Declan didn’t leave his house until after seven, which made it almost dark. He’d showered and shaved, then he had a few voicemails to return (one was a weekly call from Cara, checking in on how things were going—he had to give her credit and gratitude: she’d turned out to be a great mother), and an order for fifty more iron rods to post online so he could make the cutoff for delivery this week.

He was just finishing when he received a text, this one from Steph.

U should come by and watch pom practice tonight.

Curious, and more than a little relieved she didn’t seem to be mad at him anymore, he replied: Any particular reason?

Her reply, almost immediately: Mrs. Delton is here. Followed by three winky smileys and one with its tongue sticking out.

Declan laughed, and felt his cheeks flush a little even though no one was around. Emily Delton, the mother—the divorced mother—of one of the other girls on the pom team had managed to sit next to him during the last two football games, and she’d also invited herself in on the night she drove Steph home from practice. He’d ended up having a beer with her at the kitchen table while their daughters did something on the computer.

She thinks ur hawt.

Speaking of hot, his cheeks—really?—were getting there. Thank goodness no one was around. Honestly, it was too weird and creepy that his daughter—whom he really hardly knew—was trying to set him up. Wasn’t that supposed to be weird for kids, to think of their parents hooking up with someone?

Not that Emily Delton was someone who’d send him running in the other direction. She might be a few years older than he—after all, he’d only been eighteen when Cara got pregnant—but she looked good. Though she was always well dressed and neat, she didn’t have that brittle, try-too-hard aura that divorcees sometimes got once they became single again and began to focus on dating. From what he understood, she co-owned a spa and salon on the edge of town that offered everything from hair styling to massages to nails—and something called mud wraps. Not something that sounded appealing to him.

But the massages…most definitely. He wondered idly whether Emily Delton was a massage therapist, and the thought settled in his mind. That would be…interesting.

Well? Stephanie texted back.

Aren’t you supposed to be practicing? How can you be climbing onto the top of a human pyramid if you’re texting me?

The response was an angry smiley followed by three exclamation points, and Declan laughed again. It was an ongoing joke between them—for apparently, only cheerleaders climbed into human pyramids and did flips in the air; the pom squad danced and shimmied. Heaven forbid a dad should mistake one for the other.

See you when you get home, he replied, and tucked the phone into his pocket. He’d see Emily Delton soon enough—probably at the Homecoming game Friday night. Although if it rained like it was supposed to, he wondered if she’d even come and risk having her hair and makeup ruined.

Declan left the house, locking it behind him and wishing—not for the first time—they had a dog. He hadn’t had a dog since he was a kid, and something about living back here in Wicks Hollow made him want to have a soft-eyed canine that would always be happy to see him.

He’d been lucky getting this particular bungalow on one of the main streets just outside the touristy area of the town. It had a second, detached garage, which the previous owners had used to store their two boats: a sailboat and a speedboat, both of which could be taken to Lake Michigan (two miles west) or the smaller, windier, and warmer Wicks Lake (three miles east).

This meant the outbuilding was perfectly suited for him to set up his forge. The exterior of both buildings had dark red wood shingles, big black shutters, and a white picket fence that surrounded the tree-studded lot. Stephanie had loved it—called it a doll house, to his dismay—and wanted to replace the shutters with white ones that had cutout hearts on them to match the cutout one on the swinging gate.

Declan had firmly declined. But he had allowed her to choose the color for the living room walls (thankfully, a reasonably easy to live with light blue) and the curtains for the kitchen (not quite as easy, due to the colorful owls splashed all over them). Their only real battle had been over the shared bathroom, which she’d wanted to do in Mickey Mouse (black, white, and red—with Mouse accents) and he’d been happy with just the black and white. They’d compromised—no Mickey tissue holder, shower curtain, or toilet cover, but a Mickey toothbrush stand. And one picture of the Mouse.

“Be thankful I didn’t want the Little Mermaid,” she’d told him cheekily.

She was a great kid. She really was. How the hell more lucky could he be?

He frowned as he began to walk briskly down the street. He still had to deal with this Leslie Nakano hiring Stephanie problem. The thing that burned his ass the most was the fact that she’d done so without even mentioning it to him yesterday.

She was a seasoned businesswoman. She should know better. Hell, she’d even been on the cover of Fortune magazine (yes, Declan had looked her up after Stephanie mentioned it).

In fact, there was a lot of information about Leslie Nakano on the Internet, including several articles about the initial public offering for her company InterWorks, press releases about the company’s successes, and even a few photographs of her at various Philadelphia events. In some she was with a stiff-looking man named G. Elliott Yarborough—an attorney who seemed to be a personal friend, not a business associate.

In those pictures, the sleek, perfect Leslie Nakano sure as hell didn’t look much like the disheveled, dust-covered woman he’d met yesterday, wearing a ball cap and baggy clothes. In the newspaper photos, her gaze was cool and steady, and her hair was pulled back in smooth, dark, businesslike coils. Her obvious Japanese heritage was apparent in her facial features, as well as the almond shape of her eyes and the delicateness of her figure.

True, he’d seen the businesslike determination in her eyes under the casual jokes and conversation yesterday, and he hadn’t been lying when he mentioned she didn’t look like she scared easily, but the woman he’d met was a far cry from the hotshot exec (“Twenty-five Women Ready to Shake Up Their Fields” was the name of one Fortune article in which she’d been featured) he’d seen online.

But unkempt as she’d been, Nakano sure as hell knew what she was doing, hiring people. And that made him even more irritated with the situation. Why did she think she needed a fifteen-year-old girl to work for her? And why would she be hiring her without talking to her parents?

He had a bad feeling about it. A very bad feeling. He didn’t want Stephanie to be taken advantage of. He had visions of her slaving away doing all sorts of menial labor—clearing out moldy debris (without a face mask), climbing on a tall, rickety ladder to reach the ceiling in the foyer in order to scrub the plaster design around the chandelier, carting asbestos-ridden insulation to the Dumpster out front—while Ms. Nakano sat in her office and filed her nails and did press interviews via Skype or those fancy star-shaped conference-call phones.

The more he thought about it, the more irritated he became. He’d just spent the better part of his day working on iron spindles for her main staircase, trying to do it as quickly and inexpensively as possible (that was before he realized he was dealing with a woman who’d made a couple million in a public offering). And now she wanted to take advantage of his daughter as well?

These thoughts fueled his stride as he made his way down three blocks past the main drag—by Orbra’s Tea House, The Balanced Chakra Yoga Studio, and numerous clothing stores, jewelry shops, and restaurants. He sniffed longingly when he passed Trib’s, the trendiest restaurant in town, with killer pizza and a beer list that went on for five pages.

The brisk air and energetic stride eased some of his annoyance with Leslie Nakano’s high-handed employment move. By the time Dec had walked past all the shops and up the hill of Shenstone House’s residential street, the sun was down and the only light, though generous enough, was an occasional passing car and the streetlights along the way. But the drive leading up the hill to the house was dark, and as it was shrouded by thick trees and bushes—almost a forest there, really—he was walking more by faith than by sight, guided only by the faint glow through the windows ahead of him.

He knew better than to go to the front door; by the time he’d finished with their meeting yesterday, he’d realized Leslie lived in the back of the house by the large, sunny kitchen while the rest of it was being worked on—so that was where he headed.

It occurred to him at that point that, first, he probably should have called (who knew if she was even home), and then, as he came up and around the bend that opened into a large, flat parking area, that there was the same dark blue Mercedes that’d been there yesterday. So she was probably at home.

A figure moved inside the kitchen—Leslie—and he went directly to the door. He was just about to raise his hand to knock when she screamed.

He didn’t really think; he just lunged for the door and yanked on it. It swung open just as she came toward him, her hand over her chest as if she was attempting to prevent a heart attack.

“Oh my God, you scared the crap out of me!” she said in a high-pitched voice. “All of a sudden you were there—why didn’t you come to the front door?”

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. “I saw you here, and— Well, I was about to knock. I wasn’t just looking in.”

“Right. It’s all right. Come in.” She was wearing gloves and had her shiny black hair hanging loose. But this time, she wasn’t coated with dust, and she was wearing a snug t-shirt and bottoms that Declan had recently learned were called yoga pants. And, he noticed via his natural sweep of a glance, her feet were bare and decorated with grape-colored toenails. “It’s just so dark and lonely up here, and something fell down in the front room, so it made a loud noise that startled me—and then I looked up and there was a face in my window.”

Leslie laughed, and Declan got the impression she was more than happy he was there to defuse whatever had given her the willies a moment ago.

“I should have called,” he said, looking around the kitchen.

It was his first good look at it; he’d had a glimpse yesterday when he was looking around for Leslie. He was impressed by the size and homeyness of the place. Clearly, it had been recently remodeled, for the appliances were sleek and modern, and the island in the center was covered with a thick slab of bronze and black granite, and yet the overall feel of the space was warm and inviting.

“Well, calling’s generally a good idea. I might not even have been home—I wasn’t all last night. In fact, I’m supposed to meet Aunt Cherry for dinner in a bit,” she said as she glanced at the wall clock above the stove. “But I’ve got time. Have a seat.”

Declan obeyed, selecting one of the mismatched (purposely, he suspected) chairs at the battered wooden table. It was thick and solid, and probably over a hundred years old—an eclectic touch in a granite and stainless steel kitchen. The scars gave the table character, and the vase of fresh flowers and dried autumn cuttings sitting in the center of it let him know Leslie might be in the middle of a renovation, but she was still enjoying her new home. On the table was yesterday’s local newspaper.

“You’re on the front page,” he said, picking it up. The large photo just above the fold was of Leslie—without the ball cap and looking almost CEOish—standing in front of the dismantled stairway. She was holding swatches of fabric and an antique light fixture.

“Yes, you just missed being in the photo yourself,” she said. “They did a nice job on the article.”

“I guess you’re used to dealing with the press.” He set the paper down.

She smiled slightly. “A hometown lifestyle reporter is a lot easier on the nerves than a room full of AP journalists, I’ll admit. Especially ones from the financial papers. They’d wait to catch us after the board meetings, and it could really be brutal—especially as we got closer to the public offering. Give me a hometown newspaper over the Wall Street Journal any day.”

Yes, they certainly came from different worlds. Declan’s mood soured a trifle. Boardrooms, press conferences, executive meetings, private jets…Leslie Nakano was way out of her league here in touristy little Wicks Hollow, hiring teenaged girls and flannel-garbed blacksmiths to do her bidding. He wondered how long she’d last before she got bored and decided to head back to her uptight lawyer in Philadelphia. G. Eric Yarborough. The Fourth.

“So, did you need to see something in the foyer?” Leslie said, jolting him out of his thoughts. Her unspoken question was, What are you doing here?

“Uh…no. I’m here for a different reason.”

Leslie lifted one eyebrow, and he recognized wariness filtering into her expression. Her body language shifted: she eased back a little, and her eyes narrowed with subtle suspicion.

What, did she think he was going to attack her or something?

Although…he was here, showing up without calling, well past business hours. He supposed he could cut her a break. A very tiny one.

“I understand you’ve hired my daughter. I’d like to know exactly what you’re planning to have her do, and I have to tell you, I’m not very happy about the situation. I’m her father—she’s a minor—and I didn’t know anything about it.”

Her reaction was one of pure bewilderment and astonishment. “Excuse me, but I have no idea what you’re referring to.” The CEO had spoken.

“Stephanie Lillard is my daughter. You hired her, didn’t you?”

“Oh!” Leslie’s eyes widened and comprehension washed over her face. “She’s your daughter? I had no idea— She didn’t— You obviously have different last names. And I did speak to her…mother.” Her voice trailed off at the end of the sentence, as if she realized things might not be as simple as she’d thought. “I’m guessing there’s a divorce situation or something going on here, and that’s why you weren’t aware.”

Declan controlled his irritation—now more with Stephanie and her mother and less with the woman in front of him—and replied. “Something like that. Steph’s mother lives in New Hampshire, and I’m the parent here. So I should have been the one involved in this from the beginning.”

“I can understand your frustration; had I known, I certainly would have spoken with you yesterday. Stephanie simply didn’t mention that you were her father.”

“Obviously.” Declan couldn’t control a grimace, nor could he ignore a little twinge that stabbed him in the belly. A guy moves halfway across the country to live with his daughter so she doesn’t have to change schools, and she can’t even remember to keep him in the loop. For having been a father barely six months, it sure as hell hurt more than he’d thought it would.

“I’m really sorry. And clearly you have questions about the situation—which I’m happy to answer. She is, I realize, quite young. But I was very impressed with her and I wanted to give her the chance to try it out.” Leslie rose from the table. “Would you like something to drink while we talk? Coffee, wine, soda? I might even have a beer. Oh, and I have some tea Orbra gave me as well. Her special autumn blend. She’s going to be sampling it at the game tomorrow night.”

“Just water. Thanks.” Declan was having a bit of a time trying to release the prick of hurt that still lodged beneath his heart. But it wasn’t Leslie Nakano’s fault, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything to Steph about it.

“Again, I’m sorry about the confusion. With your different last names…I had no idea Stephanie was your daughter. But you had some questions—and rightly so. What can I tell you to ease your mind?”

Declan realized he was no longer speaking to a busy, stressed homeowner client—now he was faced with Leslie Nakano, CEO and millionaire. The tone of her voice, the expression on her face: both had gone completely businesslike and impersonal. Appropriate, but a little unsettling for some reason. He liked her better when she was using words like dastardly to describe a piece of drywall.

Not that he liked her—or needed to like her—any more than he normally liked a client. Which was to say, no more than necessary.

His contrary brain immediately reminded him of Margie Hamberg again—a thought that he shoved away with the force of a sledgehammer on an anvil. “Well, to start,” he said, fumbling for this thoughts, “Steph mentioned her working hours—an hour and a half each day after school—”

“Except Thursdays, and Fridays if there’s a home football game,” Leslie clarified as she set two tall glasses of water, both with lemon wedges, in front of them.

“Right. She mentioned that. And then four hours on Saturday afternoon. But I’d like to know exactly what she’s going to be doing during those work times.”

“Of course. I envision her as a sort of assistant, Jill-of-all-trades for now. Initially, I intend to have her handling social media accounts for the business—her first few tasks will be setting up Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and whatever other social media sites that make sense. I figured a teenaged girl would be more than familiar with how to do that. Additionally, we have a basic website that’s already been created, and she’ll be doing simple updates to it as necessary while we’re going through the remodel process. I’ll have videos and photos of before and after, and on some of the restoration processes—in fact, your work on the stairway was one of the topics I’d intended to highlight. I’d like Stephanie to edit and post the pictures and videos on the site and on social media as a way to generate interest in the B&B before it even opens. There will also be some market research involved too, as well as listing some of the old items left here on eBay or other auction sites.”

Declan was beginning to feel slightly foolish. “So, administrative work is what you hired her for?”

“Why, yes. You didn’t think…” Her eyes suddenly lit with humor. “I see. You had a completely different scenario in mind, didn’t you? I assure you, Mr. Zyler, I want experts like yourself doing the work on this house—not a fifteen-year-old girl. That’s not to say I wouldn’t hire a bunch of teens—boys, but girls too if they were interested—to haul away debris and help with some of the demo, but that wasn’t why I hired your daughter.”

“I admit, I was pretty mad on the way here, figuring you were taking advantage of a young, star-struck girl. My apologies.”

“Star-struck?” Leslie seemed genuinely perplexed.

He shrugged and sipped his water. “You were on the cover of Fortune magazine. You’re almost as famous as Marissa Mayer, she told me.” His lips quirked in a smile. “We don’t get many celebrities here in Wicks Hollow.”

Her own mouth turned up at the corners, and she gave a short laugh. “Well, I’m flattered. But the days of boardrooms, shareholders, and press conferences are long over for me. And apology accepted. I’m sure if I were in your shoes, with a daughter to protect, I would have been similarly concerned and upset.” The smile faded from her expression, and Declan had the impression she’d just thought of something sad.

There was silence for a moment as she drank from her water, and Declan tried to figure out how he could finagle staying here a little longer now that their business was done—and then he was surprised at himself for that very crystal-clear thought.

But he realized, suddenly and surprisingly, that he didn’t want to leave. Maybe because he didn’t want to walk back through town and stop for something to eat alone, or, worse, try and find something to make for dinner at home. Or maybe because he liked the feel of this house, the homey comfort of this astonishingly large kitchen with its sleek appliances, fancy urban lighting, and chop-block wooden table. Or maybe he simply wanted the company.

Her company.

“Is there anything else I can tell you that would alleviate your concerns?” she asked, sounding once again like a cool, impersonal businesswoman. “I hope you’ll give your permission and allow Stephanie to keep the job, Mr. Zyler. She was very excited, and to be honest—it would be a great experience for her. Working with a celebrity and all.”

Declan looked up sharply and was relieved to find her dark, almond-shaped eyes sparkling with humor and her mouth curving again. She was quite a gorgeous woman, he realized with a start—especially in person. Much more attractive than when she’d appeared perfect and well-groomed in the photos he’d seen online. And even more lovely now that she wasn’t covered in dust.

Her shiny hair was a sleek and smooth black swath around her shoulders. She’d tucked one side of it behind an ear, and a diamond the size of his pinky nail (surely it wasn’t real, was it?) glinted on her earlobe. There might even be some mascara or eyeshadow or whatever that was called—the stuff around her eyes that made them look larger and darker.

Perhaps that was why he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.

“Yes, Stephanie can work for you. Thank you for alleviating my concerns. And—it’s Declan. Not Mr. Zyler, all right?”

“All right.” She stood abruptly. “I know it’s too soon to ask you how things are going with the railing, but—”

“I was actually working on it today.”

“You were? Already?” The surprise and delight on her face washed away the crispness of Ms. Nakano, celebrity CEO, and replaced it with a softer, more approachable version of herself. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get to it so quickly.”

“Well, I had some spare time this afternoon,” he lied, suddenly feeling sensitive about how he’d pushed aside two other projects to work on this one—just so he’d have an excuse to see her again soon? Nah, that was silly. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake he’d made with Bethany Hamberg—getting involved with a client only to be discarded when the job was finished.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” he continued, “and I was looking forward to working on it. So I started tinkering around when I had some extra time. Drew a few sketches so I could finalize a rubric.” Don’t read anything into it, he told her and himself. “It’ll still be a few weeks before it’s done.”

“Well, I’m glad you started on it already. I’ll try to be patient, but—it’s just that it’s such an important part of the house. The staircase is the first thing you see when you come in. I want it to be right.” Then she sobered. “After working with the wrought iron, do you have any further ideas about what that discoloration might be? I have to have a mold expert come out and sample it, but…”

He shook his head. “No. But it’s not rust. That much has become clear, as it doesn’t seem to be able to be removed.”

“Can I show you something?” Leslie gestured in the general direction of the front room.

“Sure.”

He followed her out into the foyer and saw the tarp on the floor, with a small bit of debris on it. A broom lay nearby.

“I was cleaning out the opening beneath the railing,” she told him, picking up an old piece of something pink. “And look what I found inside.”

He accepted it, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. “It’s like a mink stole—but it’s pink. It was down inside there?”

“Yes. Isn’t that a strange place for something like that to be hidden? Look how pretty its big crystal button is—I’m sure it’s not made of real diamonds, but it’s very elegant. And there was an evening glove in there too.” She showed him an elbow-length white glove with gold buttons that had seen better days. It was dirty, moldy, and…

“It’s got that same discoloration on it.”

Leslie nodded. “I’m going to try and wash it off. It’s on the velvet wrap too. But what I don’t understand is how it got inside there.”

Declan walked over to take a closer look at the situation. “So it was tucked inside this hole. Someone either had to dismantle the stair railing in order to put it down there, or they had to open up the side of it—the outside of the side of the stairs—and put it there.”

“I was thinking the same thing. But either way—why? What a hassle that would be. Why not just…I don’t know, burn it? Throw it away? Put it in the attic if they wanted to get rid of it?”

“Hell if I know. How old do you think they are? Any ideas? Maybe that will help answer the question.”

“There aren’t any tags on either of them, so that doesn’t help. The fabric of the wrap, though…it seems like it could be pretty old. It’s real velvet, I think—not a polyester blend. So it could be from the early part of last century. And with it not having a tag, that might also be an indication—I don’t know if they were regularly putting tags on clothing until at least the twenties.”

“There’s that vintage clothes store in town—you could have them look at it. Gilda Herring’s the owner. She’s a little intense, but she knows her stuff.” He handed it back. “I mean, if you really want to find out.”

“Well, I think I do. It’s just so strange—such a strange place. It’s not as if it were a closet… Wait. What if it was a closet, that place under the stairs? That would explain it.”

Declan peered down into the hole again, shining the flashlight she’d obviously been using. “It’s only that narrow space, Leslie. It doesn’t appear to be attached to a larger space like a closet. Besides, at this height of the stair rail, it’s much too low to be a closet. It’s only a few inches off the ground up to two feet. Not really closet space.”

“True. But it could be a hidey-hole sort of thing. Not a full-fledged closet. But you’re right.” She smiled up at him, a little bit of bashfulness in her expression. “I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much, but it is. I guess I’m a Nancy Drew at heart.”

“Well, the only way to know for sure would be to take a closer look at the wall here, on the outside of the stairs. Looks like the wallpaper is pretty old—been here a long time. If it was put over it to cover up a closet—or hidey-hole door,” he added with a sudden grin at her, “it was a while ago.”

“Right. Well.” She stepped back. “Thanks for your help and thoughts on this. I’ll— Oh, wait. There was something else down there. I was just getting a hanger to try and fish it out when you arrived—”

“You mean when I scared the shit out of you?” he said dryly.

“Yes. Guess I’m going to get some motion-detector lights out there in the back so you don’t do that again.” She grinned, holding his eyes for just long enough that he felt a definite sizzle of attraction. Then she pointed to the hole again. “It looked like something metal down there. At least the space isn’t big enough to hold a skeleton.” Leslie laughed, but there was a tinge of nervousness in her chuckle.

“Want me to try?” he asked.

“Your arms are longer,” she replied.

“That they are.”

“But a little more…muscular,” she added, and her voice dropped slightly on the last syllables. “Maybe you won’t fit.”

Was he imagining it, or had her cheeks turned a little pinker?

“Only one way to find out,” he said cheerily.

Declan wasn’t an ass—he knew (and appreciated) that women noticed the way he looked, the way his occupation had caused his arms and shoulders to develop into smooth, sleek muscles. He’d made certain he had the legs and an ass to match by biking and running as well. That was part of the reason he was more than a little uncomfortable with Stephanie’s girlfriends being around when he was shirtless—or even in a tight tee. It just didn’t feel right when they gawked at him.

But Leslie Nakano was a grown woman, and he didn’t mind it at all that her eyes seemed to linger on his arms. Not that he only wanted to be appreciated for his muscles. But it wasn’t a bad way to start.

He turned his thoughts from this unexpected path and focused them on the opening. Shining the flashlight down inside, he didn’t see much of anything but debris and shadows.

“Maybe it would be easier to look behind the wallpaper, just to see if there’s an old door or cubbyhole,” Leslie said. “It’s going to be a big project—there’s no need for you to waste your time. I’m sure you have other things to do.”

Declan paused. Here was the opportunity to excuse himself, escape, grab a bite to eat, meet up with Baxter for an IPA…think about—maybe even work on—the other project that awaited him back home. Instead of doing the logical thing, he heard himself saying, “I don’t really have much else going on. I don’t mind helping, and I’m a little curious too. But didn’t you say you had to meet your aunt for dinner?”

Way to go. Now he was giving her the chance to escape. A good idea, that, to be fair.

“Oh, right. Well, I could invite her up here—she’d probably bring pizza if I asked—and if she knew the guy who thinks she looks like Helen Mirren was in residence, I have a feeling she’d be here in a flash.”

He’d turned to look at the wallpapered area just below the empty section of the balustrade. The triangular shape of the wall angled down to its lowest height of six inches, studded at the end by the now-missing post.

“It’s all one piece of wallpaper,” Leslie said, standing very close and shining her flashlight over the area, following its path with her hand as if to feel for a seam beneath. With her nearly brushing his shoulder with hers, he could smell some essence emanating from her…something very pleasant that had his hormones springing to attention.

“Lord, I can’t wait to get rid of these huge cabbage roses,” she added, clearly referring to the fussy hand-sized white and blue flowers splashed over a dark pink background. “I know it’s historically accurate, but yuck.”

“This area is too small to be anything like a cubby. But maybe here…” he said, and rapped his knuckles against the wall at an area that was two feet tall.

They both paused, because his knocking had sounded hollow. Neither spoke as he rapped in random spots along the wall, both toward the bottom of the stairs and toward the top.

“It only sounds hollow here,” he said, pausing at the section that was barely hip-high on him.

“Too small and short for a closet. And it’s a little higher up the stairs than the rusty discoloration. But…” She stepped back, and he saw that her eyes were sparkling. “I want to see what’s behind there.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious—or maybe it was just her. “Well, let’s take a look. You said you wanted to get rid of the wallpaper…”

“Yes. It’s got to go anyway. Might as well start it tonight.” She produced a utility knife. Crouching in front of the wall, she made a wide slice down the center of the area, then began to pick at the open edge of the wallpaper.

She didn’t really need his help, it became clear, so Declan stood there and watched the Fortune magazine cover girl as she tore off a big swath of paper and tossed it behind her to rest, curling, on the tarp. Her glossy black hair shifted, slid, and glinted in the light, and the back of her snug t-shirt rode up a little in the back as she crouched there, exposing an elliptical section of skin the color of champagne.

Declan found his attention fixated on that teasing glimpse of skin, wondering if it was as soft and sweet as it appeared. If it had notes of melon and peach, or cinnamon and ginger when one pressed one’s lips and tongue to it. He swallowed and tried to regroup, reining in the sudden fanciful path of his thoughts. But then he noticed how the yoga pants hugged her ass—a heart-shaped one that was nicely outlined due to the squatting position in which she crouched.

“Whoa.” She almost fell backward onto said ass, barely catching herself with a well-placed palm behind her. “Look at this!”

Jolted from his thoughts, Declan crouched smoothly, his shoulder bumping hers as he looked where she was pointing, down at the base of the wall. He felt a spike of interest that didn’t have anything to do with Leslie Nakano this time. “Whoa is right.”

He reached out to trace a finger over the exposed section of wall, where there was a seam in the wood that had been camouflaged by the wallpaper and a thick layer of plaster beneath.

It was a rectangular shape, near the floor, not big enough for anything but maybe a pair of boots—completely innocent looking until you gave a closer look at the hardwood floor beneath your feet.

“There’s something strange here,” he muttered, shouldering his way closer. “The seam of the wood’s off—like it’s been replaced—and see the way this piece of wall doesn’t quite fit against the floor like the rest of it…”

“I’ll get some tools.” Leslie scrambled to her feet, leaving more space for him to poke and pry.

Declan rapped on the floor near the rectangular shape. Hollow. He rapped to the left and then to the right, near the base of the stairs. A duller noise, less hollow sounding. It could be anything. He’d seen hundreds of old houses, patched together, slapped into a semblance of shape, then their cosmetic changes hidden beneath superficial facades of wallpaper and paint…but this felt different.

This seemed like something more than just a patched piece of drywall.

Leslie was back, her grape-painted toenails appearing next to his cross-legged thigh. She had small feet, very pale, and they were pretty, as feet went. Nice arch. Her toes were straight and slender—

“Do you want this?”

She was dangling a small crowbar in front of him, and he took it without looking up. “It’s going to make a mess,” he warned, but didn’t hesitate—she clearly knew what the results would be.

Leslie stood behind him, close enough that he could almost feel her shins brushing against the base of his back as he set the crowbar into place and pried.

The rectangular piece of drywall pulled loose at the floor, and he felt a rush of air escaping at the opening. Declan put the tool aside and pulled up on the bottom of the patch, prizing it away to reveal a dark space.

“Oh my God,” Leslie said from above him, her knees bumping the side of his arm. Her voice was high and excited. “It’s a hidden stairway!”