Family Treasures

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.