The Hometown Hero Returns. Julianna Morris

      Chapter One

      “Here goes nothing,” Nicki Johansson muttered.

      She pulled a rectangular package from her car and stared at the house before her. He was inside that house. He was the last person she wanted to see. If she hadn’t owed so much to his grandfather, she wouldn’t have come within a mile of him ever again.

      Still, Luke McCade was gorgeous.

      But impossible—a reminder of awkward childhood days when a plain teenaged whiz kid in secondhand clothing had dreamed of having the captain of the football team fall in love with her.

      Hah, Nicki snorted to herself. They’d been thrown together back then because Luke was in the hospital and needed a tutor. She’d convinced herself that his bored flirting might actually mean something, even though she hadn’t even liked him…at least, not that much. But she did like and admire his grandfather. She’d do almost anything for Professor McCade. She’d even face Luke and all the memories he represented.

      She marched up the walkway with the thought that Luke might have put her in a tailspin when they were younger, but not anymore. Despite her resolve, her pulse hammered in her throat as the door swung open and his broad shoulders filled the space.

      “Yes?” he said without a spark of recognition in his brown eyes.

      Nicki shifted her feet, torn between an unsettling attraction to Luke’s athletic grace and fallen-angel looks, and an obligation to his grandfather. Darn him. If there were any justice in the world he would have developed a paunch and a receding hairline.

      “Whatever it is, we’re not buying anything.” He began to close the door and Nicki stuck out her hand.

      “No, wait, I’m not a salesman. That is, a saleswoman, or should it be a…a s-salesperson?” she stuttered as his brow gathered into a frown. Swell, she sounded like an idiot. “I’m here about the yard sale a few months ago.”

      “Oh.” Luke sighed. “Look, we appreciate people bringing things back that Grandfather shouldn’t have sold, but I’m sure it’s all right if you keep whatever it is. He’s confused and not himself, but the valuable stuff is still here.”

      “No, it isn’t.”

      His eyebrows shot high. “Excuse me?”

      Nicki cleared her throat. If anything, he was more gorgeous than ever; small crinkles at the corners of his eyes and a few strands of silver in his black hair made him look solid and dependable.

      No.

      A flutter of alarm skirted her mind.

      She couldn’t afford to think anything positive about him. Luke McCade had always made her want things she didn’t have. Somebody to love and want her, as much as she loved and wanted him. To belong. Luke served as a reminder that it might never happen. She was alone in the world, while he belonged to a large, loving family. Now he’d come back from Chicago to help his grandfather, showing that he wasn’t as selfish as she’d always thought.

      “May I come in?”

      Nicki stiffened when Luke hesitated, then took a calming breath. She had a bad habit of overreacting when her confidence was shaken; friends said her pride could make her as bristly as a pincushion. It was a holdover from always being the odd kid out when she was a child.

      “I’m not a thief or con artist or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said finally, trying to sound reasonable.

      “I didn’t think you were. It’s just…” Luke shrugged and stepped back, opening the door wider.

      Nicki had never seen the interior of the McCade house, and she looked about curiously. Inside, the foyer was big and airy with rooms opening off it, and through one of the archways Nicki saw her old professor dozing in a chair. He was a lovely man who’d devoted himself to art and teaching…quite the opposite of his eldest grandson, who had gained a reputation as a hard-nosed businessman interested solely in profit margins. She knew this because the local newspaper often ran articles about him, and his name was regularly in the Chicago paper she read.

      “This way,” Luke said, motioning in the opposite direction.

      “How is Mr. McCade doing?” she asked as she was led to the kitchen.

      “Fine,” he said, giving her a careful look. “Do you know my grandfather?”

      She put the package on the table. “We’re acquainted.” It was the truth, but only part of it. She’d been a shy student in the back of Professor McCade’s classes, trying to avoid notice. But the lessons he’d taught about the beauty of art and the human spirit would stay with her forever. “I…um, took all of his courses at the college before he retired. Plus, it’s a small town,” she added.

      “Yes, it is,” Luke said slowly.

      Drat.

      She didn’t want to get him thinking. If he remembered her, he’d remember his nickname for her…Little Miss Four-Point-O. She’d just hated that name, which had naturally pleased Mr. Perfect Captain of the high school football team to no end. Of course, that probably was the point of calling her names in the first place.

      “Anyway, I’m here about the picture frame I bought.” She ripped the brown paper from the face of the package and held it up for him to look at.

      “It’s nice, I suppose,” he murmured, barely giving the frame and painting a glance.

      Nicki rolled her eyes. Luke was certainly obtuse about the fine points. Maybe it had something to do with him being a land developer. No doubt when someone was tearing down buildings and putting up strip malls, subtlety didn’t have much value. On the other hand, maybe it was because he was an ex-jock. Her ex-husband had been a sports guy like Luke, and he’d possessed the sensitivity of a steamroller.

      Along with a few other undesirable qualities.

      Sighing, she looked Luke square in the eye.

      “It isn’t about the frame. I mean, that’s why I bought it, but that’s not…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to collect her thoughts. “The thing is, when I examined the painting I discovered it was quite valuable. Take a look at the signature.”

      Leaning forward, he pulled a bit of paper away from the lower right-hand corner of the canvas. “A. Metlock. So?”

      “So, Arthur Metlock was one of the finest American impressionists of his day.”

      Luke swallowed a stab of impatience. His uninvited guest had big blue eyes in a heart-shaped face, and a scatterbrained manner that was oddly appealing. If she’d shown up at his office in Chicago selling raffle tickets he would have bought a dozen. But right now he was getting ready to go back to Chicago and didn’t have time to think about anything except his grandfather’s worsening health. The doctor had diagnosed senility and prescribed medication to slow the progress of the condition, but nothing was helping.

      “Look, Miss…?”

      “J-Johansson.”

      “Miss Johansson. So it’s worth a few dollars more than you paid for it. We don’t mind. Granddad probably won’t be staying in the house, which means we’ll be getting rid of most everything, anyway, before we sell the place.”

      “I can’t keep this.” She sounded genuinely shocked.

      Lord. Luke had forgotten how stubborn people from Divine, Illinois, could be. He was accustomed to a cutthroat business world where getting a steal of a deal was the ultimate achievement. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the woman’s honesty—too few women were honest about anything—but he didn’t have the time or energy to deal with something new.

      “Truly, you don’t have to worry about it,” he said, knowing irritation had crept into his tone.

      “Of course I’m worried.” Her obstinate