McKettrick's Heart

She grinned. “No, you’re not,” she countered.

“You don’t miss much, do you?”

“Bite me, Keegan.”

“That’s Rory’s job, thank God.”

Shelley’s saucy little smirk faded to a pout. “Rory and I want to live in Paris,” she said. “I surfed the internet and found a wonderful boarding school for Devon.”

It wasn’t the first time Shelley had mentioned moving to Paris, but the boarding school was a new element. “You and Rory can go live in Riyadh, for all I care,” Keegan told her. “But you’re not taking my daughter out of the U.S. Period.”

“She’s not your daughter,” Shelley said.

Keegan felt nothing for Shelley, but the words struck his solar plexus like a ramrod, just the same. He stole a glance in Devon’s direction. It would have been impossible for her to overhear, but for all he knew, the kid read lips. Thank God she was smiling blissfully at the prospect of a weekend on the Triple M.

“We were legally married when Devon was born,” he said evenly. “Unless you want to go on TV and let Maury Povich announce the results of a DNA test to the nation, you’re up shit creek and the paddle’s miles downstream.”

Shelley glared.

“I guess Rory could adopt her,” Keegan went on, having no intention of letting that happen while he still had a pulse, “but it would mean the end of the child support, wouldn’t it?”

“I freaking hate you, Keegan McKettrick.”

He chucked her chin, because he knew it would piss her off. “Right back at you, kiddo,” he said. Another glance at Devon told him the kid was worried. He smiled at her, then gave Shelley a jaunty wave and turned his back on her.

“Fuck you, Keegan,” Shelley told him.

He faced her again, smiled warmly, for Devon’s sake, and kept his voice low. “We might still be married,” he said, “if you’d limited yourself to that. Sleeping with me, I mean. But that would have cramped your style, wouldn’t it, Shell?”

“Like you were so perfect,” Shelley challenged, but she’d pulled in her horns a little.

“Nice talking to you,” he said. Then he opened the door on the driver’s side and slipped behind the wheel.

Shelley stood watching from the portico as they drove away, her face like a gathering storm.

“I don’t want to go to Paris,” Devon told him.

Startled, Keegan gave her a sidelong glance. Maybe she’d heard all or part of his conversation with Shelley after all. God, he hoped not.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

They pulled out onto a quiet, tree-lined street, in one of the best neighborhoods in Flagstaff. Despite her coffee-tea-or-me experience with the airline and the centerfold, Shelley probably would have been renting a single-wide in some trailer park if it hadn’t been for him. She had the financial instincts of a crack addict.

“I can’t speak French,” Devon told him.

He reached across to squeeze her shoulder, found it stiff with tension. “You’re not going to France,” he said.

“Mom says it’s romantic. Paris, I mean. She gets all dreamy when she talks about it. She and Rory are going to hold hands in the rain.”

Keegan suppressed a sigh. Rory worked as a personal trainer. Shelley didn’t work at all. If she and Rory got married, there would be no more alimony, and she’d have to sell the fancy house and split the proceeds with her pesky ex, settlement notwithstanding.

All of which meant he wouldn’t be shopping for a wedding gift anytime soon. Damn it.

“I’ve been thinking, Dev,” he said, stepping carefully into a delicate subject. “How would you feel about coming to live with me on the ranch? Permanently, I mean?”

“Mom won’t let me,” Devon answered, and out of the corner of his eye Keegan saw her shrink in on herself, shoulders stooped, chin lowered to rest in the pink fluff on top of the teddy bear’s head. She had a death grip on the stuffed animal, both arms locked around it. “She needs the child support.”

Keegan’s stomach clenched like a fist. “She told you that?”

“I heard her and Rory talking.”

Silently Keegan cursed his ex-wife and her muscle-brained boyfriend. “She loves you, sweetheart. You know that.”

Devon shrugged. “Whatever.” After a short silence, she added, “They fight a lot.”

It was all Keegan could do not to pull a U-turn in the middle of the street, speed back to the house and confront Shelley, back-to-the-wall style. “Is that right?” he asked carefully. Moderately.

Inside, he seethed.

He’d talked to Travis Reid, who was his attorney as well as a friend, about suing Shelley for full custody. Travis figured things would get ugly if he did, and most of the fallout would come down on Devon.

“About money,” Devon went on, mercifully oblivious to the turmoil going on inside the man she believed to be her father. “That’s mostly what they fight about. Rory wants to get married, but Mom says they’ll be broke if they do.”

Keegan’s sinuses burned, and the backs of his eyes stung. He drew a deep breath. “You like this Rory yahoo?”

Another shrug of shoulders too small to carry the burden of two parents who despised each other, plus a boyfriend. “He’s all right,” Devon said.

“You aren’t going to any boarding school in Paris,” Keegan told her. It wasn’t much in the way of consolation, but it was all he had to give at the moment.

“You promise?”

“As God is my witness,” Keegan said.

Devon quirked a grin. “Scarlett O’Hara said that in Gone with the Wind.”

“Okay.” Honesty time—the kid had enough deception to deal with. “I didn’t see the movie.”

“There’s a book, Dad.” She imparted this information gently.

“I know that, shortstop.”

“Did you read it?”

He laughed. God, it felt good to laugh. How long had it been?

“Is there a quiz?”

Devon released her grasp on the bear long enough to slug him affectionately on the upper arm. “No, silly,” she said. Then, in that confounding way of females, heading full steam in one emotional direction and suddenly hairpinning into a one-eighty, her eyes filled with tears. “How come you don’t like Mom?”