Kathryn Springer - Family Treasures

“It’s a twin thing, Dad,” she’d said. “It’s like trying to figure out how peanut butter gets on the ceiling.”

And because the whole peanut-butter phenomenon was another unsolved mystery in his household, Devon took his daughter’s advice to accept what he couldn’t explain and move on. It was easier—and maybe a little safer—that way.

“We were waiting for the right moment.” Brady, official timekeeper for the Walsh family, grinned at him.

If it weren’t for Josh’s ears, now a deep shade of crimson, Devon might have fallen for it.

He decided right then and there to get a refund on every single parenting book stacked up next to his bed. Or maybe he should just chuck his next mystery novel and write a parenting book instead. At least it wouldn’t take long. He could probably finish the entire five pages in an hour.

The door leading to the parlor flew open and Jenny appeared.

“Is she here yet…?” A tiny squeak replaced the rest of the sentence when the girl spotted her father standing in the hallway.

Devon frowned. “Is who here yet?”

“Dad!” Jenny gulped. “What are you doing down here? It isn’t break time for—”

“Thirty-one minutes,” Brady supplied helpfully.

Devon’s gaze zeroed in on his daughter. “Did I miss something? Are we expecting company this morning?”

“N-no.”

“I’m not expecting company,” Josh interjected. “Are you expecting company, Brady?”

“I’m not expecting company—”

Devon’s head started to swim and he held up his hand. “Now that we’ve established the fact none of us is expecting company, maybe we should all go into the kitchen and rustle up something for—”

The doorbell interrupted him and Devon’s eyebrows shot up.

“Mmm. I wonder who that could be.” He took a step forward and all three children attached themselves to him like ticks on a deer.

“It’s probably the mailman,” Jenny said. “I’ll get it.”

“Yeah, Dad. You go upstairs and write. You still have…” It wasn’t easy but Brady managed to wrestle his stopwatch out of his pocket again and keep a death grip on his father. “Twenty-eight minutes until lunch.”

“Oh, this is much more interesting than lunch—”

A piercing shriek interrupted him, cutting through the last mournful notes of the doorbell.

Devon closed his eyes. “Josh, did you put Sunny back in her cage after breakfast?”

There was one long, supercharged moment of silence.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

His children still clinging to him, Devon strode toward the door to revive whoever was on the other side. Because the way the morning continued to unravel, the poor woman—and the shriek had definitely been feminine—had probably fallen over in a dead faint.

Devon yanked the door open, ignoring the loud protests of his soon-to-be-grounded-for-life children—because according to the books, grounding was a perfectly acceptable form of discipline—and braced himself to find an unconscious woman sprawled across the welcome mat.

It was a woman, all right.

A very attractive, very conscious woman. Classic features. Glossy dark hair with a faint mahogany sheen. Eyes the same shade of blue as his favorite pair of jeans.

She was standing on the porch wearing a stylish black suit paired with ridiculously high heels.

And was holding Josh’s iguana in her arms.

It was a good thing, Caitlin thought, that her youngest sister taught middle-school science. Because it meant Evie always had a veritable zoo of creatures living in her classroom—creatures she insisted Caitlin learn to appreciate by getting up close and personal with them when she visited.

If not for the benefit of that prior Wild Kingdom education, the sight of the two-foot-long lizard, curled up on the enclosed sun porch next to a sleeping dachshund of roughly the same size, might have really freaked her out.

As it was, the reptile had managed to wring a brief but embarrassing scream out of her. But that was only because the moment she’d dismissed the motionless creature as a realistic chew toy made out of some high-tech scaly fiber, it had come to life and barreled toward her as if she were a long-lost cousin. Apparently not caring that the closest kinship Caitlin could claim to a member of his species was the faux alligator-skin bag hanging in her closet.

Not sure of the creature’s intent but knowing that one assertive move deserved another, Caitlin had bent down and simply picked it up. The lizard then draped itself comfortably over her arm and proceeded to study the gold and sapphire earring dangling from her ear.

As she contemplated the odds of those intimidating claws not doing irreparable damage to her silk blouse, the front door opened. Judging from the expressions on the faces of the people crowded together in the doorway, she now had the honor of being the strangest creature on the porch.

One of the little boys, a mirror image of the other, darted forward, flashed a smile more mischievous than apologetic, and took the iguana from her.

Officially making it five—no, make that six because she probably should include the dachshund—against one.

Caitlin turned her attention to Devon Walsh—not only the tallest one in the group but instantly recognizable by his bad-boy stubble—and felt her heart skip a beat.

The photo hadn’t done him justice.

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.”