Nanny 911

by Julie Miller

  “Okay.”

  Quinn turned to watch her push through the swinging door and listen for the light rhythm of footsteps going up the stairs, giving Miranda the chance to notice the scuffs of dust on the sleeve of his navy blue sweater and the knees of his corduroy slacks. When he faced her again, she plucked a cobweb from his hair and took the liberty of smoothing that stray lock on his forehead back into place. “Where have you been?”

  He adjusted his glasses in that adorably nerdy habit of his. “Up in the attic, going through some boxes of Val’s things.”

  Oh. The late wife. Nothing like the mention of the woman he’d loved and married and started a family with to put a crimp in that silly dream of belonging here. She was the nanny. The bodyguard. Not the future Mrs. Gallagher. Miranda brushed away the cobweb and the feel of his silky hair against her fingers on the leg of her jeans.

  “Looking for something in particular?” she asked, matching her posture to the businesslike tone of his voice.

  He spread a piece of paper with a computer-generated picture on top of the center island. “This is the police artist’s rendering of the guy in the backseat of that black BMW that Michael faxed over from KCPD this morning.” He set an old black-and-white photograph on the counter beside it and tapped at the faded image. “Is this the man you saw in the car that tried to run you down?”

  Miranda picked up the photograph. She didn’t need to see the drawing because those pale eyes and gaunt features shouting some kind of warning to the men in the front seat of the car bearing down on her were embedded clearly in her memory.

  She studied the image of a young man in his late twenties. His hair was curly, dark. The swim trunks he wore revealed a muscular upper body. But the eyes looking straight into the camera were the same.

  “Gray up his hair, put some wrinkles on him and shave off about fifty pounds, and yes, that’s the man I saw.” She set the picture back on the counter and frowned. “Who is it?”

  “Vasily Gordeeva. My father-in-law.”

  The silence that filled the kitchen following that announcement left Miranda fidgeting inside her skin. Quinn could stand there and bore holes into the photograph with those laser-blue eyes for as long as he wanted to process whatever thoughts were going on inside his head. But she needed to move.

  Spying the coffeemaker, and inhaling a whiff of the fragrant roasted liquid, she went to the cabinet above it and pulled down a mug to pour herself a cup. She held up the pot toward Quinn and he looked up long enough to nod.

  Some of the tension in him had eased by the time she rejoined him at the island and handed him his drink. “Thanks.”

  Miranda cradled her mug between her hands to warm her fingers. “Do you and your wife’s family not get along?”

  “I’ve never met the man.” Another cryptic statement, punctuated with a swallow of coffee. “Val left Lukinburg when she was six or seven. Neither she nor her mother ever had contact with him again.”

  Now she was getting an idea of where his thoughts had been. “So why would your father-in-law be spying on you?”

  “And why would he want to hurt the grandchild he’s never even met?”

  More to the point, “How could he? I thought he was in prison.”

  “So did I.”

  Miranda set down her mug and lined up the two images side by side on the counter. “You know, there’s a big difference between this strapping young man and the elderly gentleman I saw.”

  “A gentleman wouldn’t plant bombs or take potshots at you.”

  “Technically, he wasn’t the one doing the shooting.”

  “Small comfort.”

  Miranda appreciated the sarcasm on her behalf. But there had to be an explanation somewhere. “What if he’s ill? He wouldn’t be the first long-term prisoner to be released near the end of his sentence because of health issues.”

  Quinn shot his fingers through his hair, destroying the tidying up she’d done earlier. “And his first wish as a free man is to come after me? He doesn’t need the money. I’m guessing he had to pay a hefty fee to somebody to leave the country, maybe even to get out of prison. He’s rented multiple luxury cars here.”

  “All three men were wearing suits and ties and nice wool coats,” she added.

  “And goons with guns and cameras don’t come cheap.”

  “You said he was imprisoned for his politics?”

  Quinn picked up her mug and carried both of them to the sink. “Specifically, he was put away for raising funds and running the campaign for a presidential candidate who turned out to be the front man for a Lukinburger mob boss. According to Val, the guy won. But shortly after, there was a revolution and the mob-influenced government was overthrown, and Vasily went to prison.”

  “And neither you nor your wife were ever any part of that?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Val was embarrassed by his criminal connections, I think. They certainly put her and her mother in danger after the revolution there. So no, once they became American citizens, they were never part of anything there.”

  Great. So they could finally name a suspect, but he lacked a motive.

  They stood side by side at the counter, staring at the contrasting images of Vasily Gordeeva.

  “I was thinking,” she started, reaching up to lift her ponytail and play with it for a few moments while her idea settled into place.

  “About what?”

  “The threat at Ozzie Chang’s house.”

  Quinn pulled her ponytail from her fingers and smoothed it down the center of her back. “Let’s try to forget it for a few hours, okay?”

  As much as she wanted to savor the comforting caress, she turned to face him instead. “You think that message means he’s coming here to the house, too, right?”

  “Yes. He wants more money or ‘I will strike much closer to home,’” he quoted.

  Miranda narrowed her gaze on Quinn. “Well, hasn’t he already been here?”

  “Hmm?” For a smart man, this particular puzzle wasn’t yet falling into place.

  “The men in the car watching the house. The guy who took pictures of Fiona.” Miranda reached for his hands, squeezing them between hers, willing him to understand. “If he’s already been here, then a note like that doesn’t make sense.”

  Quinn connected the dots with her, and maybe deduced a little something more. “There are two things going on here. And, just maybe, they’re related.”

  “You’ve figured out who’s behind this?”

  “Partly.” He pulled her hands to his lips and kissed her fingers. He was energized again, moving, on his way out the door. “I want to put in a call to my father-in-law first.”

  “WHY DON’T YOU BAKE COOKIES together?” Such an innocent suggestion for a wintry vacation evening.

  But Miranda would rather run a timed simulation at the KCPD firing range.

  Still, fearful of taking Fiona outside again in the darkness of twilight, even with lights blazing all around the house, she’d needed something to do to keep the little girl entertained. The last nanny, or maybe two or three nannies ago—the exact details had been blanked out by the momentary panic attack she’d had at Quinn’s suggestion—had made great strides teaching Fiona the child-appropriate basics of cookie making. Cutting out shapes. Decorating them with sprinkles. Eating them.

  Unfortunately, those were the same skills Miranda was familiar with when it came to baking.

  And now their first batch was coming out of the oven. The edges were burned, the middles were doughy. Fiona waited on her step stool, ready to shake the colored-sugar bottles and chocolatey bits over their creations. Miranda checked the picture in the cookbook one more time to confirm that what she had in her oven mitt was a tray full of chewy hockey pucks rather than anything resembling sugar cookies.

  But hopefully, as she scraped them off the cookie sheet and set them on the cooling rack, this exercise in frustration was more about the fun Fiona was having and less about Miranda’s ability to produ
ce something edible and appetizing.

  “There you go, sweetie.” She tested some of the hockey pucks that were cool enough to handle and set them on the plate in front of Fiona. “Have at it. Make them pretty.”

  While sugar and sprinkles flew, Miranda scooped up more cookie dough, trying to make the second tray more even in size. She double-checked the temperature of the oven one more time and slipped them inside.

  The kitchen door swung open behind her. “Mmm. Smells good in here.”

  “Daddy! Look what we made.”

  Miranda wondered at her own little flutter of excitement at seeing Quinn walk into the room. Fiona jumped down from her step stool and trotted over to greet him, leaving a trail of green and red sugar in her wake.

  She might as well admit the disaster this was right now. “Well, cleaning up this mess will certainly give us plenty to do between now and bedtime.” She tossed her oven mitts on the counter. “Fair warning.”

  “About what?” Quinn scooped Fiona up in his arms and took a bite of the cookie she stuffed into his mouth. But it was clearly a struggle to get down. “I see. Got a glass of milk?”

  “Coming right up.”

  Quinn set Fiona on the far edge of the counter and did his duty as a good father to eat the entire cookie and give her a wink as though he was enjoying it. Once he’d cleared his throat by downing half a glass of milk, he placed three cookies on a plastic plate and sent his daughter on a mission.

  As soon as she was out the door and marching down the hallway, Quinn pressed the intercom button to call down to the men in the security command room. “David?”

  “Sir?” the security answered back through a buzz of static.

  “No emergency,” Quinn assured him. “I’m sending my daughter down to you with a plate of cookies.” Miranda laughed at the helpless face he made before speaking again. “Be nice and try one before you send her back. And remember, I pay you a lot of money.”

  “Okay…? I’ll keep an eye out for her. Damiani out.”

  Quinn laughed with her as he came back to the center island to finish off his milk. “You weren’t kidding when you said baking wasn’t a strength of yours.” He nodded toward the swinging door. “But that’s one happy little girl.”

  “I guess I had fun, too. Can’t say I’m proud of the results, but it’s like a science experiment. And I liked my chemistry class in high school.” Miranda gathered up the bowls and measuring cups scattered over the counter and carried them to the sink. “So how did your phone call with Elise Brown go? Did she get a hold of Nikolai Titov?”

  Quinn joined her at the sink with another load of dirty dishes. “Yeah, I guess he took her out to dinner. I can’t tell if Titov is trying to steal away the most organized member of my staff or if they’re actually sweet on each other.”

  “Really?” Miranda ran the water until it got hot, and then she squirted in some liquid soap to wash the items by hand. “I’m no expert on such things, but I got the idea that Elise was sweet on you. She didn’t seem real thrilled that you gave me your jacket and took care of me after the shooting outside your office.”

  “You noticed I was trying to take care of you, hmm?”

  “I notice everything you do.” Like the tender caresses he gave his daughter. The quizzical frowns he often gave her. The heated debates. The subtle, certain touches of his fingers or lips against her skin. The way he generated a heat that leaped between them whenever they were close, even standing side by side in front of the kitchen sink.

  Quinn cleared his throat beside her, as if he still had a bite of that cookie stuck there. She had no such excuse for the difficulty she suddenly seemed to have catching her breath.

  “Let me.” Quinn nodded at the bandage on her arm and rolled up his shirtsleeves to plunge his hands into the sudsy water himself. “I think Elise is just protective of me. More mother hen than sweetheart. I count on her to make me look good to my clients and the people who work for me, especially when I’m stuck in my head with an idea or a business plan. She apparently smoothed things over with Titov. At least for the time being. Those kinds of people skills are invaluable to me as a businessman.”

  “She’s a pretty woman, too.” Miranda wet a second dishrag to wipe down the counters and put some clear-thinking space between them while he washed.

  “You’re the second person to tell me that this week. I guess I’ve noticed in some part of my mind that she’s attractive. But she must not be my type.”

  “So…” The bell on the oven went off and Miranda took out the last batch of cookies and set them on the cooling rack. At least they weren’t burned. It was enough of a victory that she dared to ask, “What is your type?”

  When she turned around, Quinn was right there, his thighs crowding hers back against the island as he set his soapy hands on the countertop on either side of her. “I think you know.”

  She definitely noticed the heat between them.

  And the laser focus of those deep blue eyes skimming over her face.

  She noticed the enticing wave of dark hair tumbling over his forehead, and the breadth of those shoulders straining beneath blue-striped oxford cloth as he leaned in.

  She noticed the simple, masculine smells of soap and spice on his skin.

  And she noticed the warm, gentle pressure of his fingertip brushing across her cheekbone.

  “Me?” she uttered on a breathless whisper.

  He held up the white-tipped finger.

  Her hand flew to her cheek, which felt ridiculously hot. Oh, no. She had flour on her face.

  Instead of answering with a word, he dropped his gaze lower, to her left breast and the smudge of flour smeared there. He liked klutzy incompetents?

  But the joke sounded lame, even inside her own head.

  Quinn wasn’t laughing. He looked serious, intent…hungry.

  Her breath hissed when he brushed that same finger across the streak of flour—deliberately caressing the nubby weave of her shirt, the smooth satin of her bra, the shallow curve of her breast.

  Miranda noticed the rapid tempo of her heart, racing beneath his touch. She noticed the way her tender nipple beaded to attention, straining to feel his touch there, as well.

  She noticed his mouth moving toward hers, her lips parting in anticipation. His deep-pitched whisper was a husky caress against her ear. “You.”

  And then he was kissing her. Wanting her. Claiming her. His tongue swept along the needy swell of her lower lip and plunged inside her mouth to brand her with his sugar-cookie flavor and his abundant heat.

  Miranda wound her arms around his neck, rubbing the aching tips of her breasts against the wall of his chest as she pulled herself up onto her toes to take everything he would give her. “Quinn.” She clutched at the silk of his hair, nipped at his chin. “Quinn.” She dragged her sensitive palms along the stubble of his jaw and down the column of his neck. She slipped her fingers beneath his collar, unhooked a button and slid her fingers beneath the crisp material to find warm, sleek skin. “Quinn.”

  “I know.” He lifted her onto the countertop, spread her thighs and pulled her to the edge, holding her taut and open against his swelling desire. “I know.”

  Miranda’s legs convulsed around his hips at the hard, intimate contact. She felt heavy, molten, weepy inside. She tried to think of reasons why they should stop. Fiona, others in the house. She worked for Quinn. He was the boss. A frustrating, intriguing, compassionate, sexy boss. “Are we crazy?”

  “Yes.” He slid his palms beneath the hem of her shirt, his strong hands sweeping hot and needy over the cool skin of her back. “It makes no sense.” He yanked her shirt up, exposing her torso to the chilly air. “This makes no sense.” He dipped his head and closed his hot mouth over the distended peak of her breast, wetting her through the thin material of her bra, laving her, catching the tip between his teeth and tongue until she let out a breathless gasp of torture and joy. “It’s never been like this for me.” He slid his fingers beneath her
bottom and squeezed, lifted, showed her exactly what he wanted if there weren’t layers of clothes between them. “I haven’t figured you out yet.”

  Miranda clung to his shoulders and gasped against his neck. “Is that important?”

  “It’s a—”

  The loud whoop-whoop of an alarm stopped Quinn midsentence, and Miranda froze against him. Emergency lights at the mud room door flashed on and off. For the longest of seconds she couldn’t make out anything but the thundering of her pulse inside her ears.

  Fiona shrieked from somewhere in the house.

  “Loud noises.” Miranda was pushing even as Quinn was pulling away.

  “Fiona!” he shouted.

  “She hates loud noises.” She was jumping as Quinn lifted her off the counter. They straightened their clothes, ran toward the swinging door, forgot their own unanswered desires because a terrified little girl needed them right now. “Fiona!”

  Like a chain-reaction crash on the highway, Miranda’s senses slammed into place one by one. Security alarm. Intruders on the premises. Draw gun. Find Fiona.

  Quinn saw her first, standing in the hallway—screaming, crying. He scooped her up in his arms and hugged her tight to his chest. “It’s okay, baby. Daddy’s got you. It’s okay.”

  Another light flashed on and off at the front door. The alarm blared its warning.

  Her own heart crying at Fiona’s terror, Miranda brushed a dark curl off the little girl’s cheek. “You’ll be fine, sweetie. Daddy won’t let go and I’ll keep you safe.”

  Just as quickly as the compassion had welled up inside her, Miranda squashed it back down. She had one job to do, and this was it. She moved her hand from Fiona’s head to Quinn’s shoulder and urged him to come with her. “We need to get to one of the panic rooms.”

  He nodded, cradled Fiona’s head against his shoulder and hurried toward the stairs.