him off the hook.

When the door behind the reception area opened a few minutes later an elderly woman, dressed from head to toe in lavender, emerged and made a beeline for the exit. Muttering something about swatches and pumpkins.

She spotted Devon and pointed her finger at him. “Don’t let her push you around,” she muttered. “Everybody looks good in pink.”

Devon closed his eyes.

Tell me why I’m here, Lord?

When he opened them again, the first thing Devon saw was Caitlin. She swept into the room with the easy, unaffected grace of a ballet dancer. Clutching both of her shoes in one perfectly manicured hand while she tugged her hair free from a gold clip with the other.

Devon grinned.

She needed to change her logo. First impressions didn’t always last.




Chapter Four


She had to be dreaming.

Or hallucinating.

Those were the only explanations Caitlin could come up with when she saw Devon Walsh in a casual slouch next to the coffee station, his lean frame and tousled dark hair a striking contrast against the ivory and apricot wallpaper.

Caitlin ignored the sudden, erratic thumping of her heart and let her professional instincts kick into gear.

With a practiced eye, her assessment began at the scuffed loafers on Devon’s feet and went from there. Jeans so faded they looked more white than blue. The loose, uneven hem of his black fisherman’s sweater proved he hadn’t followed the proper washing instructions on the label: Hand Wash, Dry Flat. He’d pushed the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing corded forearms still tanned a golden brown from the summer sun.

But somehow, dark-eyed, unshaven and slightly rumpled, Devon Walsh still managed to spark the strangest feeling that he was the type of man a woman would run to for protection, not away from.

And if that unwelcome thought hadn’t been enough to throw off Caitlin’s balance, the slow smile Devon aimed in her direction momentarily stripped away her ability to speak.

Because that was the moment Caitlin remembered her shoes. The shoes she’d taken off on her way down the hall. The shoes she now held in her hand.

She’d had enough moments of acute embarrassment early on in her life to know that the floor, no matter how much one wished it, never opened up and swallowed a person whole, saving one from complete and utter mortification.

One had to save oneself. And one saved oneself by appearing confident and self-assured no matter what the circumstances.

Caitlin lifted her chin and met his gaze without flinching, resisting the urge to smooth back the strands of hair that had flopped over one eye when she’d pulled out the hair clip. “Good afternoon, Mr. Walsh.”

Responding to her tone, Devon’s smile obediently subsided into a small but beguiling twitch at the corner of his lips. “Ms. McBride.”

“You’ve been waiting a long time—” Caitlin’s heart jumped in time with the unsettling thought that suddenly came to mind. Given Devon’s guarded reception the first time they’d met, she could think of only one thing that might compel him to pace the floor of IMAGEine’s reception area for nearly an hour.

Or one person.

Even though it was none of her business, Caitlin found herself asking anyway. “Is everything all right with Jennifer?”

Devon frowned. “Jenny’s fine.”

Caitlin decided the unexpected relief she felt was due to empathy—after all, she’d practically relived her own adolescence every time her eyes had met Jenny’s—and not due to any…maternal…instincts.

Caitlin was fairly certain she didn’t have any of those.

Other than the etiquette classes she taught twice a month, her exposure to children was limited. She left the nurturing to her two younger sisters, who seemed to have a special knack for it. Evie and Meghan drew children in as effortlessly as the tinkling bells on the neighborhood ice-cream truck.

There were times Caitlin listened to her peers raise concerns about when to marry and start a family, but she’d never been inclined to join in the conversation. She paid more attention to her wristwatch than her biological clock. And it was difficult to hear the ticking of that particular clock over the voices of her clients.

Successful businesses didn’t just happen. Someone had to make them happen. And in order to make them happen, a person had to be willing to make sacrifices. To keep her eyes trained on the goal and not get distracted by things that might take her off the goal…

The reminder brought Caitlin up short. She focused on a point just past Devon’s shoulder and deliberately kept her tone brisk and businesslike.

“Well, if you aren’t here about Jenny, Mr. Walsh, what can I do for you?”



Landing on her feet, Devon thought with admiration, was obviously something Caitlin McBride had perfected.

And it didn’t even require shoes.

How much energy did it take to keep the slight edge honed on that husky contralto? To keep her features as smooth and expressionless as a marble statue?

But Devon knew he’d glimpsed something…some flicker of indefinable emotion in her eyes when she’d asked about Jenny.

And it made him curious.

“The gift certificate. I…” Came to return it. That’s what Devon had planned to say. But for some reason, the words that came out of his mouth didn’t sound like that at all. In fact, they sounded more like “I have no clue what a style analysis is.”

That Devon even remembered the term shocked him.

Caitlin appeared a little shocked, too.

Somehow, it made Devon feel better.

She crossed her arms and eyed him like a boxer sizing up an opponent on the other side of the ring. “What do you do for a living, Mr. Walsh?”

Devon frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Humor me.”

Don’t forget, you started this, Devon reminded himself with a sigh. “I’m a writer.”

“A writer.” Caitlin’s straight little nose pleated like an accordion, the only evidence of her opinion about his chosen career. “But what do you do for a…living?”

“That’s what I do.”

Caitlin’s eyebrows arched in doubt, giving Devon the impression that if his answers were earning points, his response had just plunged him into the negative digits.

“All right. And do you work out of your…” A delicate pause while she searched for the right word. “Home…or do you have an office?”

“My home.”

“Interests?”

Keeping his family together immediately came to mind. But Devon wasn’t about to open that door. Not even a crack.

“I do a little carpentry. Remodeling projects. Are you, ah, going somewhere with all this or did you forget the original question?”

Caitlin’s lips twitched but Devon wasn’t sure if she was trying to hide her irritation or subdue a smile.

“I didn’t forget the question. These are some of the things I ask all my clients during the initial assessment. You see, everyone has a unique style based on a number of different things. Personality. Profession. Lifestyle. Hobbies. Together these form the image we present to others. I help people project their true—”

Devon stopped listening.

That’s what it always came down to, he thought cynically. And it was all Ashleigh had cared about after her modeling career had taken off.

I can’t let people know that I grew up in this little hick town. I have to wear designer clothes—that’s what people expect. Devon, don’t wear those old blue jeans when we go out. You are so stubborn. Can’t you at least pretend to care that a photographer might be watching?

Devon had discovered that he couldn’t. That world—the one that Ashleigh had enthusiastically embraced—seemed so fake. But because it had been important to his wife, Devon had supported her dreams. Until the day Ashleigh had demanded a divorce and he had to accept he was no longer part of them.

Devon didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Image. I don’t care about that kind of thing.”

Caitlin regarded him for a long moment. “And that is exactly the image you present, Mr. Walsh. That you don’t care.”

The quiet statement hit Devon with the force of a two-by-four and he stared at her in disbelief. “You’re basing a lot on a pair of blue jeans and…” Devon glanced down to see what he’d fished out of the drawer that morning. “A sweater, Ms. McBride.”

“It’s not the clothes you’re wearing—it’s the chip on your shoulder that completes the ensemble. The one that might make a person, let’s say a judge for instance, wonder what else you don’t care about. Paying the bills? Making sure your children are fed? Safe? Well-adjusted?”

“Chip on my—” Wait a second. Ensemble? Men didn’t have ensembles. Devon’s back teeth ground together. “You are way out of line. You can’t determine whether I’m a good parent by the label on my back pocket.”

“You’re right. I can’t,” Caitlin said simply. “But Jenny is obviously worried that someone will. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s the reason she entered you in the makeover contest.”

All the fight drained out of Devon at the sound of his daughter’s name. And at the realization that he’d been more concerned about the press discovering his children’s whereabouts than he had been about the reason Jenny had sent in the entry form in the first place.

Devon scraped his fingers through his hair and then wondered how it had gotten so long. He’d had it cut in…

Six months ago.

Devon stifled a groan. How had the time gotten away from him?

He knew how. Because over the past six months he’d poured his heart and soul into rebuilding his family.

If he lacked a social life it was because he preferred it that way. His brief but memorable experience with the media had forced him from his hometown to a city large enough to allow him to fade into the background.

Unlike Ashleigh, Devon avoided the limelight. An eccentricity his publisher assumed he’d eventually overcome.

Devon knew better.

Since Jenny and the boys arrived, he’d been forced to widen the narrow boundaries of his social circle—what remained of it anyway—to include the small congregation of New Hope Fellowship.

Devon had started attending the church after moving to Minneapolis. He acknowledged the importance of meeting with other believers, but he’d still managed to keep the people there at arm’s length.

He knew the sudden appearance of his children would raise questions, but when Pastor Albright found out their mother had recently passed away, kindness trumped the natural curiosity their presence created in the congregation. After a gentle, collective offer to “let them know if they could help,” people maintained a respectful distance.

And even though Devon had appreciated the friendly smiles and genuine concern, he’d been careful not to need any help.

Because what he needed the most was time. Time for him and the children to get to know each other. Time to collect every piece of information—no matter how small or seemingly insignificant—and piece it together to form a picture of the lives they’d lived while they’d been apart from him.

And even though Devon tried to convince himself that another judge wouldn’t separate them, he’d thought the same thing at the first custody hearing. The one Ashleigh hadn’t even bothered to attend. She’d sent her attorney instead, who’d dissected Devon’s life and displayed it to the court. And made it look as if he were the last person capable of raising three small children.

Maybe it was time to ask for help.

Devon’s first impulse was to reject the thought. Okay, his hair did need a trim. And he could use a trip to the men’s department for some new clothes. But that didn’t mean he needed help from a professional image consultant….

Did he?

A verse suddenly filtered through Devon’s mind, as if in response to his silent question.

Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

Devon winced, knowing he couldn’t argue with that. And like it or not, it backed up Caitlin’s business logo. Now the question came down to whether or not he was going to swallow his pride and take advantage of her expertise.

And the gift certificate.

Devon hooked his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans as he silently scrolled through his options. And tried to ignore the one standing right in front of him.

For the first time, Devon pondered—very briefly—the timing of their meeting. It occurred to him that his tendency to avoid civilization was working against him at the moment. When it came down to it, he didn’t know many people….

But Caitlin McBride, Lord? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?

The woman was wound way too tight. Not to mention that she’d be impossible to work with. Devon had no doubt she could straighten up a platoon of soldiers simply by lifting one perfectly arched eyebrow.

Devon’s gaze shifted and he caught Caitlin in the act of surreptitiously blowing a few wayward strands of hair out of her eyes.

It seemed that every time Devon thought he’d figured her out, he caught an intriguing glimpse of another side of her personality. A softer side.

But that wasn’t the reason he decided to give in. He gave in because he could suffer anything for the sake of his children. He could even suffer through a brief consultation with a certain blue-eyed drill sarg—image consultant.

“So, what does this gift certificate get me?”

“Excuse me?”

“The gift certificate for the style analysis,” Devon said patiently. “I want to use it. What do I get?”

Silence. And then, “The initial assessment. You fill out a questionnaire and then we discuss the results.”

“How long does that take?”

“About two hours.”

“That’s it?”

Caitlin blinked. “For that…portion. Most people decide after that whether they want to take advantage of some of our other services.”

Call him a glutton for punishment, but he was actually going to ask. “Like what?”

“Like achieving the right look as it pertains to a person’s professional goals and lifestyle roles. Finding the appropriate clothing styles for um, specific body types.” To Devon’s fascination, the color in her cheeks deepened. “Choosing an appropriate hairstyle and appropriate clothing.”

Devon got it. Appropriate. The secret weapon for success. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay to everything you just said.”

Something that looked like panic sparked in her eyes. “Maybe you should just make an appointment for the assessment. The rest is rather…expensive.”

“How expensive?”

“I charge one hundred and twenty dollars an hour.”

The air emptied out of Devon’s lungs. His attorney hadn’t charged near that amount. “No pro bono work?”

She didn’t smile at the joke. “Mr. Walsh—”

“Call me Devon. We are going to be working together.”

“Fine.” Her husky voice crackled. “I’ll set up an appointment and have Sabrina call you.”

“Great. I hope you can be a little bit flexible with my schedule. Things get kind of hairy at home sometimes.” Speaking of which…Devon realized he’d been gone a lot longer than he’d originally planned. “I have to run. I promised the kids I’d be home to make supper.”

“Why are you doing this?” Caitlin’s voice stopped him as he reached the door.

When Devon turned around, she hadn’t moved. He had no idea how to answer the question, so he asked one of his own. “Jenny didn’t really take second place in the contest, did she?”

The flicker of guilty surprise in Caitlin’s eyes gave her away.

Bingo.

He smiled. “That’s why.”




Chapter Five


“That’s why.” Caitlin repeated Devon’s cryptic words as she fumbled with the key to her apartment. For some odd reason, her hands hadn’t stopped trembling since she’d closed up IMAGEine.

She blamed it on the drop in evening temperatures.

Mr. Darcy met her on the other side of the door, his ragged ears twitching a silent reprimand.

“Don’t blame me.” Caitlin shrugged off her coat and headed toward the kitchen. “Blame Devon Walsh. He’s the reason your dinner is late.”

The cat darted between her feet and cut in front of her, upsetting her balance and almost pitching her headfirst into the granite countertop on the breakfast bar. “We’ve talked about this before. If you kill me, there will be no one to feed you.”

Caitlin shook the contents of a gourmet can of cat food into a ceramic dish near the refrigerator and rubbed her knuckles against the sensitive spot under Mr. Darcy’s furry chin, a gesture which never failed to earn his forgiveness.

“At least one of us is happy,” she muttered, putting off her own dinner to seek solace in her favorite chair overlooking the Mississippi River. Her apartment building had been an abandoned warehouse before a developer saw its potential and converted it into a series of trendy loft apartments.

She stared down at the dark ribbon of water and tried to figure out what had happened in the past hour.

Caitlin hadn’t expected Devon to actually turn in the gift certificate for a free style analysis. The only reason she’d sent the silly thing in the first place was to make good on the first “prize” that came to mind after she’d made an executive decision to withdraw Jennifer’s entry.

A decision Dawn Gallagher was still lamenting over. Caitlin knew their second choice would work out just as well but Dawn didn’t think anyone else could compare to a “Mr. Makeover.”

Guilt tugged briefly at Caitlin’s conscience. The only explanation she’d given the Twin City Trends’ style editor was that Devon was too busy to be involved in the makeover contest. Maybe he hadn’t exactly said those words, but they had to be true. A single dad raising three kids…while writing the next great American novel.

What had she gotten herself into?

Devon didn’t really want her help. He’d swallowed his pride because of his children. And it was easy to see that the man was going to be a rebel. The “I hope you can be flexible with my schedule” comment was the first gauntlet he’d thrown down.

Caitlin picked up a tasseled pillow and buried her head in it.

“He’s not the only one with a schedule,” she complained. “I have a schedule, too. And it’s booked solid through the first of the year.”

“Cait?”

Caitlin dropped the pillow and jackknifed into a sitting position at the sound of a muffled voice behind her. “Don’t you ever knock?”

“Why should I?” Her sister Meghan grinned. “I have a key.”

“Number four on my list of mistakes,” Caitlin said under her breath.

“I didn’t think you made mistakes—what were the first three? I promise I won’t tell Evie.” Meghan flopped down on the couch and Caitlin caught a glimpse of knee-high beaded moccasins under Meghan’s long skirt.

She groaned. “Moccasins, Megs? You’re killing me here.”

“Aren’t they great?” Meghan hiked up the hem on her tiered khaki skirt to show them off. “Cade bought them for me.”

“I don’t believe it. What have you done to the poor man?”

“The same thing I’m trying to do to you.”

“Drive me crazy?”

“No, silly. Break you out of the first-born overachiever mold. Help you lighten up a little.” Meghan swung her legs over the side of the ivory leather sofa and adjusted the pillows behind her back.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Caitlin said dryly.

“Thanks.” Meghan chuckled when Caitlin rolled her eyes. “Where’s Mr. Darcy?”

“Sulking. Dinner was late.”

“Poor baby. Did you get held up by work or traffic?”

Caitlin hesitated as Devon’s face flashed in her mind. She’d only met him twice and yet somehow her memory was able to retrieve every one of his features with stunning clarity.

Meghan tilted her head, sending a mass of strawberry blonde curls tumbling over one shoulder. “Should I repeat the question?”

“Work.” As much as she hated to admit it, Devon Walsh had officially become work. What was she going to do about him? Or more important, what was she going to do with him….

“Wow.” Meghan’s voice infiltrated her thoughts.

“What?”

“You were daydreaming.”

Caitlin’s fingers curled into the pillow. “Don’t be silly.”

Meghan leaned forward, studying her with something that could only be termed as fascination. “And for a second there, you had The Look.”

“What look?”

“The Look. You know, the one a woman gets in her eyes when she’s thinking about a certain guy.”

“Please.” Caitlin vaulted out of the chair. “Have you eaten supper? Because I’ve got some leftover seafood fettuccine—”

“You. Are. Blushing.” Meghan jumped up and blocked her escape route.

“Megs—”

“Who is he? Have you told Evie—” Meghan pushed Caitlin down on the sofa and plunked down beside her. Bringing them nose to nose.

“No!” At times like this, Caitlin questioned her decision to live in the same city as her younger sibling. “Was there a specific reason you stopped over or—”

Meghan clapped her hands together, effectively drowning Caitlin out. “Oooh, that means I get to tell her.”

“There isn’t anything to tell,” Caitlin ground out. “He’s a new client. A client. That’s all. And the only reason I was—” she hated to admit it “—thinking about him was because he was the last appointment of the day.”

The last unscheduled appointment of the day. And if Caitlin would have known how it was going to turn out, she would have made sure Sabrina sent him on his merry way. Sans gift certificate!

“A client.” Meghan’s shoulders drooped. “Really?”

“Really.” Caitlin sounded so convincing, she almost believed it herself.

“Oh. Sorry, it’s just that we—” Meghan bit down on her lower lip to prevent the rest of the words from spilling out.

Not that it mattered. Caitlin could guess what she’d been about to say.

They didn’t want her to feel left out.

Both her sisters had found love within the past year and a half and their father, Patrick, teasingly took the credit for both successful matches. Even though Caitlin knew it had to be a total coincidence that Patrick’s hobby—finding lost family heirlooms—had inadvertently led to both her sisters meeting the men they’d fallen in love with.

Another reason to limit the number of visits to Cooper’s Landing! She didn’t want her father pulling her into any of his crazy schemes. Or playing matchmaker for the only single daughter left in the McBride family.

“It’s okay. Bask guilt-free in the glow of your own happiness,” Caitlin said. “You know I don’t have time for a relationship.”

“You won’t make time for a relationship,” Meghan countered. “And Mr. Darcy, as much as I love him, doesn’t count.”

“Ah, Megs—why did you say you stopped over?”

“I didn’t,” Meghan said brightly. “But since you brought it up, fettuccine sounds good.”

“Great.” Caitlin hopped to her feet again and escaped to the kitchen, grateful for the distraction.

She loved her sister dearly but she didn’t want to talk about Devon Walsh. She didn’t want to think about Devon Walsh. There’d been no daydreaming. No look.

Meghan followed, Mr. Darcy draped over her arm like a trendy purse. “So, this guy…what’s his name?”

Caitlin shot her a suspicious look. “Devon Walsh. Why do you ask?”

“Does he have a pocket protector? Thick glasses?”

“Meghan!” Caitlin choked back a laugh.

Humor backlit Meghan’s eyes, making them appear more green than gray. “Black socks and sandals?”

“You’re terrible.”

“But am I right?”

Not even close, Caitlin thought, as her traitorous memory instantly downloaded a series of images of Devon Walsh.

“Not every guy who comes to IMAGEine is a nerd, you know.”

“Uh-huh.” Meghan didn’t look convinced. “So that means he’s a stuffy exec who wants a raise.”

“Someone like Cade?” Caitlin asked wickedly.

“Cade isn’t stuffy.” Meghan paused. “Not once you get to know him anyway. Now, answer the question.”

“Was there a question?” Caitlin stalled, banging pots and pans together in a pathetic attempt to distract her sister. Or better yet, maybe she had some cookies—Meghan’s weakness—stashed somewhere.

“If your new client isn’t a nerd or a suit, what’s he like?”

Caitlin could tell she wasn’t going to be able to avoid the conversation. Not without making Meghan suspicious as to why she was avoiding the conversation. “Long hair.” Clean. And silky. “Five-o’clock shadow.” The stubble did kind of work for him, though. “Dark eyes.” Surrounded by laugh lines, although she hadn’t seen much evidence of a sense of humor.

Caitlin had a flashback of his Ricky Ricardo impersonation and smiled to herself. When she glanced at Meghan, her sister had a thoughtful look on her face.

Warning!

“He hired me for a simple style analysis.”

“So, there’s potential.”

“Absolutely not,” Caitlin said firmly. “He’s a writer, so he probably has the brooding, tortured artistic temperament…no offense, Megs…and I’m pretty sure we don’t have a thing in common—”

“Um, Cait?” Meghan interrupted her gently. “I wasn’t talking about that kind of potential. I meant potential in a professional sense.”

Caitlin blinked. “Of course you were. Because anything else would be ridiculous. A man who thinks suede elbow patches are still in style—” Caitlin realized she was rambling. Rambling! For the second time that day it felt as if the ground had suddenly shifted beneath her. The first time, of course, being when she’d walked into the reception area—in her stocking feet—and found Devon waiting for her….

Stay in control, Caitlin.

“I’m sure I have some Oreos. Somewhere.” Caitlin launched a search-and-rescue mission in the pantry. Searching for cookies, rescuing herself from Meghan’s knowing look.

“Take your time. I’m, ah, going to slip out and make a quick phone call.”

Caitlin took one look at the mischievous sparkle in her sister’s eyes and stifled a groan.

Of course she was.



“Watcha doing, Dad?” Brady and Josh’s heads popped up over the back of the couch.

Devon didn’t quite know how to answer the question.

Pacing? Dreading the next hour while looking forward to it at the same time? Because the contradiction that he was looking forward to seeing Caitlin again while knowing he shouldn’t be looking forward to seeing her was making him…pace.

“Do you remember Ms. McBride? The lady who came over to talk to Jenny last week?”

Josh nodded. “She’s the one who picked up Sunny.”

The awe in his son’s voice rankled. “She did scream.”

“But she picked her up anyway.”

“Very cool,” Brady chimed in.

Devon decided not to debate the issue. When it was two against one, a person had to choose his battles wisely.

“Anyway, Ms. McBride is coming over this morning to help me—” Devon paused, unsure how to describe why Caitlin was coming over.

“She’s going to ask him some questions so he’ll know what clothes look best on him.” Jenny stepped out from behind the drapes.

Devon hadn’t known she was there.

“Thank you.” He winked at his daughter, who offered a hesitant smile before glancing away.

Devon tried to hide his disappointment at her response.

The boys, who’d been three years old when Ashleigh had taken them to Europe, had fewer memories of him than Jenny, yet they’d started to relax in his presence. To seek out his company.

But his daughter…she remained a mystery.

The counselor Devon had talked with had encouraged him to give Jenny the time and space she needed to grieve her mother’s death. Devon got that. But even though his parental instincts were a bit rusty, he had the feeling other emotions lay buried beneath the veneer of sorrow in his daughter’s eyes.

Devon had no idea what would unlock the secrets in Jenny’s heart. And until recently, he’d started to doubt he was the right person for the job.

The night after Vickie had called, threatening to contest the custody arrangement, Devon had lain awake for hours. Not planning a legal strategy but wrestling with the reality that the kids, especially Jenny, might be better off with living with their aunt.

After all, his children knew their Aunt Vickie better than they knew their own father. Ashleigh and Vickie had always been close. So close that Ashleigh had hired her sister as her personal assistant when her modeling career began to take off. They’d traveled together. Spent holidays together. While Devon had to be content with long-distance phone calls and letters, Vickie had had the advantage of frequent visits with the children; knowing what went on in their day-to-day lives.

The boys, Devon had reasoned, might choose to stay with him, but Jenny would probably benefit from a woman’s influence in her life. A woman would understand her emotions….would know what an adolescent girl needed.

He’d been praying for wisdom and guidance ever since Vickie’s phone call. And just when Devon had almost convinced himself that his children would be better off with someone they knew and loved—not a man who was almost a stranger to them—there’d been a breakthrough.

We want to stay with you.

We. Plural.

While he couldn’t deny the glimmer of hope that Jenny’s simple statement had created that day, Devon also couldn’t deny there was a truckload of irony in the situation. The makeover contest hadn’t only revealed Jenny’s feelings. It had brought Caitlin McBride into their lives.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.




Chapter Six


Caitlin tried to focus on what Jenny was saying, but the closer they got to the parlor, the more wobbly her ankles felt. And wobbling in three-inch heels just wasn’t…safe.





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