by Karen Muir
He pulled back finally, wearing his lopsided grin. “Hey, Genius, let’s get some food.”
She smiled and handed him the vending card she’d purchased at check-in then followed him to the machines. After he filled her hands with candy bars, they returned to their table. She watched him unwrap a four-pack of Oreos and pop a whole one into his mouth. “Don’t they feed you in here?”
“Not sweets like this.” He reached for a second Oreo. “You look pale,” he said. “Too thin. You’re not dieting, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. You’re already too skinny.”
“Thanks. You’re looking great, too.”
He laughed. “Still feisty, I see.”
“So what’s new?” she asked.
“I’m planting trees. Damn hard work, but I’m getting buff.” He raised his arm to flex his bicep. Prisoners worked for the Department of Natural Resources for a few cents per hour.
“Did you check out the woodshop?”
He nodded. “I made you a jewelry box.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Just like high school.” He scowled and bit into a Hershey bar. “How about you? How are things at the U-Dub?”
“Pretty much the same.” Kyle assumed she’d gone back to work at the University of Washington. She’d said nothing about her temporary nanny job. It might lead nowhere.
Hands folded, she broached an old subject. “I think it’s time to hire a private investigator.”
“Naw.” He stopped chewing. “Save your money.”
“Will Sinclair will try to fence those diamonds eventually. An investigator might have contacts to catch him when he does.”
He shook his head. “Just find Smitty. He’s my ticket out of here.”
“Your missing witness.”
“Yeah. He was there that day, and he knows what happened.”
She paused, reluctant to douse his hopes. “I located Smitty’s mom in California. She and Smitty are estranged, but she’d heard he joined the army. She thinks he’s in Afghanistan.”
“Noooo!” Kyle dropped his head onto his arms, the picture of despair.
“Is there anyone else who can help?”
He lifted his head and eyed her a long moment, then shook his head. “’Fraid not, Sis. Smitty was my ace in the hole.” He picked up the candy wrappers and squeezed them into a tight ball.
She knew he’d left something unsaid, but always before when she’d probed, he’d clammed up. She pushed her vending card across the table to him. “You’re all out of candy.”
Shuffling off to gather more, he reminded her of a caged and defeated wild creature. It broke her heart and strengthened her resolve to set him free.
…
Gina arrived early at the Sinclair home Monday morning, determined to search the house no matter what. Will let her in with visible relief. “Thank God, you’re here. The boys have talked about you all weekend.”
Her reply stalled as she spotted purple splotches peppering his white shirt. His hair was a tousled haystack, and he wore no tie. She stared in disbelief. His frazzled look didn’t match the scheming criminal image she had of him.
“I’m running late,” he said. “I’m meeting a client at eight.”
She couldn’t stop herself. “You’ll want to change your shirt.”
He glanced down at his splattered front and groaned. “Harry grabbed the lid off the blender while I was mixing the frozen grape juice.”
“And comb your hair.”
He finger-raked his wayward strands into jagged spikes. “Anything else?”
Arms folded, she scanned him from head to toe. “You might want to wipe the oatmeal off your shoe.”
He looked down at his mush-coated loafer and swore.
She fought back a smile. “I hope you don’t curse like that in front of the boys.”
“You mean the way you do?” Glancing up, he caught her amusement. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
She clapped her hand over her mouth, but a snicker escaped.
Eyeing Gina, he undid the top button of his shirt. His fingers moved down to a second button, then a third. Her smile faltered. What the hell?
“The appliance repairman is coming today,” he said. “Sometime between eight and five.”
He shrugged out of his shirt and dropped it on the floor. His purple-spotted undershirt prompted a growl. “Damn, this goes, too.”
Gina watched in fascinated horror as he pulled his undershirt free of his waistband and over his head. The ripple of muscle in his tanned chest lit a fireball of attraction low in her belly. Her boss was a stud. Was he purposely trying to make her uncomfortable?
“The man from the glass company is coming to measure the window today. Or maybe tomorrow. He’ll give you a call.”
“What?” His six-pack abs demolished coherent thought. “Oh. Okay.” Her mouth felt bone-dry.
“I’m embarrassing you.” He sounded pleased.
“Not at all.” The beast was getting back at her for laughing at his appearance.
“I grew up in a house with three brothers,” he said. As if that explained his locker-room mentality.
She nodded. “I’m just glad no grape juice spilled on your pants.”
At her jibe, his mouth tightened.
Damn that smart mouth of hers. But the man was so hot, she couldn’t help wondering what kind of a lover he was.
He moved closer and placed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “Your cheeks are red, and you’re radiating like a furnace.”
She stilled at the warmth of his breath on her face and envisioned placing her hands on his muscular bare chest to savor its feel. A hitch in his breathing warned her he’d read her thoughts. Uh-oh.
Remembrance struck like lightning, and she managed to croak, “Please…stop. You’re making me uncomfortable.”
His fingers dropped from her cheek as though singed. He stepped back, a startled look in his eyes, then bent to retrieve his shirts from the floor. She watched him, scarcely breathing. What had happened to make their encounter so intense? So fast?
Clutching his stained shirts, he bounded up the stairs. He stopped at the top and looked down at her. Her pulse spiked. Did he regret the incident as much as she did? He started to say something, then walked away.
She exhaled slowly, shaken by what had almost happened. Her traitorous attraction to Will had sparked the flash fire between them. From now on, she had to concentrate on her mission.
Searching for the boys, she found them in the family room, hunched in front of the TV watching morning kid shows. Ian’s pajamas looked wet. Remembering she’d been on their minds all weekend, she approached them with a smile. “Good morning, guys. Let’s get dressed and have breakfast. Then we’ll do something fun.”
“Don’t wanna,” Harry mumbled.
Transfixed by Elmo on screen, Ian didn’t budge. If the boys were glad to see her, they were hiding it well.
Pick your battles, her kid research said. This was not the time for a showdown with Will in the house. The boys would want something soon enough, and then she’d have them.
Buoyed by that thought, she went upstairs to get them clothes. No sign of Will, who was probably changing shirts in his bedroom. When she came out of the boys’ room carrying shorts, shirts and sandals, she met him in the hall. Walking fast and cinching his tie, he stopped when he saw her.
“Gina, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
Surprised by his words, she eyed him silently.
“The boys and I had a rough weekend,” he went on, “and I didn’t get much sleep.” He sighed. “The grape juice splatters certainly didn’t help. But I crossed a line, and there’s no excuse for that. Please accept my apology.”
Her grip tightened on the clothes in her arms. Their volatile encounter had been her fault as much as his. Strongly attracted to him, she’d made the mistake of letting it show. A dangerous weakness she must overcome to succeed in exonerating Kyle
. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry, too.”
He held his arms out to his sides. “Tell me I look better.”
“Hmm.” She eyed him slowly from head to toe. “There’s no trace of what you had for breakfast.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She preceded him downstairs to the family room, where Harry and Ian were still glued to the TV. The boys mumbled replies to their father’s goodbye, never looking his way. It surprised her to see disappointment in Will’s eyes.
“Goodbye,” she said, trying to ignore his feelings. His dismal relationship with his sons was not her problem.
The morning went downhill from there. Ian refused to take a bath and get dressed, while Harry challenged her every statement. The three of them molded Play-Doh, then played Go Fish, the boys bickering all the while. Gina’s computer-generated kid smarts failed miserably, and by eleven o’clock, her patience was razor thin.
Harry and Ian sat at the kitchen table, squabbling over crayons. They broke off, open-mouthed, as Gina folded the corners of the tablecloth inward to form a large catch-all bag, then hefted it over her shoulder like Santa with his pack. “Okay guys, we’re taking this outside.”
Ignoring their squawks of protest, she headed for the backyard to spread the tablecloth, with papers and crayons, on the grass in the shade of a cedar tree. Two sets of blue eyes regarded her warily.
“Stay here,” she instructed them then left to retrieve her gardening tools from the trunk of her car. When she returned, the boys hadn’t moved.
“Are you leaving us?” Ian asked.
His tremulous voice tore at her heart. “Of course not. But we all need a break. You guys play with your crayons, and I’ll pull weeds.”
She moved to the neglected flower bed outside the den, wondering why Will didn’t hire a gardener. She began pulling up thistles engulfing the roses. Her fingers in the dirt, the familiar magic returned. If Harry and Ian were easy, she wouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t expect miracles. This was only her second day.
But if the boys fought constantly, she couldn’t search the house. She needed them more independent and less needy. They edged closer until they were sitting one on each side of her.
“Whatcha doin’?” Harry asked.
“I’m weeding the garden. See this beautiful red rose?” She touched a flowering branch with her brown-gloved hand. “It’s a Pinocchio Floribunda. Can you say that?”
“Nochi Bunda,” Harry said tentatively.
“Close enough.” She smiled. “Pinocchio Floribunda needs sunlight and room to grow.” She lifted a clump of thistles from her pile of weeds. “These thistles are trying to take over poor Floribunda’s space.”
“Why?” Ian asked.
“The thistles need sunlight and room to grow, too, but there’s not enough for both of them. One has to go.”
“So you’re killing the thistle.” That was Harry, cutting to the chase.
“Yes, I like the rose.”
“Me, too.”
“Sometimes there’s a fight and someone has to lose, but not always.” She gently tipped up Harry’s chin. “Like you and Ian with the crayons. There are plenty of crayons for both of you. You can both be happy.”
“I like lots of crayons,” Harry said.
“But you can only use one at a time.”
“I want the red ones. And the blue, and the purple.”
“You might have to take turns. Ian probably likes red and blue and purple, too.”
Ian shook his head. “Green.”
“Well then, Harry can trade you green for one of his favorites. There’s no need to fight if you’re smart and use your brain.”
Harry’s frown conveyed doubt. She snipped off a rose blossom and held it out to him, and then Ian. “Doesn’t that smell good?”
Ian nodded.
“Our mom has flowers, too,” Harry said. “We’re not supposed to pick ’em.”
Gina paused, bothered by his use of the present tense. “Roses are different. The more you pick them, the more they grow.”
“Mom smells good when she hugs me, ” Ian said. “I miss her.”
“Me, too,” Harry echoed.
Gina pulled off her gloves to rub the boys’ backs. Surely Will had told the boys about their mother’s death. Yet they talked about her as though she were still alive. Were they in denial, or did they really not know? Something wasn’t right.
“I‘m thirsty,” Harry said.
“Me, too,” his brother agreed.
She stood. “Let’s make lemonade.”
The boys ran for the house, and she followed. Something should be done. A competent nanny would alert Will to his sons’ misconceptions. She was not a competent nanny; even so, she felt compelled to talk to her employer. It didn’t mean she was getting involved. A discussion of ways to help the boys might enable her to conduct a thorough search of the house.
Scrubbing her hands at the sink, she sighed. Who are you kidding? Harry and Ian had touched her heart the first day they’d met, and she cared about them way more than she should.
Chapter Four
Ian and Harry were playing with a wooden train set when Will came home that evening. He watched them from the family room doorway, still amazed to find himself the father of four-year-old twins. The boys had blown into his life like a tropical storm, and the three of them were still sorting through the emotional debris. But for the moment, his sons looked happy. Hiring Gina had certainly helped.
He studied her as she sat on the floor beside the boys. Despite her oversized clothing and cinched-back hair, he found her strangely appealing. A powerful attraction had surged between them this morning, stirring something primal within him. Something that could not happen again. She was his sons’ nanny and completely off-limits.
She turned as he moved into the room, feeling like an intruder. “Hi, everyone.”
“Hi,” Gina said. But she didn’t smile. Harry glanced up at him, but said nothing, as did Ian. The threesome returned their attention to the train, and disappointment speared through Will. Nobody looked glad to see him.
He headed for the den, not all that glad to be home himself. The usual nightly battle awaited him, getting the boys fed, bathed, and tucked into bed. All so he could retire to his den and work on bids and blueprints long into the night.
Seated at his desk, he opened a folder of computer-aided drawings for a kitchen remodel. Before the Vandenburg diamond theft, his college football fame had landed him frequent contracts among Seattle’s well-to-do. Now, with his reputation tarnished, he was forced to work smaller jobs—and more of them. Money was tight, and he could lose everything in the Vandenburg lawsuit.
Hearing footsteps, he glanced up to see Gina standing in the doorway. “I need to speak with you.”
He gestured toward a chair. “Come sit.”
Her frown suggested she might still be mad at him for what had happened this morning. Taking off his shirt and touching her cheek had been inappropriate and out of character for him. He’d apologized and thought they’d resolved the incident. But maybe not. Was she going to quit?
She sank into the green upholstered chair where he’d interviewed her last week. “I’d like to know more about the boys.”
He sat at the desk opposite her. “Like what?”
“Why does Ian wet the bed every night? Is it a medical problem or a sign that he’s troubled?”
He leaned back in his creaky chair. The last thing he wanted was to share his family’s painful past. “It’s something we’re working on.”
“I’m also curious why Harry challenges authority so frequently. Has he always been that way?”
“The boys have gone through tough times,” he conceded, “and you’re right to assume it’s affecting their current behavior. But I’m reluctant to share the details. The past can’t be changed. We can only deal with the present.”
He leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. “Which is where you fit in. The boys like you, Gina. Let�
��s build on that.”
She began tapping her index finger on her elbow. “I was hoping you’d tell me more.”
“I can tell you the boys have been happier since you came. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and things will be fine.”
Thinking he’d put the matter to rest, he looked down at the sketches on his desk and frowned at the pantry dimensions. Those measurements couldn’t be right. He reached for his laptop then glanced up, realizing Gina had not moved. “Was there something else?”
Her mouth quirked. “The boys have told me some disturbing things.”
He stilled. “Disturbing things?”
“Yes. They think their mother is still alive and searching for them.”
“The boys said that?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Have you talked to them about her?”
“Of course. I talked to them extensively when they first came to live here. I thought they understood.” Initially, there’d been tears and angry denials.
“They also told me you’re not their real dad.”
He rubbed his forehead, not wanting to hear any more. He was clueless about kids. His ex-wife had called him a drudge—all work and no fun. Apparently, she’d been right. His sons didn’t mind him or like him. According to Gina, they rejected him as their father, as well. Glancing up, he realized she was speaking to him.
“…constant defiance and nightly bedwetting are signs of a troubled child.”
Gina sounded like she was lecturing a child psychology class, and he didn’t want to hear about his failings as a father. “You’re the nanny, and you know about kids,” he said. “You handle it.”
She gasped. “You’re the dad. I go home at five o’clock.”
“The boys miss their mother, but I can’t bring her back.” He paused. “Last Friday, when I came home and found you and the boys asleep, I sensed the strong connection between the three of you.” For one foolish moment, he’d longed to be a part of it, too.
He flattened his hands on the desk. “A caring nanny is the best I can do for my boys. Your warmth and your expertise—that’s what they need.”
“They need you, too,” she protested. “Do you spend much time with them in the evenings?”
