McKettrick's Heart Read online

  Molly sighed. There were a lot of things she wouldn’t miss about running her hotshot agency, and Dave was one of them. He’d certainly filled up her bank accounts, though, and for that she was grateful. “I didn’t have him committed,” she said. “Just hospitalized. They must have stabilized his medication and discharged him right away.”

  “He says you don’t want to be his agent anymore,” Joanie said.

  “The Gospel according to Dave,” Molly replied. “I’ve had it with him.”

  There was a long pause. “Could I be his agent, then?” Joanie asked tentatively. She served primarily as an office manager, but she had represented a few clients Molly hadn’t been able to take on, and she’d gotten them modest contracts, too.

  Dave, certifiable though he was, was a very big fish. Molly, as a fledgling working in someone else’s agency, had signed just such a client, a romance novelist whose first book had been a runaway bestseller. After considerable negotiation, she’d gone out on her own and rapidly made a place for herself.

  “Joanie,” she said, “if you can deal with the stalking and the drama and everything else that goes with the Davis Jerritt package, be my guest. You might call Denby, too. He’s definitely looking for an agent.”

  “You mean it?” Joanie asked, almost breathless. She was a divorced mother with two teenage boys, and even though Molly paid her an excellent wage, she had trouble making ends meet. Representing Davis Jerritt would be no picnic, but Joanie was up to the challenge. And the commission checks would change her life.

  Molly smiled. “I mean it,” she said. “But I called for another reason.” She paused, searching for words, and finally just took the plunge. “I’m getting married in two days, Joanie. I’d like you to be here, if you can. It’s a personal invitation—nothing to do with business.”

  “You’re getting married?”

  “Yeah.”

  “To whom, may I ask?”

  “His name is Keegan McKettrick.”

  “McKettrick. I know that name.”

  “I might have mentioned it. And you’ve probably heard of his company. McKettrickCo.”

  “McKettrickCo? Holy doo-doo, Molly. He’s got to be rich!”

  “Beside the point, Joanie. So am I.”

  “You fell in love, and you didn’t tell me?” Joanie sounded stunned, as well as hurt.

  “I didn’t fall in love,” Molly said. “I have to marry him if I want to adopt Lucas.”

  “Molly, that’s insane. You can’t—”

  “I completely agree. It’s insane. But if I want my son back, and I do, I have to do it.”

  “Oh, my God. I suppose he’s some old coot, this McKettrick dude, with a paunch and a prescription for Viagra.”

  Molly laughed, remembering the lovemaking. She felt it, like a visceral echo in her body, even then. “Not exactly.”

  “Well, that settles it. I’ll be there tomorrow night. I’ve got to see this for myself.”

  “How do you feel about being a bridesmaid?”

  “No taffeta? No ruffles? No puffed sleeves?”

  “I promise,” Molly said, smiling.

  “What are you wearing?”

  Molly remembered Psyche’s remark about her wedding dress. She’d forgiven it, figuring it wasn’t entirely undeserved, but it still stung. “Something not-white,” she said.

  “Do not shop,” Joanie quipped with tender humor. “Reinforcements are on the way. That bugle you hear will be me, leading the cavalry.”

  “Fly in to Phoenix and rent a car. Head north on Highway 17—you’ll see the signs for Indian Rock after an hour or so. And call me the instant you hit town.”

  “I’m on it,” Joanie said, already audibly tapping at her computer keys. “One more thing, Moll. Is your dad coming?”

  “Probably not,” Molly answered, closing her eyes.

  “That might be a good thing,” Joanie replied gently. “See you tomorrow night. In the meantime, hang tough.”

  “I’ll be listening for that bugle,” Molly said.

  They both said goodbye and hung up.

  Molly decided to do something constructive. She made the bed, then wiped off the smudges she’d left on the rails of the otherwise shining brass headboard while holding on for dear life as Keegan McKettrick proved the credibility of Cosmo.

  DEVON PUSHED THE CART around the supermarket, apparently greatly cheered since she and Keegan had talked in Spud’s stall, or maybe just putting on an act. They loaded up on fresh vegetables, meat and a reasonable amount of junk food, and were just rounding the end of the last aisle when they practically collided with Molly.

  She was pushing a cart of her own, with Lucas riding in the seat, his whole head having disappeared beneath a baseball cap with the tags still on it.

  Molly’s cheeks went pink at the sight of Keegan, but she instantly turned a smile on Devon.

  The kid seemed to bask in that smile, lean toward it like a flower too long in the shade.

  “Hello, Devon,” Molly said.

  Something got stuck in Keegan’s throat.

  “I guess you and Dad are getting married,” Devon said.

  Molly’s gaze linked briefly with Keegan’s, and there was something bruised in it, but something hopeful, too. “I guess we are,” she said.

  “Can I be a bridesmaid?” Devon asked. As a general rule she didn’t waste a lot of time on preambles. But then, she was a McKettrick.

  Molly beamed. “I’d like that,” she said. “My friend Joanie is coming to town tomorrow night, and we’re going shopping the next morning. Would you like to come along?” In the next instant her face changed; the smile wobbled, a little uncertain.

  Devon looked up at Keegan. “Can I, Dad? Please?”

  He mussed her hair, still damp from the much-needed shower she’d taken after they finished the Spud chores. “Sure,” he said.

  Molly looked relieved and, to her credit, delighted. She also looked delectable in those shorts and that modest little tank top. “It’s settled, then.”

  “It’s settled,” Keegan said. “Call me, and I’ll drop Devon off.”

  “Or Molly could just come out to our place right now,” Devon said, as one inspired. “And bring Lucas, too. You can both get some practice living there.”

  Molly blushed again.

  Keegan enjoyed that immensely.

  “We’ll be moving in soon, I suppose,” Molly told Devon.

  “Right after the wedding,” Keegan said.

  Immediately Devon remembered a favorite cereal she wanted to stock up on, and dashed off to grab a few boxes.

  “Chicken?” Keegan asked Molly in an undertone.

  She straightened Lucas’s ball cap, perhaps to remind Keegan the child was there. “Actually,” she said after a beat or two, “I think Florence is planning to serve Swiss steak for supper.”

  Keegan leaned in, planted a light, nibbling kiss on Molly’s mouth, then nipped at her ear. “I can’t wait to welcome you to the Triple M,” he murmured, and loved the tremor that went through her. “I’m going to have you in my bed. I’m going to have you in my shower. And then I’m going to take you out where the grass grows deep and the ground is soft and there’s nobody for miles around, and I’m really going to have you.”

  She shivered again, and blushed. Looking down, Keegan saw her nipples jutting against the front of the tank top.

  “Keegan McKettrick,” she said, affronted and obviously aroused, “this is a supermarket. People are probably staring.”

  He grinned.

  Devon returned with an armload of cereal boxes and dumped the works on top of the other stuff in the cart, then headed for the check-out lanes. “Let’s go, Dad,” she called back over one shoulder. “You said you’d make spaghetti for supper, and I’m hungry.”

  Keegan looked deep into Molly’s eyes. “Me, too,” he said.

  Molly glanced fondly after Devon, then turned back to Keegan.

  “Just remember one thing, Mr. McKettrick,” she said. �
��I can give as good as I get.” With that, she wheeled off down the aisle, and Keegan could have sworn there was extra sway in that saucy little backside of hers.

  HE MADE THE PROMISED SPAGHETTI that night, after he and Devon had put away the groceries and fed Spud again. They were loading the dishwasher, and talking about buying horses to fill the empty stalls in the barn, when the telephone rang.

  Something about the sound unnerved Keegan; it seemed unusually shrill to him. He might have braced himself for bad news about Psyche, but he knew by the double ring that it was long distance.

  Shelley, he thought.

  Devon seemed to have the same premonition. She went a little pale behind her sunburn, and dashed to answer.

  Keegan leaned against the sink for a moment, sucked in a deep breath, listened as Devon said hello. Then she said she’d accept the charges.

  He turned.

  Devon met his gaze and nodded. “It’s Mom,” she said.

  The pit of Keegan’s stomach plummeted. He wanted to have a conversation with Shelley, all right, but not over the phone. And not with Devon standing there listening to every word.

  “Dad’s getting married,” Devon announced.

  Keegan rolled his eyes.

  Devon frowned. “Mom wants to talk to you,” she said, inevitably.

  Keegan glared at Devon.

  Devon grinned and held out the phone, but her eyes looked troubled.

  “You’re getting married?” Shelley instantly demanded.

  “Yes,” Keegan said.

  “Do you love her?”

  This was one time Keegan didn’t mind stretching the truth. “Yes,” he said.

  Shelley was silent.

  “Are you still there?” Keegan finally asked.

  Devon was making a rolling, get-on-with-it motion with both hands.

  Keegan glowered at her again. She subsided, but only slightly.

  Unbelievably, Shelley began to sob.

  “Shelley,” Keegan said calmly, and with more kindness than he would be expected to feel, given all this woman had put him through and, more important, all she’d put Devon through. “Get a grip.”

  “I always…thought—maybe—”

  “Shelley,” Keegan interrupted. “Put Rory on the phone, okay?”

  “I c-can’t! We had a f-fight and he’s g-gone!”

  Shit, Keegan thought. He made a shooing motion at Devon, wanting her to leave the room, but he knew by the stubborn look on her face that she wasn’t about to cooperate.

  Shelley began to wail.

  “Shelley,” Keegan repeated, more forcefully this time, “get a grip.”

  “I’m—I’m stranded. He t-took my m-money and my c-credit cards—even the plane tickets…”

  Keegan found a pen and a scrap of paper. “Tell me the name of your hotel. Phone number, too, of course.”

  “Y-you’ll help me? After everything?”

  “Of course I’ll help you, Shelley. You’re Devon’s mother.”

  The clue train finally rolled into Keegan’s station. Shelley was drunk—or pretending to be. Most likely, this was some kind of con. Unfortunately, that didn’t change the situation.

  “Th-thank you, Keegan.”

  “Shelley, where are you?”

  She gave him the name of her hotel. Posh place on a tree-lined boulevard overlooking the Seine. Keegan knew it well. “They won’t even l-let me back in the room,” Shelley stammered.

  “Take a breath. You’re in the lobby now, right?” More likely the bar, said a voice in his head.

  Just what he needed—input from the left brain.

  “R-right.” She sniffled, began to sound a little more with it.

  “Sit tight. I’ll get you back in your room, and arrange for a ticket home. And I’ll wire you some cash for cabs.”

  “I don’t want to come home. I’ve realized that Paris is my true home.”

  Keegan unclamped his back molars. “Okay, whatever.”

  Suddenly Shelley was coherent. “I just need a room for the night, Keegan. And money, because I found this great little flat in the—”

  So much for self-control. “Shelley, are you out of your freaking mind?”

  “I just got a little—nostalgic—when Devon told me you were getting married again, that’s all. I thought I’d be the first—that Rory would…” Shelley’s personal roller coaster was climbing, and Keegan knew there’d be one hell of a plunge on the other side. Short of throwing himself on the tracks, he couldn’t think of a way to stop it.

  “Look,” he said, “I’ll advance you next month’s alimony. I’ll cover your hotel bills. Anything. But you and I need to talk, Shelley. In person, about Devon.”

  She was quiet again. “Then I guess you’ll have to come to Paris.”

  “Zero chance of that.”

  “Two months’ alimony,” she wheedled. “Along with the child support, that would be enough to get me into the flat.”

  Keegan closed his eyes. “All right. Two months.”

  “And the child support.”

  “And the child support.”

  Devon, seated at the kitchen table now, laid her head down on her arms.

  “Who’s the lucky lady, Keeg?”

  “Her name is Molly. Call me as soon as you’re back in your room.”

  Shelley promised she would. Of course, she’d also promised to be a faithful wife, and a good mother to Devon.

  He hung up, without a goodbye, and immediately dialed Shelley’s hotel in Paris. Within minutes, he’d made arrangements to cover her expenses. After that he made another call, and sent Shelley double the amount she’d asked for.

  He wasn’t being noble. He was hoping to keep Shelley off his back for a while, that was all.

  “Dad,” Devon said patiently when he’d hung up, “you are such a sucker. Rory’s probably right there with her. They just wanted more money, and Mom put on this big act.”

  “Maybe so,” Keegan said. “But I can’t take the chance that she’s really stranded, shortstop.”

  Devon looked puzzled. “Because Mom was your wife?”

  “Because she’s your mom,” Keegan said.

  “Is that some kind of McKettrick thing?”

  Keegan chuckled. “It’s some kind of Keegan thing,” he replied.

  “I heard you say you wanted to talk to her, about me,” Devon ventured. “Are you going to ask her to let you keep me?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But not over the phone.”

  “She didn’t mind cheating you over the phone.”

  “Let it go, Dev.”

  The shrill ringing sounded again.

  “Hello,” Keegan snapped into the receiver.

  “Hello,” Shelley said. “We—I’m back in the room. And the concierge says I can pick up the money you sent in the morning.”

  “It’s all good, then,” Keegan said, suddenly weary.

  “Keegan?”

  He braced himself.

  Waited.

  “I know you want permanent custody of Devon.”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t need to. Shelley had his complete attention, and she knew it.

  “Ten million dollars,” she said lightly, “and she’s all yours.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  TEN MILLION DOLLARS,and she’s all yours.

  “Devon,” Keegan said, clenching the receiver so hard he was surprised it didn’t shatter in his hand, “go upstairs. Now.”

  “Here it comes,” Shelley crooned.

  Devon wanted to rebel, that was obvious, but she was a decorated veteran of the divorce wars, and evidently knew the look that must have been on his face. She pounded up the back stairs, and Keegan didn’t say a word until he heard her bedroom door slam in the distance.

  “You bitch,” he said.

  Shelley laughed. He thought he heard the clinking of wineglasses over the phone. But no, it would be champagne. She and Rory had just scored.

  Again.

  “Come on, Keeg,”
she purred. “You’re a very rich man, and with McKettrickCo going public, you’re about to be even richer. You can spare ten million dollars.”

  “It isn’t the money,” Keegan rasped, keeping his voice down and very afraid that Devon might have shut her bedroom door hard from the outside and crept back to listen from the top of the stairs, or simply picked up an extension. “Damn it, Shelley, you know it isn’t the money. How can you—”

  “I can always bring Devon to Paris, if you’d rather,” Shelley said mildly. “Put her in boarding school. Soak you for alimony and child support until they lower you into the grave, and even after that. Or we can settle the matter right now. After all, Devon isn’t—”

  “Shelley,” Keegan broke in. “Don’t.” Don’t say Devon isn’t my child.

  “I guess I’ll be hearing from Travis Reid soon?”

  “You’ll be hearing from Travis,” Keegan said bleakly. There was a weird, hollow sound on the phone. Devon was definitely listening in.

  “Good,” Shelley said. More glass clinked, and Keegan heard her swallow. “Oh, and congratulations, Keeg. On your marriage, I mean. I hope you’re happier with this—Molly, wasn’t it?—woman than you were with me.”

  “It would be impossible,” Keegan said evenly, “not to be happier with any woman than I was with you.”

  “Have Travis express the documents, will you? I really want this apartment.”

  Keegan couldn’t take any more. He thumbed the button, shut Shelley off. And then he just stood there, sick to the center of his soul.

  Devon crept back down the stairs, looking defiantly guilty. “I told you she’d sell me for the right price,” she said. “Sign over my trust fund. That’s all you have to do.”

  Keegan set the phone on the counter. Faced his daughter. “I’m not about to sign over your trust fund. And if you ever listen in on one of my private conversations again, cookie, the no-spanking rule goes right out the window.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Devon said.

  “Try me,” Keegan replied.

  “Chill, Dad,” Devon counseled. “You’re just mad at Mom. I’m okay with all of it. Remember—I told you this would happen.”