Finn's Twins!

“Surely you know someone who can keep an eye on them for you?”

He grimaced. “Strong. Though I don’t think it really comes under the heading of office management.”

“No,” Izzy agreed. “Maybe she has a daughter.” She paused. “But you wouldn’t know that, would you?” He didn’t seem to know anything else.

Finn shoved his hair back. “No, I wouldn’t know that.”

“It’s only for two weeks. Take a vacation.”

“Just like that? Drop everything and—”

She picked up her bag and began to rummage through it. “I almost forgot. Meg gave me a letter for you.” She tugged out the slightly crumpled envelope. It had been slightly crumpled when Meg had given it to her, so she hadn’t worried about simply stuffing it in her bag. Now she held it out to him. When he took it, she zipped up her bag and shouldered it, then moved toward the door.

Finn slit the envelope and began to read. He said a rude word. A very rude word. And then another.

Izzy’s head snapped around. He was staring at the letter in his hand, then he crushed it in his fist. “She can’t do this! Damn it! She can’t! I won’t let her!”

Izzy blinked, then realized that Meg must have used the letter to inform him that she was planning to marry Roger. “Maybe it won’t be so bad. Marriage might be the making of them.”

“Marriage?” He stared at her. “They’re only six.”

“I meant Meg. Isn’t that—Didn’t Meg tell you she was marrying Roger?”

“I wanted her to marry Roger!”

“You did? I can’t imagine why,” Izzy said with perhaps more bluntness than absolutely necessary.

“Neither can I now.”

“Then what are you fussing about?”

“Because she’s marrying Roger, all right, but she’s decided she was wrong about him. He isn’t stable enough or responsible enough for fatherhood.” Once more his blue eyes bored into Izzy’s and he waved the letter in her face. “She’s given me permanent custody of the girls!”

It wasn’t her fault.

Nor was it her responsibility. They weren’t her responsibility. None of them. Not Tansy. Not Pansy. Not the black-haired pirate.

Going to Sam’s was her responsibility. Seeing Sam. Being with her fiancé, beginning a real engagement together at last.

But she couldn’t get Finn MacCauley and his nieces out of her mind. What would happen when the girls woke up? Would they have nightmares? Would Finn know how to deal with them if they did?

As the taxi whizzed through Central Park toward Sam’s Upper East Side apartment, Izzy found herself worrying more and more.

It wasn’t until the cab pulled up outside an elegant Fifth Avenue apartment building that Izzy let another worry enter her head.

Should she have told Sam she was coming?

Should she have called him? Should she have at least written?

But then, Sam appeared out of the blue on her doorstep often enough. He had never warned her. In fact every time he’d appeared in her life, he’d come unannounced, appeared on the doorstep, daisies in hand, a beguiling smile on his face, determined to whisk her away on some crazy, romantic outing. That was one of the things she loved about him.

Well, now it was her turn.

But as she peered out the window at the marble facade of the building, she began to have second thoughts. She’d never quite thought about where Sam lived until this moment. When Finn had led her into his brownstone, she’d thought it was the sort of place Sam might call home and she was pleased.

This building wasn’t a brownstone. There didn’t seem to be a multitude of brownstones on Fifth Avenue. Actually there didn’t seem to be any. All the buildings seemed to be bigger and fancier, with exquisite wrought-iron gratings over tall windows, and heavy double doors set back beneath awnings. And they all seemed to have doormen.

Surely Sam didn’t have a doorman!

But the driver said, “This is it, lady,” and she knew, just as surely, that Sam did.

She fumbled in her purse for cab fare. Then, clutching her duffel bag against her chest, she climbed out. The cab sped away, leaving her standing on the curb, staring at the heavy oak and glass doors above which in gold numerals—maybe even gold leaf, Izzy thought with dismay—was the address to which she had sent all her letters to Sam.

Izzy ran her tongue over her lips. In all the time she’d envisioned Sam as her Prince Charming, she’d never ever thought he lived in anything remotely like a castle. Why hadn’t he told her?

Because it hadn’t mattered to him. She was what mattered to him—not the fact that he lived in splendor and she lived in a slightly seedy-looking old Victorian monstrosity that had far in the past seen more paint and better days.

She approached the doors hesitantly, two steps, then three, then stopped. She reached up and tried to judge just how messed up her hair was. Why hadn’t she thought to comb it before she left Finn MacCauley’s? She started to fish around in her bag for a comb when she was suddenly jostled aside as two very elegant young women swept past her, heading for the door.

Their hair was combed. In fact, not a single strand was out of place. Probably never had been. Izzy touched her own again, feeling the tangles and frizz. She bit down on her lip. They were wearing lipstick, too. She could see it as they turned to each other and smiled.

“It was gold. Sam saw it at Tiffany’s. He told me so,” she heard one of them say.

“No! Not really!” the other replied and gave a musical laugh. There was no other word for it—it was musical . And Tiffany’s? Sam went to Tiffany’s?

Then the door opened—not because they had deigned to lift a hand to do it but because the doorman—just as she’d feared—pushed it and held it open so they could enter. “Good evening, Miss Talbot, Miss Sutcliffe.” He very nearly bowed.

Izzy goggled.

The door shut once more. But not before the doorman gave her a very hard stare. It was almost as if he’d looked at her and said, “Move along. Move along now. No riffraff here.”

Izzy bristled. Doorman or no doorman, she wasn’t turning tail and running now. Just because it wasn’t exactly what she had expected, still it was where Sam lived. All she had to do was ask for Sam.

She marched up to the door.

It didn’t open. The doorman just looked at her. She opened it herself. Halfway. And then the doorman grabbed the handle on the other side and held it there. “Yes?”

“I’ve come to see Sam Fletcher, please.”

He looked down his nose at her, but he was too well bred to sniff. “Mr. Fletcher is away.”

“Away? Where away?” God, why hadn’t she called?

The doorman didn’t reply. Discretion was probably his first name. And last and middle.

“For how long?” she asked.

Another dead end.