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  Copyright © 2015 by Grace Burrowes

  Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Adams

  Cover photo © Ocean Photography/Veer.com

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  A Sneak Peek at The First Kiss

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To the child welfare professionals and foster families who bail against a tide of misery with a teaspoon of hope and buckets of heart, thank you. You make all the difference.

  Chapter 1

  “She had that twitchy, nothing-gets-by-her quality.” MacKenzie Knightley flipped a fountain pen through his fingers in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. “I liked her.”

  Trenton Knightley left off doodling Celtic knots on his legal pad to peer at his older brother. “You liked her? You liked this woman? You don’t like anybody, particularly females.”

  “I respected her,” Mac said, “which, because you were once upon a time a husband, you ought to know is more important to the ladies than whether I like them.”

  “Has judge written all over him,” James, their younger brother, muttered. “The criminals in this town would howl to lose their best defense counsel, though. I liked the lady’s résumé, and I respected it too.”

  Gail Russo, the law firm’s head of human resources, thwacked a file onto the conference table.

  “Don’t start, gentlemen. Mac has a great idea. Hannah Stark interviewed very well, better than any other candidate we’ve considered in the past six months. She’s temped with all the big boys in Baltimore, has sterling academic credentials, and—are you listening?—is available.”

  “The best kind,” James murmured.

  Trent used Gail’s folder to smack James on the shoulder, though James talked a better game of tomcat than he strutted.

  “You weren’t even here to interview her, James, and she’s under consideration for your department.”

  “The press of business…” James waved a languid hand. “My time isn’t always my own.”

  “You were pressing business all afternoon?” Mac asked from beyond retaliatory smacking range.

  “The client needed attention,” James replied. “Alas for poor, hardworking me, she likes a hands-on approach. Was this Hannah Stark young, pretty, and single, and can she bill sixty hours a week?”

  “We have a decision to make,” Gail said. “Do we dragoon Hannah Stark into six months in domestic relations then let her have the corporate law slot, or do we hire her for corporate when the need is greater in family law? Or do we start all over and this time advertise for a domestic relations associate?”

  Domestic law was Trent’s bailiwick, but because certain Child In Need of Assistance attorneys could not keep their closing arguments to less than twenty minutes per case, Trent hadn’t interviewed the Stark woman either.

  “Mac, you really liked her?” Trent asked.

  “She won’t tolerate loose ends,” Mac said. “She’ll work her ass off before she goes to court. The judges and opposing counsel will respect that, and anybody who can’t get along with you for their boss for six months doesn’t deserve to be in the profession.”

  “I agree with Mac.” James dropped his chair forward, so the front legs hit the carpet. “I’m shorthanded, true, but not that shorthanded. Let’s ask her to pitch in for six months in domestic, then let her have the first shot at corporate if we’re still swamped in the spring.”

  “Do it, Trent,” Mac said, rising. “Nobody had a bad thing to say about her, and you’ll be a better mentor for her first six months in practice than Lance Romance would be. And speaking of domestic relations, shouldn’t you be getting home?”

  * * *

  Grace Stark bounded into the house ahead of her mother, while Hannah brought up the rear with two grocery bags and a shoulder-bag-cum-purse. Whenever possible, for the sake of the domestic tranquility and the budget, Hannah did her shopping without her daughter’s company.

  Hannah’s little log house sat on the shoulder of a rolling western Maryland valley, snug between the cultivated fields and the wooded mountains. She took a minute to stand beside the car and appreciate the sight of her own house—hers and the bank’s—and to draw in a fortifying breath of chipper air scented with wood smoke.

  The Appalachians rose up around the house like benevolent geological dowagers, surrounding Hannah’s home with maternal protectiveness. Farther out across the valley, subdivisions encroached on the family farms, but up here much of the land wouldn’t perc, and the roads were little more than widened logging trails.

  The property was quiet, unless the farm dogs across the lane took exception to the roosters, and the roosters on the next farm over took exception to the barking dogs, and so on.

  Still, it was a good spot to raise a daughter who enjoyed a busy imagination and an appreciation for nature. Damson Valley had a reputation as a peaceful, friendly community, a good place to set down roots. Hannah’s little house wasn’t that far from the Y, the park, and the craft shops that called to her restricted budget like so many sirens.

  The shoulder bag dropped down to Hannah’s elbow as she wrestled the door open while juggling grocery bags.

  “Hey, Mom. Would you make cheese shells again? I promise I’ll eat most of mine.”

  “Most?” Hannah asked as she put the milk in the fridge. The amount she’d spent was appalling, considering how tight money was. Thank heavens Grace thought pasta and cheese sauce was a delicacy.

  “A few might fall on the floor,” Grace said, petting a sleek tuxedo cat taking its bath in the old-fashioned dry sink.

  “How would they get on the floor?”

  “They might fall off my plate.” Grace cuddled the cat, who bore up begrudgingly for about three seconds, then vaulted to the floor. Grace took a piece of purple yarn from a drawer, trailing an end around the cat’s ears.

  “Cats have to eat too, you know,” Grace said. “They love cheese. It says so on TV, and Henry says his mom lets him f
eed cheese to Ginger.”

  “Ginger is a dog. She’d eat kittens if she got hungry enough.” The groceries put away, Hannah set out place mats and cutlery for two on the kitchen table. “You wouldn’t eat kittens just because Henry let Ginger eat kittens, would you?”

  Did all parents make that same dumb argument?

  And did all parents put just a few cheesy pieces of pasta in the cat dish? Did all parents try to assuage guilt by buying fancy 100 percent beef wieners instead of hot dogs?

  “Time to wash your hands, Grace,” Hannah said twenty minutes later. “Hot dogs are ready, so is your cat food.”

  “But, Mom,” Grace said, looping the string around the drawer pull on the dry sink, “all I did was pet Geeves, and she’s just taken a whole bath. Why do I always have to wash my hands?”

  “Because Geeves used the same tongue to wash her butt as she did to wash her paws, and because I’m telling you to.”

  Grace tried to frown mightily at her mother but burst out giggling. “You said butt, and you’re supposed to ask.”

  “Butt, butt, butt,” Hannah chorused. “Grace, would you please wash your hands before Geeves and I gobble up all your cheesy shells?”

  They sat down to their mac and cheese, hot dogs, and salad, a time Hannah treasured—she treasured any time with her daughter—and dreaded. Grace could be stubborn when tired or when her day had gone badly.

  “Grace, please don’t wipe your hands on your shirt. Ketchup stains, and you like that shirt.”

  “When you were a kid, did you wipe your hands on your shirt?” Grace asked while chewing a bite of hot dog.

  “Of course, and I got reminded not to, unless I was wearing a ketchup-colored shirt, in which case I could sneak a small smear.”

  Grace started to laugh with her mouth full, and Hannah was trying to concoct a request that would encourage the child to desist, when her cell phone rang. This far into the country, the expense of a landline was necessary because cell reception was spotty, though tonight the signal was apparently strong enough.

  “Hello, Stark’s.”

  “Hi, this is Gail Russo from Hartman and Whitney. Is this Hannah?”

  The three bites of cheesy shells Hannah had snitched while preparing dinner went on a tumbling run in her tummy. “This is Hannah.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner, Hannah, but most people like to hear something as soon as possible after an interview. I have good news, I think.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Grace used her fork to draw a cat in her ketchup.

  “You interviewed with two department heads and a partner,” Gail said, “which is our in-house rule before a new hire, and they all liked you.”

  Hannah had liked the two department heads. The partner, Mr. MacKenzie Knightley, had been charm-free, to put it charitably. Still, he’d been civil, and when he’d asked if she had any questions, Hannah had the sense he’d answer with absolute honesty.

  The guy had been good-looking, in a six-foot-four, dark-haired, blue-eyed way that did not matter in the least.

  “I’m glad they were favorably impressed,” Hannah said as Grace finished her mac and cheese.

  “Unfortunately for you, we also had a little excitement in the office today. The chief associate in our domestic relations department came down with persistent light-headedness. She went to her obstetrician just to make sure all was well with her pregnancy and was summarily sent home and put on complete bed rest.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Not domestic relations. If there were a merciful God, Hannah would never again set foot in the same courtroom with a family law case. Never.

  “She’s seven months along, so we’re looking at another two months without her, then she’ll be out on maternity leave. It changed the complexion of the offer we’d like to make you.”

  “An offer is good.” An offer would become an absolute necessity in about one-and-a-half house payments.

  Grace was disappearing her hot dog with as much dispatch as she’d scarfed up her mac and cheese.

  “We’d like you to start as soon as possible, but put you in the domestic relations department until Janelle can come back in the spring. We’ll hire somebody for domestic in addition to her, but you’re qualified, and the need, as they say, is now.”

  “Domestic relations?” Prisoners sentenced to life-plus-thirty probably used that same tone of voice.

  “Family law. Our domestic partner is another Knightley brother, but he’s willing to take any help he can get. He was in court today when Janelle packed up and went home, otherwise you might have interviewed with him.”

  “I see.”

  What Hannah saw was Grace, helping herself to her mother’s unfinished pasta.

  “You’d be in domestic for only a few months, Hannah, and Trent Knightley is the nicest guy you’d ever want to work for. He takes care of his people, and you might find you don’t want to leave domestic in the spring, though James Knightley is also a great boss.”

  Gail went on to list benefits that included a signing bonus. Not a big one, but by Hannah’s standards, it would clear off all the bills, allow for a few extravagances, and maybe even the start of a savings account.

  God in heaven, a savings account.

  “Mom, can I have another hot dog?” Grace stage-whispered her request, clearly trying to be good.

  Except there wasn’t another hot dog. Hannah had toted up her grocery bill as she’d filled her cart, and there wasn’t another damned hot dog.

  Thank God my child is safe for another day… But how safe was Grace in a household where even hot dogs were carefully rationed?

  Hannah covered the phone. “You may have mine, Grace.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Hannah? Are you there?”

  A beat of silence, while Hannah weighed her daughter’s need for a second hot dog against six months of practicing law in a specialty Hannah loathed, dreaded, and despised.

  “I accept the job, Gail, though be warned I will transfer to corporate law as soon as I can.”

  “You haven’t met Trent. You’re going to love him.”

  No, Hannah would not.

  Gail went on to explain details—starting day, parking sticker, county bar identification badge—and all the while, Hannah watched her hot dog disappear and knew she was making a terrible mistake.

  * * *

  “Trent Knightley is a fine man, and his people love him,” Gail said, passing Hannah’s signing bonus check across the desk. “The only folks who don’t like to see him coming are opposing counsel, and even they respect him.”

  “He sounds like an ideal first boss.”

  What kind of fine man wanted to spend his days breaking up families and needed the head of HR singing his praises at every turn?

  The entire first morning was spent with Gail, filling out forms—and leaving some spaces on those forms blank. Gail took Hannah to lunch, calling it de rigueur for a new hire.

  “In fact,” Gail said between bites of a chicken Caesar, “you will likely be taken out to lunch by each of the three partners, though Mac tends to be less social than his brothers. You ordering dessert?”

  People who could afford gym memberships ordered dessert.

  “I’d like to get back to work if you don’t mind, Gail. I have yet to meet the elusive Trent Knightley, and if he should appear in the office this afternoon, I don’t want to be accused of stretching lunch on my first day.”

  Not on any day. If Hannah had learned anything temping for the Baltimore firms, it was that law firms were OCD about time sheets and billable hours.

  “Hannah, you are not bagging groceries. No one, and I mean no one, will watch your time as long as your work is getting done, your time sheet is accurate, and most of your clients aren’t complaining. Get over the convenience-store galley slave mentality.”

  Gail paid the bill with a corporate card, and no doubt the cost of lunch would have bought many packages of fancy 100 percent beef wiener
s.

  “Don’t sweat the occasional long lunch,” Gail said as they drove back to the office. “Trent takes as many as anyone else, and the way he eats, he’d better.”

  Gail’s comment had Hannah picturing Mr. Wonderful Boss, Esq., as a pudgy middle-aged fellow who put nervous clients at ease and probably used a cart and a caddy when he played golf with the judges.

  * * *

  Hannah finished arranging the fresh flowers that had just been delivered to her office, her sole extravagance as the proud recipient of a signing bonus. The florist had recommended the purple glads, and for good reason, for they were splendid specimens. Hannah pulled out one long, magenta-lavender blossom to share with Grace.

  Gino, the beefy Italian facility manager, had delivered a banker’s box piled high with every imaginable office supply and promised Hannah he’d have her computer installed by tomorrow morning. Her office was a tidy, impersonal space but for the flower arrangement, and she liked it that way—even when temping, a lawyer learned that clients got nosy. She wrapped the gladiolus in a wet paper towel, then spotted a volume of Maryland Family Law on her credenza.

  A poo-poo brown book for a poo-poo brown subject, Grace would say.

  Still, it was a reference book that belonged in the boss’s shelves. Hannah had taken a moment to assess Trenton Knightley’s private office, and found it cozy, like a den or study, more baronial than palatial. The Oriental rug and upholstered furniture went with her well-fed, middle-aged, avuncular image of him. Then too, if he kept the firm’s family law library in printed book form, maybe he was a bit of a cyberphobe.

  Some of the older attorneys were.

  Hannah approached the door to the boss’s office, book in one hand, flower in the other. A man’s voice coming from within stopped her before she would have barged through the slightly open door.

  “So what are you doing tonight?” the guy asked, voice pitched intimately, the inflection lazy and personal. A beautiful, sexy voice completely inappropriate for a law office during business hours.

  “Do you think he could stand to part with you for an hour?” the man asked.

  Hannah told herself to put the damned book back another time, but curiosity held her in place.