Her Second-Chance Man

“No!” Michelle said, and gave Brian a look that could have stripped paint. “The vet wanted to put him to sleep.”

He looked between the two of them, and Jessica had the feeling he was deciding she and Michelle made a dangerous combination. Her suspicion was confirmed by his next words.

“Michelle, how about if we leave O’Henry with Jessica? We’ll come back in a day or two and see how he’s doing.” He correctly interpreted the black look he was being given by his niece. “Of course, we’ll phone.”

It was written on his face that he was sorry he had ever come here, a regret that Jessica mirrored exactly. Her life was so nice, now. Predictable. Stable.

A man like Brian Kemp could turn that upside down without half-trying.

She waited for him to take his niece and go, but to her be-musement Michelle folded her arms over her chest and planted her legs in a fashion that gave her a surprising amount of presence.

“I’m not leaving.”

He ran a hand through his hair, looking at his watch. “Look, Michelle, I have to be at work in an hour, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the child announced, her resemblance to her uncle pronounced with her face set in those stubborn lines. “I’m staying right here with O’Henry. And Jessica.”

Chapter Two

“Get in the truck.” Brian’s voice was low and dangerous. Jessica had heard he was a policeman in Victoria; his voice held deep and unquestionable authority.

His niece, however, looked unimpressed. “No.” Jessica knew now would be a good time to insert herself in the argument and tell Michelle she had to leave with her uncle. But she was no saint and to see the man who had humiliated her suffer at the hands of his headstrong niece was just a little bit satisfying.

In fact, Jessica had to stifle a laugh after seeing the look on Brian’s face. He obviously wanted nothing more than to pick up his ninety-pound niece and toss her in the truck. The lines of his face were chiseled with irritation. On any other man it might have marred his good looks, but not on Brian. With his brows lowered like that, and the line of his mouth grim, he had the look of a warrior.

Still, under the fierce mask, Jessica sensed something rather astonishing. Brian was purely, helplessly baffled. Despite the fact that he looked like the most self-composed man ever born—one who could handle anything life threw at him—he was at a total loss when it came to dealing with his five-foot-one-inch niece.

Tell Michelle to go with her uncle, Jessica ordered herself. She wanted Brian out of her space, the quicker the better. On the other hand, she didn’t feel inclined to make his life any easier, wonderful life lessons owed to him aside. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to stay on the sidelines and let them settle their own argument? Finding his helplessness mildly entertaining was only human, not mean-spirited.

“You can’t just stay here with a complete stranger,” Brian said to Michelle, “Not that you’ve been invited. And I have to go to work. So, march.”

“She’s not a complete stranger,” Michelle said.

On very short acquaintance Jessica knew Michelle to be the girl least likely to march anywhere, but she offered no comment.

“I don’t know the first thing about her,” he said, his patience obviously thinning even more. A muscle working in his jaw showed the fine, strong line to perfect advantage.

His niece was just as obviously not about to be intimidated by the facts, or by him. “You do so know the first thing about her. You knew where she lived. You knew her name. You knew…”

“Nothing important about her,” Brian interrupted, aggravated.

“Like what?” Michelle asked, her voice challenging.

The debate raged in the darkness of his eyes—reason with her, or put her in a choke hold? Reason won out, but not by much. It was evident he was not a man accustomed to having his authority questioned.

“I don’t even know if she’s married. I don’t know what she does for a living,” Brian said.

Jessica pondered what it meant that he wondered that about her first. She had not had to debate whether or not he was married. He wore no ring, but it was something more that gave away his single status. He looked like one of those men who have developed an allergy to relationships, carrying his independence around himself like an invisible shield. She was willing to bet that his most successful one was with his truck, which seemed to be the same one he had driven in high school.

Not exactly observations that painted him in a sympathetic light, though he also had the look of a man beleaguered. He was absolutely alone with the challenge of his niece, and it showed.

“She’s not married,” Michelle said. “Did you see any signs of a man inside that house? Size ten muddy boots at the back door? Smudgy handprints around the light switches? Dishes in the oven? Laundry waiting to be folded in the living room? Root beer rings on the coffee table?”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” Brian said, and despite Jessica’s desire to be entertained by his discomfort, she was a little embarrassed for him at this unexpected glimpse of his house.

But Michelle was not finished detailing how to spot a single person. “And what do you think her bathtub looks like?”

“I have no idea,” he said tersely.

“I bet there’s not a sooty ring around it.”

“There’s a sooty ring around my bathtub?” he asked, and glared at Jessica as if she had discovered it and chastised him for it.

“Every time you tinker with that ugly old truck.”

“My truck is not ugly,” he said dangerously. “It’s a classic. And to get back to the point, I didn’t look in Jessica’s oven, not that its contents could be taken as an indication of character. And I certainly didn’t look in her bathtub.”

Jessica’s plan to remain detached seemed to be crumbling. In fact, she was finding these tiny glimpses into the personal life of Brian Kemp utterly fascinating.

But only, she defended herself fiercely, because she could feel satisfied he wasn’t living nearly the life she would have thought. What would she have imagined? Ferraris, glamorous women, a whirlpool tub, no rings of soot or root beer. Maybe champagne.

“Well, if you did look in her oven,” Michelle informed him, “there wouldn’t be any dishes in it. Not like at your house.”

“Our house,” he corrected her.

“Whatever,” she said with perfect indifference.

Jessica noticed how the indifference stung him. Why did he send a quick sidelong glance her way? Did he care what she thought about where he stored his dirty dishes? Why? When her character was under question? But apparently he did care because he gave his niece his sternest look.

“Michelle,” he said, “having a conversation with you is like playing Ping-Pong with ten balls on the table at once. You seem to be deliberately missing the point, changing the subject and confusing the issue. It’s not about bathtubs. I don’t know Ms. Moran well enough to let you stay here. Not that you’ve been invited.”

“Can’t you tell everything you need to know by looking around?” Michelle said. “You said yourself it looked like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs could come singing out of the woods at any moment. This is not the home of someone of questionable character!”

“You’re going to be a lawyer,” he groaned. “I just know it.” Jessica noticed he sent another look her way. He was embarrassed, not only by his lack of control over his niece, but also about the fact that he was familiar with fairy tales. Well, it was true that he did look like the man least likely to be familiar with magical princesses.

Considering how much she had planned to relish his discomfort, she found her plan backfiring. She felt a little sorry for the man. Not much. Not enough to damage her resolve, just a thimbleful of pity.

“Even if Dopey or Snoozy or Sneezy or whatever comes forward with a character reference, you have not been invited. So…”

“A character reference?” Jessica repeated. He’d used up his thimbleful mighty fast. Of all the nerve! “May I remind you, you came here? Expecting a miracle? What kind of person wants a character reference from somebody they think can work miracles?”

She realized that, despite her vow to remain detached, she was feeling a passionate desire to pick up one of her garden shovels and clunk him over his handsome head.

“Nothing personal,” he said, as if that would take the sting out of it. “My job makes me cynical.”

“This is not the type of place an ax murderer lives,” Michelle informed him. “I bet she gardens for a living. Right?”

Maybe a shovel murderer, Jessica thought. “I’m a horticulturist.”