A TEMPTING ENGAGEMENT

by Bronwyn Jameson

  He tossed a much-chewed tennis ball long and straight, a sportsman in the making, his father's son. They applauded the retrieval part of the act, even though Digger absconded with the ball, circling the yard and refusing to give up his toy.

  "See, Daddy? He doesn't give it back when he wants to play chasies."

  Eventually Joshua gave up the chase, falling flat on his back at their feet. A small boy filled with exuberance, happy and exhausted from the simplest kind of play, not thinking about the mother who deserted him. Emily's heart twisted with sympathy. Her own mother might still be alive, but she knew all about that kind of rejection.

  "After we take your stuff to Chantal's," the boy said, puffing from his supine position, "we're going shopping. Can you come with us? We hate shopping."

  "Why is that?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Last time, Mrs. Hertzy patted me on the head. I'm not a dog."

  "You smell like one."

  He laughed uproariously and Emily was doomed. This kid … how could she turn her back on him?

  "But we've got to shop," he continued with breathless sincerity. "We're sick of eating s'getti."

  At which point Digger dropped the slobbery ball on his new friend's chest, his eyes lambent with come-play pleading. Batteries recharged, Joshua leaped to his feet and took off again. As she watched him run, Emily felt her own peculiar sense of breathlessness. She shook her head.

  "What?" Mitch asked, and she turned to catch him watching her, his expression tricky.

  "'We hate shopping. We're sick of spaghetti.' Have you been coaching him?" she asked.

  A corner of his very attractive mouth kicked up. "He has a point about the head patting."

  "They do that to you, too?" she asked, tongue in cheek.

  He didn't laugh. "I'd pay you triple just to avoid the supermarket."

  Oh, yes, she saw it very clearly now. The pained looks of pity and tuttings of sympathy for "that poor Mitch Goodwin whose wife up and left." How he must hate that. And, oh, how she ached to help. She felt herself wavering, the need churning and building and crying out for her to accept.

  "I'm no use to you as a shopper," she said, striving for a light tone. "Unless you think I can wheel one of those trolleys all the way out to your place."

  "You know I'll provide a car."

  "I don't drive." There, she'd said it. The truth. And she turned her gaze to Joshua climbing into the tree swing again.

  "You used to drive just fine," Mitch said slowly. "What happened, did you have an accident and lose your nerve?"

  "Something like that."

  "Then you just need to retrain."

  She blew out a scoffing breath and shook her head. "You just need to force me behind the wheel of a car, first."

  "I'll get you driving again, Emily."

  That confidence – he was a man who thrived on accomplishment – could have convinced most people. Except Emily knew how easily she froze, not every time but with certain combinations of stimuli. Darkness, city streets, a male passenger, the strident sound of an over-revved engine.

  She didn't know what to say or how to explain her problem with driving. Remembering his vehemence when she'd told him about losing her job … no, she could not add this story to her growing inventory of victimhood. He would ask more questions, demand more answers, when all she wanted was to forget the whole episode. When all she wanted – just one blessed time – was to feel strong and in control.

  Agreeing to work for Mitch Goodwin did not seem like a wonderful step in that direction. She exhaled on a ragged sigh just as Joshua scampered back to unwittingly tighten the screws. "Can Digger come and live with us, too?" he asked.

  Oh, boy. Emily hunkered down to his level. "I'm not coming to live with you, sweetie."

  "Why?"

  Why, indeed? "Because I'm moving in at your aunty Chantal's and uncle Cameron's."

  Joshua stared at her hard. "D'you mean Uncle Quade?"

  Everyone called him by his surname, why not Joshua? "Yes, I mean your uncle Quade. It's not far from your house if you want to come visit."

  "Daddy said I'm not to go 'cross the paddocks."

  "That's because he's worried that you might get lost."

  Expression solemn, he seemed to consider her point. His eyes were deep, gray-green pools of hope. "Not if I had a smart dog like Digger. He wouldn't get lost."

  Emily struggled to suppress a grin. The dog might be smart, but Joshua Goodwin was a genius at twisting the conversation. He wanted a dog. Perhaps she didn't have to let him down completely.

  "I think it's time you guys got going," she suggested, rising to her feet. "I have to finish packing."

  "Is there much more?" Mitch asked.

  "Not really." She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets, not wanting to think about the implications. Once she finished packing, there'd be nothing left to do but leave. She would be adrift again, homeless. "Just some clothes and personal things."

  "I'll call back in a few hours, then?"

  She nodded. Watched as Mitch let his son through the gate, then followed them around to the front of the house. Seeing them together, fair and dark, short and tall, but bonded by blood and love, her own feeling of aloneness swelled from the pit of her stomach, tightening her chest and constricting her throat. She had to sit on her porch steps, had to close her eyes and fight the tears and the clamoring need to call out.

  She also had to ask Mitch about the dog.

  Taking a deep breath, she rose to her feet as he closed the truck door behind Joshua and started around to the driver's side.

  "Mitch."

  She waited until he came back, out of Joshua's earshot, one brow raised in query.

  "It's about Digger. I can't keep him." The reason didn't need stating – a dog couldn't be packed away in a storage box. "I was thinking that a dog might be good for Joshua."

  "It would," he said slowly, but his expression remained closed. Not the good-idea-Emily smile she'd hoped for. His eyes met hers, hard and direct. "But right now he needs something more than a dog. He needs you, Emily. We both do."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  Living with Chantal and Cameron Quade wasn't as bad as Emily had imagined. Allowed to housekeep and cook, she didn't feel like a complete charity case, although she had spent the last forty-eight hours on tenterhooks, waiting for her nearest neighbor to resume his recruitment campaign.

  He'd been surprisingly silent during the fraught trip from Gramps's to her new temporary residence, although Joshua compensated with his mile-a-minute chatter. She hadn't helped them shop and she hadn't seen either since, yet she remained hyperaware of their presence, a mere mile away, closer, across the three paddocks that separated the farmhouses.

  Was it any wonder she jumped every time someone walked into the room?

  This time it was Chantal. Yawning widely as she came through the kitchen doorway, she seemed sleepy enough from her afternoon nap not to notice Emily jump. Unfortunately, Chantal had been a lawyer all her adult life and a Goodwin even longer. Even half-awake, she noticed.

  "You have to stop doing that while you have a knife in your hand. You'll have a finger off."

  Emily studied the paring knife in her hand. No blood. And her fingers were all intact. "I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else and you startled me," she said unnecessarily.

  "Well, I kind of hoped I didn't look that frightening." With one hand resting comfortably on her pregnant belly, Chantal hitched herself up onto a kitchen stool. "Not with another two months to grow even fatter."

  "You know you look beautiful."

  "You know you have a friend for life," Chantal countered. Then her expression turned ominously serious. "Is that incident with the jerk at the hotel making you jumpy?"

  "No," Emily replied truthfully. Probably too truthfully, seeing as Chantal would now go digging for another explanation. She was very much like her brother in that way.

  "What are you making?"

/>   "This soup." Emily pointed to the recipe card on the bench. "Is that all right?"

  Chantal laughed. "Anything I don't have to prepare is fine by me."

  Emily continued chopping vegetables. What-are-you-making-for-dinner had been a diversion, to settle her down. Questioning would resume shortly.

  "I was talking to my brother earlier," the inquisitor continued with a deceptive casualness that didn't deceive Emily.

  Her knife skidded off the side of a carrot. She didn't dare look up, to see the smug satisfaction on Chantal's face at finding the answer to her why-is-Emily-jumpy riddle so easily. Her brother, as always.

  "He's concerned about Joshua."

  Emily's gaze flew up. "What's wrong? He seemed fine on Sunday."

  "He is … and he isn't."

  Keep dicing and slicing, Emily. Don't prompt… "Because I won't take my job back?" she blurted, unable to help herself.

  Chantal's pause was measured. "Have you almost finished there?"

  "For now."

  "Great. Get yourself a drink and we'll sit somewhere comfortable. This stool is not big enough for the pregnant version of my butt."

  With shaky hands Emily poured two glasses of apple cider and followed Chantal – with crackers and Brie – into the lounge. Easier to hide behind a glass than a knife, she reasoned, should her hostess's cross-examination prove too savvy.

  "Let's start at the beginning," Chantal mumbled around her first bite of cheese. "Which, I guess, is back when Annabelle fired you."

  "She didn't fire—"

  "She didn't find fault with everything you did? She didn't suggest you'd be happier somewhere else?" Chantal waved a dismissive hand at Emily's how-the-heck-did-you-know? look. "Not so clever of me. She was impossible to please."

  Emily's heart thudded hard as she wondered where Chantal was going with the history lesson, but she couldn't not listen. Like a moth to the flame.

  "Anyway, Mitch took an in-studio job so he could be home more regular hours, and Joshua went to day care, and they didn't need a live-in nanny."

  "Until Annabelle left."

  "And while Mitch chased around the world trying to talk her into coming home, Joshua was shuffled around between grandparents and aunts." Chantal looked up as she reached for another cracker. "You know how that feels, don't you?"

  Throat tight with compassion, Emily nodded. Oh, yes, she knew all about shuffling. From mother to stepfather to mother to the next stepfather with only Gramps making her feel as though she had a secure home and a modicum of love.

  "Which is when you came back into the picture, Emily."

  Oh yes, this part she knew all about. The day after his other sister, Julia's, wedding to Zane O'Sullivan, Mitch had come to see her. Less than a week after Gramps's funeral, lost and alone and at her most vulnerable, she'd taken her old job back and prayed that her infatuation with her boss would die … or at least not live long enough to humiliate her.

  "What happened after I left?" she asked, eager to skip the humiliation part. Hoping Chantal couldn't hear the skittery beat of her heart.

  "Oh, we talked him into getting another nanny. She was hopeless. The next one—"

  "There were more?"

  "Two more." Smiling wryly, Chantal shook her head. "I suppose you've noticed that my brother is somewhat attractive?"

  Somewhat? Emily made a noncommittal sound, sort of a cross between an uh-huh and clearing her throat. Now seemed like the perfect time to hide behind her glass.

  "Nanny number two…" Gaze narrowed in concentration, Chantal tapped a nail on her chin. "Her name was Monique, from memory, and she misinterpreted the live-in part of the clause."

  While Emily choked on her juice, Chantal laughed with genuine amusement. She reached across and touched Emily's arm, compatriots in gossip.

  "Can you imagine Mitch when he found her in his bed?"

  "Um … not really."

  Liar. She didn't have to imagine, she knew. He'd look stunned, then so uncomfortable he couldn't meet her eyes. There'd be a softly muttered expletive, some stony-faced silence, and, finally, with her nerves stretched to snap point, he would start asking questions.

  She wondered if Monique had handled them any better than she had done.

  "The third nanny is the one Joshua ran away from at the mall?"

  Chantal nodded. "After that episode, Mitch accepted my offer to take over the lease on Korringal. We all thought he'd have more luck finding reliable child care here."

  Emily rolled her cold glass across one warm cheek and then the other. Finally Chantal was getting to the point. Not a cross-examination, after all, but a sales pitch. She wondered if that's what her brother had been talking to her about earlier, enlisting her help.

  "Mitch needs someone he trusts, someone Joshua loves. I know he can be a giant pain in the neck, but if anyone can put up with him, it's you, Emily."

  For no particular reason – except the sentiment behind those words, the faith, the trust – Emily's eyes misted with tears. She heard Chantal cluck with sympathy, although she watched with her shrewd lawyer's eyes as Emily battled for composure.

  "So far—" she continued quietly "—we've only talked about what Mitch and Joshua want. What about you, Emily? What do you want?"

  What did she want? Apart from the impossible. "I'm not sure," she whispered in true, hesitant, Emily Jane Warner style. Oh, how she hated that tremulous voice and the tears that still prickled the back of her throat. How she wished for the courage to either go after what she wanted, or to tell it – him, them – to go take a flying leap off Mount Tibaroo.

  After a long, intense silence Chantal spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "You know what I think? You've just lost your job and your home, you've been bodily shifted out here and you feel pressured. You're not seeing a lot of choices."

  Oh, yes. That pretty much described her life.

  "There's no need to make a decision right off. You can stay here as long as you like—" She lifted a hand to silence Emily's attempted objection. "And if you decide you don't want to work for Mitch – and he'll kill me if he finds out I'm saying this! – then that's your choice."

  Choices. What a tempting notion except— "I can't stay here indefinitely. I need to work, to find another job."

  "I know a lot of people." Chantal hitched a shoulder nonchalantly. "If I ask around, I'm sure I can scare up another nannying job, although it may not be close to Plenty. Does that matter?"

  "Only if they need a nanny who drives." Her first, tentative flutter of hope took a swan dive. Which parents chose a caregiver who couldn't ferry their kids to school or kindy or the park? Who couldn't, in an emergency, get them to a doctor quickly?

  "You didn't sell your car, did you?" Chantal asked, eyes narrowing with uncanny perception. "Did you crash it while you were in Sydney? That's it, isn't it? I recognize a fellow victim when I see one."

  "But you're driving again," Emily said, remembering Chantal's bad wreck. "Wasn't that hard, getting back behind the wheel?"

  "It took some discipline and practice, but I conquered my fear." Chantal reached out again, her touch warm and supportive. "We'll have you ready for Le Mans before you leave here, Emily."

  "You're seven months pregnant."

  "Quade will do it if I ask nicely." Chantal winked. "If I ask really nicely, he might let you drive the sports car."

  The tears returned, this time more a pea-souper fog than a mist. Emily wiped them with the back of her hand, sniffed, smiled shakily. "Thank you. I don't know why you're doing all this."

  Chantal shrugged. "Remnant guilt, maybe."

  "What?"

  "I wanted your case so badly I encouraged you to fight your grandfather's will. I didn't do you any favors, huh?"

  "It was my choice, I wanted to do something proactive for a change. You didn't influence my decision." Emily paused, remembering Mitch's heated challenge on her porch that first night. "Do you think I gave up too easily? That I should have appealed?"

  "That was yo
ur choice to make," Chantal said firmly.

  "Your brother thinks I did."

  "Thinks what?"

  At that deep-voiced question they both started and turned. Mitch's height and width filled much of the doorway; his black sweater and dark-stubbled jaw lent him an air of danger, and that awareness swamped. Emily in a slow rolling wave.

  * * *

  Mitch noticed that unguarded response, exactly the same as when she had opened her door Sunday morning, pale hair spilling over her shoulders, all pink-faced surprise and soft-eyed temptation. And Mitch reacted in the exact same way now, with sudden, insistent heat.

  Damn.

  Now wasn't the time to remember that glimpse of pale skin when her robe gaped, the curve of her full breasts or the knowledge that she slept with satin next to her skin. He needed to concentrate on the purpose, of his visit. He leaned over the back of the couch and kissed his sister's proffered cheek.

  "We were talking about Owen's estate," she explained. "Emily says you think she should have appealed."

  "I think she should fight harder for her rights … in some instances." He tilted his head toward the kitchen. "Shouldn't you be making dinner?"

  "Nope. Emily's cooking."

  He fixed his sister with a meaningful look and her eyes widened in acknowledgment, her lips forming an okay as she rose to her feet. "I do have to get you a drink, though."

  "Make it a long one."

  She winked as she walked by, leaned down to turn on the stereo–so she couldn't inadvertently eavesdrop – and then left them alone. Sometimes his littlest sister was okay. Although…

  "Marriage hasn't improved her taste in music," he said as a popular boy-band crooned from the speakers. He crossed the room and turned the volume down a couple of notches before asking, "Have you heard from Bob Foley?"

  The hotel owner had been taken aback by Mitch's visit but most helpful. A high-media profile – not to mention a lawyer sister – garnered respect.

  Emily looked up, surprised, then not. "I wondered why he rang."

  "I assume he rang to apologize."

  "I now assume he rang because you told him to." She did not sound happy about his intervention. He didn't care.