Just Another Miracle!

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re right, of course.’ His breath left him in a rush. ‘Forgive me—can we start again?’

  His smile was tentative, almost rusty, and Poppy felt something inside her give way. ‘I think that would be a good idea.’ She smiled back.

  Respect dawned in the warm hazel eyes. He thrust out his hand.

  ‘James Carmichael.’

  ‘Poppy Taylor.’ His hand was hard and warm, engulfing hers in a firm grip. To her surprise the warmth spread up her arm and suffused her cheeks. She eased her hand away and tucked it out of mischief in her pocket.

  ‘Are you going to save my life, Poppy Taylor?’ he asked lightly, but there was a hint of desperation in his voice.

  She almost laughed. Here he was, ten times their size, obviously a powerful and successful man, and reduced to chaos by the antics of two small boys!

  ‘Is it really that bad?’

  He snorted. ‘At least! Why don’t I tell you all about it over a coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’

  She followed him out to the big old-fashioned kitchen in the back part of the house, and closed her eyes.

  It looked as if a culinary bomb had gone off.

  ‘Sorry, my cleaning lady’s been off sick for a week and it’s got a little out of hand,’ he explained lamely.

  Poppy blinked. A little?

  Why was it that a man who was so obviously highly capable should be so completely at sea when faced with domesticity? she wondered.

  He pushed a pile of clothes off one of the chairs and held it out for her.

  ‘Have a seat. I’ll find the coffee.’

  ‘Shall I wash up some of the mugs?’ she suggested, and he agreed with such alacrity she almost laughed aloud.

  He put the kettle on and then found a teatowel, coming to stand beside her and dry the mugs as she washed them.

  There was something about the simple, homely task that broke down barriers, Poppy had always thought. This occasion was no exception.

  ‘I’m really sorry about the boys,’ he said after a moment, and there was no doubting the sincerity of his apology. ‘You’ve been very reasonable.’

  ‘I’ve got three younger brothers,’ she told him by way of explanation.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. That was all, but they exchanged a wealth of understanding in the smiles that followed.

  ‘So,’ she said after a moment, ‘how come you need a nanny?’

  His smile faded. ‘I’m a widower—my wife died five years ago when the boys were three. We had a housekeeper, and she had a niece who looked after the boys during the day until they went to school. After that I had an au pair, but that didn’t work. Since then they’ve had a succession of nannies and helpers and God knows what during the holidays, and the last nanny...’ He hesitated, his mouth tightening into a firm line. ‘Let’s just say she left rather suddenly in August.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Right in the summer holidays. I managed to persuade my old prep-school headmaster to take the boys as boarders from September, but they didn’t settle well. I sent them back at the start of this term, hoping it would go rather better, but the head rang me last week and asked me to take them away.’

  ‘Were they unhappy?’, she asked sympathetically.

  ‘Not as unhappy as he was—they’d found some white paint and written something unrepeatable on the cedar shingles of the cricket pavilion.’

  Poppy stifled a smile.

  James picked up another mug and dried it thoughtfully. ‘It wouldn’t have been so bad,’ he added, ‘if they’d been able to spell the word.’

  She laughed then, a little bubble of fun that refused to be suppressed, and he shot her a wry grin.

  ‘It’s funny now, but it wasn’t,’ he went on. ‘My housekeeper, who was nearly sixty, had decided at Christmas that she was going to retire—with immediate effect. That meant I would have no one here except the rather forbidding Mrs Cripps, so I had to drive down to Kent, pick the boys up from school and bring them back and somehow get them into another school as quickly as possible, and keep the business running and sort out the domestic arrangements. Then Mrs Cripps decided it was all too much and she was going off sick...’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘You see why I need a nanny.’

  Poppy shook her head. ‘You don’t need a nanny, Mr Carmichael,’ she told him frankly. ‘You need a miracle.’

  ‘What—just another miracle? I’d order it but I seem to have lost the phone number.’ He turned towards her and she was touched by the bleakness in his eyes that underlined the bitter sadness of his remark. ‘I’m sorry they put you off. I had such hopes—still.’

  He set the mug down and sighed, then reached for the instant coffee.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know a paragon of virtue who’s fool enough to take us on?’

  Poppy had done some idiot things in her time, but she had a feeling they would pale into insignificance any second.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

  He turned his head. ‘You do?’

  She smiled faintly.

  He regarded her in silence for a second, then hope flickered like a pale flame in the back of those beautiful eyes. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, and the years seemed to fall away. ‘When can you start?’

  Poppy was lost. The hope in his eyes did something terminal to her insides, and that slight lift to his mouth—the cautious little twist that made her heart thud and her palms itch to cradle that firm, stubborn jaw—it wiped away all her resolve. She opened her mouth to retract her words, but it betrayed her.

  “That was a short interview,’ she said instead.

  He grinned, and her last vestige of self-preservation puddled at her feet. ‘You want to be interviewed? Fine. Tell me, Miss Taylor, what makes you think you’re qualified to look after my sons?’

  She smiled weakly, dried her hands and sat down at the table before her legs gave way. What had she let herself in for?

  He put a mug of coffee in front of her, hitched up a chair and turned it round, straddling the seat and folding his arms along the back. He had shed his suit jacket and turned back the cuffs on his undoubtedly pure silk shirt, and she found herself suddenly fascinated by the soft curls that dusted his powerful forearms and sprinkled the backs of his large hands with their slender, blunt-tipped fingers—

  ‘Well?’

  Poppy blinked.

  ‘Your qualificadons?’

  ‘Oh-yes. Um—I’ve done a two-year nursery nurse training and worked for six years as a nanny—the last two and a half with the same family. The children ranged from eighteen months to nearly teens. On top of that, I’ve helped my mother with my three younger brothers, so I think I’m fairly familiar with the convoluted workings of a child’s mind!’

  He gave a wry snort. ‘Thank God for that! One of us needs to be. OK, so you’re qualified. Can you cook?’

  She smiled slightly. ‘Better than you, I imagine, if the advert was anything to go by! What do you have in mind in the way of domestic duties?’

  He lifted one shoulder expressively. ‘Not a lot. There’s a cleaning lady—the aforementioned Mrs Cripps—five mornings a week to do the basics. It would only be a question of cooking for the family, and a lot of the time I’m out. The boys will be at school all day, so it’s a doddle.’

  She looked round at the chaotic kitchen. ‘It is?’

  He gave a helpless shrug. ‘If you have that sort of mind. I don’t.’

  She met his eyes with a level look. ‘I can see that,’ she said drily. ‘OK, when would you want me to start?’

  ‘Don’t you want to know about your salary or see the flat or whatever?’

  She arched a brow. ‘Are you intending to cheat me?’

  He snorted. ‘Me?’ His mouth curved in a wry grin. ‘No, Mary Poppins, I’m not intending to cheat you. I’m just only too grateful that you’ll take us on. As for starting—whenever you like. I’ll have to get a signature from you for the bank, so
you can use the household account, but there’s a cashpoint card with it so if you can manage with that for a few days it would help.’

  ‘You’re very trusting.’

  Their eyes locked. ‘I’m a big man, Miss Taylor. Anybody who’ll stand toe to toe with me and remind me of my obligations has integrity enough for me.’

  She flushed. ‘I should never had said all that...’

  ‘Forget it. You were absolutely right; I know that. I’ve done my damnedest, but it hasn’t been enough. Perhaps you’ll sort us all out.’

  He stood up, tall and powerful and very close, and gestured towards a door. ‘Let me show you the flat.’

  They went up the back stairs to a small suite of rooms over the kitchen area. There was a good-sized sitting room with a window overlooking the garden, and a neat little bedroom beside it, both recently decorated with fresh, pretty florals and soothing pastel accents. The bathroom was small but spotlessly clean, and there was even a tiny kitchen.

  Poppy’s heart lifted. By the time she’d filled it with her possessions, the little flat would be just like home. She could picture herself curled up on the chair by the window, a cracking good romance in one hand and a steaming mug of cocoa in the other, the boys asleep, and maybe even on occasions James opposite her in the other chair, a game of chess under way on the low table between them.

  She’d have to let him win, of course, but perhaps not always. The occasional victory would go a long way to make up for his first impression of her as a flour-dredger.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she told him. ‘Just fine.’ She turned, a smile ready on her lips, and faltered.

  He must have been standing right behind her because he was scant inches away, his big body almost completely blocking the tiny hallway. She stepped back and stumbled, and his big hands came out and caught her shoulders, saving her from falling. Somehow her hands ended up on his chest, and the heat of his body through the fine silk shirt almost burned her palms.

  ‘Steady,’ he murmured, and that deep chocolate voice melted over her nerve-endings and jammed the air in her lungs.

  Poppy took a deep breath. It was a mistake. He smelt warm and clean and masculine, untouched by any artificial fragrance, his scent wholly exclusive and absolutely intoxicating.

  Her heart crashed against her ribs, and she felt the most absurd urge to lean against him until the strength returned to her disobedient legs. Their eyes met, and after an endless, heartstopping moment, in which Poppy wondered rather wildly if he would kiss her, he released her gently and moved away.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said, his voice carefully neutral. ‘I don’t know when you want to start—as you can see, we’re ready whenever you are.’

  Her stupid heart fell. So he wasn’t going to kiss her after all. Damn. ‘Fine,’ she replied, her voice as light as she could manage. ‘Shall I move in this afternoon?’

  ‘That would be excellent. You can bring your own car if you like, but there’s one here for your use on or off duty—unless you’re going to tell me you can’t drive anything bigger than a shopping trolley?’

  Poppy’s lips twitched. ‘If it’s smaller than a combine harvester, I’m sure I’ll manage!’

  He laughed then, and Poppy felt the tension ease a little. ‘Somewhat smaller,’ he agreed.

  She followed him down the stairs and out into the hall. The evidence of the booby-trap was still strewn around the floor, which was now coated with generous dollops of flour and water paste. It looked like the aftermath of a nursery school papier mâché session, and Poppy had no illusions about how difficult it would be to remove all traces of the flour from the black marble squares.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on them,’ she said gently. ‘I’d like to get off to a good start with your boys, and if they think I’ve got them into awful trouble, it’ll just make it all the harder.’

  He moved a mop out of the way with his foot and opened the front door for her. ‘I promise not to break any bones,’ he said with the merest trace of a smile in his eyes.

  She smiled back. ‘You do that. I’ll see you this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  He shook her hand, his warm and firm, the fingers strong but gentle. She turned away and ran down the steps to the car, conscious of a tremble in her fingers as she fumbled the key into the ignition, still vitally aware of the imprint of his palm on hers.

  Was she mad? She could feel her pulse race, the surge of adrenaline that came with anticipation—but of what? As she drove away, she wondered how much of that anticipation was to do with the boys and how much to do with the glimpse of vulnerability she had seen in their father’s astonishingly beautiful eyes...

  CHAPTER TWO

  TOM was in the office, fair hair rumpled, a glower fixed firmly on his usually cheerful face. He looked up at Poppy as she went in, and his jaw sagged.

  ‘What the bloody hell happened to you?’ he asked in astonishment.

  ‘I was interviewed,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘What for—one of these Japanese game shows?’

  Poppy laughed. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And did you pass?’

  Her smile faded. ‘Yes, I passed. I’m not so sure about them. It’ll certainly be a challenge.’

  ‘So you’re taking it?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes—I start this afternoon. Can you run me over there so I don’t have to worry about returning the car? There’s one I can use, apparently.’

  Tom brightened visibly at the thought of escaping from the farm accounts for a while. ‘My pleasure.’

  Poppy winked at him. ‘I won’t keep you long, brother dear.’

  ‘Shame—what’s for lunch?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Ask Mum—I’m packing!’

  An hour later her most essential possessions were packed and in Tom’s car. The rest would keep till she had some time off.

  Humming cheerfully, she went into the big kitchen.

  ‘You sound happy,’ her mother said with a smile. ‘Tom said you got the job.’

  ‘Mmm. I just hope I’m man enough for it.’

  ‘Poppy, didn’t anyone ever tell you the facts of life?’ Peter quipped, lifting his nose from a lurid thriller.

  ‘Ha-ha. Have you done your homework yet?’ she retaliated.

  He groaned. ‘When did you say you’re leaving?’

  ‘After lunch. Smells good, what are we having?’

  ‘Vegetable soup,’ her mother said, dumping a big tureen in the centre of the table and dishing up brimming bowls of thick, steaming broth. ‘So, tell us all about it—what’s his name?’

  ‘James Carmichael. He’s a widower, twin boys of eight, lovely house set in several acres of grounds—must have pots of money.’

  David raised his head from his soup and frowned. ‘Not the computer boffin?’

  ‘Could be, I suppose—I didn’t ask him what he did.’

  ‘Big bloke, brown curly hair, cut short—early thirties?’

  Poppy shrugged. ‘Could be—why, what do you know about him?’

  David quirked an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t heard of him? Where have you been living? Not that he has a very high profile; he’s a very private man by all accounts.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Poppy said drily. ‘So private he’s unheard-of.’

  David snorted. ‘Hardly. He just doesn’t socialise much. Commercially he’s red-hot. Dynamite. He made his money in computer software for industry. He’s revolutionised office management—simple, easy to operate programs, very user-friendly. Now he’s moved into the multimedia market and he’s cleaning up big-time.’ He shrugged expressively. ‘The guy’s a legend.’

  Poppy’s lips twitched. ‘Well, he might have revolutionised office management, but he can’t manage two small boys to save his life!’

  ‘No?’ her mother asked curiously. ‘What makes you say that?’

  She laughingly explained about the flour-bomb and her ensuing interview with
the embarrassed Mr Carmichael, while her family rolled around and clutched their sides.

  ‘Do you remember when we did that?’ David wheezed.

  Tom hooted. ‘Yeah—with a bucket of water, and the bucket knocked her out and she had to go to Casualty!’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Poppy said drily. ‘I had six stitches in my head and I was concussed for a week!’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s well insured,’ Peter put in cheerfully. ‘You could make a packet, Pops.’

  ‘Thank you, little brother. Your concern is touching, but my instinct for self-preservation is back in full force.’

  ‘If they’re anything like your brothers, you’ll need it,’ her father said mildly.

  They bantered and bickered their way through lunch, and then it was finished and Poppy was hugging them all goodbye and being wished luck and told to break a leg and keep in touch and so on.

  As they pulled up outside the house, Tom looked around and gave a low whistle.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Poppy said with a grin.

  ‘Nice? Where do you find your vocabulary?’

  Tom shouldered open the door and pulled Poppy’s bags out of the back of the car, then followed her to the front door.

  The bell jangled, and then they heard a door slam and the thunder of footsteps. Almost instantly the door was flung back on its hinges and two mischievous little faces grinned up at them.

  ‘Still alive?’ Poppy teased.

  ‘Just barely.’ Carmichael appeared behind them and winked at her, then turned to her companion. ‘You must be one of the brothers.’

  Poppy introduced them and watched as they shook hands, each weighing the other one up. How long they would have stood there like stags at bay Poppy didn’t like to imagine, but she cut the confrontation short by handing a small bag to each of the boys and suggesting they should show them the way to the flat.

  Carmichael took a bag from Tom and followed the boys up the sweeping staircase, past the massive leaded window that looked out over the garden.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Tom said conversationally, eyeing the surroundings with obvious mistrust.