Cade had assumed the day couldn’t get any worse.

He’d had three phone calls from Aunt Judith, reminding him about wedding details he’d rather forget. All he could do was attempt to bring sanity into the nightmare everyone insisted on referring to as a wedding.

Then he’d lost the dog.

And found the wedding photographer.

A polite cough yanked his attention back to the woman. He reached out and closed his fingers around hers, but instead of immediately releasing his grip, he drew her to her feet.

It was getting late and he still had to find the dog.

Something hit the floor and Cade watched sandwich cookies roll in every direction. Meghan’s sigh echoed around the room. “Did you ever have one of those days?”

Cade suppressed the urge to smile. “Never.”

“Right.” The undercurrent of laughter in her voice sent Cade off balance. He wasn’t sure he liked the feeling.

MILLS & BOON

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KATHRYN SPRINGER

is a lifelong Wisconsin resident. Growing up in a “newspaper” family, she spent long hours as a child plunking out stories on her mother’s typewriter and hasn’t stopped writing since! She loves to write inspirational romance because it allows her to combine her faith in God with her love of a happy ending.

Hidden Treasures
Kathryn Springer

In this way they will lay up treasure for themselves as a firm foundation for the coming age, so that they may take hold of the life that is truly life.

—1 Timothy 6:19

To Norah—

Always listen for the sound of wild geese,

stop to pick dandelions, study the clouds…

and reach for the stars. And remember,

you are fearfully and wonderfully made!

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

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

“I knew I’d find you hiding in here.”

“Technically, it’s not hiding if the person is in plain sight.” Meghan McBride shot a mischievous smile at her sister, Caitlin, who sauntered into the room with her usual catlike grace, still wearing the periwinkle-blue stilettos she’d stepped into at eight o’clock that morning.

Meghan had kicked off an identical pair hours ago. It was too much to hope Caitlin hadn’t spotted her bare toes peeking out from under the netting of the tea-length gown she wore. She’d probably already noticed that Meghan’s hair had managed to break free of the grid of bobby pins anchoring it in place. It wasn’t fair that the breeze skipping off Lake Superior during their youngest sister’s outdoor wedding ceremony had ignored Caitlin’s neat French twist and set its sights on Meghan’s mop of curls—the ones the stylist had spent an extra half hour trying to restrain.

“Evie and Sam are getting ready to leave. She was wondering where you were…” Caitlin frowned. “Is that frosting on your elbow?”

Shoot. Meghan inspected her arm and made a halfhearted attempt to scrub off the pink smear with her thumbnail. “I think so. I warned Evie that she shouldn’t have asked me to cut the cake.”

Like a magician, Caitlin somehow produced a delicately embroidered handkerchief out of thin air and handed it to her with a sigh.

That was the trouble with sisters. They knew every chink in a person’s armor. Caitlin’s sharp eye for detail made her wildly popular as an image consultant and wildly annoying as an older sister. Evie had waved the white flag of surrender and turned her closet over to Caitlin years ago, but Meghan had refused to go down without a fight. She liked going barefoot and wearing blue jeans and T-shirts. Not only did she spend most of her spare time with children and paint, every time she bought something new, she ended up getting a stain—or two—on it. What was the point?

“I still can’t believe our baby sister is married,” Caitlin murmured.

Meghan couldn’t believe it, either. The previous summer, she and Caitlin had sweet-talked Evie into managing Beach Glass, their father’s antique store, while he went away on a two-week fishing trip. Evie’s brief stay had turned into something straight from the pages of an action-adventure novel. She’d discovered that her father and his friend, Jacob Cutter, were searching for clues they hoped would lead them to a sunken ship. Their cautious sister, who ordinarily steered clear of anything risky, had dodged a corrupt group of treasure hunters and fallen in love with Jacob’s son, Sam.

“Right out of a fairy tale,” Meghan murmured. “Who would have guessed?”

Caitlin made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. Except that image consultants didn’t snort. “Sam’s a good guy.”

The understatement of the year. “He’s perfect for Evie. And she deserves to be happy.” Meghan knew her sister couldn’t argue with that.

“She does.” Caitlin’s expression softened. “We better get back to the reception before she hunts us down—”

“Too late!” The words, accompanied by Evie’s lilting laugh and the rustle of satin, preceded her into the kitchen.

Meghan took one look at her sister and the lump that had lodged in her throat—the one that had formed while she’d watched Sam and Evie recite their vows—swelled to the size of an orange again. Evie looked spectacular in the ivory gown Caitlin had found in an exclusive shop in the Twin Cities, where Caitlin and Meghan lived.

Meghan ignored a pinch of envy. It’s not that she wasn’t ecstatic for Evie. She just couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to feel that way about someone. Caitlin was openly cynical when it came to love, but Meghan knew it happened to some people. Like their parents. And now Evie and Sam. But for reasons she kept to herself, she wasn’t convinced she was ever going to be one of them.

“Sam and I are going to sneak away while the orchestra is playing the last song.” Evie’s gown swished around her feet as she crossed the room and drew them into an affectionate hug. “I wish I could take you to Paris.”

“Oh, Sam would love that,” Caitlin said dryly.

“Have fun,” Meghan commanded. “And don’t worry about Dad. I’m planning to stay until next weekend and I promise I’ll take good care of him.”

Evie’s smile faded slightly, proving she still had some progress to make when it came to letting their father manage on his own. Evie had an exasperating tendency to fuss over Patrick, although Meghan thought she understood why. Evie had been a freshman in high school and the only one of them still living at home when their mother, Laura, had passed away unexpectedly.

“I have a list of reminders—”

Meghan’s howl drowned Evie out. “I don’t do lists! I lose lists, Evie. You know that.”

“That’s why I made copies.” Evie looked smug. “Several of them. And they’re posted where you can’t miss seeing them.”

“On a package of Oreos?” Caitlin said under her breath.

Meghan bit back a protest long enough to glare at Caitlin. When she turned back to Evie, she pasted a smile on her face. No need to upset the bride on her wedding day. “Dad and I will be fine, Evie. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Megs is right. It’s not like Dad is a toddler who’s going to get into trouble the minute your back is turned.”

Evie didn’t look convinced. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” she said darkly. “Remember what happened last summer.”

“The entire Cutter family became believers. Sophie and Jacob got engaged. And you met Sam.” Meghan believed in looking at the positives. If she didn’t, she’d never have been able to gather the courage to launch her own photography business.

“That’s true.” Evie gnawed on her lower lip. “But he’s up to something. I can always tell. He and Jacob were in a huddle earlier this afternoon and he’s been spending a lot of time online lately.”

Caitlin opened her mouth but Meghan shot her a warning look and looped an arm around Evie’s slim shoulders. “I’ll watch out for Dad. And I’ve got one word for you. Honeymoon. Now go. Sam’s probably waiting in the car.”

Evie’s cheeks turned as pink as the miniature roses in her bouquet. “I’m going. And I’ll call—”

“When you get back,” Caitlin interrupted.

“When I get back,” Evie promised.

Meghan didn’t believe it for a second. Judging from the skeptical look on Caitlin’s face, she didn’t, either.

“Evie?” Sam poked his head in the doorway and his pewter gaze zeroed in on his wife. “Are you ready?”

“Just hugging my sisters before we leave.”

“There’s always time for that.” Sam’s warm smile encompassed all three women and once again Meghan found herself thanking God that He’d brought Sam and Evie together.

You wouldn’t happen to have another Sam hidden somewhere, would you, Lord?

Caitlin cleared her throat. “Go on, you two. The sooner you get out of here, the sooner I get my postcard of the Eiffel Tower.”

“I taped a backup list to Caitlin’s mirror in case you lose yours,” Evie called over her shoulder.

Evie and Sam disappeared and Meghan felt the weight of the sudden silence, knowing that no matter how happy they were for Evie, things would be different now.

“I wish I could stay with you and Dad a few extra days, but I’m booked from now until September.” Caitlin broke the silence.

“Dad and I will be fine,” Meghan said. “You know Evie. She has a tendency to worry, that’s all. Like you said, what kind of trouble can a retired English teacher get into?”

Chapter One

Dad, you are in so much trouble.

Meghan surveyed the papers fanned out on her father’s desk. The ones she’d discovered when she’d shouldered her way into the study to deliver his afternoon cup of green tea and plate of Oreos. Evie’s list had specified fig bars—in capital letters, no less—but over the course of the week Meghan had fed those to an adorable family of gray squirrels. That the discovery the squirrels liked fig bars had taken place after she’d dumped the cookies out the window was entirely coincidental.

She picked up a stack of photos, every one of them depicting a work by a well-known artist named Joseph Ferris. Either her dad had shifted his interest from antiques to art or else he was planning to become an art thief.

Which could also explain the blueprints of what looked to be a sizable estate fanned out on the desk blotter.

She’d gotten suspicious when she’d seen the light glowing under the door of her father’s study two nights in a row. At midnight. Patrick always went to bed promptly after the ten o’clock news. Both times she’d ignored it, not wanting to draw attention to her late-night forays into the kitchen for leftover wedding cake.

But the night before she’d heard the phone ring a few minutes after twelve and then her father’s muffled voice on the other side of the door as she padded down the hallway. She’d assumed he was talking to Evie, but when she’d asked about it at breakfast, her father had almost choked on his whole-grain bagel and mumbled something vague about talking to a friend.

Right. Suspicious, she’d pushed a special code on the phone and listened to a nice little robotic voice recite the number of the last incoming call. From an area code somewhere in upstate New York.

Meghan had to face the truth. Evie’s list had turned her into…Evie. But there was no going back now. She had to find out what he was up to.

Ever since Patrick had discovered the whereabouts of the Noble, a ship Lake Superior had claimed in the late 1800s, and solved the mystery behind a century-old scandal that had plagued Sophie’s family, random people had started to contact him. Some asked for help researching their genealogy while others wanted to hire him to locate missing family heirlooms.

In spite of his daughters’ initial misgivings, Patrick had actually taken on some “clients” over the winter and, judging from the growing number of inquiries, his reputation must have spread.

Meghan blew out a sigh. She didn’t want to be the wet blanket that snuffed out the fire of enthusiasm in her dad’s new hobby, but a person couldn’t be too careful nowadays. Hadn’t Patrick learned that lesson the summer before, when a man he’d thought he could trust had turned on him and Jacob Cutter while they’d searched for the Noble?

She put down a photo of Joseph Ferris’s haunting watercolor Momentum and pivoted toward the door. And came nose to nose with her father.

“Meghan.”

“Dad.” Meghan crossed her arms and did her best imitation of Caitlin. It must have worked, because a deep red stain crept out from under the collar of her father’s oxford shirt and worked its way to his cheekbones.

Patrick coughed. “Ah…I was wondering where you were.”

I’ll bet you were.

“It’s three o’clock. Tea and cookie time.”

“My watch must be slow,” Patrick muttered.

Meghan sighed and decided to stop being Evie. And Caitlin. Especially Caitlin. Her suspicions were ridiculous. This was her father. Patrick McBride. The absentminded professor. Mr. Integrity himself.

“Why the sudden interest in Joseph Ferris, Dad? And please tell me that you aren’t planning to supplement your retirement income by becoming an art thief.” Meghan laughed.

Patrick didn’t. Instead he gave her a thoughtful look. “Do you think it falls under the label of stealing if a person is taking something back that technically belonged to them in the first place?”

Meghan groped for the plate of Oreos she’d set on the desk. “Does the something that technically belongs to someone else happen to be a work by Ferris?”

“Yes.”

Meghan shoved a cookie in her mouth. Never mind twisting the two sides apart and delicately scraping out the cream center. “You’re going to…to steal a Joseph Ferris?”

Patrick smiled. “Of course not. I wouldn’t begin to know what an authentic Ferris even looks like.”

“Well, that’s a relief—”

“That’s why I was hoping you’d do it.”

“Let me get this straight.” An hour later Meghan had a new appreciation for Evie’s suspicions about their dad’s dedication to his side business. Her younger sister had tried to warn her, after all. “A woman named Nina Bonnefield contacted you by e-mail, claiming she knew Ferris personally. He supposedly left a gift for her on an estate he visited in northern Wisconsin almost twenty years ago. And she hired you to find it for her.”

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Patrick said, way too cheerfully in Meghan’s opinion.

Of their own volition, Meghan’s fingers walked across the desk toward the plate of Oreos. Until she realized she’d eaten them all. “Why doesn’t this Nina Bonnefield go back to the estate and retrieve it herself? If it really belongs to her.”

There, she’d said it.

“That’s…complicated.”

Of course it was. “Dad, this whole thing sounds kind of fishy to me. You said she isn’t even sure if the gift Ferris left for her was a painting. Maybe it was a coffee mug. Or a souvenir toothpick holder.”

“For reasons Nina—Ms. Bonnefield—can’t share, she can’t go back. That’s why she needs my help. There’s a rumor the island is going up for sale and—”

“Wait a second. Did you say island?” Meghan interrupted.

“The Halloway estate is on a private island on Blue Key Lake, near the Chequamegon National Forest. It’s been in the family for years but they closed it up in the late eighties.”

Halloway. Halloway. The name stirred up something in Meghan’s subconscious, but another thought darted in and pushed that one aside for the moment.

“So Nina is somehow related to the family that owns the island?”

Patrick’s gaze bounced around the room and finally came to rest on Meghan. “No offense, but I promised Ms. Bonnefield I’d keep that part confidential. Jacob and I checked out her story, and both of us believe she’s telling the truth. She sent me a copy of the letter from Ferris and it does sound as if he left something for her. A thank you of some sort for her friendship and encouragement.”

“That would be some thank-you,” Meghan muttered.

“His paintings are valuable?”

“Paintings, drawings, sculptures. He dabbled in everything. Ferris is one of those artists who gained fame postmortem. By the time the critics finally noticed him and acknowledged his genius, he was in the final stages of pancreatic cancer. The collection of his work isn’t all that sizable because his career was short, so what’s out there got snapped up right away. If there’s still one floating around, I’m sure someone would have noticed. It may have already been sold.”

“Or tucked away in a closet on an estate in northern Wisconsin.”

And Meghan thought she was an optimist.

She tucked her teeth into her bottom lip and tried to figure out a way to discourage her father from getting himself into a potentially sticky situation. And helping oneself to a valuable piece of art definitely fell into that category, no matter who claimed ownership. “There has to be a way Nina Bonnefield can find out if the Ferris is there without involving you.”

“There is a reason, but I can’t tell you what it is. It’s—”

“Confidential. I know.” She hated to ask the obvious. “So what’s your plan?”

Patrick’s eyes lit up and Meghan tried not to groan. Somehow she knew she wasn’t going to like the answer.

“The house is going to be opened up temporarily for a family wedding in a few weeks. According to my sources—”

Meghan blinked. His sources?

“—after the wedding, the Halloways plan to auction off the contents of the house before the actual sale of the island goes through. From what I’ve heard, the family used to be quite a patron of the arts. There’s a sizable collection of paintings and sculptures there. I’m more familiar with antiques, so I wouldn’t be much help.”

Meghan’s eyes narrowed. She had a background in art. She remembered what her dad had initially said about her finding the Ferris. She’d assumed he’d been kidding. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“Dad, please tell me you aren’t thinking I’m a shoo-in for the job.”

“Of course not, sweetheart.” Patrick looked surprised by the suggestion. “I told Ms. Bonnefield you’re a photographer.”

That much was true. Meghan relaxed a little, relieved she and her dad were on the same page. It didn’t sound like either of them would be of much use to the mysterious Ms. Bonnefield. Thank goodness.

“So she decided to find someone else to play Nancy Drew?”

“Not quite.” Patrick plucked off his glasses and rubbed them against his shirttail.

Warning bells suddenly went off in Meghan’s head. That particular gesture meant her father was either nervous—or stalling. “Daaaad?”

“I had no idea she was going to pull a few strings.”

“What kind of strings?”

“Parker Halloway has hired you as her wedding photographer.”

“Wedding…” Meghan surged to her feet. “I don’t photograph people. Didn’t you tell Ms. Bonnefield that?”

“I did.” Patrick smiled. “But she made you an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

Meghan’s teeth rattled in her head as the small fishing boat bounced over the waves toward Blue Key Island. She kept her gaze trained on the slate-shingled roof peeking through a shield of poplar trees. Proof, at least, that one of Nina Bonnefield’s claims was true. The Halloway house really did exist.

Meghan sincerely hoped the woman hadn’t been making up the rest of the story.

She still couldn’t believe she’d adjusted her work schedule to accommodate a visit to the Halloway estate in the first place. But like Joshua scoping out the Promised Land, a reconnaissance mission was all Meghan would agree to. Unlike her father, she didn’t trust a woman who’d suddenly appeared out of cyberspace, claiming a friendship with a famous artist but not willing to disclose the nature of her sketchy relationship with the Halloways. Or why she couldn’t simply knock on the door and ask for her property back.

It took several days of negotiations with Patrick, but in the end Ms. Bonnefield had reluctantly accepted Meghan’s terms. If Meghan happened to spot an authentic Ferris hanging on the wall, it was up to its owner to figure out a way to claim it.

Meghan didn’t trust Ms. Bonnefield but she trusted her dad. And it wasn’t his fault that the thought of hunting for a work of art wasn’t nearly as nerve-racking as playing wedding photographer. Even though she couldn’t argue with Patrick’s assertion that it made sense for her to be in a position where she could wander around the island—and the house—with a camera.

The boat tripped over a wave and Meghan grabbed the side to steady herself.

“It’s a little choppy today,” Verne Thatcher shouted above the roar of the outboard motor. “Storm’s moving in quicker than they predicted.”

Meghan glanced from the grizzled old fishing guide to the batting of dark clouds unfolding across the sky.

She and Patrick had spent the better part of the afternoon roaming through the sleepy little town of Willoughby, trying to find someone with a boat who was willing to take her across. With a major thunderstorm in the forecast, no one seemed eager to go out on the water. Or maybe it had something to do with the reason for Meghan’s trip to the island.

Judging from the closed expressions on the faces of the locals whenever Meghan and Patrick mentioned the name Halloway, it was clear the family wasn’t going to win any popularity contests. Meghan didn’t want to speculate as to the reason why.

Close to giving up, they’d settled into a booth at the local diner to discuss their options when a shadow fell across Meghan’s laminated menu.

The man standing beside their table was short and wiry, with features that looked as if they’d been carved from a piece of teak. Dressed from head to toe in field khaki, the only thing that prevented him from looking like a game warden was the Hawaiian-print handkerchief casually knotted at his throat.

He flicked the brim of his hat, which was studded with fishing lures. “Hear you’re looking for a boat to the island. We better get there before the rain does.”

Meghan barely had time to kiss her dad goodbye before Verne Thatcher tossed her suitcase into the back of his rusty pickup and hoisted her into the cab, where she found herself wedged between two damp, liver-spotted spaniels named Smith and Wesson.

Now, close enough to the island to see the dock jutting out from the gentle contours of the shoreline, a fresh crop of doubts stirred up the butterflies in Meghan’s stomach. Just as a raindrop splashed against the back of her hand.

“Someone expecting you?” Verne barked the question as he eased back on the throttle and the boat agreeably slowed down.

“Yes.”

It was the truth. They just weren’t expecting her to arrive a full week before the wedding.

She’d talked to Parker Halloway’s wedding planner, a young woman named Bliss Markham, on the phone the day before and told her that she wanted to come a few days early to find the best spots for a photo shoot. Bliss thought it was a marvelous idea. She’d even repeated the word marvelous several times. In the same sentence.

Listening to the woman’s fake British accent fade in and out, Meghan thought it was a good thing her father had drafted her for the mission instead of Caitlin. Caitlin would have made mincemeat out of Bliss Markham.

According to Bliss, she wouldn’t be the only one on the island. The caretaker, a man the wedding planner had simply referred to as “Bert” and who apparently lived on the estate year-round, was also expecting a landscape team hired to spruce up the grounds and a cleaning service to tackle the inside of the house.

Verne muttered something under his breath. “When I pull up to the dock, jump out and grab your stuff.”

Meghan blinked. “Why?”

Verne pointed to the sky, where lightning flickered in the underbelly of a dark bank of clouds. “That’s why.”

Meghan quickly judged the distance between the dock and the house now visible through the trees. Her breath caught in her throat as she got a close look at it for the first time. She’d never believed in love at first sight. Until now.

For some reason she’d expected the Halloway estate to be a typical north-woods vacation home hewn from rustic logs. Instead it looked as if someone had plucked a château out of the French countryside and deposited it on an island in the middle of a chilly Wisconsin lake.

Meghan forgot about the rain as her eyes absorbed the two-story house painted a sleepy blue, with faded poppy-red shutters and a multicolored slate roof.

Smith and Wesson roused from their nap and lifted their noses, sniffing the air. Then looked accusingly at Meghan.

She figured out why a few seconds later when the heavens opened up.

“Mr. Thatcher, you should come with me up to the house until the rain stops,” she shouted over the pelting rain.

Verne’s eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. “No, thanks. I’ll take my chances on the water,” he shouted back.

Before Meghan could respond to the cryptic remark, her suitcase sailed out of the boat and bounced onto the dock. She had no choice but to follow it. When she turned to thank Verne for his trouble, the boat was already spearing a path through the waves toward the opposite shore.

Meghan lifted the suitcase and held it over her head. The lopsided old boathouse built on stilts over the water wasn’t nearly as charming as the château, but it was probably dry.

The light show dancing in the clouds above her head helped make up her mind. Meghan tucked the camera bag under the hem of her shirt and made a break for it.

Fumbling with the rusty latch, she shouldered the door of the boathouse open and tossed her suitcase in first to protect the bag of Oreos she’d stashed inside of it.

Her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the boathouse more quickly than her nose adjusted to the musty smell emanating from a mound of moldy life jackets stacked in the corner.

From the sound of the rain battering the window, Meghan guessed she’d be stuck here awhile. She wrung the water out of her hair, wrestled a sweatshirt out of the bottom of the suitcase and pulled it on over her wet T-shirt. Picking through a mishmash of garden furniture, she unearthed an old wicker rocking chair. Minus the cushion.

Meghan settled into it and tucked the headphones from her iPod into her ears, while she attacked the first row of cookies, vowing to stop after four. Or five.

Closing her eyes, Meghan let the praise music wash over her. If she couldn’t work in her studio, music was the next best thing to guide her thoughts back to God. And at the moment, she knew she needed a long conversation with Him so she wouldn’t unravel at the seams.

I don’t have a clue what you have planned, Lord, but here I am. Or here am I, as Isaiah would say. I’d rather photograph animals than people, but I want to help out Dad. For some reason he thinks Ms. Bonnefield is a wounded soul—and you know Dad can never turn his back on a wounded soul.

Something she and her father had in common.

Meghan’s “Amen” came out in a yawn, reminding her she’d been up since dawn. She pushed aside the package of Oreos and decided to rest her eyes for a minute. When the rain subsided, she’d find the caretaker and explain why she’d shown up a week early.

The lightning had moved inside the boathouse.

Meghan’s eyelashes fluttered and she realized she must have dozed off for a few minutes. Confused, she blinked at the bright beam of light aimed directly at her face. It wasn’t lightning. It was a flashlight.

Panic suddenly slammed her heart against her chest.

Because on the other end of the flashlight was a…man. The shadows obscured his features but she could see the broad outline of his shoulders as he loomed above her.

She struggled to sit up, shielding her eyes with one hand.

“Are you the caretaker?” She croaked. Rats. What was his name? She couldn’t remember. “Mr. Um…”

The light suddenly shifted from her face, trailing a path down her soggy frame and lingering a moment on the package of Oreos balanced on her knee.

“Bert,” he finally said.

Meghan wondered if all the men in the area had something against speaking in complete sentences. She plucked the headphones out of her ears—no wonder she hadn’t heard him sneak up on her—and pushed her fingers self-consciously through her tangled curls.

Way to make a first impression, Megs. Soaking wet and sound asleep. And probably smelling a bit more like Smith and Wesson than a person in polite company should smell.

Not that the present company seemed very polite…

She took a deep breath. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Meghan McBride.”

“You’re the…wedding planner?”

Meghan’s laugh rippled around the boathouse. He thought she was Bliss Markham? Caitlin would be on the floor when she heard that one.

“No. I’m the wedding photographer.”

Chapter Two

And Cade had assumed the day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Since breakfast, he’d had three phone calls from his aunt Judith, all reminding him about wedding details he’d rather forget. The owner of a local landscaping business had been next, telling him they were backing out of the agreement “for reasons they’d rather not discuss.” This meant Aunt Judith had been calling them with reminders, too. But they had the luxury of being able to simply walk away from her constant micromanaging. Unlike Cade, who was family. All he could do was exercise the self-control his father had spent years developing in him and attempt to bring some sanity into the nightmare everyone else insisted on referring to as a wedding.

In the afternoon he’d had a surreal twenty-minute conversation with a woman named Bliss Markham, whose voice fluctuated between a clipped British accent one minute and a Southern drawl the next.

And then he’d lost the dog.

And accidentally found the wedding photographer.

He hadn’t even known his sister had hired one. The last he’d heard, Parker had decided against a professional photographer and wanted disposable cameras available for the guests. Cade had a hunch Aunt Judith had had something to do with the latest reversal in plans.

His lips twisted. Aunt Judith had something to do with most of the changes made in the past few weeks. When she hadn’t been able to change Parker’s mind about her choice of a groom, she’d retaliated by attempting to take over everything else instead.

Not that Cade blamed her. It was a Halloway family trait they all shared to some degree.

A polite cough yanked his attention back to the moment. And to the woman sprawled in the wicker chair.

Staring down at Meghan McBride, Cade pushed aside the unwelcome thought that she looked like a pre-Raphaelite model come to life. Oval face. Wide-spaced, gray-green eyes. Damp copper curls spilling over her shoulders. The only thing that didn’t fit was the wide, engaging smile on her face.

Cade suddenly realized she’d extended her hand. Time to play nice. He reached out and closed his fingers around hers, but instead of immediately releasing his grip, he drew her to her feet.

It was getting late and he still had to find the dog.

Something hit the floor and Meghan McBride gave a startled yelp. Cade pointed the flashlight down and watched sandwich cookies roll away in every direction.

Meghan’s sigh echoed around the room. “Did you ever have one of those days?”

Cade turned toward the door, surprised by a sudden urge to smile. “Never.”

“Right.” The undercurrent of laughter in her voice sent Cade off balance. And he wasn’t sure he liked the feeling.

There’d been more than enough upheaval in his life over the past few weeks. The only reason he’d returned to the island was to tour the estate before meeting with the Realtor. He hadn’t voluntarily signed up for his sister’s unexpected waltz down memory lane, but when Parker had gotten wind of his plan to sell Blue Key Island, she’d insisted on getting married there.

At least one of them had fond memories of the place.

“I guess I must have dozed off for a few minutes.” Meghan McBride’s voice had the kind of lilting cadence that sounded as if she were reciting poetry. It should have been annoying. But it wasn’t. It was…soothing.

Cade circled the flashlight on the wall until he spotted the switch, hidden beneath a stained baseball cap on a hook just above it. He’d avoided the boathouse since his arrival, but suddenly a hat brought back a whole lot of memories he didn’t have the energy or desire to sort through at the moment. Maybe never.

He flipped the light on and turned his attention back to Meghan. Her lips moved as she silently counted the number of edible cookies left in the package.

“Care to explain why you’re in the boathouse?” And why I didn’t have a clue you were arriving today?

“It started to rain the minute we docked. This was closer than the house.”

“Who brought you over?” Cade took a quick inventory of Meghan’s belongings—a small suitcase, a duffel bag and a camera case—and wondered where she’d stowed the rest of her things.

“Mr. Thatcher,” she murmured distractedly.

“Verne Thatcher?”

The incredulous note in the caretaker’s voice made Meghan lose count. She glanced up at him and felt the same jolt of stunned surprise when she’d caught her first glimpse of the house.

The man scowling at her didn’t look like a caretaker. Or a Bert.

When Bliss had mentioned the estate’s caretaker, Meghan’s imagination had immediately conjured up a middle-aged, scruffy-looking hermit in practical coveralls who puttered around the lonely estate, making sure the pipes didn’t freeze in the winter.

So much for her imagination.

This caretaker wasn’t middle-aged…or scruffy-looking. Unless a person considered the faint shadow that outlined his angular jaw scruffy. And Meghan decided, charitably, not to. Hair as dark and sleek as an otter’s pelt lay flat against his head, a testimony to the fact she hadn’t been the only one caught in the downpour earlier.

The pristine-white polo shirt and tan cargo pants he wore looked more suitable for an afternoon of sailing than for physical labor, but it was Friday. Maybe he had the weekends off.

“You said Thatcher brought you over?”

Meghan had been so distracted by the man’s looks she’d forgotten he’d asked her a question. And then their eyes met and she found herself distracted all over again. Given his coloring, his eyes should have been chocolate-brown. Or hazel. Not a startling shade of dark blue that reminded her of a summer sky right after sunset.

He arched a brow and Meghan’s face heated. “We met Mr. Thatcher at the café in Willoughby,” she said quickly.

“We?”

“My dad and I.” Meghan watched the cobalt eyes narrow and guessed the reason. He probably thought his peaceful island had come under siege. “We didn’t know where to leave my car, so Dad dropped me off until after the wedding.”

“Is the wedding ever going to be over?” he muttered, plowing his fingers through his hair as he stalked toward the door. Meghan assumed it was a hypothetical question. “You can go up to the house until I figure out where to put you. There’s a fire in the library.”

“What are you going to do?”

He threw an impatient look over his shoulder. “I lost…something. And I have to find it before it gets any later.”

Meghan scrambled to collect her belongings and managed to squeeze through the door just before it closed. She hurried to catch up with him. “I’ll help you.”

There wasn’t a hitch in his long-legged stride. “Not necessary, Miss McBride.”

“Two are better than one, for they have a good return for their work.” It was a verse from Ecclesiastes Meghan liked to use to encourage Caitlin when she went into control-freak mode. He shot Meghan a look that should have sent her scurrying for cover. If she was the scurrying kind. Which she wasn’t.

“We’re…I’m…looking for a dog. A spoiled-rotten, annoying, undisciplined dog.”

Meghan would have laughed except it looked as if he meant every word. “Does this, um, spoiled, annoying, undisciplined dog have a name?”

“Of course it has a name,” he replied irritably.

Someone had definitely skipped the Mister Rogers’ episode about good manners. “Dogs have been known to respond when their owner calls their name.”

“That might work. If I were the ungrateful rodent’s owner.”

The animal lover in Meghan rose up in immediate protest. Points for good looks, major demerits for the rodent comment.

“What kind of dog is it?” Meghan followed him onto a footpath that disappeared into the woods. Only the flashlight beam Bert swept back and forth kept her from tripping over the roots that had erupted through the hard-packed soil.

“I told you.”

“You told me it was annoying and spoiled—”

“And undisciplined.”

“Right.” Meghan cleared her throat. “That may or may not describe its temperament. But what breed of dog is it?”

“Some kind of powder-puff thing.” The words came out grudgingly.

“I don’t think the American Kennel Club officially registers those.” Meghan heard a snort from the shadow moving ahead of her.

She stumbled over another root and dropped the duffel bag she now wished she’d left at the boathouse. Pressing a hand to the stitch in her side, she made an executive decision. She put her fingers between her lips and let loose a piercing whistle.

The flashlight beam pooled on the path and then swung in her direction. “If you wanted to get my attention, all you had to do was tap me on the shoulder.”

Meghan planted her hands on her hips. “Actually, I’m trying to get the dog’s attention. But it would help if I knew his name.”

Silence.

“This is crazy, Mr….” Was Bert his first or last name? She had no idea. “He could be two feet away—” Hiding from you. “But if the storm scared him, he won’t come out unless he hears a familiar voice call his name.”

“It’s a she,” he finally said. “Miss Molly. And please don’t sing the words to the song,” he added swiftly. “It’s been done before. Frequently.”

Meghan hummed a bar instead and heard Bert groan. She grinned, not sure why she took such delight in irritating him. She didn’t even know the man. “Thank you. Now we’re getting somewhere. Miss Molly—”

Her lips had barely gotten the words out when a small, furry object suddenly hurtled out of the brush and bumped against her leg, whimpering. Meghan lifted Miss Molly up and cuddled the animal against her chest. From the shape of the dog and its soft coat, she guessed it was a bichon. “I think I found her.”

He turned around and strode back down the path, eyeing the bedraggled animal in disgust when he reached Meghan’s side. “It’s about time.”

You’re welcome, Meghan thought. If he would have swallowed his manly pride and simply called the dog by her name, they probably wouldn’t have had to trek through the woods to find her.

Miss Molly wiggled in Meghan’s arms and gazed adoringly at Bert.

Hey, who was the one who rescued you? Meghan wanted to remind her. This guy called you a rodent….

Bert stripped off his lightweight nylon jacket and tucked it around the dog. Then he took Meghan’s duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Meghan smiled as she followed him back down the trail. So there was a heart beating underneath the little polo player embroidered on his shirt.

When they emerged from the woods, Bert ignored the flagstone path and cut across the yard toward the house. Meghan could see a collection of strange silhouettes in the shadows and silently kicked herself for falling asleep in the boathouse. Now she’d have to wait until morning to explore the island.

“Did you find her?” Light spilled onto the grass as a woman suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“We found her,” Bert replied tersely.

“We?”

Meghan felt a sudden urge to jump behind a shrub as the woman’s head turned in her direction. For the hundredth time that day she wondered what she’d gotten herself into. Or, more accurately, what had her dad and Nina Bonnefield gotten her into? And why had she agreed?

Because Ms. Bonnefield had somehow figured out that while Meghan wouldn’t be swayed by a generous personal check, the offer of a sizable donation to a ministry close to her heart would tip the balance in her favor.

“Come inside, both of you. You must be soaked to the skin.” The woman stepped back as they reached the semicircle of flagstones in front of the weathered red door. The elements had stripped most of the original paint away and left the lion’s head door knocker tarnished.

What exactly was the caretaker taking care of? That’s what Meghan wanted to know.

She unveiled Miss Molly and the little dog almost leaped out of her arms when she spotted the other woman standing in the hall.

Their reunion gave Meghan a chance to covertly study Miss Molly’s owner. She looked to be in her late fifties, but the combination of a petite figure and ash-blonde hair, shot with silver and cut in a short, low-maintenance style, gave her an almost pixielike appearance.

“I take it she belongs to you.” Meghan gently eased the dog into the woman’s arms but not before Miss Molly swiped Meghan’s cheek in a polite doggy thank-you.

“She does, but over the past few days, I think she’s decided she’d rather belong to him.” The woman’s eyes sparkled behind delicate gold-framed glasses. “That’s how she got lost. She snuck out of the house and went looking for her new friend.”

Meghan hid a smile when Bert winced.

“Follow me. I have a fire going in the library. I know it’s the middle of summer but on nights like this, there’s nothing more comforting than a cup of tea in front of the fireplace.”

Meghan liked the woman immediately.

“I’m Meghan McBride. The wedding photographer.” Maybe if she said it often enough, it would eventually sink in.

“Elizabeth Ward. But call me Bert—everyone does.”

“Bert?” Meghan frowned.

“I’m the caretaker here.”

“But he told me that he was the caretaker.” Confused, Meghan shot a glance at the man who’d dropped into the chair closest to the fire and stretched out his long legs.

The woman frowned and shook her head. “Cade, what on earth are you up to?”

Meghan glowered at him. Yes, Cade, what are you up to?

“I didn’t tell you I was the caretaker,” he said mildly. “You couldn’t remember the name, so I simply told you what it was. Filled in the blank, so to speak.”

Meghan silently replayed their conversation and realized he was right. Drat the man. But he must have known she’d assume he was Bert and he hadn’t bothered to correct her. “Then who are you?”

“Cade Halloway.”

“Cade Halloway,” she repeated. “But that means—”

The sudden glint in his eyes did nothing to calm the sudden surge in her heart rate as he finished the sentence she couldn’t.

“I’m your boss.”

Meghan stared up at the ceiling, wrapped in a cocoon of butter-soft blankets, and wondered if she could swim to shore before anyone noticed she was missing.

Cade Halloway’s unexpected presence on the island was a glitch she hadn’t been prepared for.

A very attractive glitch.

Meghan ruthlessly pushed the thought aside. Maybe he was attractive but he seemed way too serious and uptight. And he had the same keen, watchful look in his eyes that Caitlin had. The kind that said nothing got past him.

It would make her reconnaissance mission that much harder.

Meghan knew there’d be family members arriving for the wedding, but she’d hoped to have enough time to wander freely around the house and grounds without raising anyone’s suspicions. On the day of the wedding, she’d smile, snap some photos, convince her father there was no Ferris on the premises and go home.

Meghan shifted restlessly and lavender stirred the air. She inhaled deeply and burrowed into the feather mattress. The upstairs room she’d been assigned to, a cozy nook tucked under the slanted eaves, was perfect. Thanks to Bert. There’d been a few uncomfortable moments in the library when Cade Halloway had suggested Meghan spend the night in one of the small cabins located on the other side of the island. Bert insisted on putting her up in the main house.

“The cleaning service hasn’t shown up yet and those cabins are first on the list. They haven’t been aired out in years. Meghan wouldn’t sleep a wink.”

“Oh, I don’t think Miss McBride has trouble falling asleep,” Cade had murmured.

The memory of Cade catching her napping in the boathouse instantly surfaced. But even though Meghan now knew who he was, she refused to be intimidated. So she’d smiled sweetly and agreed with him.

“I’m sure they’re full of mice.” Bert, bless her heart, had tried again.

Cade had shrugged. “Miss McBride seems to like rodents.”

Meghan had choked back a protest while Bert folded her arms across her bright red Wisconsin Badgers sweatshirt. “Cade, there are plenty of empty rooms in the house. You can’t possibly—”

“Please, I don’t want to be a bother.” Meghan saw the light of battle in Bert’s eyes and jumped into the fray. Even though Bert seemed to be comfortable enough with Cade Halloway to call him by his first name, she didn’t want to get the woman into trouble with her employer. “You weren’t expecting me to show up this early. I can sleep right here on the sofa….”

“That’s not necessary.” Cade had abruptly risen to his feet, his expression remote. “Bert will get you settled and in the morning, you can tell me about yourself. And how Parker found you.”

Meghan plopped a pillow over her head, stifling a groan. No wonder she couldn’t sleep.

She couldn’t tell Cade Halloway either of those things.

Chapter Three

Cade woke up to the haunting, liquid cry of a loon on the lake.

Forty-eight hours ago, his alarm clock had been the low keen of sirens and the rhythmic pulse of rush-hour traffic outside the window of his condo in St. Paul.

He glanced at his watch and closed his eyes. Ordinarily he’d be showered, dressed and pulling into the Starbucks’ drive-thru by now. Not still horizontal in the twin bed he’d slept in as a child. Even the comforter was familiar—a lumpy bundle of goose down sandwiched between two soft pieces of flannel.

Cade’s nose twitched. The blanket even smelled the same. A pleasing blend of sunshine and cedar that whisked him back in time. Whether he wanted to go there or not.

In fact, it seemed as if the entire estate had been frozen in some sort of time capsule. Nothing had been updated. Or repaired. Even though Cade knew no one in his family had set foot on Blue Key in years, he’d still been shocked at how neglected the house looked when he’d arrived. The paint on the shutters had bubbled and faded. Scabs of dark moss crusted the roof. The flower gardens his mother had lovingly tended during their summer visits had turned into a matted tangle of weeds.

Douglas Halloway, Cade’s father, had refused to sink a penny into the place for twenty years. Except for the generous weekly paychecks mailed to Bert.

Bert.

Cade winced and closed his eyes. He hadn’t seen her for years—had to admit he’d all but forgotten his mother’s best friend—but from the moment he’d stepped onto the dock, she’d fussed over him as if he were ten years old again. It didn’t seem to matter that his presence on Blue Key Island meant she was about to lose both her job and her home.

Cade reminded himself that Bert had to have known the estate would eventually be sold. And she’d been well-compensated over the years for simply living in the house. But knowing those things still didn’t prevent him from feeling like a first-class jerk.

Especially when Bert treated him with the same indulgent affection and warmth she had when he was a boy, scratched and dirty from climbing the birch tree on the point or dripping water on the floor as he raided the refrigerator for an afternoon snack.1

He hadn’t given Bert more than a few hours’ notice about his arrival…or Parker’s upcoming wedding…and yet she’d hugged him fiercely when he’d arrived and told him that he had his mother’s eyes.

Cade was glad his father hadn’t been there to hear Bert’s observation. He’d spent years making sure his children didn’t resemble Genevieve in any way. But not even Douglas Halloway, as powerful as he was, could change the color of a person’s eyes.

The sun shifted a fraction of an inch, recreating a stencil of the lace curtain on the scuffed hardwood floor. For the first time Cade noticed a water stain in the corner of the ceiling above the window and mentally adjusted the price of the house. Again.

Whoever bought the island would probably raze the place and put up a structure more suited to its surroundings. He hadn’t listed the island with a Realtor yet, but already he’d had inquiries from a developer interested in building a luxury lodge catering to executives-turned-weekend-anglers.

Guys like him.

Not that it mattered what happened to the place after it sold, Cade reminded himself. He had a job to do and the sooner he wrapped things up, the sooner he could get back to civilization. And his business. It had taken a long time for Douglas to turn over the reins to the family’s architectural firm and Cade didn’t want his father to regret the decision.

Murmured voices, followed by a ripple of delighted laughter, drifted under the door. And worked its way right under his skin.

Meghan McBride. Memories of the evening before came rushing back to Cade and guilt sawed briefly against his conscience. He hadn’t exactly been a model host. Okay, he’d been downright rude. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told her who he was when they’d met in the boathouse. Maybe he could put it down to a day that had, thanks to Aunt Judith and a bichon frise that wouldn’t let him out of her sight, spiraled out of control. And Cade didn’t like it when things got out of control.

Or when something disrupted his concentration. And at the moment, his concentration centered on getting the estate ready to sell. He didn’t have time to play the attentive host. Not even to the wedding photographer. Maybe especially to the wedding photographer, whose winsome smile just might make him forget he hadn’t come to Blue Key to relax and enjoy the scenery.

After he interviewed Meghan and discovered why she’d shown up a full week before the wedding, he’d settle in behind the old oak secretary in the library and start making a list of the contents of the house. And try to hire a new landscaper.

The unmistakable smell of bacon and maple syrup teased his senses and Cade pushed himself out of bed, resigning himself to renewing his gym membership when he got back to the Cities. He’d forgotten how much Bert loved to cook. The day before she’d caught a stringer of bluegills off the dock and fried them up for supper in a cast-iron skillet the size of a hubcap.

He’d told Bert he didn’t expect her to cook for him, but she wouldn’t listen. In fact, she’d informed him in no uncertain terms that she got tired of cooking for one and he should just “simmer down” and let her spoil someone besides Miss Molly for a change.

And judging from the feminine laughter coming from the kitchen, it sounded as though Bert had added another person to her list of people to spoil.

Good. If Bert kept Meghan McBride company, he wouldn’t have to.

Fifteen minutes later Cade padded into the kitchen. Meghan stood guard at the stove, tending Bert’s favorite skillet. Barefoot and wearing loose-fitting jeans with a white shirt knotted at her waist, she didn’t look old enough to be an established businesswoman.

But her unconventional clothing wasn’t what made Cade’s breath hitch in his throat. The night before she’d looked as wet and bedraggled as Miss Molly. But the hair he’d assumed was auburn had dried, lightening to an incredible shade of strawberry blond that fell in a tangle of curls to the middle of her back. He couldn’t think of one woman in his circle of friends who would let her hair grow to that length. Especially Amanda, who scheduled her six-week appointments at a trendy salon a year in advance.

But then again, he couldn’t think of anyone who’d wear what looked like a man’s dress shirt and jeans to an interview, either.

Cade frowned. Maybe Meghan McBride didn’t realize that although Parker had hired her, he had the final say as to whether or not she stayed hired.

Without turning around, Meghan knew the exact second Cade walked into the kitchen. And it wasn’t because of the subtle, musky scent of his cologne or the husky “good morning” he growled at Bert.

It was because the skin on her arms prickled.

She had goose bumps.

And Meghan never got goose bumps.

Rattled, Meghan scanned the counter for the pancake turner but couldn’t remember what she’d done with it.

“It’s in your apron pocket,” Cade said helpfully.

Meghan opened her mouth to argue that she wouldn’t put a cooking utensil in her pocket, but glanced down first, just in case he was right. And he was. Why did she get the feeling that Cade Halloway was always right?

Bert cruised past with a platter of hash browns and scrambled eggs, pausing long enough to flip on the fan in the hood above the range. “All set, Meghan?”

Meghan nodded, even though she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite of Bert’s fabulous breakfast.

Once they were seated, every time Cade’s unnerving cobalt gaze settled on her across the table, she knew he was silently questioning her qualifications. She refilled her plate—frequently—because basic etiquette said it was impolite for a person to talk with their mouth full.

“I can help you clean up, Bert.” It would buy her a few extra minutes before Cade’s interrogation…Meghan swiftly amended that negative thought…interview. That’s what it was. An interview.

“Don’t be silly. What else do I have to do?” Bert made a shooing motion with her hands. “Cade wants to talk to you and he’s not the kind of man who likes to be kept waiting.”

Meghan had figured that much out for herself. She hated to make snap judgments about people, but it was Saturday morning and Cade had dressed as if he were on his way to the office. The only thing missing was a conservative silk tie.

So maybe he had been blessed with traffic-stopping good looks but he was so…serious. The only time she’d seen the hint of a smile soften his features was when Bert had reminded him that it was his turn to catch their supper.

At least if she had to meet with Cade, it would give her an opportunity to pay more attention to the paintings hanging on the library walls.

She took a deep breath and tried to work up a smile.

“Come in, Miss McBride.”

She would have, if she hadn’t frozen in the doorway. How in the world did Cade manage to lower the temperature in a room as welcoming as the library? Instead of taking one of the chairs by the fireplace like he’d done the night before, he’d positioned himself at an antique secretary to conduct his interrog—interview.

“You can call me Meghan.” Because it would be harder to fire her if they were on a first-name basis. Wouldn’t it?

Cade’s eyes narrowed.

Okay, maybe not.

He motioned to a chair but Meghan decided not to sit down. It would give him too much of an advantage. Instead she took a casual lap around the perimeter of the room to check out the artwork, sucking in a breath at the some of the signatures she saw. Nina Bonnefield hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d told Patrick that the Halloway family supported the arts.

She was used to seeing paintings of this caliber displayed behind a satin rope in a museum or in an upscale gallery, not in a casual arrangement on a backdrop of sun-faded wallpaper.

Her stomach knotted at the sudden realization that maybe there was a Ferris somewhere on the premises.

“…found you.”

Cade’s voice filtered into her thoughts and snagged her attention. Meghan mentally kicked herself for getting lost in the paintings. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

He frowned slightly. “Maybe we should start with how my sister…found you.”

Found her? As if she were a stray cat?

Meghan bit down on her lower lip to prevent a smile. She’d already rehearsed the answer to this question. Her parents had taught her that honesty was the best policy and she’d made a promise to herself—and Ms. Bonnefield—that she wouldn’t tell a lie to explain her presence on Blue Key Island.

“The usual way. By referral. An acquaintance of mine heard your sister was looking for a photographer…someone who didn’t mind coming this far off the beaten path for a wedding.”

He couldn’t argue with that, now could he? Not only was Blue Key Island way off the beaten path, a person had to take a boat to get there. And she wasn’t even charging them for mileage.

Cade’s fingers drummed against the top of the desk. “What studio are you employed with?”

The knot in Meghan’s stomach tightened. “I’m a freelance photographer.”

“Freelance.” Cade repeated the word as if he’d never heard of it.

“That’s right. I have my own business.”

“Really.”

It didn’t escape Meghan’s notice that Cade’s sentences had gotten shorter as the interview progressed.

“I apprenticed with a master photographer for two years before opening my own studio five years ago.” Which she ran out of her apartment, but Cade didn’t need to know that. As her reputation had spread, she’d begun to travel more frequently but still tried to keep regular business hours.

“But you specialize in weddings.”

It sounded more like a statement than a question, but since Cade seemed to be waiting for some sort of response, Meghan gave him a truthful one. “I take pictures of a variety of subjects.” And please don’t ask what they are.

“I’m sure my sister asked for references.” Cade’s fingers drummed against the top of the desk again.

Meghan simply smiled. She’d never met Parker Halloway in person and she had no idea if Parker had checked out her Web site. If she had, she would have discovered Meghan McBride did photograph a variety of subjects. Most of them just happened to have four legs. And occasionally, feathers.

Cade’s eyes met hers and Meghan did her best not to flinch under the cool appraisal. “My sister can be a little…impulsive but she is a stickler for details. When you come back this weekend for the wedding—”

“Come back?” Meghan interrupted without thinking.

“It’s only Saturday,” Cade reminded her. “Parker and the rest of the wedding party won’t arrive until Friday morning. I assumed you came to check things out today….”

And then leave.

Meghan silently filled in the rest of the sentence Cade Halloway was too polite to finish.

Now what? She needed a legitimate reason to explain her extended stay on the island and not compromise her promise to stick to honesty.

The cry of a loon filtered through the open window and with a flash of inspiration, Meghan found her reason. “I know I’m here early, but I happen to be free this week.” Also the truth. “I’d love to photograph some of the wildlife.”

The lean fingers on both of the man’s hands made a series of tapping noises. Meghan realized Cade Halloway didn’t vent his emotions. He “drummed” them instead. “I have a lot of work to do. I thought I’d be alone on the island before the wedding chaos started.”

What a coincidence. She’d thought the same thing!

“You won’t even know I’m here,” Meghan added. In spite of his words, she sensed him weakening.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Cade said under his breath.

The telephone suddenly rang, saving Meghan from having to respond. Cade reached for it with a terse, “Excuse me,” and Meghan took that as a cue their interview was officially concluded.

She slipped out of the library, quietly closed the door and collapsed against the wall.

The Ferris was somewhere in the house.

Cade Halloway was in the house.

Meghan decided it was going to be a very long week.

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