by Zee Monodee
She lowered her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Hey, that’s okay,” he said with a soothing tone.
He hated to see her so dejected, and wanted to comfort her. How to do that, though? He didn’t want her to cut and run.
They also had a serious matter to deal with.
“Margo, we have a problem.”
She peered up, her eyes wide, blue as the summer sky. Why hadn’t he noticed the colour, the indigo hues, in her gaze, before? He gave himself a mental shake.
“I suppose Mrs. May as a sitter is out of the question anymore.”
She nodded. “She was only a temporary measure, anyhow. I’m looking for a live-in nanny.”
“Got any candidates?”
She sighed. “None so far I’d consider reliable.”
Blimey, she found herself in a squeeze.
A door slammed upstairs. Emma appeared on the landing of the staircase in the kitchen. “Cillian O’Shea is coming over to practise with me.”
Margo broke away from him and went to the foot of the stairs. “What makes you think I’m letting you out of the house?”
Emma shrugged, thrust out her chin in defiance.
Margo tensed. “How long have you known he’s coming over?”
“He called, and I told him we were home. No big deal.” She punctuated the statement by rolling her eyes.
“I didn’t give you a phone to chat with boys, Emma.”
“Whatever.”
“Emma.” Jamie went over to the staircase. “Do you have to behave like that?”
The girl had the grace to look contrite.
“Sorry.” She seemed to mumble something before she whipped back upstairs.
Margo gripped the rail. Her knuckles grew white, and, on her profile, he could read the pain and utter dejection that roiled inside her.
“What will I do with her, Jamie?”
He took in a deep breath. She’d said his name. He knew, deep inside, that she wasn’t someone who got personal with others. Yet, she’d just called out to him. What did that say about the depths of her despondency, that she included a stranger in her plight?
What if you’re not a stranger?
What if that’s her way of letting you in?
Granted, Margo proved herself such a clinical and rational woman, she could be clueless that she was emotionally calling out to him.
He should take the chance. She could use help with Emma. She struck him as totally inexperienced at dealing with a child. With people, in general, outside a professional capacity. He’d known a few histopathology lab rats, as they’d called them back in his days at university, and these folks had tended to live for science and results, not social connection and relationships.
A wild idea slipped through to his consciousness.
Risky. He would be taking on a lot.
The gain could be well worth the shot, though. What did he have to lose?
He breached the distance between them until he stood next to Margo. One by one, he unclenched her fingers from the railing, grasped her hands in his, and rubbed his thumbs over her stiff knuckles.
She made no move to escape his touch, and that fortified his resolve.
Or his recklessness.
He’d have the answer soon.
“Emma can stay with me, next door, after school, until you get home.”
Chapter Four
What is he asking?
The soft pressure of his fingers on her knuckles blew another fuse in her rational brain.
Focus, Nolan. Stop acting like a slow-witted airhead.
She glanced up, searching for his gaze with hers. Bad move. A clump of functioning neurons went up in smoke when she encountered the dark brown depths of his eyes. Expectation, and something else, swirled in them.
Heat. Unabashed longing. She gulped. What did the bloke want, after all?
Concentrate.
“Think about it.”
His voice sounded low and husky. Terrifyingly male.
“What?”
“Emma. I can look after her.”
She frowned while she recapped their conversation so far.
“You want to be her—” she stopped abruptly before saying the word ‘nanny.’
Jamie and that notion didn’t go together. An image of the dowdy Mrs. Doubtfire flitted into her mind, and she couldn’t quell her reaction. She laughed.
Witnessing the confusion on his face exacerbated her mirth. She looked away, because the more she thought about it, the more absurd the idea of Jamie as a nanny sounded.
Her eyes watered and burned, and a stitch pulled in her stomach. She broke free from his hands and clutched her arms across her middle.
“Are you alright?” he asked, tone now concerned.
“Fine.” She gasped, trying to catch her breath.
“Can you please spell out what’s so funny?”
Puzzlement etched on his features. He ran a hand in his hair, so that the brown locks stuck out in tufts above his narrow forehead.
She suddenly itched to reach out and comb his hair into that heavy, unruly fringe that brushed his thick eyebrows.
Her stomach cramped, and she clutched her arms tighter across her middle. She couldn’t let go, or the pain would increase. A stitch in the side, when she laughed too much, always hurt less when she remained doubled over her midsection. She hadn’t laughed so hard in so long, but the few good memories from her days with Cora had them, in the recollections, laughing like hysterical hyenas over reruns of Mr. Bean.
Just as well. What was she thinking? She had to be out of her mind, deprived of sense because of Emma’s misbehaviour. She didn’t need to add to the toll of female hormonal idiocy running around the house already.
“Margo, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Where does it hurt?”
He touched her ribcage with his long fingers, brushing her hand when he felt her side.
“Ow!” Why did she yelp? The added pain where he poked, or the scorching lick of fire that sizzled along her hand and arm where he touched her?
“Come on over.” Taking hold of her shoulders, he led her to a chair, then pushed to make her sit. “Breathe. It’ll pass soon.”
She inhaled and, on exhaling, hiccupped. Oh, no. She couldn’t stop, even when she held her breath.
He chuckled. “That won’t work. Where’s your sugar?”
“Next to—” hiccup “—oven.”
He rummaged in the ceramic canisters on the counter.
“There we are,” he said, his fingers in a pinch. “Open your mouth.”
“What—” hiccup “—are you—” hiccup “—doing?”
“Take this. Sugar makes the vagal nerve and the diaphragm react in a way that stops the attack.”
She opened her mouth. The crystals rolled rough and sweet on her taste buds as he sprinkled them from between his thumb and forefinger.
She swallowed, on a hiccup. Her mouth closed, her lips on his fingers before he could pull his hand away.
She froze, and so did he. He made no move to remove his hand, his intense gaze plunging to the depths of her soul as his eyes searched hers—the wide-open doors through which he could probably see to her very core.
Caught in the moment, she craved to hone in and focus on the deliciously wicked interlude between them. Urged on by the most feminine of instincts, something she’d banned from her existence ever since she’d started her medical training, she surrendered.
Margo dared to lick his thumb.
Her taste buds registered sugar and the elusive hint of something richer, more potent. Letting the deep flavour of his skin explode in her mouth, she moved her lips, loosening their hold on him.
Chocolate. That’s what he tasted like. Very little sweetness, smooth. Dark.
Like his eyes.
She swirled inside the vortex of the whiskey-coloured flecks in those brown irises.
Then she opened her mouth to take in some air. His fingers came free, an
d the pad of his thumb rubbed against her lower lip when he pulled away.
Everything inside her urged her to suck his thumb again, explore the intricacies of his true taste, find the real aroma of his skin under the essence of the chocolate.
His fingers unfurled, the palm of his hand cradling her jaw.
Shivers racked through her. God, oh God.
Kiss me.
She looked up into his face. His features seemed taut, tense with passion and want.
Oh, Lord! Jamie, kiss me now.
His gaze held hers, and he smiled. She gulped. His must be the most beautiful smile she had ever seen. His lips stretched, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and his whole face radiated as bright as starlight in a pitch-black sky. How that could be possible, she had no idea, and in truth, she didn’t want to know.
As long as Jamie smiled at her, and only her, like that.
Get a grip, Nolan.
The loud music from upstairs stopped, and a door banged. In the silence that fell over the house, she blinked.
Jamie closed his eyes. When he opened them, he removed his hand from her cheek and retreated a step, to sit in the chair opposite hers.
“Next time,” she thought she’d heard him murmur.
What? Wait a minute, she yearned to say, but she quelled the urge and willed the thoughts swimming in her head to subside.
She dared look up at Jamie. His face appeared composed, all traces of the dark intensity gone.
Had she read him wrong? Maybe he didn’t want to kiss her, and she had imagined the connection between them. So long since a man had last kissed her. She had lost her touch with decoding those signals. Not that she’d ever had fluency with sensual body speak. When David, her only lover after Harry, had wanted sex, he would caress her neck, and she’d take that as her cue to head to bed with him. David had rarely kissed her on the lips, and Harry—
No, she didn’t want to think of him. Thoughts of Harry always spoiled any moment, and she had enough on her mind already without adding the distressing recollection of their hot-and-cold affair to the mix.
Emma scuttled down the staircase at the far end of the kitchen, next to the doorway that led to the corridor and the house’s entrance. With her appearance, the spell in the room broke.
“Cillian’s in the driveway,” she said in a breathless, singsong voice. On the last step, she turned towards them and frowned. “Mum, you look funny.”
Just what she needed to hear. Margo prayed she hadn’t blushed.
“Your mum’s not okay, Emma.” Jamie stood. “She’s upset, with good reason, too, about what happened today.”
The girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Oh, that.”
“Yes. That.” He crossed his arms as he settled his gaze on the tween.
“I’m sorry, okay?”
“Prove it.”
Emma threw up her hands. “What do you want me to do? Hide in a convent?”
“Where did you learn to talk back like that?” Margo asked.
Emma had taken the matter too far once again. Her beef lay with her mother, not with Jamie, who only wanted to help.
She had the satisfaction of seeing the tween blush. “Em, I don’t want us to fight, but what happened today cannot occur again.”
Emma remained silent. Did she nod?
“Can I go now? Cillian’s here.”
What else could she do to try and break through the shell around her daughter’s heart? She roamed a quick look over the girl, frantic for a clue. Emma had decked herself in her red and white practise kit, football shoes with the cleated soles laced on tight.
“Go on,” she said on a sigh. She had to admit defeat, although temporarily. The situation proved way beyond her present expertise.
A knock came at the front door, and Emma careened down the corridor to answer it. The panel then slammed shut. Laughs and snippets of conversation floated in from the grounds as the two youngsters walked around and stopped near the opened kitchen window.
“I think you broke through the ice,” Jamie stated.
Margo snorted. “I wish.”
“No, you have. You spoke to her like to a responsible adult, and that’s what she looked for.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She mumbled her acquiescence, too tired to dissect what she’d done right. Who cared? And what did it matter if she now sounded like a surly teenager? Anything she did concerning Emma turned out wrong.
“Margo.”
How could a man, younger than her, at that, make her feel like a wayward teen being scolded?
Sod you, Jamie.
“You’re not going to win the fight like that,” he said.
“Who says I want to fight?”
She was tired, at the end of her tether already. She didn’t have it in her for any more.
“You don’t?”
“I—”
What did she want, after all? She couldn’t go on this way. Emma and she would war with each other until the girl turned old enough to pack up and say, “Good riddance, you old witch.” Still seven years away. Way too long to live in the trenches of the battlefield.
“What do you want?”
His voice thrummed low again, a soft caress against all of her.
He could weave her into his spell all too easily. The thought made her jump out of her chair.
Jamie walked to the window and stopped in front of the opened glass and wood panel. He leaned forward and inched the lace curtain aside to gaze into the front yard. “What are you going to do with her?”
“Find a nanny.”
“And in the meantime?”
She traipsed to his side. Across the window, she caught sight of Emma deep in conversation with a handsome blond lad.
“Damn.”
The curse came out soft, but he must’ve heard.
“My sentiment exactly.”
He, too, hadn’t missed the way Emma gazed at the boy. She couldn’t blame her daughter. At eleven, Cillian O’Shea already had the kind of wholesome good looks that could make him a teen pop idol with a snap of the fingers, if he could sing two words in tune. If he had the Irish gift of the gab, too, he might not even need talent—any reality show would snatch him up and raise their audience scores every time he appeared on screen.
“Emma plus Cillian equals bad idea,” Jamie said.
“How do you minus Cillian from the equation?”
“You can’t.”
“Right.” Was it possible to speak sense into a tween with a huge crush? Especially when said tween turned out to have Cora’s DNA?
“You can limit the damage, though.”
“Uh-huh. How?”
“Have eyes on them all the time.” He paused. “My offer still stands.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“You’re going to get on that turf to supervise them?”
“Why not?”
He raked his gaze all over her.
She must present an uptight, stuck-up picture, dressed in her cream linen suit and grey suede boots. “I’ll have you know I don’t object to getting dirty.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say anything.”
No, but you implied it. Just like every man she encountered who, at first glance, dismissed her as a snobbish cow.
“You’re good with kids?” she asked.
“I’m good on a football pitch.”
She remained mum, and he must’ve taken her silence for acquiescence.
He pushed the window wide open and leaned out.
“Okay, fellas. Start warming up. Two turns around the pitch.” The tweens stared, startled, in his direction. He clapped his hands. “Get on it. Immediately.”
He turned to Margo and smiled. “You won’t regret it.”
I already do. She quelled the scathing reply on her tongue and harrumphed under her breath.
“Keep an eye on them,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Don’t cut them any slack. I meant two turns round that pitch.”
He lef
t, and she peered out at the two children outside. They stood rooted to the spot, and Emma giggled when Cillian whispered something. They made no move to get down to playing football.
Giggling like a lovesick fool at eleven. The world today proved not at all like the one she had known.
“What are ye waiting for?” Jamie bellowed from around the corner.
He wore black track pants and a long-sleeved, yellow jersey. In his hands, he carried a ball and a pair of thick, white gloves.
Margo slapped a hand to her forehead. How did Emma and Cillian plan to practise when they didn’t even have a ball?
Fishy. She narrowed her eyes. Emma would be trouble.
A mini-Cora.
Something she was so not looking forward to.
With a small slap to the back of each tween’s head, Jamie set them on a slow jog. He joined them, shouting when they relaxed the pace, then set them all to do stretching exercises after they’d completed two turns around the pitch.
Then he went to stand in the goal and donned the gloves.
A goalkeeper. Margo cocked her head to the side. He was good. The two in front of him served swift balls in, and he stopped every shot. The tweens attacked with more vigour, and he continued to block.
She had to admit it—he was good.
A good man, a good goalie, a good sitter.
And she didn’t like that one bit. Jamie and all his chiselled-bod hotness should remain confined next door. Out of sight, out of mind. As long as there existed walls between them, she’d be fine. She couldn’t afford to have him involved in their lives.
Her phone rang.
‘William’ blinked on the screen. She sighed and answered.
“Margo, I need you on a crime scene.”
“Now?”
“Well, yes. It’s your ongoing case.”
No way out. The life of a forensic pathologist spelled itself out like so.
She cut the call and trained her gaze to Jamie and Emma.
She had no other choice. Until she found a nanny, Jamie represented her only solution.
Damn. She hated having to concede. The situation irritated her more because he knew she had no other option.
She pulled on her coat and steeled her shoulders before walking out onto the porch.
Emma took a shot, which Jamie deflected. The ball flew all the way to Margo, to land with a muddy splotch against her legs.
