Finn's Twins!

“Look,” she said desperately, “I know he travels. I just didn’t realize he’d be traveling now. We’re...old friends.” She didn’t think for a minute Mr. Starched Shirt would believe she and Sam were engaged. “I’m from San Francisco. He stops by unannounced to see me when he comes through the city and—” She stopped abruptly, realizing what he might think about that!

Before he could remark a well-dressed—weren’t they all? Izzy thought desperately—older woman came out of the elevator. She gave Izzy an inquisitive glance, then apparently decided that curiosity was rude and her gaze fixed on the doorman.

“Could you get me a taxi, Travers?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He held the door for her, then kept holding it, obviously waiting for Izzy.

Reluctantly she followed. The doorman flagged a cab and held the door while his tenant got in. “Good evening, Mrs Fletcher,” he said as the taxi pulled away. Then he turned and looked at Izzy.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

He dipped his head. There was the barest hint of a supercilious smile on his face.

“A relative of Sam’s?” Thank God she hadn’t said they were engaged—even if it was true.

“His mother. May I get you a taxi?”

Izzy felt as if she had swallowed her duffel bag. She stared at her toes peeking out the ends of her sandals.

They suddenly seemed very bare. Very out of place in this world that was Sam’s.

It occurred to her how little she knew about Sam. He was the grandson of her grandfather’s beloved friend, the man whose life he had saved during World War II. They had corresponded for years. That was why Sam had looked Gordon Rule up on his way through San Francisco five years ago. He’d wanted to meet the man who’d saved his grandfather’s life. “I owe him mine, in a manner of speaking,” he’d said to Izzy.

It was the first of a dozen meetings—all at the end of business trips to the Far East—during which they’d fallen in love. So Izzy didn’t know much about Sam’s life in New York. She’d simply expected he lived much the same way she did.

It didn’t take a genius to see how wrong she’d been.

Maybe it was just as well she hadn’t found him at home, she thought now. She could imagine him being embarrassed if she showed up on his doorstep—no, in his marble foyer—unannounced. She didn’t want to embarrass him. She was suddenly very worried.

“Miss?”

She glanced up to realize the doorman was still waiting for her answer. “No, um, thank you,” she said faintly. “I’ll walk.”

Finn contemplated his liquor cabinet for a long time before he decided that booze wasn’t going to solve his problem.

Only a fairy godmother who would wave her magic wand and turn his nieces into mice would solve his problem. Or one who would whisk them back to San Francisco and provide them with a stable, devoted mother who loved them.

He rubbed his hands down his face and slumped on the sofa. No, their mother loved them. He didn’t doubt that. She had just finally come to terms with her limitations and, because she loved them, gave them to him.

He supposed there was a skewed sort of logic to her behavior.

I know you think they need stability, she had written in her letter to him. I agree. And you must see that I’m not the one to give it to them. I’ve tried, God knows. But so far I don’t even seem to have managed it for myself. I think I might be able to do it with Roger, but I don’t want to give the girls hopes that I might destroy again. That’s why I’m giving them to you. I know how you feel about being responsible. You never let me down. I know you won’t let them down either. Thanks, big brother. I love you all. Meg.

Quite a testimony.

How the hell was he ever going to live up to it?

He’d been too afraid of their unstable background to ever consider marriage himself. He hadn’t wanted kids for precisely the same reason. And now Meg had dumped into his lap responsibilities he never would have chosen in a million years.

But she was right about one thing—she knew him—and she knew he’d bust himself trying to take care of them. If only he knew where to start.

The doorbell sounded, startling him. He glanced at his watch. It was after eleven. He frowned and hauled himself to his feet, then turned on the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“Izzy,” the voice said. It was faint and slightly tremulous, and for a moment the name didn’t register.

Then it did, and he pushed the button to unlock the door downstairs and jerked open his own door at the same time. Then he went out into the hallway to peer down as Isobel Rule made her way slowly up the stairs.

“What happened?” he demanded, looking her over, half certain she’d been mugged.

Then sanity reasserted itself. No one would mug someone who dressed like a thrift-shop reject.

She gave him a faint smile. “He wasn’t home.”

He dumped you? That and several equally uncomplimentary questions leapt into his head. He suppressed them, stepping back to usher her into the apartment. She stopped just inside the door and stood, still holding her duffel bag. He took it out of her hand. Earlier she probably would have fought him for possession of it. Now she let him take it. She looked as if she was about to cry.

Finn, used to the vicissitudes of emotions in the models he photographed daily, was no stranger to tears, although he was more than a little surprised to see the previously unflappable Isobel Rule coming close to them. “Tell me what happened,” he said gruffly. He steered her into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

She sniffled and perched herself on one of the kitchen chairs, propping her elbows on the table. “He’s gone—and I don’t even know for how long. I should have let him know I was coming.”

“You didn’t?” He’d been reaching into the cupboard for mugs. Now he simply stared at her.

“He never told me!” Isobel protested. She sighed and ran her hands through her hair distractedly. “It’s hard to explain,” she mumbled.

“Try me.” He was intrigued. Besides, it took his mind off his own problem.

“Sam Fletcher is the grandson of my grandfather’s best friend. They fought together in the Second World War and my grandfather saved his grandfather’s life. I used to hear stories about it when I was growing up. My grandfather raised me,” she explained. “My parents died when I was seven and I went to live with him.”

Finn set out the mugs and leaned against the counter, watching her, waiting for the water to boil.

“I met Sam when I was nineteen. He was twenty-four. His grandfather had just died and Sam was taking over a lot of the nitty-gritty work in their family import-export business.”

“They own Fletchers’?” Finn’s eyes widened. Fletchers’ was one of the best-known import-export businesses in the country. While it might not have the household name recognition of a Tiffany’s or Neiman-Marcus, in its own sphere it was legendary. People with incomes like Tawnee Davis bought their household furnishings and knickknacks from Fletchers’.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“They must make a lot of money,” Izzy said glumly.

“You could say that.”

“I didn’t know it,” she said in a small voice. “I thought Sam wasn’t any different than me.”

“And he is,” Finn guessed, beginning to get an inkling of what she must have unexpectedly walked into.

She looked morose. “He has a doorman. And a crystal chandelier. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Waterford.”