not funny. Laugh again and I’ll be back at the airport and out of here.”
“Not likely,” he muttered.
“Michael,” she said, her tone a warning.
“Sorry. It’s just that this is one of your many charms,” he said. “For a woman who has a law degree and a thriving practice in a major metropolitan area, you are absolutely pitiful when it comes to getting from one place to the next. I am amazed you ever make it to court on time.”
“Will you just tell me how to get from here to there?” she snapped. She was not about to tell him that only years of practice and sticking to the same, precise route assured her of getting to the courthouse. Unanticipated detours gave her hives.
“Sweetheart, you’re in a ranching area,” he said, pointing out the obvious with what sounded like a little too much glee. “There are a lot of cows. Can’t you just back up, turn around and get right back on the highway where you made the wrong turn?”
“You stay on the phone,” she instructed. “I’ll be back to you for further instructions when I am facing the highway.”
It took another frustrating twenty minutes to backtrack and finally make her way to the turnoff Michael assured her would lead to where he was.
When she found him waiting for her on the front porch of a spectacular house with two boys sound asleep in the rocking chairs flanking him, her annoyance promptly gave way to amazement. This was obviously going to be a whole lot more fascinating than the weekend she’d anticipated spending with her case files and her law books.
“Whose house is this and why are you here?” Grace asked as she and Michael settled in the living room with the cup of tea she’d insisted she preferred over wine. She wanted all her wits about her for this conversation.
“My brother-in-law built it for Trish,” Michael explained. “And I’m here because I’ve got a whole family of conspirators.”
“Another forced vacation?” She’d heard all about the last one. The tale had circled the Houston grapevine before landing in the society column of the daily paper. Imagining Michael’s indignation, she had laughed out loud at the story, but she was wise enough to stifle a similar urge now.
“You don’t have to look so amused,” he said, his own expression thoroughly disgruntled.
“I guess even the high-and-mighty Michael Delacourt has someone he has to answer to on occasion.”
“If you’re going to start taking potshots, I’m going to regret calling you.”
“It’s all part of the package,” she informed him. “But let’s get down to business.”
She gestured toward the stairs. The boys had been awakened and sent off to bed in a guest room. Since they’d barely been alert enough to acknowledge her existence, she imagined they were sleeping soundly again by now.
“Who are they?” she asked.
Michael appeared not to have heard her. They were alone in a cozy room that had been designed for the comfort of big men. He was sprawled in an oversized chair, looking frazzled. Even here he was dressed in slacks and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open. No jeans and T-shirts for this man. No wonder he made the society pages so often. He always looked like a million bucks.
Grace liked her power suits as well as the next person, but on the weekends, she settled into shorts or comfortable, well-worn jeans, faded, shapeless T-shirts, and sandals. She’d deliberately worn her weekend wardrobe to demonstrate how unimpressed she’d been by this out-of-the-blue invitation.
Now, with her shoes kicked off, she was curled up in a matching chair opposite Michael regretting the fact that she’d left all those power suits at home. She could feel the tensions of the week easing away, right along with her defenses.
This was just a little too cozy. She’d barely resisted the urge to flip on every light in the room, so it was bathed only in the glow of a single lamp in the corner. The atmosphere was disturbingly romantic and Michael was enchantingly rumpled for a man who usually looked like he’d just stepped out of an ad for Armani suits. She had to force herself to concentrate on the topic at hand.
“Michael, who are they?” she asked again, when she realized his attention was focused intently on her. He looked as if he were trying to memorize every little detail about her. Under other circumstances it might have been flattering. Under these circumstances, it rattled her in a way she didn’t want to be rattled.
His gaze finally snapped up. “Jamie and Josh,” he replied. “Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine. They refused to disclose a last name.”
“Smart kids. It’ll slow you down tracing where they belong. Any idea where that might be?”
“Not a one. I found them in the barn.”
She was relieved to be able to finally slip into lawyer mode. “Like a couple of stray cats?” she asked. “Or burgling the place?”
“Looking for a place to sleep, they said.”
“Did you believe them?”
“I believe they weren’t there to steal anything. I also believe they’re in some sort of trouble. They wouldn’t give me a clue about where they came from, wouldn’t let me call anyone to let them know they were okay. They claimed to be visiting in the area, but they wouldn’t give me a name.”
“Runaways,” Grace deduced, her heart aching. She’d seen the sorry state of their clothes. More than that, she’d detected the worry in their eyes that not even being half-asleep could disguise. They had to be exhausted if they were risking sleep. Otherwise they’d probably be at the top of the stairs eavesdropping or slipping out an upstairs window as she and Michael discussed their fate.
“Looks that way to me,” Michael agreed.
“Have you checked the local paper, turned on TV to see if they’ve been reported missing?”
“No, I just called you.”
“Why?” she asked, bewildered by him turning to her. She would have expected him to go straight to his family. With the Delacourt resources, including a private eye for a brother, wouldn’t that have made more sense? Even if he was ticked at most of them at the moment, they were the closest, most obvious people to call.
“What about Dylan?” she asked. “Isn’t he living over here now?”
“He’s away.”
“And Trish? Maybe she knew about the boys hiding out in the barn but didn’t say anything.”
“I can’t imagine Trish going off and leaving two runaways behind. She’d have brought them in and mothered them to death,” he said wryly.
“Maybe you should call her and ask.”
He looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
A scowl settled on his face again. “Because, if you must know, I have no idea where she
