Chapter 1

     Declan Walsh pounded a fist into his palm. "Bollix, Tim. I can nail a couple of boards together, but I'm a stonemason, not a carpenter--and hardly that, if truth be known. You've told these women I'm a bloody expert." He fixed his cousin with a stare. "An idiot would find me out. Then what am I to do?"

     "I don't see you've a choice, Dekko. But no matter. Just pay attention to what I tell ya, and you'll catch on. Finish carpentry's easy enough to learn."

     Tim, older by ten years, heavier by three stone, kept his eyes on the road and clamped one booted foot down on the aging pickup's accelerator. With a bone-rattling thump, the grey Ford paused, then lurched ahead.

     "These are women, boyo." His cousin rolled his eyes. "Pulchritudinous females. They don't know jack squat about carpentry." He zipped onto an exit lane and braked for a traffic light. "As long as you look like you know what you're doing, they'll go about their business and you can go about yours."

     Declan uttered an expletive. "It won't work, Tim. Not in five lifetimes! What in the name of saints were you thinking?" He stared at his cousin's ruddy cheeks, then at the road ahead. How the bloody hell he'd let Tim talk him into this addlepated scheme, he didn't know. His cousin hadn't changed a whit since he emigrated to California. He still had a rare way with words.

     One thing was certain. Declan knew he'd never pass for the "creative genius" master carpenter Tim had claimed him to be. His business was finishing his novel and staying away from Officer Henderson and the rest of those INS buggers before they had him back to Ireland.

     "A man without a green card has to watch his step, all right. But leave it to old Tim. I told ya I'd fix it fer ya, and I will." As the light turned green he shifted gears, and the truck roared ahead. "Trust me. This is the best way. The INS will never find you here."

     Neither would his publisher, Declan thought. The road twisted and turned as it skirted the base of the mountain. Redwoods and tanbark oaks clustered on knolls high above the narrow blacktop, their roots partially exposed from seasonal rains. Off to his right, he gazed at the six-hundred-foot drop to grey-spotted boulders and the river swirling below and felt a glimmer of hope. In these hills a man might simply disappear.

     Tim jerked the pickup onto a winding, wheel-rutted road that threaded itself between log cabins and a couple of flat, ranch-style homes surrounded by a dense circle of redwoods. A half mile farther the road abruptly ended at a cattle guard. Tim swerved to the right, and steered the pickup between twin stone pillars, their mortar crumbling. They jounced along a dirt lane flanked by apple trees, the lichen-covered trunks grey-green in the afternoon sun. An old orchard, by at least fifty years, Declan thought. Fallen trees lay scattered among the spring grass, decayed and neglected. Ah, well. That, at least, he could rectify. He'd worked his uncle's apple orchard near Dungarvan often enough. He could rebuild the gateposts, too. But as for the finish carpentry...

     "The ladies'll be real happy to see ya," Tim said in his strong Cork accent. His tone suggested to Declan it might be the other way around. His cousin had always had an eye for women.

     Tim scratched his forehead with one chunky hand. "I told Laverne you'd probably want to stay near by--get close to your work, like."

     Declan frowned. As if he had a choice. Why the hell hadn't he got his work visa sorted out before the INS were tipped off? His jerk of a boss on his last job knew when the extension had to be filed. He'd probably accidentally tossed it in the ash can. Now Declan had to hide out like some damned fugitive or risk deportation.

     He cocked his head toward Tim. "What's the house needin'?"

     Tim let out a gust of air. "It's a bleedin' monstrosity, it is. Needs everything."

     It figures. Declan rested his chin between thumb and forefinger. "What are they like, these women?"

     The older man whistled. "The aunt's name is Laverne Farris. She's a bit over the top. Eccentric like, but a real looker, if I do say so. Her two nieces live with her. One's kinda new-age--always brewin' up herb potions ‘n dabblin' with crystals. T'other one owns a bookshop in Riverton. She's the sensible one. Oh, yeah, and there's the boyfriend." Tim grinned. "You'll meet him soon enough. Soon to be a permanent fixture around the place, a talker but ‘bout as useless as they come."

     Declan groaned. That's all he needed. A trio of eccentric females, a gab-happy male, and an albatross of a house needing work he wasn't sure he could do.

     They topped a rise, then descended into a meadow, and Declan stared at the most unusual house he'd ever seen. The structure jutted off in several directions with dozens of narrow windows, tiny cupolas, and an honest-to-goodness slate roof. Weathered shingles covered the sides, and a verandahh wrapped around the structure. Jaysus, what a mix-up! Not Victorian or a turn-of-the century bungalow, but rather a hodgepodge of the two.

     At the edge of a sloping lawn, a whimsical sculpted monk stood watch over an herb bed, and in the center of a ragged patch of grass sat a round fountain. Water spurted from a gargoyle's mouth and dribbled into a pond covered with lily pads.

     Tim braked in front of the verandah and they climbed out. With one hand on the car door, Declan made another quick appraisal of the exterior. Hundreds of intricate gingerbread bits of trim marched around the eaves. Curved shingles, shaped pilasters at each corner, a parapet, and second story sloping dormers. It was a house caught in a time warp. He hesitated. He was about to embark on an impossibility.

     But you don't have a choice. The INS checked all the regular job sites. They'd have him on the next plane to Dublin if he so much as set foot in the city. Well, boyo, you're up against it now.

     He studied the rickety porch steps leading to the front entrance. Those'd be no problem. He'd worked the odd carpentry job in Cork to support his writing; he knew which end of a nail to pound in. But he'd never done what Tim said was needed here. He'd never remodeled an entire house.

     Still, it was money in his pocket and the location looked ideal; he could lie low until Immigration lost interest.

     A movement in the garden caught his eye. A lanky blonde in a faded blue dress bent over rows of plants, snipping cuttings and tossing them in a flat basket. She straightened, gazed at Declan. Young, maybe early twenties. Her breasts bobbed with each step as she meandered over.

     Tim wiped his forehead with a red bandanna. "This is Willow," he said in a choked voice. "My cousin, Declan. Would Laverne be about?"

     "She's doing, like, a reading," the girl answered. She directed vague blue eyes at Declan. "Are you here to work on the house?"

     "I am," Declan answered.

     "Oh, right. Just like Justine said." She gave Declan a smile.

     "Sorry?"

     "My sister. She said you'd probably be good looking."

     Tim guffawed. "Did she, now?"

     Declan's face burned.

     "Yeah. She said--" Willow's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Well, I won't tell you what else she said. Um, you want some Mystical Moment tea while you wait for Laverne?"

     "Tea? Oh, sure," Declan answered. "How long will she be?"

     Willow shrugged. "It's hard to say, but it doesn't really matter. Justine's coming. She handles everything. She's the business-minded one."

     Tim nudged Declan and murmured, "Justine's the other niece. She owns a bookshop in town."

     Willow glided inside and they sat down on the worn verandah steps. Moments later, she appeared with two mugs. Tim took a swallow of the steaming brew. "Jaysus!"

     Willow smiled. "It's, like, my special blend. Comfrey, red raspberry leaf, and burdock with a touch of star anise."

     Declan sipped politely. "It's ... uh, refreshing." It tasted like no tea he'd ever drunk. If she weren't present, he'd spit it out. He cast a quick look at Tim who rolled his eyes when Willow wasn't looking.

     "You live here with your aunt?" Declan asked to make conversation.

     The girl smiled, revealing small white teeth. We've lived with Aunt Laverne since we were kids. Our parents were killed in a plane crash." She glanced up. "There's Justine now."

     A canary yellow Volkswagen van chugged over the crest of the hill, then lumbered down the lane toward the house. Declan peered at the driver as the vehicle bounced over the rutted dirt drive. Brown hair, glasses. The business type, all right. Not much resemblance to her dizzy sister.

     The van pulled up behind Tim's pickup and a young woman hopped out.

     Declan found himself staring at her as she marched toward them. Her mink brown hair turned under at the shoulders. Tiny gold-rimmed glasses barely hid luminous grey eyes, the color of doves' wings. A peach-colored turtleneck clung to generous breasts, her ankle-length denim skirt skimmed brown boots. He could picture her in a shop selling books. Von Daniken, no doubt, and Arthur E. Clarke. That'd be the type of books she'd read.

     He drew his gaze back to her face. Arresting features, oddly attractive. Uptilted nose, full lower lip, the hint of a cleft chin. She was different from her sister. He liked the leg-hiding long skirt, the peach top, even her glasses. Still, she seemed to fit in with the strange old house.

     He glanced at Willow. That one had ideas about one hundred eighty degrees out from anyone he knew. Instinctively, he perceived Justine would be an upholder of law and order. She'd be a "rules" person. He clenched and unclenched his fist. He'd best not tell her about his expired visa.

     Tim strode forward. "Miss Farris, meet my cousin."

     Justine's cool blue eyes lit on Declan. Her look reminded him of Father Basil when he'd found Declan smoking in the rectory. He swallowed and held out his hand. "Walsh. Declan."

     She ignored his gesture. "Mr. Walsh. My aunt engaged you to do some work on the house? I'm completely opposed to most of it. My aunt has no concept--"

     Willow broke in. "Justine! You promised ..." She locked gazes with her sister, then turned away.

     "Yoo hoo. There you are," a husky voice called from the front door. The screen door slammed.

     Tim's eyes lit up, and Declan turned toward the melodious voice. It had to be the aunt. He had half an inkling what she'd be like living in a house this strange.

     He was wrong. Laverne Farris was beautiful, in a faded sort of way. Early forties, he'd guess. Hair as black as midnight cascaded down her back. Silver streaks fanned out from her temples like birds' wings. Three-inch earrings dangled from each lobe, and a black caftan dotted with silver stars stretched from shoulder to ankle.

     She held out a slender hand, a ring adorning each finger. "I'm sorry to be late. Business, you know."

     Declan shifted nervously, then clasped her hand. "Ma'am."

     "Tim-- Mr. Cullinane's told us about you. Working on this crumbling old house will take skill, but he assured us you're an expert. I know you can keep the place from falling about our ears." Her eyes shone. Laverne Farris plainly loved the old house.

     Tim beamed.

     Declan scanned a patch of peeling pain on the siding and compressed his lips. Despite its unusual appearance, the house had a friendliness about it. No matter the cool reception from the bookish one, he would enjoy the challenge. He'd always liked doing things with his hands--doing them well gave him a tangible sense of accomplishment.

     He gave Justine a sidelong glance. Her disapproval invited an additional challenge. One that wasn't so tangible.

     He could handle that. He'd been hired to do a job, not win a popularity contest. Besides, he reminded himself, he needed an out-of-the-way place to avoid running into Officer Henderson. After Henderson's wife had thrown herself at Declan during a soccer match, Henderson was no doubt searching every construction site in three counties.

     Laverne sighed. "Well, what do you think, Mr. Walsh?"

     Declan chewed on his lip with what he hoped was the right amount of hesitation. "The house needs work, all right. Hard to tell how much needs doing until I've had a chance to inspect the structure inside and out. Give me a day or two to have a good look around."

     Tim broke in. "We were hoping ... perhaps Dekko could find digs nearby?"

     "That won't be necessary," Laverne said. "Mr. Walsh can stay right here." She gestured airily toward a detached garage. "It used to be a coach house. There's an apartment above. Justine, you can move your studio into the house."

     Justine gritted her teeth. Why did her aunt want this Irishman to tackle the house? It wasn't sensible. James could do the work and that would save money. After all, he'd be a member of the family soon, and he could handle a hammer and a saw as well as anyone. At least she thought he could. It didn't make sense to hire an outsider.

     But when had Laverne even been sensible? Passionate, yes. But practical ....

     Justine took a deep breath. The fact that this Declan Walsh was good looking to the point of distraction didn't help. She ran her eyes over his solid frame, studied his face. She liked his unruly dark red hair, and he had the greenest eyes she'd ever seen. But good looks didn't make the man a craftsman, no matter how much Tim Cullinane sang his praises. And she wasn't looking for a man--she already had one.

     She groaned inwardly. Both her sister and her aunt were obviously charmed by the Irish pair; it would never occur to them to look at it from a business perspective. Aunt Laverne was so attached to the house she'd likely want all sorts of impractical changes. No matter who did the work, she planned to keep her eye on things.

     She allowed her gaze to linger on Declan Walsh's moss-colored eyes. He grinned and she shifted her focus to his chambray shirt. Red-gold hair sprinkled over tanned, corded forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves. The fabric stretched tautly across broad shoulders.

     Something about the set of his shoulders, the easy way he moved, disturbed her. Deep inside a little flutter of unease rippled and then flared to a dazzling warmth. He was different. Different from his cousin, Tim Cullinane. Different from James. Just ... different.

     He smiled at her again, a slow, hesitant curving of his mouth. Heat shot up her neck, suffused her face. It would be one thing to have him do the work; having him here day and night was another thing altogether.

     "Several jobs need doing," Justine announced. "The steps, replacement of the siding in front, plasterwork in three of the rooms, and--"

     "You'll be wantin' the gateposts redone, I imagine," Declan drawled in an accent as thick as clotted cream.

     Justine stared at the man. Annoyance stabbed into her thoughts. The gateposts did need rebuilding, but that wasn't high on her list of priorities. Besides, she would make the decisions, just as she'd always done. She liked it that way, liked the feeling of safety being in control gave her. Laverne had always relied on her, let her do as she pleased.

     She shoved her glasses a notch higher on her nose and shifted her focus away from his unnerving green eyes. "Yes, eventually. But there are a number of things that come first-- I'd like to point them out. Let me show you around."

     She caught a flicker of something in Declan's gaze. Something she couldn't quite fathom. Mistrust? Unease? Seconds later, he exchanged it for a bland expression. "Suits me."

     He turned toward Tim. "You coming?"

     "I'd just be in the way. Think I'll chat with Laverne while you look over the job." Tim shot him a grin. "Expert like yourself doesn't need my help."

     Declan opened his mouth to answer his cousin, then abruptly closed it, and Justine shook off a shiver of doubt. Something about Declan didn't seem carpenter-ish. She couldn't put her finger on why she felt this, but if this Irishman wasn't exactly what his cousin made him out to be, she'd soon find him out. For now, there was work to be done.

     She lifted her hair with her fingers and let it settle on her shoulders. "Follow me." She spun on her heel and marched toward the rear of the house.

     Declan fell in, noting how the cracked sidewalk skirted an iris bed. A profusion of violet and peach blooms danced in the early June sun.

     He paced himself a full two meters behind her, watching the way her hips swayed. He'd never given much though to how women walked, but Justine Farris made him take notice. Her stride reminded him of a racehorse, each movement precise, yet fluid.

     She turned the corner and led him up another set of rotting steps into a screened-in service porch. He followed her into the outdated kitchen. Pea-green paint, crackled with age, extended from ancient wainscoting to a ten-foot ceiling. A chipped iron sink sat on a nicked but tidy marble counter. Worn yellow linoleum covered the sloping floor.

     Declan turned a slow circle, staring at each wall. Chipped window putty. A water stain on the ceiling above the table. Telltale dryrot above the baseboard. He fought a rising unease. The house needed more than a carpenter to put it right. It needed a bloody miracle!

     He met Justine's assessing gaze. Her dove-grey eyes held an unmistakable message, a hidden challenge. She didn't think he could do the job.

     Something in him liked the way she looked at him, bold and direct. And disapproving. She piqued his interest.

     He straightened to his full six feet. Christ, he hadn't given a woman a second thought since Maura died. Justine Farris might be a hard taskmaster, but she was all woman.

     He'd take that challenge. He liked pitting himself against something solid, like a decrepit old house, learning new things to triumph over the difficulties. And now, he wanted to learn more about Justine Farris, too. A lot more.

     He offered her a wicked grin. Discovering the woman behind that cool business facade might prove the most intriguing challenge of all.

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