“You sure don’t look like any Sunday school teacher I know.”
“I probably would have gone to church more often as a kid if I’d had a teacher as pretty as you.” Dustin winked at her.
Isobel blushed a bright, becoming pink, though Dustin had only been voicing an opinion he’d had since the moment he’d first seen her.
Dustin was perplexed. She obviously wasn’t used to compliments, yet Isobel was a beautiful woman, inside and out. It made him wonder what her past had been like.
At length, she smiled at him. “And here I am standing here staring at you like a constant reminder of your troubles with your brother. Like a porcupine rubbing against you.”
“A porcupine?” he repeated, sounding stunned.
He looked her over with an amused grin, his eyes twinkling with merriment. “I don’t think so. Not in a million years.”
“But it bothers you to have me here,” she hinted.
“No,” Dustin answered definitively. “You, my dear Isobel, are the best thing that has happened to me in a long time. Maybe ever.”
DEB KASTNER
is the wife of a Reformed Episcopal minister, so it was natural for her to find her niche in the Christian romance market. She enjoys tackling the issues of faith and trust within the context of a romance. Her characters range from upbeat and humorous to (her favorite) dark and brooding heroes. Her plots range widely from a playful romp to the deeply emotional.
When she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with her husband and three girls and, whenever she can manage, attending regional dinner theater and touring Broadway musicals.
The Heart of a Man
Deb Kastner
Then Moses said to the Lord, “O my Lord, I am not eloquent, neither before nor since You have spoken to Your servant; but I am slow of speech and slow of tongue.” So the Lord said to him, “Who has made man’s mouth? Or who makes the mute, the deaf, the seeing, or the blind? Have not I, the Lord? Now therefore, go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall say.”
—Exodus 4:10–12.
To my sweet middle girl, Kimmie, who is the absolute last word on fashion in our house. This incredibly talented girl can make anything with a piece of fabric and some thread. My own personal image consultant, she continues to remind me fashion can be comfortable, just as I continue to break that rule by wearing sweats when I write.
Much thanks and gratitude to my oldest daughter, Annie, who transcribed much of this book for me onto the computer, as I am one of those dinosaurs who still prefer to create in longhand.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
“How do you do that?”
The question came from her best friend since childhood, Camille O’Shay. They had grown up together in a tiny rural Texas town, attended the same college and now were sharing living quarters in the heart of downtown Denver.
“Do what, Millie?” she asked absently, her eyes carefully scrutinizing the gentleman under her authority, her eyes taking in every seam and pleat as she tucked and pinned.
“Completely change people’s appearances, Izzy, like someone’s fairy godmother or something,” Camille said with a laugh. “I’m completely astounded by your ability to wave your wand and work wonders.”
Isobel Buckley shrugged. “It’s my job to dress and press these gorgeous gals and pretty boys and get them looking their best for the boardroom. The final product depends on me. It’s hard work, not waving wands, that yields a final product I can be satisfied with.”
She wasn’t telling her friend any new information—Camille was well familiar that Isabel was a personal shopper and image consultant for a select, high-end clientele. And Camille likewise knew Isobel was every bit the perfectionist she sounded.
“You know, when you think about it, it doesn’t really take much to make high-quality fashion look good on those pinup model hunks you work with,” Camille observed wryly. “Although, of course, dear heart, you do it better than most.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Isobel was busy straightening a silk tie on one of those so-called pinup model hunks who wanted to look his best for a national conference, and was only half paying attention to her friend’s happy chatter.
“Turn around for me,” she told the man, who willingly complied.
“Oh, nothing,” Camille replied, not sounding the least bit convinced as Isobel turned her attention back to her friend for a moment. “I was just wondering if you could do the same kind of work with an average man, someone who hasn’t ever read a men’s fashion magazine.”
“What are you talking about?” Isobel said, throwing a quick glance in Camille’s direction. “You’re babbling nonsense.”
“Am I?” she shot back, her grin reminding Isobel of a cat crouched to pounce on a helpless mouse. “What do you think about adding a run-of-the-mill variety guy to your clientele? The kind of guy I usually date, as opposed to the kind of guy you could date if you weren’t so caught up in your career?”
Isobel rolled her eyes. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“So are you up for it?” Camille actually sounded excited, as if she were taking the idea for real.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Making a normal slob of a guy into Mr. Right. Blue-collar material, ya know? It would be fun.”
Camille was definitely warming up to the idea, while Isobel was beginning to cringe. Her friend was sounding all too serious about this fanatical, half-baked scheme.
“Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll pick the guy, and you’ll have six weeks to make him into a real man. The man of every girl’s dreams.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Isobel took a deep breath and held it. She could only hope.
Camille shrugged, a noncommittal gesture. “Maybe. Maybe not. But don’t be surprised if I come knocking on your door with a fellow who desperately needs your help for a makeover.”
Isobel pinched her lips, deciding to ignore her friend’s obviously off-the-top-of-her-head twaddle. It would come to nothing in the long run.
She hoped.
Not more than two days later, her dear childhood confidant made good on her threat. Bursting into Isobel’s office, Camille announced in a loud, triumphant voice, “I’ve found him!”
“I’m sorry,” Isobel said, distracted by the pile of paperwork she was muddling through, piece by agonizingly slow piece. “You found whom?”
“The guy, of course. The one you’re going to wave your magic wand over.” She looked disappointed for a moment. “Our average guy, remember?”
Isobel smoothed her thick, long brown hair with her palm and sighed, desperately wishing she didn’t remember. “I would ask if you were joking, but I know you better than that. What possessed you to go through with this crazy scheme? This isn’t even remotely close to real life, Camille.”
“I wasn’t even looking! I’m telling you the truth. No one could have been more shocked or amazed than I. All I was doing was talking with a regular patron at my hotel—a rich, quite handsome, very well-connected patron, I might add.”
“All the people who spend time at your hotel are rich,” Isobel reminded her friend blithely. “And well-connected. Handsome, though. Since when is that a requirement for hotel patronage?” she teased.
