Kitabı oku: «Cutting Loose»

Reviewers love New York Times bestselling author SUSAN ANDERSEN!

Coming Undone

“Snappy and sexy…. Upbeat and fun, with a touch of danger and passion, this is a great summer read.”

- Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Sexy, wisecracking fun…. Passionate, romantic, emotional at times and always fun.”

- Contemporary Romance Reviews

Just for Kicks

“Deft characters, smart dialogue, laugh-out-loud moments and sizzling sexual tension (you might want to read Chapter 15 twice) make this hard to put down…. Lovers of romance, passion and laughs should go all in for this one.”

- Publishers Weekly

“Andersen’s follow-up to Skintight retains the charm and wit of the previous story…. Hot, hot, hot!”

- Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Hot & Bothered

“A classic plot line receives a fresh, fun treatment…well-developed secondary characters add depth to this zesty novel, placing it a level beyond most of its competition.”

- Publishers Weekly

Skintight

“Andersen again injects magic into a story that would be clichéd in another’s hands, delivering warm, vulnerable characters in a touching yet suspenseful read.”

- Publishers Weekly, starred review

“Written with Andersen’s signature sass and sizzle, this book will appeal to fans of Sandra Hill and Rachel Gibson.”

- Booklist

Dear Reader,

I don’t know what I’d do without my girlfriends. Women forge connections that make crummy days better, breakups a tad easier and bad hair days, well, still bad hair days, but so much less dismal with a pal to make you laugh or lend you her hip new hat to disguise it. So I’m really excited to introduce the first of my new Sisterhood Diaries trilogy, because this series features three women who have been friends since the fourth grade.

Jane Kaplinski thanks heaven for her two best friends. It wasn’t easy being the only child of self-absorbed second-rate actors, and there were times growing up when only Poppy and Ava’s friendship made all the stormy exits and theatrical reunions in her household bearable.

These days Jane has her life on track, and the only thing on her mind is fulfilling the final request of a dear old lady who bequeathed the Sisterhood her estate. Jane is certainly not looking for love-she’s way too familiar with the damage done in its name. Still, if she ever does fall in love, she intends it to be with someone stable. A nice cerebral professor, maybe.

Then Devlin Kavanagh, a footloose international yachts sailor with steamy stamped all over him, comes home to help his family business during a crisis. And all Jane’s careful plans go up in flames. Who knew arguing with an irresponsible heartbreaker could be so exciting? Or that they’d generate such heat? He’s got issues of his own, of course, so this can’t possibly last.

Or can it?

It was fun making sparks fly, as well as creating Dev’s and Jane’s friends and families. As always, I hope you enjoy my efforts.

Happy reading!

Susan Andersen

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Cutting Loose
Susan Andersen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This is dedicated, with love, to a woman I’ve known

since I was ten.

To

Marilyn Hansen

Who took the time to sit on her porch steps

to talk to me when I was a kid.

And who has been a warmhearted

friend since I became an adult.

You rock.

~Susie

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Dear Diary,

Families suck. Why can’t I have a regular mom and dad?

May 12, 1990

“J ANE , J ANE, WE’RE HERE !”

Twelve-year-old Jane Kaplinski leaned out her bedroom window. Below, her friend’s chauffeur-driven car was parked at the curb in front of her middle-class house, her friends Ava and Poppy spilling out the vehicle’s back door.

“I’ll be right down,” she called, watching Poppy’s cloud of blond curls swaying in the breeze, her filmy skirts plastered against her slender legs. She’d probably bought her outfit at Kmart, but as usual she looked stylish and pulled together, while Ava, who had developed a full year and a half ahead of everyone else in their grade level, looked sort of packed into her pale green dress, its expensive workmanship tugged akilter at bust and hips. But her sleek red hair, brighter than a four-alarm fire, blazed beneath the spring sunshine’s sudden peekaboo appearance through the clouds and her dimples flashed as she grinned up at Jane.

Smoothing a hand down her own navy skirt, Jane flicked off her radio, aborting Madonna’s “Vogue” midsong. The front door banged open downstairs as she picked up her backpack and carefully closed her bedroom door behind her. She smiled as she headed for the staircase, imagining Ava’s usual insistence that they knock while Poppy countered they didn’t need an engraved invitation.

But it was her mother’s voice calling her name that froze Jane in place on the bottom step a moment later.

The suitcase in the foyer should have been her tip-off, but she’d been so focused on her outing with her best friends that she hadn’t even noticed it. Now here came her mother, ice clinking a familiar Parent rhythm in the highball glass clutched in her hand as she bore down with frenetic joy on her only child.

Crapdanghell.

“You’re back,” she said flatly as her mother gathered her to her bosom, and choked when her nose sank into Obsession-scented cleavage. She stood rigid until Dorrie loosened her grip, then edged toward the door.

“Of course I am, darling. You know I could never stay away from you. Besides-” she gave her hair a pat “-your father simply begged me to return.” Dorrie slung an arm around Jane’s shoulders and looked down at her, the aroma of Johnnie Walker Black wafting from her breath to clash with her perfume. “Look at you, all pressed and shiny! Are you going somewhere?”

Jane twisted away and took a giant step backward. “I’ve been invited to tea at Miss Wolcott’s.”

“Agnes Bell Wolcott?”

She nodded.

“My little girl is so highfalutin.” Dorrie gave her a swift once-over. “You couldn’t find something a little more colorful to wear?”

Casting a glance at her mom’s neon-hued top, she merely said, “I like this.”

“I have some nice red beads we could use to jazz it up.” She lifted a shiny brown hank of Jane’s stick-straight hair and rubbed it between her fingers. “Maybe fix up your ’do a little? You know how important staging is-if you want to look the role, you need to pay attention to the costume!”

Jane managed not to shudder. “No, thanks. I’m going for tea, not starring in one of your and Dad’s productions. Besides, didn’t you hear Ava’s car pulling up out front?”

“Did I?” Dorrie dropped the tendril and took another sip of her Johnnie Walker. “Well, yes, I suppose I did, now that you mention it. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Big surprise. Mom was usually all about Mom. Well, that or focused on the drama du jour of the Dorrie and Mike Show.

The doorbell rang and with a sigh of relief, Jane eased around her mother. “Gotta go. Me and Ava are spending the night at Poppy’s, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And, boy, was she grateful to be spared tonight’s theatrics when her dad discovered Mom was back. It was guaranteed to be filled with passion and fireworks, and having lived through both too many times to count she was just as happy to miss the show.

Ava and Poppy let themselves in before she could reach the door. They immediately surrounded her and, calling, “Hello, Mrs. Kaplinski, goodbye, Mrs. Kaplinski,” hustled her to the car.

Daniel, the Spencers’ chauffeur, opened the Lincoln’s back door. As Poppy dove into the backseat he tipped his neatly capped head at Jane. “Miss Kaplinski.”

She always wanted to giggle at his formality, but she gave him a grave nod in return. “Mr. Daniel.” She climbed in sedately after Poppy.

Ava plopped down next to her and Daniel closed the door.

The three friends looked at each other as the chauffeur walked around to the driver’s door, and, clutching her hair, Poppy mimed a scream. “Can you believe this?” she stage-whispered. “Tea at the Wolcott mansion!” She looked past Jane at Ava and asked in her normal register, “Why did Miss Wolcott invite us again?”

“I told you, I’m not sure.” Ava tugged on the hem of her dress to cover her pudgy thighs. “Maybe because we all talked to her at that dumb musicale thing my parents had. They were, like, so psyched that she accepted their invitation. I guess she turns down more than she accepts these days and everyone wants to have the party she comes to. But at the same time my mom says Miss Wolcott’s a genuine eccentric and she was a little nervous that she might say or do something Not Done By Our Kind.” She shrugged. “Dunno-she seemed pretty regular to me. Except maybe for her voice. My dad says it’s like a foghorn.”

“I thought she was interesting,” Jane said.

“Well, yeah, ” Poppy said. “She’s been everywhere and done everything. Can you believe that she’s been to places like Paris and Africa and even flew her own plane until a couple of years ago? Plus, she’s got that great mansion.” She bounced in her seat. “It makes your place look like a shack, Ava, and I didn’t think there was any place prettier than your house. I’m dying to see Miss Wolcott’s on the inside.”

“Me, too,” Jane agreed. “It sounds like she collects all kinds of rad stuff.”

Ava pulled a candy bar from her backpack, ripped the wrapper from one end and offered Poppy and Jane a share. When they declined, she shrugged and chomped off a large bite. “I’m just glad to get out of Cotillion class. Any excuse to avoid Buttface Cade Gallari is a good one in my book.”

Upon arriving at the three-storied mansion on the crowded western slope of Queen Anne hill they were ushered into a large parlor by an elderly woman wearing a severely styled black dress. She murmured assurances that Miss Wolcott would join them shortly and backed out of the room, rolling closed a long, ornate pocket door.

The high-ceilinged parlor was dim and cool, the windows all mantled in velvet curtains. Eclectic groups of artifacts cluttered every surface, making a space that could easily contain the entire first floor of Jane’s house seem almost cozy.

“Wow.” She turned in a slow circle, trying to take in everything at once. “Lookit all this stuff.” She edged over to a glass-fronted case and peered at the crowded display of antique beaded bags. “These are awesome!”

“How can you tell?” Ava asked. “There’s no light in here.”

“Yeah,” Poppy agreed. “Look at the size of those windows-I’d keep the curtains open all day long if I lived here. Maybe paint the walls a nice yellow to brighten things up.”

“Ladies,” a deep, distinctive voice said from behind them, and they all turned. “Thank you for coming.” In tailored camel slacks and fluid jacket, with a high-necked blouse as snowy as her carefully arranged hair, Agnes Bell Wolcott stood framed in the now partially open pocket door. A beautiful antique-looking cameo nestled in the cascading ruffle at her throat. She glanced at Poppy. “You may open the curtains if you wish.”

Without so much as a blush at being overheard, Poppy ran to do so and the high-cloud pearlescent glow of an overcast Seattle afternoon immediately brightened the southerly facing room.

“Well, now. Would you girls care to explore some of my collections or would you rather enjoy a light repast first?”

Before Jane could vote for option number one, Ava said, “Eat, please.”

Their hostess led them to another room that held an exquisitely set table in front of a marble fireplace. A three-tiered pastry stand, set squarely in its middle, held an array of beautifully presented desserts and crustless sandwiches. They sat themselves according to the little name cards at each place setting and Miss Wolcott rang for tea.

She then focused her undivided attention on them. “I imagine you’re wondering why I invited you here today.”

“We were just talking about that on the way over,” Poppy said frankly as Jane gave a polite nod and Ava murmured, “Yes, ma’am.”

“This is my way of saying thank you for your company at the Spencer musicale the other night. It’s not often young ladies will take the time to keep an old woman company, and I very much enjoyed talking to you.” She regarded them with bright-eyed interest. “You girls are very different from each other,” she observed. “I wonder if I might ask how you met?”

“We all go to Country Day,” Poppy said. Intercepting Miss Wolcott’s discreet inspection of her inexpensive clothing, she grinned. “My folks are all love, peace and joy types, but my Grandma Ingles is an alumna. She pays my tuition.”

“And I get financial aid,” Jane volunteered. Not that her parents had bothered to arrange it. If her second-grade teacher hadn’t submitted the original scholarship application Jane would still be attending public school. Nowadays she filled in the annual paperwork herself, so all her folks had to do was sign it.

“I’m just a regular student,” Ava admitted. “I don’t do anything special for tuition and Jane and Poppy are better at school than I am.” She smiled, punching dimples deep in each cheek. “Especially Jane.”

Warmth flushed Jane’s cheeks, ran sweetly through her veins. “Ava’s special in other ways, though.”

“I find it lovely to see such a close friendship between girls,” Miss Wolcott said. “You’re quite a sisterhood.”

Jane savored the word as the black-clad woman entered the room, rolling a cart that bore an elegant tea service. Miss Wolcott indicated the rectangular packages lying across the girls’ plates as her servant settled the silver teapot in front of her. “I got you a small token of my appreciation. Please open them while I pour.”

Jane carefully untied silver ribbon and peeled gold-and-silver paper from her package while Poppy ripped hers off with abandon and Ava unwrapped hers with a just-right show of attention that she’d no doubt learned in one of the Miss Manners classes she was always attending.

Jane smiled to herself. Maybe it truly wasn’t easy being a rich girl. Heaven knew Av told them so often enough.

Nestled in the paper was a deep-green leather-bound book with her name engraved in gold on the front cover. Poppy’s, she saw, was red, while Ava’s was a rich blue. Wondering how the older woman had known green was her favorite color, she opened hers, but the gilt-edged pages within were blank. She glanced at Miss Wolcott.

“I’ve kept a diary since I was your age,” the white-haired woman said in her deep basso voice. “And finding you all such interesting young women, I thought you might enjoy keeping one, as well. I find it a great place to share my secrets.”

“Awesome,” said Poppy.

Ava’s face lit up. “What a great idea.”

Looking from Miss Wolcott to the friends she’d known since the fourth grade, Jane thought of all the impressions and feelings that were constantly crowding her mind. Things weren’t always great at home, but she didn’t really like to talk about it-not even to her two best friends. Sometimes especially not to them. Poppy had great parents, so while she could and did sympathize with the way Jane’s folks were constantly slamming in and out of her house, she didn’t truly understand how shaky that could make the ground feel under a girl’s feet. And although Ava’s own home life was far from ideal, at least her parents weren’t a couple of actors who lived for the drama of constant exits and entrances.

But the idea of writing down how she felt really appealed to her. She smiled.

“Maybe we could call them the Sisterhood Diaries.”

CHAPTER ONE

I am so never wearing a thong again. Poppy swears they’re comfortable-which probably should’ve been my first clue.

“O MIGAWD , J ANE ,” Ava screeched. “Oh, my, gawd. It’s official!”

Jane pulled the phone away from her ear. Her friend’s voice had gone so high she was surprised the leashed dachshund sniffing the light standard down on First Avenue didn’t start barking. But she clapped the receiver back to her ear as excitement danced a fast jitterbug in her stomach. “Probate finally closed, then?”

“Yes, two minutes ago!” Ava laughed like an escapee from a lunatic asylum. “The Wolcott mansion is officially ours. Can you believe it? I sure miss Miss Agnes, but this is just too thrilling. Omigawd, I can barely breathe, I’m so excited. I have to call Poppy and tell her the news, too.” She laughed again. “We’ve gotta celebrate! Do you mind coming to West Seattle?”

“Lemme see.” Stretching the telephone cord as far as it would reach, she stepped out of her cramped sixth-floor office at the Seattle Metropolitan Museum to peer through the director’s open door two doors down. The coveted corner office showcased a panoramic view from Magnolia Bluff to Mount Rainier, with the Olympic Mountains rising dramatically across Elliott Bay and Puget Sound. Not that she could see more than a fraction of it from her angle, but she wasn’t trying to scope out the scenery, anyway. Traffic flow was her objective. “No, that oughtta work. The freeway looks pretty clear your way.”

“Good. Let’s meet at the Matador in an hour. Overpriced drinks are on me.”

She found herself grinning as she changed into her walking shoes and threw her heels into her tote in preparation to leaving. Swinging her butt to the happy dance song playing in her head, she freshened her lipstick, tossed the tube back in her purse and stuffed it into the tote as well.

“You look jazzed.”

Jane let out a scream. “Good God!” She slapped a hand to her racing heart and whirled to face the man in her doorway.

“Sorry.” Gordon Ives, her fellow junior curator, stepped into the room. “Didn’t mean to startle you. What was the little dance for?”

Ordinarily she wouldn’t consider telling him. She had a strict policy of keeping her private business out of the office that had worked well for her over the course of her career and saw no reason to change it now.

And yet…

Part of the inheritance was going to impact the museum, so it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t soon find out anyhow. And the plain truth was, she was excited. “I’m getting the Wolcott collections.”

He stared at her, his pale blue eyes incredulous. “As in Agnes Bell Wolcott’s collections? The Agnes Wolcott, who traveled the world wearing trousers when her generation’s women stayed at home to raise the kids and didn’t dream of stepping outside the house attired in less than dresses, gloves and hats?”

“Yeah. She didn’t wear only trousers, though. She wore her share of dresses and gowns, as well.”

“I’ve heard about her collections forever. But I thought she died.”

“She did, last March.” And grief stabbed deep for the second time today at the reminder. There was an unoccupied space in her soul that Miss Agnes used to fill and she had to draw a steadying breath. Then, perhaps because she was still off balance, she heard herself admitting, “She left them to me and two of my friends.” Along with the mansion, but Gordon didn’t need to know that as well.

“You’re kidding me! Why would she do that?”

“Because we were friends. More than that, actually-Poppy and Ava and I were probably the closest thing Miss Wolcott had to family.” Their original visit eighteen years ago had led to monthly teas and a friendship that had deepened as the fascinating, wonderful old lady took a hands-on personal interest in their lives and accomplishments, treating the three of them as if they were somehow equally as fascinating. She’d always gone the extra mile for them, making a fuss over their accomplishments in a way no one else had ever done-well, at least in her and Ava’s lives. Like the celebratory dinner she’d thrown at Canlis the evening Jane had landed her job here.

She rubbed a hand over her mouth to disguise its sudden tremble-then sternly pulled herself together again. This wasn’t the place or person in front of whom she wanted to indulge her emotions. “Anyhow,” she said briskly, “I’ll only be around in the mornings for the next two months. A couple of the collections are being donated to the museum and Marjorie’s letting me work afternoons at the Wolcott mansion to catalog them.”

“The director knew about this?”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised no one else here heard, then.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why would they?”

“Well, it’s just-you know. Nothing ever seems to stay a secret in this place.”

“True. But this was a private inheritance that came as a complete surprise to me and my friends. Then there were months of probate before it was finalized. It’s been all we’ve been able to do ourselves to figure out how this all works, and I only told Marjorie because one of Miss Agnes’s bequests directly affects the museum. I saw no reason to talk about it with people not involved in the matter.”

Sensing her curious co-worker was about to ask what the bequest was and perhaps even who else had received one, she looked at her utilitarian leather-banded, large-faced watch. “Oops, gotta go. I’ve got a bus to catch.” She grabbed up her tote and ushered him out of her office, closing the door behind her.

Emerging onto the street a few minutes later, she pulled on her little black cashmere sweater against the brisk wind and her sunglasses against the bright October sun. She’d only mentioned the bus to get Gordon out of her office, but after a quick mental debate she decided against going home for her car and hiked up to Marion Street to catch the 55 instead.

As the bus approached the Alaska Junction a short while later she changed back into her heels, smiling down at the leopard-skin, open-toed construction. She loved these shoes and knew this would probably be one of the last times she’d get to wear them this season. According to the KIRO weatherman on the news this morning, their sunny days were numbered.

She beat Ava and Poppy to the restaurant, but even though it was a weeknight and early yet, the Matador’s tequila bar was starting to fill up. She bought herself a club soda at the stained-glass-backed bar and staked out one of the few free tables.

She’d never been here before and spent a few minutes admiring the open-concept flow of bar into restaurant and the intricate metalwork on display. She killed another minute perusing the menu, but people-watching soon proved more compelling and she gave herself over to checking everyone out.

It was mostly a twenty-something crowd, but in the restaurant end of the room was a quartet of men who kept drawing her gaze. They ranged from late twenties to maybe forty and were holding what appeared to be an intense conversation across the room. Every now and then, however, they’d all shout with laughter, instigated for the most part, it appeared, by the redhead with the seam-threatening shoulders.

She’d never been particularly attracted to redheaded men, but this guy was something else. His hair was the dark, rich color of an Irish setter, his eyebrows blacker than crow feathers and his skin surprisingly golden instead of the creamy pale she associated with that coloring. Influenced, no doubt, by years of hanging around Ava.

Despite repeatedly redirecting her attention, it kept wandering back to him. He seemed very intent on the conversation with his friends, leaning into the table to speak, those dark brows pulled together in a frown one moment, then relaxing as he grinned and gestured animatedly the next. He talked with his hands a lot.

Big, tough, hard-looking hands with long, blunt-tipped fingers that could probably-

Jane jerked as if someone had clapped hands right in front of her face. Good God. What on earth was she doing thinking-what she was thinking-about some stranger’s hands? This was so not like her.

And wouldn’t you know he’d choose that exact minute to look across the room and catch her staring? She froze as he talked to the other guys at his table while his gaze skimmed her from the top of her head to the tips of her shoes, which he studied for a couple of heartbeats before beginning the return journey. When he reached her face once again, he tossed back a shot without taking his eyes off her, then pushed back from the table and climbed to his feet.

Was he coming over here? Ooh.

No! What was she, eighteen? She wasn’t here to troll for a date-and wouldn’t choose a bar if she had been.

“Hey, Jane, sorry I’m late. Poppy’s not here yet, I take it.”

She looked up to see Ava approaching the table and noticed that damn near every male head in the bar turned to follow her friend’s progress. The redhead across the room was no exception. He checked Ava out for a moment before glancing at Jane again. For just a sec he stood there rubbing the back of his neck. Then he hitched a wide shoulder and headed in the direction of the men’s room.

His butt was as nice as the rest of him. But giving it a final lingering glance before turning her attention to Ava, who was pulling out a chair, she noticed the telltale hesitancy in his step of a man who’s had too much to drink.

“Well, shit.” Her disappointment was fierce, which was pretty dumb considering she’d never even talked to the guy.

“What?” Ava tossed her Kate Spade clutch on the table and slid gracefully into the chair.

“Nothing.” She waved it aside. “It’s not important.”

Ava just looked at her.

“Okay, okay. I was doing the eye-flirt thing with this buff redhead over in the restaurant part of the room and-don’t turn around! For God’s sake, Ava. He went to the can, anyhow.”

“Eye flirting is good-especially for you, since you don’t do nearly enough of it. So why are you cursing?”

“He’s drunk. I didn’t realize it until I saw him walking away.”

“Aw, Janie. Not everyone who gets a little lit is a problem drinker. Sometimes it’s just a once-in-a-while kind of thing.”

“I know,” she said, partly because she did but mostly because she really didn’t want to argue tonight.

Ava knew her too well, however, and instead of letting it go, she leaned over the table, her bright hair swinging forward. Scooping it back, she tucked it behind her ear. “You’ve seen Poppy and me indulge a bit too much on occasion and you don’t hold it against us.”

“Yeah, because I know your history, and I know it’s a rare thing for either of you to drink to excess.” She gave an impatient shrug. “Look, I know I’m not completely rational on the subject and I don’t need to put some shrink’s kids through college to understand that Mom and Dad’s drinking is the reason why. By the same token, Av, you know you’re not going to change my mind. So let’s just drop it, whataya say? We’re here to celebrate.”

Deep dimples indented her friend’s cheeks. “Omigawd! Are we ever! Are you as excited as I am?”

“And then some. I’m so psyched at the thought of getting my hands on those collections I can hardly think straight. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Marjorie this afternoon, but unless something special comes up at the Met-and it’s been pretty quiet on the curator front for the past week or so-I’m hoping to dive right in and start sorting them on Monday.”

“Sorry I’m late.” Poppy arrived breathless at their table.

Ava made a rude noise. “Like we’d know how to act if you were ever on time. Where did you guys park, anyhow?” she asked as Poppy dumped her oversize handbag onto the floor and collapsed into the chair next to her. “Did you find a place on the street or park in the lot above the alley?”

“I’m in the lot,” Poppy said.

“I took the bus.”

Both her friends stared at her openmouthed, and she blinked. “What?”

“You’re crazy, you know that?” Poppy shook her head.

“Why, because I’m a public transportation kinda gal?”

“No, because bus service drops way down in the evening and it can’t be safe to hang around bus stops in the dark.”

“Oh, as opposed to walking through a dark alley to get your car, you mean? Besides, I can always call a cab. I don’t see what the big deal is. Ava said meet in an hour and I didn’t think I could make it here in time if I went home first.”

“And like Poppy’s never on time, you’re never late,” Ava said.

She shrugged. “We all have our little idiosyncrasies. Shall we talk about yours?”

“We certainly could…if I had any. But I like to leave those to my lesser sisters.” Serenely she waved over the waitress and ordered one of the tequila specials.

Poppy ordered tequila, as well, then turned to Jane. “How about you, Janie? Do you want your club soda freshened?”

“No, I think I’ll have a glass of wine-whatever the house white is,” she added to the waitress.

Her friends whooped and drummed the table and generally made a huge fuss over her unusual selection and Jane leveled a look at them when the waitress left with their order. “Contrary to popular opinion, you two, I do know how to make an exception on occasion.” Then she grinned. “And this is definitely the occasion.”

“Amen to that, sister,” Poppy agreed.

When their order arrived, Ava raised her glass. “To being new home owners.”

Jane and Poppy clinked glasses with her. “To new home owners!”

Jane took a sip of her wine, then raised her glass again. “To Miss Agnes.”

They clinked again. “To Miss Agnes!”

“Man, I miss her,” Poppy said.

“Yeah, me, too. She was like no adult I’ve ever known.”

Then Poppy raised her glass. “To you, Jane. May you speedily catalog Miss Agnes’s collections.”

“To me,” she said while Ava and Poppy exclaimed, “To Jane!” Then in a rare exhibition of uncertainty, she added, “What if I mess up the job?”

They stared at each other as the possibility of failure hovered in the air above them. Then Ava laughed, Poppy made a rude noise and Jane shook her head, her momentary nerves dissipating.

“Nah.” If there was one thing she was completely confident about it was her abilities in her chosen field.

“That reminds me.” Poppy twisted in her chair to glance around the bar. “I asked the head of Kavanagh Construction to drop by if he had the chance so you guys could meet him. And there he is!”

To Jane’s astonishment, Poppy hailed one of the men at the table she’d been watching earlier, then popped out of her chair and sashayed across the bar.

With her usual aplomb, she stooped down next to the bald guy Jane had thought was maybe forty and started talking with the confidence of a woman assured of her reception. After a brief conversation she rose to shake hands with the other three men at the table, then gestured in Jane and Ava’s direction and said something.

To Jane’s horror, not only did the bald guy get up and follow her back across the room, so did the hot redhead. The latter stumbled over an unoccupied chair a couple tables away and lurched the remaining steps to theirs, where he had to slap his fists down in order to catch his balance. He swore a blue streak beneath his breath.

“Dev!” the bald man snapped. “Cool it!”

“’Scuse my language, ladies.” The redhead gave them all a loose, sheepish smile. “I’m seriously jet-lagged.”

“More like seriously drunk,” Jane said sotto voce.

“Jane, Ava, this is Bren Kavanagh and his brother Devlin,” Poppy raised her voice to say over her. “As I told you earlier, the Kavanaghs are going to be in charge of our construction. Bren was just telling me that Devlin here will be the project manager on our remodel. He’ll oversee-”

“No.” Pushing back from the table, Jane surged to her feet, her heart slamming in outrage. It was one thing to put up with an inebriated man in a bar for a single evening. She’d be damned if she’d put up with one while she was trying to catalog the most important collection of her life.

Devlin, who’d been staring owlishly down at his knuckles where they bore into the rich wood tabletop, raised his hazel-green-eyed gaze and blinked at her. Then, apparently not liking what he saw in her expression, he narrowed his eyes, his devil-black brows snapping together over the thrust of his nose. “Say what?”

“No. It’s a pretty simple word, Mr. Kavanagh-what part don’t you understand?”

“Hey, listen-”

“No, you listen! I will not have some damn drun-Hey!” She yelped as Poppy grabbed her by the wrist and nearly jerked her off her feet.

“Excuse us,” Poppy said as she turned and strode toward the back of the bar.

Leaving Jane no choice but to follow in her wake or be dragged behind her friend like a toddler’s pull toy.

D EV WATCHED the uptight brunette being hauled from the table. “Okay, then, I’m outta here,” he said, and knuckled himself erect. Whoa. He flattened his hand back against the wooden surface. Damn room was starting to sway.

Bren’s eyes narrowed as he studied him. “Man, you are wasted. You’d better go sit down before you fall down.”

Good plan. He started to pull out the chair next to the redhead with the great ti-

“At our table, bro.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He gave the redhead with the killer bod an acknowledging nod for her sympathetic smile, then made his unsteady way back to Finn and David.

What the hell was he doing here, anyway? He should have fallen straight into bed to sleep for ten solid hours. He’d sure as hell known better than to let Bren guilt him into going out to discuss how he could take over for his brother while Bren went through treatment. Or, alternatively, having caved, he at least should have been bright enough to forgo the two shots of tequila he’d slammed back after downing a generous dram or two of Da’s treasured Redbreast. He was from good Irish stock; he could usually put away his fair share without showing the effects.

Tonight, however-well, he’d been up for more than thirty-five hours, nineteen of which had been spent traveling from Athens, Greece. He’d already been flattened with exhaustion when his brother Finn met him at the airport.

But there was no rest for the wicked as far as the Kavanaghs were concerned. When a chick came home to roost, a celebration was not merely expected, it was a given. And a get-together wasn’t a get-together unless it included all six of his brothers and sisters, their respective spouses and kids, his folks, both grandmas and his grandpa, his two uncles, four aunts and their families. Fair enough-he knew the drill.

But he should have paid less attention to Da’s whiskey and a little more to Mom’s food.

“Way to go there, Dev,” his youngest brother said with a sly grin when Devlin made it to their table. “Back in town a few hours and already you’ve managed to get sent back to the kiddie table so Bren can talk to the grown-ups.”

“You’re a riot, David, you know that?” Hooking the crook of his elbow around his brother’s neck, he staggered slightly, steadied himself against his brother’s side, then scrubbed his knuckles in David’s brown hair. “You oughtta take it down to open mic night at the Comedy Underground.” He turned him loose and dropped into the chair Bren had sat in earlier. “I gotta admit, though, that’s kind of what it feels like. Apparently my drunkenness offended one of the potential clients.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Finn said dryly.

He smiled crookedly. “Yeah, me, either. Shit.” He rubbed his fingers over lips that felt rubbery. “I didn’t realize how trashed I was until I stood up to go with Bren to their table. Had to concentrate like a son of a bitch just to walk a straight line.”

Finn looked at him, deadpan. “How’d that work for you?”

“Not so great.” He glanced over his shoulder at his oldest brother, still talking to the redhead across the room, then turned back to the others, abruptly feeling a whole lot soberer. “So how’s he doing, really?”

“He’s got his good days and his bad. I think he’d rather tell you about it himself.”

“Yeah, him being such a talkative son of a bitch so far.” He gave his brothers a look. “I’m still hacked that I didn’t even hear about it until three days ago.”

Finn gave him a bland look in return. “You’ve been a little removed from the family for the past decade, little brother. Maybe we thought you wouldn’t be interested.”

He came up out of his seat, ready to brawl.

Finn merely looked at him with calm, dark eyes, however, and Dev sat back down. Shifted his shoulders. And leveled a hard look on his brother. “I might be removed geographically, but the last time I checked I was still a Kavanagh. I’m still family.” Which, okay, conflicted the hell out of him every bit as much today as it had at nineteen. He loved the clan Kavanagh but couldn’t be around them long before he started going insane. Yet while he’d moved to get away from everyone always knowing his business, this was not the usual oh-did-you-hear-Dev’s-dating-the-O’Brien girl-I-wonder-how-May-would-work-for-the-wedding kind of crap-this was Bren, sick with cancer. It pinched like hell that nobody had bothered to pick up a phone to let him know about it. “I’m still family,” he repeated stonily.

“Yeah, yeah, Finn knows that,” David said peaceably. “But that’s something else you have to take up with Bren. It was his decision not to burden you with it when there wasn’t anything you could do to help. But now you can. If you didn’t blow it with the client, that is. So…what? She took a dislike to you because you didn’t hold your liquor tonight? Didn’t you explain you were jet-lagged?”

“’Course I did.”

“So what was that all about then?”

He thought about the brunette. She’d caught his eye from across the room. She wasn’t built like her redheaded friend or model-pretty like the blonde, and in their company he imagined she got overlooked a lot. God knew she wasn’t his usual type, but she’d been alone and looking at him and he’d found himself abruptly interested.

It had been the contradictions, he thought. She wore a prim white blouse that showed such a meager hint of lace undergarments it might as well not have bothered and a straight midcalf-length black skirt whose center slit barely made it over her knees, let alone into interesting territory. But her shoes were leopard-print high heels designed to make a man realize that the pale, smooth legs they accentuated were pretty damn sleek. And while her shiny brown hair had been piled up on her head in an old-lady bun, it had listed to one side and looked as if it were about ten seconds from coming undone and sliding down that long neck.

But it was her eyes that had been the real contradiction. He hadn’t been able to tell from across the room, but they were blue. And unlike her clothing, there wasn’t a damn thing prim about them. They’d looked at him, in fact, as if she wouldn’t mind giving him the hottest-

Shit. He shook aside the image that sprang to mind, because who the hell cared? She was obviously humorless and judgmental and he looked at David and shrugged. “Beats me, brother. I have no idea what her problem is.”

“Y OU WANNA KNOW what my problem is?” Jane wrenched her wrist free from Poppy’s grasp and reached behind her to grasp the ladies’ room counter at her back to keep from bopping her friend on her elegant chin. She might have thrown caution to the wind and taken her best shot when she was ten, but she had learned control since then.

Hell, she lived and breathed control these days.

“My problem,” she said coolly, “is one, I don’t like being manhandled by you, and two-and this is the biggie, Calloway-you’re looking to saddle me with a drunk while I’m trying to get together the most important collection I’ve ever been asked to head. You know damn well that I’m on a time crunch to get it done for the January exhibit and the last thing I need is to waste time babysitting some lush. That’s my problem.”

“You think you’re the only one with something on the line here?” Poppy thrust her nose right in Jane’s face. “This is not all about you and you damn well know it. None of us want to fall short when Miss Agnes put so much faith in us. At least you have the experience to handle your challenge. Ava has to sell the place without benefit of any sort of real estate experience and I’m responsible for the remodel. And that’s not small spuds, Kaplinski, given that I make most of my living designing menu boards!”

“Oh, please.” Jane thrust her nose right back at her. “Like you don’t know Miss A. requested you decorate because you’ve been trying to get her to redo the mansion since the first time we saw the place! How many suggestions have you given her over the years for improving the place? One million? Two? And I’m guessing she put Ava in charge of selling because she’s the one who has contacts up the wazoo with the kind of people who will be able to afford it.”

“All right, maybe you’ve got a point. But I’ve busted my butt researching and interviewing contractors, and the Kavanaghs are highly respected in their field. Not to mention that they agreed to work at twenty percent below their usual rate in exchange for the publicity that being associated with the Wolcott mansion will bring them. So get over it! Your hard-on against drinkers is not going to screw this up for Ava and me. Or you, either, when it comes to that.”

She could see that Poppy was genuinely angry, and that was a rare enough occurrence to make her swallow her ire and give a jerky nod. “Give me some damn breathing room,” she muttered and Poppy stepped back.

Jane smoothed her clothes, brushed back the strands of hair that had slid free of her bun. Then she met her friend’s eyes.

“Fine,” she said grudgingly, “he stays. But if he drinks on the job just once, I’m not accountable for my actions.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m glad you think so. Because I’ll be expecting you to help me bury the body.”

“You wound me.” Poppy pressed a hand to her breast. “After all, what are friends for?”

CHAPTER TWO

I will do a good job of this. Miss Agnes obviously thought I could-believed all three of us could-and nothing and NO ONE is going to stop me from doing my best.

“L OOKS LIKE you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Jane tensed, recognizing the voice. The fact that she did after only one meeting made her want to string several nasty words together. Instead she composed her expression and slowly turned.

Devlin Kavanagh, all hard-bodied male in a navy T-shirt, worn jeans and scuffed boots, lounged in the doorway to the Wolcott mansion parlor, his auburn hair gleaming beneath all the lights she’d turned on. Her heart started thundering in her chest and, propping her fists upon her hips, she slammed her mind closed against his appeal. “What do you want, Kavanagh?”

“Oh, that’s friendly.” Shoving away from the door frame, he tipped his head back, closed his eyes and with wide, sweeping movements touched first his right forefinger, then his left, then his right again to the tip of his nose. Snapping erect, he gave her a level look. “Look, Ma, I pass the sobriety test.”

“For now. It remains to be seen how long it will last, though, doesn’t it?”

Eyes narrowing to glints of golden green between dense dark lashes, he demanded, “What is your problem? I wasn’t kidding the other night when I said I was jet-lagged. Maybe I shouldn’t have knocked back those tequilas at the bar, but give me a break. I’d been up for a day and a half and they hit me harder than usual.”

Mortification suffused her. Because he was right: she was being a judgmental bitch and it wasn’t an attitude that set well with her. She didn’t know this guy-it was hardly her place to criticize his actions. “My apologies,” she said stiffly.

He made a skeptical sound. “Yeah, that sounds real sincere.”

What the hell did he want from her? Her spine ached from holding herself so rigidly against the temptation to get close to him. She didn’t understand this crazy attraction at all, but she knew one thing: she was stronger than a few stray hormones. Tipping her chin up, she looked him in the eye. “Then I apologize for that, as well. Your drinking issues are none of my business.”

“Jesus, you don’t give an inch, do you?”

“I said I was sorry!”

“In the most backhanded way I’ve ever heard. But you’re right about one thing, sister. If I had drinking issues they’d be none of your business.”

It was one thing for her to criticize herself and something else for him to do so. “Was there something you wanted, Mr. Kavanagh?”

“Dev.”

She gave him an “and?” look.

“Call me Dev. Or Devlin if you insist on being formal. Mr. Kavanagh’s my dad.”

“Okay. Is there something I can do for you, Devlin?” She stooped to fiddle with the collection of Columbia River basketry at her feet.

“I’m trying to locate updated blueprints for the mansion. A few of the rooms look off but the place is over a hundred years old and unfortunately I don’t have the originals, either. For all I know the joint is riddled with secret passages or other hidey-holes. I’d like to know what we’re dealing with before we start tearing things apart, though, because hidden spaces might actually be a selling point, which Bren tells me is your ultimate objective.”

The idea of a secret passage intrigued her, but she refused to be sidetracked. The sooner she got rid of Mr. I’m-too-sexy-for-my-boots the better. Yet instead of simply giving him a straight answer, she heard herself demand, “And you’re asking me because…?”

“You appear to be the go-to girl for all the odds and ends around here. So would you happen to know where the blueprints are?”

“No, I’m sorry.” And she truly was because the more information Kavanagh Construction had, the better the restoration was likely to turn out. And she’d love to see this old mansion fixed up the way it deserved to be. “I’m sure there’s more than one set, but I honestly don’t know where Miss Agnes kept them. All I know is that she told us Wolcott had been renovated several times. The last was when she had the interior done in 1985.”

He nodded. “The year the Wolcott diamonds were stolen by her construction foreman.”

Jane quit pretending to pay attention to the work she should be doing and rose to her feet to face Devlin squarely. “You know about that?”

“Babe.” He gave her a smile she’d bet her inheritance had gotten him into more than one woman’s silkies. “I’m a Seattle boy. Those diamonds are an urban legend in this town. Everyone knows about them.”

Well, she was a Seattle girl and-“I didn’t. Not until recently. Miss Agnes never talked about their theft or the murder of her man Henry.” She gave a shrug. “At least not before Poppy heard about it from someone and hounded her for the story.” Her lips crooked at the memory. “Poppy can be a bit of a pit bull when she gets her teeth sunk into a subject.”

He started to take a step into the room but must have noticed her stiffening, because he stopped where he was. Bracing a muscular shoulder against the doorjamb, he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and studied her. “Henry, huh? Was that the business manager guy who was killed when the thief came back to recover the diamonds he’d hidden?”

“You’re the expert, Seattle Boy.”

“Hey, I was a kid when it all went down. I was interested in murder and mayhem but mostly fascinated by the idea of a multimillion-dollar set of jewelry still floating around somewhere.”

“Yes, well, Henry was her man for all matters. He was her butler and secretary and advisor and I think probably her lov-” Jane cut herself off, appalled.

What was she doing? She’d already established she didn’t know Devlin. And while assigning him dependency problems might have been jumping the gun a bit, there was no reason to offer him blanket trust, either. So why had she almost blurted out that she and her friends believed Henry had probably been more to Miss Agnes than a simple employee? It wasn’t as if their mentor had admitted as much to them. But the way Agnes had looked when she’d talked about him and the fact he wasn’t even supposed to have been there the night it was popularly believed that Maperton had broken in to retrieve the diamonds that had gone missing the year before, they had all sort of assumed Henry had probably been her lover as well as the man who kept her home and affairs running smoothly.

But she certainly didn’t plan on cozying up to Devlin Kavanagh with the speculation.

“Well, listen.” She gave him her best businesslike smile. “I have work to do. As I said, I really don’t know where the blueprints may be. I’m not even sure any exist. But I will keep an eye out for them.”

He looked at her for a moment, then stepped back, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets. “Thanks. I’ve got a partial set from the kitchen addition that was put on in 1909. I’ll head downtown to see if King County records has the originals or any of the updates since then.” He gave her a brief head-to-toe once-over, licked his bottom lip and nodded. “See ya around, Legs.”

Legs? She stared from the now-empty doorway to the limbs in question, encased in plain old dark Levi’s that she’d paired with a black blazer and a white shirt. She had fairly long legs, but they were certainly nothing to write home about. She’d always thought they were on the skinny side herself, which hardly qualified them as showgirl material.

Then she gave herself a mental shake and a stern directive to forget about it. But good grief. The man was a walking, talking Hazardous to Women zone. She imagined that with his confidence and those eyes and that body, females had been dropping at his feet since the day he hit puberty. Maybe even before.

Well, not her. As far she was concerned, he was Mr. Invisible from this point on. She was keeping her distance. Putting him out of her mind.

Getting her butt back to work.

Putting Miss Agnes’s collections in order so she could start researching and cataloging them was a huge undertaking, and she was happy as a pig in a puddle at the prospect of getting her hands on them. At the same time she was a little daunted by the scope of the museum bequest, and she needed to get moving on it. She had never headed an undertaking of such scale before, and she was laboring under a deadline.

“So here the clock is ticking and I’ve been spinning like that Looney Tunes Tasmanian Devil all day long wasting time just trying to figure out where to start,” she confessed to Ava when her friend dropped by to see how she was doing later that afternoon. “Then, too,” she added wryly, “I keep getting caught up in the nostalgia of so many of the pieces-upshot of which is that I haven’t actually started anywhere.”

“Jane, Jane, Jane.” Ava picked up a first-edition book, ran her fingers over the ancient leather binding, then carefully set the volume back on the shelf where she’d found it and looked up to pin Jane in place with her gaze. “It’s a no-brainer. When in doubt, start with the jewels.”

A startled laugh burst out of Jane and she gave her friend an impulsive hug. “You, Ms. Spencer, are a genius! I’ve been doing a bit of this and bit of that with all the collections, when I should be concentrating on the Met’s stuff. The jewelry is an excellent place to start, since that’s part of their haul.” Grabbing up her slim Apple notebook, she started for the stairs. “Come on. I’ve got the codes for the safe in here. Let’s go see what’s in the vault.”

I T WAS ALMOST 5:00 p.m. by the time Dev let himself back into the mansion. He probably should have called it a day and headed for the apartment his sister Maureen had rented for him in Belltown. But the skies had opened up, the place didn’t feel like home yet and he’d just as soon build a fire in the little study up on the second floor, drink his Starbucks drip and listen to the rain bouncing off the windows while he went over the information he’d gathered from the County Assessor’s office and the Department of Development and Environmental Services.

Not that it was much. Before 1936 the records that the Assessor’s Office kept for buildings had been compiled in longhand on four-by-six-inch cards with lots of revisions and cross-outs and not a single photograph. Pretty much useless, in other words.

But luckily he’d been able to get a Flexcar from the share-a-ride program he belonged to, and more helpful were the photos taken of the mansion from the late thirties on, which he’d run to ground at the Washington State Archives at Bellevue Community College. They weren’t as helpful as blueprints, but they’d at least help him get a handle on the timeline for the various so-called improvements that had been made to the Wolcott mansion.

He frowned as he took the stairs two at a time. Because whoever was responsible for the additions on this grand ole dame ought to be stuffed and mounted. He’d seen some bad do-it-yourself jobs in his day, but he’d never seen a place butchered quite as badly as this one. Few of the structural changes added over the years had been made with the original architecture in mind. And rooms that once must have been spacious and full of grace had been divided to the point they had conceded all personality.

So deep was he in thought about how to undo the damage that he’d nearly reached the study before he realized that feminine voices drifted out of it. He faltered to a stop.

Well…shit. So much for a little time to nurse his coffee in front of a fire.

He was turning away to head back to his apartment after all when the murmur of voices gave way to a woman’s deep, raucous belly laugh. The sound cut through him like a hot sword and he found himself following it back to the doorway as if he were one of those old-time cartoon characters wafting in the wake of a beckoning scent.

Since it never occurred to him that little Miss Bug Up Her Butt Kaplinski could be the woman laughing like she’d just heard a deliciously dirty joke, his gaze zeroed in on the voluptuous redhead seated in profile to him across the room. Unless Ava was a ventriloquist, however, the sound wasn’t coming from her. A slight smile curved her lips as she sat looking at her friend across the delicate oval coffee table. Dev turned his attention in that direction, as well.

Then he simply stood there feeling as if he’d just taken a roundhouse kick to the head.

Jane sat on a velvet love seat perpendicular to the crackling fire, her high-heeled ankle boots tumbled in a heap on the floor and her argyle-stocking-clad feet crossed at the ankles and propped amidst a tumble of velvet boxes and bags on the little coffee table. More neatly arranged containers surrounded her and her left hand curled over the top of an open notebook computer, preventing it from tumbling off her lap while she laughed with her head thrown back as if she’d just heard the raunchiest, most amusing story ever.

It was the first time he’d seen her with her spine fully unbent since stumbling into her table at the bar the other night. Not that he had seen her more than three times total, but on the other two occasions her posture had been rebar rigid, as if she were some secret princess wondering how the hell she’d gotten cast into this world of commoners.

As he watched her start gaining control of herself, a corner of his mouth ticked up. Because the royalty analogy wasn’t half-bad, considering she was wearing a queen’s ransom in jewels.

She’d removed her blazer and rolled up her shirt sleeves, and ropes of emeralds and pearls adorned her wrists, looped in strand after lustrous, glittering strand from her neck. A diamond tiara perched at the fore of her listing bun, a cascade of some jewel he didn’t recognize swung from her ears and each finger sported a gem-encrusted ring.

Ava was similarly decked out, but he barely spared her a second glance. Adorned with only a couple of select pieces, she had the look of someone who’d been born wearing this stuff. Jane looked like a little girl playing dress-up. And given her sober-puss personality he’d bet a position on the next America’s Cup yacht-which, okay, he didn’t actually have to wager-that she hadn’t played a lot of little-girl games even when she’d been one.

“Your turn,” she said, and Ava bent forward to pick one of the velvet containers from the table between them. The redhead’s hand suddenly halted midreach, however, and she turned her head in his direction. He had a nanosecond, as their gazes connected, to wish he’d stepped out of sight while he’d still had the chance.

Then she inclined her head and said easily, “Hey, Dev.”

Jane’s head whipped around and she yanked her feet off the table so fast that several boxes and bags tumbled to the floor. Swearing beneath her breath, she bent to pick them up and her tiara tipped over one eye. She snatched the little crown from her head as hot color flowed up her throat. A minuscule comb that still anchored the tiara on one side ripped a hank of slippery hair free and it unfurled down to the corner of her mouth.

Blowing it off her face, she snapped upright to perch with that ramrod posture on the edge of the velvet seat. Raising her chin, she met his gaze. “Devlin.”

He clicked his boot heels together and gave her a clipped bow. “Your highness.” Okay, it was a cheap shot. But when the universe handed you an opportunity on a silver platter it was practically kicking karma in the teeth to ignore it. He swallowed a grin.

“What can we do for you, Devlin?” Ava asked.

“Huh?” He pulled his gaze away from Jane’s flushed face and looked at her friend. “Oh. Nothing. I was going to build a fire and go over some photos of the mansion that I picked up at the state archives today, but I didn’t realize the room was already occupied.”

Straightening, the redhead extended an imperious hand. “Let’s see them.”

He crossed the room and handed her the manila envelope. Taking it, she patted the love seat next to her with her free hand. “Sit.”

“Stay,” Jane said in the same commanding-the-dog tone, and Dev looked at her in surprise. What the hell-did the woman have a sense of humor after all?

She returned his searching look with a bland one of her own and, rolling his shoulders, he sat down next to Ava. Nah. Probably not.

Ava started to pour the envelope’s contents into her lap, but he clamped his fingers over the opening to stay her. “Don’t dump ’em-reach in and pull them out,” he directed when she bent a queenly look of her own on him. “I’d just as soon not go to the trouble of putting them in order twice.”

She did as he bid and a soft sound of pleasure escaped her when she looked at the topmost photograph. “Oh, this is wonderful. Janie, come see what the place looked like before that awful sunroom was added.”