Chapter 9

NINE

Troy Devlin sat in the sunroom of his parent's home watching the people milling about. He didn't think their house could hold all these people. They were eating and drinking as if nothing was wrong. He tugged at the collar of the Easter Sunday shirt Consuelo insisted he wear. Everyone else was dressed in black. Consuelo said it was okay for him to wear his light blue dress shirt and his blue blazer. She'd gone to Macy's to get him a new tie, though. It wasn't a clip-on or zipper tie, but a real tie. Except it had footballs and basketballs all over it. His dad would think it was cool. His mom would say he looked grown-up. Tears stung his eyes again. He needed to stop thinking of his mom and dad.

He looked back over the sea of black rolling through his parent's family room. They stood there, their plates heaped with food, chatting and shaking hands, trying to meet the famous people who'd come over after the funeral. Even his travel baseball team was here. They hadn't come to see Troy. His teammates had only come to meet some of his father's friends. Heck, they would probably drop him from the roster now anyway. Every kid on the team knew they'd only picked Troy because of who his dad is.

Was.

Randy Martinelli never let a practice or game go by without making some comment about Troy being a wuss. All because he'd cried the day the ball hit him in the eye. Well, it had hurt! His eye was black for nearly two weeks and the doctor said he had a hairline fracture in his eye socket. But all the guys on the team cared about was that he'd dropped the ball. And they'd lost the game.

Troy tried to convince his parents to let him play on one of the local city teams but his dad would just say that he'd grow into his talent. Travel team was for elite players like Troy, his father would say. He was a Devlin after all. Troy's mom would just give him a reassuring smile and tell him how handsome he looked in his uniform. But he'd seen the looks they would exchange when they thought he wasn't looking. He sucked at baseball—even worse than he sucked at football—and they all knew it. He wasn't like the rest of the Devlins. Not anything like his dad. Or his brother.

Glancing across the room, his eyes landed on Shane. He'd waited all these years to meet his famous big brother and there he was, leaning a hip against his mother's curio cabinet and scowling. His dad always said it would take something big to get Shane to come visit them. Well, he was right. Troy had been so relieved to see him yesterday he'd jumped into Shane's arms, so glad someone was there to take care of him. But Shane, the big jerk, must think hugging was for girls, because he couldn't wait to get away from Troy. He didn't seem all that sad that Dad was dead. Heck, Shane had barely said one word to him.

Slumping farther back against the wall, Troy tried to inconspicuously wipe away a tear. He couldn't believe his parents were dead. Two days ago they were flying to Ohio to meet a potential player. They never made it. Instead, the plane his dad was flying had some sort of engine trouble and crashed. The state trooper who'd come to the door said they died instantly. The officer got down on one knee, placing a big hand on Troy's shoulder, explaining everything in a soft, soothing voice. He probably thought it would make Troy feel better. It didn't. His parents were never coming back.

"Mister Troy?"

Furiously wiping another tear away, Troy turned to face Consuelo. Her eyes were as red rimmed and swollen as his. She gave him a wobbly smile as she brushed his hair off his face. Usually he didn't like when she tried to mother him, but today it was okay. She was the only mother he had left. He swallowed to keep the tears from coming back.

"Your grandmama, she wants you to come and say good-bye to some of the guests, okay?" Consuelo made everything sound like a question. Troy's dad would always make a joke about it.

"The cat threw up in your breakfast, okay?" his dad would tease. Or, "Your shoes, they have dog crap on them, okay?" Troy always laughed. But not today. Taking a last swipe at his eyes with his sleeve, he stood up. He didn't want to stand around while his grandparents paraded him in front of the people who'd taken over his house. He just wanted everyone to get out. The sooner he got to bed, the sooner he could wake up from this rotten dream. Surely, it was all just a dream.

Consuelo's eyes were pleading with him. Troy sighed, resigned to not let her down. She'd been taking care of their family since he was five. Right now, she was the only other person in the world who was truly sad his parents were dead. His grandparents didn't seem too upset his dad was gone. According to his mom, they'd never forgiven her for marrying Dad because he used to do drugs and stuff. Mom told Troy that Dad needed her .

"It was the best thing I ever did," she'd say. "Because then I had you! And you and Daddy are all my prayers answered." It was how she ended their bedtime prayer every night, just before kissing Troy good night.

Gulping back a sob, he tried to summon up his best swagger, only to end up shuffling his feet in the direction of his grandmother holding court in the foyer. Following Consuelo across the room, he chanced a quick look out of the corner of his eye at his brother. No help there. Troy felt his shoulders slump a little more.

He wanted to pray to God for help, but he was kind of mad at Him right now. Nope, Troy was on his own now. Both God and his big brother had let him down. Troy resolutely let Consuelo steer him across the room.

Shane took a sip from his glass of iced tea as he watched the housekeeper lead the kid through the crowded room. He'd had been crying, Shane was sure of it. The kid had been fighting back tears all day. Earlier, at the funeral, the kid hadn't shed a single tear. But when he thought no one was looking, the tears snuck out.

His palms began to sweat as his mind wandered back to another funeral and another little boy who didn't dare cry; Shane hadn't wanted to give his father the satisfaction. Memories of Bruce hovering in the back of his grandmother's small living room played in Shane's mind. No one bothered to go near Bruce, taking his red eyes and swollen nose as a sign of profound sadness over his wife's death. But Shane had known the truth. His father didn't give a damn about his mother's death. Fooling them all, he'd stood bracing up the living room wall because he was stoned, the drugs and alcohol giving him the look of ravaged despondency. Bruce had been biding his time until all the guests left and he could raid his wife's jewelry box to finance his next fix.

Ten years later, Bruce confessed this sin in his sanctimonious tell-all biography that topped the bestseller lists for six months. He'd written that his biggest regret of that day was hawking his Super Bowl ring. Shane stopped reading at that point, hurling the book off his balcony into the Pacific Ocean.

Shaking his head to clear the memories, he bit down on a piece of ice, glancing at the kid over the rim of his glass. Bruce's son wasn't what Shane had expected. Not that he was an expert on kids, but Shane was sure Bruce's was small for his age. Unlike his Devlin brethren, he was light, with dirty blond hair and his mother's beauty pageant green eyes. They'd never met before, but that hadn't stopped the kid from flinging himself into Shane's arms when he'd arrived yesterday morning. The unexpected display of affection caught Shane off guard and it had taken a moment to untangle from him. The housekeeper standing guard glared at Shane, her mouth set in a grim line. She'd quickly maneuvered the kid back against her chest, her eyes mulish and protective.

Her possessiveness was still evident today as she reluctantly let her hand drop from the kid's shoulders, handing him off to his famous grandparents. The kid quickly shot her a despondent look before she shuffled off to the background once more.

"Something's wrong with that picture," Roscoe said from his perch on the stone fireplace hearth behind Shane.

"What makes you say that?" He took another swallow from his drink.

"I don't know. I just figure kids shouldn't look so uncomfortable around their grandparents." Roscoe pulled his buzzing iPhone from the pocket of his suit jacket. "It just seems unnatural, that's all. "

Shane watched as the kid stood, wary, between his imposing grandparents. The grandmother wasn't your typical televangelist's wife. She lacked the overdone makeup and the teased hair. Instead, she looked like a society matron with her petite figure and perfectly coiffed, champagne-colored hair. It was easy to see where her daughter got her beauty queen good looks. Today, she was dressed in a somber but elegant black dress, a brittle smile pasted on her face, as fake as the bloodred nails gripping her grandson's shoulder.

"She doesn't strike me as the type to chase the kid around with a wooden spoon," Shane said, fondly recalling his skirmishes with his late grandmother.

"No," Roscoe grunted as his fingers tapped out a message. "She's more the broomstick type."

Shane raised an eyebrow at his friend. His silence forced Roscoe to look up from his BlackBerry.

"Troy doesn't seem to like them too much, that's all. He seems nervous to be in the same room with them. A fact you might have picked up on had you spent more than thirty seconds conversing with him." Roscoe pushed his glasses back up against his nose, a gesture that always made Shane think he was being flipped off.

"I'm not good with kids," Shane said turning his attention back to the foyer. "You've got more experience. You're a dad."

Roscoe snorted and glanced back at the screen in his hand. "I hardly think being the father of eighteen-month-old twins qualifies me to console a boy who's just lost his parents. It wouldn't be a stretch for you to relate to how Troy is feeling," he said.

"You know Roscoe, sometimes you really piss me off."

"It's in my job description." Roscoe shoved his phone back in his pocket. "Before you go about firing me for the bazillionth time, I'm going to go track down Bruce's attorney and find out if we need to be present for the reading of the will. I'd like to get home tonight if possible." He strolled off before Shane could tell him to save his energy. He didn't want anything of his father's, even if he had left him something.

"Excuse me."

Three hundred pounds of solid Samoan stood to Shane's right. The lack of a neck and beefy forearms identified him as one of his father's offensive lineman. Shane allowed himself to be impressed with Bruce's recruiting efforts. If the tank played with any skill at all, he'd make one a heck of an NFL player someday. Running a mammoth hand through the stubble on his head, the guy seemed to be trying to get up the courage to speak to him. Shane had managed to avoid signing a single autograph the entire day. Apparently, no one had told Tank this was a funeral.

"We were wondering what's gonna happen to Troy?" Shane wasn't sure what stunned him more: Tank's question or the Mickey Mouse voice he'd used to ask it. It was a good thing the guy was big, because otherwise that voice would bring on a host of problems in a locker room.

"What Tiny's askin', man, is, are you gonna take care of Troy now?"

Tiny was obviously nicknamed for his voice, not his size. Shane looked past Tiny to the mouthy black kid who stood next to him. Definitely a ball handler. Shane had been around the game long enough to recognize a running back's demeanor. The two-carat diamond studs in each ear only solidified Shane's perception.

Who was going to take care of Troy? Heck if he knew. Shane hadn't given the matter much thought. Truthfully, he hadn't given the matter any thought. He assumed that Troy would live with this grandparent now. After all, that's what Shane had done .

"I suppose his grandparents will take him in," Shane said.

"But dude! You're his brother!" Shane turned to find a third player, the team's pretty boy, standing in the shadow of Tiny's other shoulder. Pretty Boy stuck out his hand and grinned.

"Evan Andrews. Defensive back. It's a real honor to meet you," he said. Shane didn't take his hand. Someone needed to tell Pretty Boy it wasn't considered an honor to meet Shane Devlin.

"E!" The mouthy one was obviously the leader of the trio. "He don't care who you are. He don't care about nobody but himself. Let's go fellas. This is a waste of time." He sneered at Shane, the diamonds in his ears glittering as he turned on his heel and stalked off. Pretty Boy puffed out his chest to say something, but decided against it before following.

Tiny stared at Shane a moment longer, his baby face and small black eyes a well of sadness, before he tore his gaze away, shuffling off after his teammates. Shane's gut seized up slightly and, once again, he cursed the fact the opinions of others had begun to matter to him. Jeez, he needed to get something to eat. He turned to find Roscoe standing beside him, a plate of food in his hand, disappointment etched on his face.

"Here," he said shoving the plate at him. "Eat this. Your black soul needs food."

Shane scowled at him, taking the plate. "Then can we go?"

Roscoe put one hand on his hip, running the other through his hair before releasing a deep breath in an exasperated whoosh.

"They're not going to read the will until tomorrow. Apparently it's the reverend's doing." He shrugged his shoulders. "But Bruce's attorney said you need to be present. It looks like neither of us is getting home tonight."

Shane stared down at the plate of food, his appetite forgotten .

"In that case, let's get out of here."

It took nearly fifteen minutes to make it through the crowd of mourners. Sensing his departure, the guests were quick to stop him and pass along a few words of condolence. Everyone from former NFL players to blue-haired ladies from the university's alumni society paused to tell him how sorry they were for his loss. Roscoe earned his paycheck by smiling and nudging him along before Shane could tell them he'd actually lost his father thirty years ago. They'd almost cleared the front door before being stopped by Lou Douglas, the president of the NFL Players Association. Lou was holding court in the foyer, one arm loosely draped over Brody's kid's shoulder.

"Ah, Shane," Lou said, his booming voice echoing off the chandelier hanging in the alcove above his head. "I was just telling Troy here what a great ball player his old man was. He set a quite an example for young people today."

Come again? Shane could hear the blood roaring up the back of his neck to his brain.

"And I want both you boys to know that I am going to do everything I can to make sure your daddy gets a fair shot at making it into the Football Hall of Fame," Lou said proudly.

For a wiry, one-hundred-seventy-pound, five-foot-ten lawyer, Roscoe sure could move like a defensive back when the pressure was on. Shane wasn't sure how he managed it, but somehow Roscoe got them not only out the door, but to the car without Shane punching Lou right on his fat kisser. Not only that, but he'd called out a polite good-bye, ruffling the kid's hair as he hauled Shane's butt out.

"I really ought to pay you more," Shane said as he took another swallow from his bottle of beer. They had just polished off a plate of nachos and two sirloin burgers at the Old College Inn.

"That's what my wife says every day, dude." Roscoe leaned back against the vinyl booth. Even in the dimly lit bar, Shane could see the frustration in his friend's face. "Seriously, man, you've to get a grip on that temper of yours. I can't even imagine the public relations nightmare it could have been if you'd punched out the league's player rep at your own father's funeral. You keep this up, and I'm going to have to put that PR firm on retainer again."

Shane plopped his elbows on the table, resting his face in his hands. A prolonged sigh escaped as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Yeah, I know. I can't afford to screw up this chance."

"It could be your last," Roscoe said pouring salt in the wound.

Shane threw his head back against the high booth back and closed his eyes.

"It's just the hypocrisy of it all. It sticks in my craw," he said through a clenched jaw. "The world thinks Bruce Devlin is a saint. When he all ever was, was a bastard."

"That's always going to depend on where a person's sitting," Roscoe said. Shane's eyes flew open as he braced two hands on the table. Roscoe held a hand up to stop him.

"Hold on, Shane," he said. "I've been on the bad end of this argument way too many times to go at it again tonight. Yeah, your father treated you and your mother poorly. That fact is irrefutable. But you can't change the past. Bruce is dead. Stop letting him dictate your life."

Shane hated that Roscoe always made the same argument. He hated it even more that he was always right. Snatching up his beer bottle, he chugged the remainder of it down. Bruce's death hadn't dulled Shane's hatred for his father one iota. It was a hatred he'd nurtured on his own for more than twenty years. He couldn't remember exactly when it had started. As a child, he'd been proud to have the Great Bruce Devlin as a dad. He was a professional athlete—a Super Bowl Champ. He'd wonder why his father didn't come home at night, but his mother always had an excuse. Your father needs to concentrate on his game, she'd say. He'll come home after the season.

But he never did.

Adoration and expectation led only to disappointment, which bred cynicism, eventually leaving him with a hatred that saturated Shane's bones. The emotion was embedded so deeply in his heart, it had become a part of him. It was the one thing that kept him going. It was also the one thing that kept him from fully living. Everyone had forgiven Bruce Devlin. Everyone except Shane.

"Like my father always says, ‘you don't get to pick your family, so choose your friends wisely.'" Roscoe looked at his watch. "Speaking of which, I need to get back to the hotel so I can call home." He signaled for the waitress to bring their check. "How's Beckett doing with Darling Carly?"

Shane peeled the label off the beer bottle, not wanting to think about Carly. He hadn't slept the past two nights. And his restlessness had nothing to do with his father's death, either. It had been two days since he'd had his hands on her, yet he could still feel her; he could still taste her. Fate seemed to be stymieing him every time he touched her. Or maybe it was his conscience. He knew any kind of involvement with the coach's sister could lead to the end of his career. His brain just couldn't get the message to the other parts of his body.

They'd agreed to a one-night stand. One night of sex to get it out of their systems. Jeez, Carly had practically proposed the deal herself. He knew she'd honor the deal. Carly wasn't interested in a relationship with another jock—or the headlines that would surely go with it. Shane needed to focus all his energy on making the team. The sooner he got Carly to bed, or the sofa or the backseat of his SUV, the sooner she'd be out of his system. And they needed to ditch the cell phones first.

Shane refocused his attention to find Roscoe staring at him.

"I asked about Beckett. Shane, tell me nothing is going on with the coach's sister-in-law." He put a strong emphasis on the last two words.

"Nothing's going on," Shane said. It was mostly true.

"Good," Roscoe said, tossing a few bills on the table. "That would be an epic mistake. If you took anything away from that fiasco in San Diego, it's don't mess with team personnel or family. Your career couldn't handle another scandal like that. So keep your hands off her."

As they left the restaurant for the hotel, Shane didn't bother mentioning to Roscoe that he'd have an easier time of controlling his temper than keeping his hands off Carly March.

"I can't believe they let that jerk out of jail!"

"Me neither, Jules," Carly said into her cell phone. "But they didn't have much to hold him on. Besides, his grandfather owns the television station where he works and he has a lot of clout in this town. According to Hank, his grandfather has agreed not to press charges against Shane. Joel is going into rehab, so he won't bother me again."

"And you believe that?" Carly had to hold the phone away from her head. When Julianne got angry, she spoke quickly and loud.

"I don't have any reason not to," Carly said, tucking her feet beneath her in the Adirondack chair. She looked across her meager backyard at Beckett, his big head sniffing beneath the hosta plants surrounding the black maple tree growing against her fence. "His grandfather doesn't want Joel getting into any more trouble, either. It's not the best publicity for the station. Joel just needs a little help, that's all."

Julianne was muttering something in Italian on the other end of the phone and Carly braced herself for her friend's tirade.

"Look, honey," Julianne said. "Haven't the last few years taught you anything? You're too trusting of men. You can't keep going around living life like a doormat."

Ouch! No matter how many times she heard the same refrain from Julianne, it still hurt.

"If I want to be psychoanalyzed, Jules, I'll go see my sister, the professional."

"Oh, Carly. You know I love you. I just want you to be happy."

"This from a woman who spends her life lusting over a priest!" It was fighting dirty, but Carly wanted to prove she wasn't a doormat. At least not to her best friend anyway.

"Hey! You leave Nicky out of this!"

"Face it, Jules. You are in love with a man you can't have. Instead of dealing with that, you take it out on me."

Julianne was silent on the other end of the cell phone.

"I'm sorry, Jules. I didn't mean it. I guess I just got a little mad at the doormat thing. I really am happy, though. I wish you could see that."

"We're quite a pair, huh?" Julianne's question came out more as a hiccup. "You attract narcissistic bastards and I can't stop dreaming of St. Nicholas. It's pathetic. And Carly," her voice cracked. "I do know you're happy. I guess I just don't like that you're happy living down there and not here in New York with me. The guy attacking you has me a little wigged out. I would just die if something happened to you."

"All you had to say was that you missed me, you idiot." Carly wiped a wayward tear from her eye .

Beckett wandered over, nudging his wet snout between Carly's hand and the armrest, forcing her to pet him.

"Oh, sweetie, do you miss your daddy?" She nuzzled the dog's nose.

"Are you talking to that dog?"

"I am," Carly cooed. Beckett's head lolled back as she rubbed behind his ears. "He really is kinda cute. A little sloppy with his food and water. And he snores like a freight train. But other than that, he's kind of nice to have around."

Julianne snorted. "You've just described my last boyfriend."

"As I recall, you didn't think ‘Chad the Cad' was all that nice to have around," Carly teased as the dog tried to climb up on to the chair.

"Yeah, you'll feel the same about that dog. Just give it a few days. When's Dark and Mysterious coming home anyway?"

Carly shoved the ninety pounds of drooling dog off her lap and stood up, brushing tufts of brown dog hair off her yoga pants. She closed the glass door behind them as she went inside, checking the lock twice. Beckett trotted over to his water dish for a drink, sending as much water to the floor as into his belly.

"I'm not sure. The funeral was yesterday, but he texted me last night and said he wouldn't be home until sometime tomorrow. Something about the will." Beckett went over to the old comforter she'd thrown on the floor for the dog to use as a bed. He scrunched up the sides and lay down with a humph. Grabbing a towel from the bar stool, Carly bent down to wipe up the water he'd slopped on the floor. "If he doesn't come home tomorrow, I'll need to go back over to his place and get more food for Beckett."

"So what's his place like?" Julianne asked.

"I don't know." Carly switched the phone to the other ear so she could wipe under the cabinets. "I didn't get past the kitchen. "

"Carly!" Julianne wailed. "What good are you? Didn't you want to check out his place? Aren't you curious about him? If it were me, I would have made a beeline straight for the bedroom and checked out his bed." No doubt Julianne would have. Carly stiffened at the thought of her best friend in Shane's bedroom.

"That's not nice." Carly silently berated herself for being a hypocrite. She'd thought about taking a look around Shane's house, too, but she wasn't going to admit it to her friend. "He just lost his dad. I didn't want to invade his privacy."

Julianne let out a huff. "Yeah, well he sure didn't think twice about invading your private parts," she teased.

"Jules!" Carly's stomach tightened at the thought of Shane and his wicked mouth. He'd been right though, the real thing was so much better. Her knees got weak just thinking about it, forcing her to take a seat on the bar stool.

"I did get a good look at his kitchen, and I'm pretty sure he wasn't faking his culinary skills on Good Day, Baltimore. He has a lot of toys in that kitchen. I think he might even have a few you don't have." Carly knew this would divert her friend's attention back to a neutral subject. Julianne loved to cook. If she hadn't made it as a fashion designer, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she would have her own cooking show. She also hated to be shown up in the kitchen.

"I seriously doubt that," Julianne scoffed. "What does a football player know about cooking?"

Carly laughed. "Why, I believe it was the brilliant fashion designer Julianne Marchione who once said that all you need to be a good cook are the proper tools and a passion for food. Are you accusing football players of lacking in passion?"

"You tell me, Carly. You're the one swapping spit with the quarterback."

"So, are you still going to the race car driver's wedding next weekend?" Carly did her best to change the subject as she loaded her dinner dishes into the dishwasher. Julianne mumbled something that sounded like chicken.

"Yeah, I'm still going," she said with a sigh. "But I really wish you'd reconsider and go with me. I won't know a soul there and the bride's parents said I could bring a guest."

"I don't want to be your plus one."

"I'd do the same for you! The bride is a client. I don't even know why I am going at all."

"It might have something to do with the extra $10,000 the race car driver is paying you to be there in case something goes wrong with his bride's gown."

"Ha! Like I'm going to sew on a pearl that might fall off the woman's eight-foot train."

Carly grinned. Julianne would definitely sew on a pearl and anything else that fell off. Her dresses were like her children. She'll probably be the only one in the church crying because of the gown, not the woman in it.

"Well, you're getting a free trip to Sea Island," Carly reminded her. "Go and have fun. You deserve it."

"I guess I could call Chad the Cad if I get desperate," Julianne said. But Carly knew she wouldn't. Julianne was right; they were quite a pair. Both seemed destined to chase the wrong men. Carly puttered around her kitchen as Julianne regaled her with snippets of gossip from New York's fashion world. Before ending their call, they agreed to get together in New York before training camp began in a few weeks.

Later that evening, after showering off the sweat from her Pilates class and an evening run with Beckett, Carly stood in her kitchen setting up the automatic coffeemaker for the next morning. The laptop computer on her counter beeped, alerting her to an incoming message. She wandered over to check the email before she could shut down the computer.

"If this is another email from Gabe's Bridezilla about his signing bonus," Carly said to the slumbering dog, "I'm going to scream."

The email wasn't from Chloe. Carly's heart slammed into her ribs as she saw the name of the message's sender: Joel Thompkins. The message was brief, but it terrified Carly just the same.

We belong together. It's meant to be. You'll see.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there staring at the message. Her hands trembled as she quickly deleted it. Wiping it off the screen didn't stem the furious beating of her heart. She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shivering. Forcing her arms to move, she reached for her cell phone. Who should she call? The police? Maybe she should have saved the message. She tried for a deep, calming breath. She'd call Donovan; he'd know what to do. She searched the phone's address book for his number as she bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Maybe she should call Matt? God no! He'd go ballistic. It was just an email, after all. She was safe inside her house. Besides, Beckett was here to protect her. She looked over to where the dog lay snoring, oblivious to her distress. Great!

Her breath was coming more evenly and her pulse had subsided to a reasonable rate. She didn't want to disturb Donovan at home, but she'd seen enough episodes of Law & Order to know she shouldn't wait until morning to let someone know about Joel's message. She'd just calmed down enough to make the call when the chime of her doorbell made her jump. Clutching her cell phone tightly, she looked over at Beckett. The dog lifted his head in confusion and was trying to rouse himself from his deep slumber. Apparently, he didn't realize it was his job to bark at the doorbell.

"No wonder your family left you!" she hissed at the dog as he stood and stretched.

Slowly, she walked to the foyer, her cell phone in her hand, one finger on the 911 button. Not bothering to turn on any lights, she figured she'd just peek through the side window and see who was on her front porch at nine thirty at night. If it was Joel, she'd barricade herself in the foyer powder room and call the police. Beckett padded behind her, his tail swishing in anticipation. Carly carefully peeked behind the cellular shade on the window and glanced outside. She released a deep shaky breath at the sight of Shane Devlin.