He’d never used the front door at Templeton House. As a boy, if he came by for Josh, or came along with him, he used the side or rear. The entrance was so damned imposing, grandly tall, recessed, and framed in tile. The knocker was a huge brass affair in the shape of a stylized T. Over his head hung an antique carriage light.

It didn’t make him feel welcome.

Nor did Ann Sullivan when she opened the door to his knock. She stood, tight-lipped, in her starched black dress. He noted first that the years sat lightly on her. She was a lovely woman, if you looked past the jaundiced eye. Margo had come by her looks naturally.

“Mr. Fury.” The faint hint of Ireland in her voice might have been charming if it hadn’t been so damning.

Because for reasons he couldn’t name he’d always wanted her approval, she put his back up. His smile was insolent. His voice matched it. “Mrs. Sullivan. It’s been a while.”

“It has,” she returned, clearly telling him it hadn’t been nearly long enough. “You’re to come in.”

He accepted the grudging invitation and stepped into the soaring foyer. The ivory and peacock-blue tiles were the same, he noted. As was the gorgeously ornate chandelier that sprinkled light. The place was welcoming, even if its doyenne wasn’t. It was full of cozy scents, rich color, warming light.

“I’ll tell Miss Laura you’re here.”

But as she turned to do so, Laura came down the wide, curving steps. Though Michael would tell himself later that he was a fool, his heart stopped.

The lights caught the fussy beads of her jacket and shot color. Beneath was a simple dress the color of moondust. There were jewels at her ears, sapphires and diamonds, framing the face that her swept-back hair accented.

She looked so perfect, so lovely, with one ringless hand trailing along the glossy banister. She might have stepped out of a painting.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Her voice was cool, betraying none of her panic at the way those eyes of his bored into her, or her fluster at having to mop up after the dog.

“Just got here,” he said, equally cool. Then some of the absurdity struck him. Here he was, Michael Fury, holding out a hand for a princess. “I wasn’t supposed to bring, like, a corsage or something, was I?”

She managed a small smile of her own. “It’s not the prom.”

“Amen to that.”

“You be careful, Miss Laura.” Ann shot a warning look at Michael. “And you drive responsibly, boy-o. It isn’t one of your races.”

“Annie, the dog’s in with the girls, but—”