Second-Time Lucky. Laurie Paige

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Are you okay?” he asked, his chocolate eyes narrowing as he studied her.

      “Yes. Yes, of course.”

      Moving on, she mentally made notes on the flowers, the neatly mown grass on each side of the walkway, the rocks used to outline and separate each space. Beyond the small lawn, the ground was mulched or graveled for low maintenance and conservative water use.

      From the files, she knew he was a sculptor as well as a salvage expert. Feeling they needed to find neutral ground, she asked, “Did you do those?” and pointed to a birdbath covered in bright ceramic pieces that held two sculptures made of copper wire. One was a bird perched on the edge of the basin and the other was a dog with its front paws on the opposite side while it peered at the bird.

      His gaze followed hers, and he nodded.

      The pleasing diorama was centered in a circle of river gravel. A wooden bench nestled close by under a copse of silver birch trees. The sky formed a perfect backdrop of blue with a few puffy white clouds to add contrast.

      She wondered what it would be like to sit there on a warm summer evening and watch the stars come out.

      “If we could go inside?” she suggested, shaking off the spurious notion.

      He nodded and led the way to the front door, opening it and gesturing for her to go in first. She stepped into the modest home and stopped abruptly, unprepared for the lovely welcoming decor of the room, the warmth that seemed to reach out and grab her heart.

      His hands settled on her shoulders as he came to a halt after almost crashing into her. Through her somber business suit, her skin prickled with awareness of his body so close behind her. She moved forward, away from him and his disturbing masculinity.

      “This is charming,” she told him sincerely.

      His smile returned, a real one. “Krista was in charge of the decorating. She consulted with the Dalton wives.”

      Caileen ignored a flash of envy for the women he’d mentioned. Years ago, when she’d started on her career, the Dalton case history had been presented to her as a most successful blending of families. This achievement represented the paradigm she was to aspire to in her cases.

      The former Dalton orphans were all happily married now, their families integrated into one ideal whole.

      However, one needed ideal material to work with in order to perform miracles. She was willing to settle for a functional arrangement. Turning over a page in her notebook, she noted the cleanliness of the home, the comfortable furniture and the evidence of age-appropriate games and books as well as a television.

      A vase of golden daffodils adorned the dining table and potted plants filled the kitchen windowsills and various corners of the large, open living area. The walls were painted a soft golden yellow with a sienna glaze that added texture. Other colors—yellow, green and pink—had been chosen to complement the braided oval rug that artfully defined the seating area of the large living room.

      A copper sculpture of a mailbox in front of a farmhouse decorated one wall. Charcoal drawings of each of the children hung on another. The drawings were caricatures that were funny and tender at the same time. She noticed the initials on the drawings were the same as his.

      “Is that your work?” she asked, realizing his talents were much greater than indicated in the case study folder.

      Builders and interior designers depended on him in their remodeling efforts, she’d learned. He bought old furniture, even houses, and reclaimed the useable features such as mantels, lintels, doorknobs and decorative moldings.

      While investigating his character, she’d made a point of checking out two of his metal sculptures in Boise, each a featured item in the front yards of very expensive homes. The reports hadn’t mentioned his additional artistic abilities, such as the drawings.

      “Yes.”

      The answer was grudgingly given. She didn’t write this observation down. “They’re quite good. Children need to see pictures of themselves. It gives them a feeling of worth and self-confidence, of being important to others.”

      When he said nothing, she continued on the tour.

      In each of the bedrooms there was a desk and bookcase. Each desk had a dictionary on it. The bookcases were filled with reference books and novels that reflected the personal tastes of the occupants. She noted this with approval.

      “Excellent,” she said, giving him a nod and closing the notebook when she finished the inspection.

      His chest lifted as if he took a deep breath of relief. It was the only sign he’d displayed of being apprehensive about her visit. “The last room is down this way.”

      She followed him to the opposite side of the house, although there was really no need to see his quarters.

      But she was curious.

      The bedroom was large and rather narrow. A king-size bed occupied one end. There were tables and lamps handily located on each side of it. An alcove with an easy chair, a rocker and a bookcase invited one to linger and read. A large bathroom was next to that. The color scheme was a soft, smoky blue with touches of tan and mauve.

      Envy ran through her like a summer heat wave.

      “Your home is lovely,” she managed to say. “It will be a wonderful place for children to grow up.”

      “If the adults make it that way,” he said, qualifying her impulsive statement. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

      Her surprise must have showed.

      “I want to ask you some questions,” he added.

      “Coffee would be fine.”

      Once they were seated at the dining room table, each with a steaming cup of fresh coffee, he gazed out the window as a nippy March breeze stirred the daffodils.

      “How long do you have to check me out before you decide the kids are okay here?”

      “Foster children are under the care of the state and county until they’re adults.”

      “Eighteen or twenty-one?”

      “Eighteen.”

      The frown line indented across his forehead. “So you’ll be keeping an eye on us for several years.”

      “Until Krista is eighteen.”

      “Seven years and one day,” he said. “Could they be taken away at any time if you give the word?”

      “Not quite as easily as that,” she told him. “I would have to be able to show cause.”

      “What would that be?”

      She wondered what he was getting at. “Physical abuse—”

      “Like the beatings that made Tony and Krista run away from the other foster home?”

      Caileen reached across the table and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m terribly СКАЧАТЬ