Tempestuous/Restless Heart

by Tami Hoag

  The mere thought made Danielle’s insides go as soft as the overcooked macaroni on her plate. The picture of the two of them in the shower stall together, steam rising, soap bubbles sliding over slick skin, darn near made her faint.

  “No!” she said suddenly, leaning back in her chair, trying to escape his male aura. “I can manage.”

  “You sure?” Remy murmured, forgetting what little sense of propriety he had as he stared at Danielle’s breasts as they thrust up toward him. They were small but firm and round and unfettered by the bonds of a bra. “I’m real good with my hands.”

  Danielle’s breath soughed through her parted lips. She could imagine the feel of those big hands stroking her, caressing her, cupping her breast and guiding it to his mouth as the shower pounded down on them. Her gaze fastened helplessly on Remy’s mouth, so close, so tempting. He leaned a little nearer.

  “What happened to your pledge of good behavior?” she asked breathlessly, clinging to the last ragged threads of her sanity.

  His eyes sparkled as he gave her his slow piratelike smile. His smoky voice stroked over her like a caress. “This is as good as it gets.”

  “Oh, my…”

  Eudora gave a sudden squeal of delight and mushed a handful of peas into Remy’s face. “Eii-up, da da da da!” she chortled merrily, clapping her hands together and splashing vegetable matter in all directions, effectively breaking the mood, much to Danielle’s relief—or was it dismay?

  “Looks like I’m gonna have to join you in that shower now, yes?” Remy said to Danielle with a grin as he scraped the bilious green goo off his face with the dish towel.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Danielle ducked under his arm and rose to her full height, eliminating his advantage. She composed herself admirably just long enough to tell him where to put his things, then she dashed for the door, chanting “no touching, no touching” under her breath like an incantation against evil spirits.

  Remy straightened and watched her flee, guilt poking at him as he thought of his promise to his sister.

  Eudora squealed and reached her arms up, begging to be taken out of her high chair. She looked like she’d been to a body-painting salon. Her little fingers were dripping baby food. The front of her romper was covered. Peach cobbler had been run through her duck fuzz hair like gel, spiking it up in a punk fashion. Her face was coated with pureed peas. She looked enormously happy, though, in spite of, or maybe because of, her slovenly state.

  “Happy as a pig in pink mud, aren’t you?” Remy said with a chuckle. Heedless of his shirt, he scooped her up in his arms and headed for the door. “Come on, pichouette, looks like you’re the only lady I get to bathe tonight.”

  By the time Danielle emerged from her room, freshly showered and dressed in trendy loose purple cotton slacks and a matching top, Remy had bathed Eudora and dressed her for bed in a snowy white sleeper with a herd of hopping yellow bunnies printed on it. The older children were still firmly entrenched in front of the television, absorbed in the latest escapade of McGyver.

  “They’re actually quiet,” Danielle murmured, looking in at them from the hall. Under the chilling spray of the showerhead she had wrestled her rampant hormones into submission and righted her normal calm sense of self. Her unsettled emotions had crawled back under the carpet of wry humor. She felt in control of herself again, and reasonably certain she would stay that way—just as long as she didn’t come within kissing distance of Remy again. She checked the distance between them and sent him a sardonic smile. “If I didn’t know better, I might mistake them for a normal family.”

  “Aw, come on, sugar.” Remy chuckled, conveniently forgetting the afternoon episode on the roof. He lowered Eudora into the playpen that sat just inside the family room door and handed her a foam ball which she promptly began to chew on. Straightening, he settled his hands at the waistband of his jeans. “This household isn’t so different from any other house with kids in it.”

  “I’d call that one heck of an argument for planned parenthood,” Danielle quipped. She took a step back from the domestic scene and nodded toward the back of the house. “If you have a minute, I’ll introduce you to Butler now. It’s time for his pain medication. Maybe if we’re lucky he’ll share some with us.”

  Remy frowned at that, but decided she was joking. He fell into step behind her, admiring the sway of her hips. “Who is this Butler fella? You mentioned him this afternoon, but what with all that cryin’ and carryin’ on I forgot to ask.”

  Danielle shot him a look that told him she didn’t appreciate the reminder of her disgrace. “Butler is the butler.”

  Stunned to a standstill, Remy gave a snort of outrage. “Well, call the poor man by his name, at least! The days of the name going with the station are long gone, even down here. And if you think for a minute I’m gonna let you get away with callin’ me Nanny, you can just think again,” he said, jabbing the air with his forefinger.

  Danielle pushed his hand aside and rolled her eyes. “Save your temper for a better day, Mr. Doucet. Butler is his name—Alistair Urquhart-Butler.”

  A deep flush seeped under Remy’s tan. “Oh.”

  “Oh.” Danielle shook her head. “Jeeze, what do you take me for?”

  A rich, spoiled, pampered woman who paid servants to do every job she deemed unpleasant. But he didn’t say that in view of the fact that she could fire him just as easily as she had hired him, and he needed—no, wanted this job. He wanted the chance to find out what other misconceptions he had about Danielle.

  “I guess I’m not all that familiar with the way wealthy people treat their hired help,” he admitted.

  Danielle stopped at Butler’s door and gave Remy a strange look. “I would have thought you’d be well acquainted with the relationship. Mr. and Mrs. Factory Worker don’t hire many nannies. Who have you been working for?”

  “Oooohhh…” Remy’s throat constricted around his answer and he was about to choke on it when a wavering voice called out on the other side of the door.

  “Danni? Is that you, lass?”

  Danielle swung the door open and strode across the room with a concerned look on her face. “You sound terrible! Are you feeling worse?”

  Butler shifted positions against the pillows, wincing but putting on a brave face for Danielle. “Oh, dinna fash yourself, lass. The pain is terrible, but I can bear it. Tis the worry that’s about to do me in.”

  “I told you not to worry. I’ve got everything under control. I’ve brought the new nanny in to meet you.”

  Butler raised a brow in surprise as Remy stepped forward, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway.

  “This is Remy Doucet,” Danielle said, stepping aside to fuss with Butler’s pill bottle as the men regarded one another. “Remy, this is Alistair Urquhart-Butler, devoted retainer of the Hamilton clan for lo these many years.”

  The men shook hands, Remy raising a brow at the strength of the older man’s grip. Butler quickly let go and groaned a little as he settled back against his mountain of pillows. “I’d get up, Mr. Do-sit, but as you can see, I’m incapacitated.”

  “Much to my dismay,” Danielle said. “Butler was going to look after the children. I was just brought in for window dressing.”

  “Well, there’s no need for you to worry yourself, Mr. Butler,” Remy said with a deceptively placid smile. “I’ll take real good care of the kids.” His voice dropped a husky fraction of a note. “And Miss Danielle too.”

  He delivered his little addendum with a perfect poker face and still Danielle blushed. Immediately she felt Butler’s keen blue eyes dart to her face, homing in like heat-seeking missiles. It was as bad as when she’d been fourteen, spending the summer at her father’s home, and Butler had somehow known just by looking at her that she was engaging in nightly necking sessions with Jamey Sheridan from across the lake. He looked at her now and she was certain he could see every hormone she had gravitating toward Remy Doucet.

  She thrust his pills at him.
“Mr. Doucet comes from one of the best agencies in the city.”

  “Does he now?” Butler never took his eyes from his mistress’s flaming face. Danielle squirmed and looked away, missing completely the act of Butler palming his medication. When he handed the bottle back to her, she gladly took it for something to hang on to. “And just how long have you been a nanny. Mr. Do-sit?”

  Remy cleared his throat and handed the supine butler a glass of water from the nightstand. His dark eyes caught Butler’s and held them with a meaningful look. “Better wash those big horse pills down. Mr. Butler. We wouldn’t want you to choke now. Those painkillers are so big, a man might as well just leave ’em in his fist and swallow that too.”

  Butler blanched and coughed a bit in genuine distress. Taking a sip from the glass of water, he forced a wan smile. “What a relief it is to know Danielle will have help with the children.”

  A wry smile twitched up one corner of Remy’s mustache. “Isn’t it, though?”

  “How was your dinner?” Danielle asked, suspiciously eyeing the empty plate on the bed tray.

  “Fine, lass.” Butler twitched the bedspread to make sure the portion nearest the floor covered the wastebasket full of macaroni surprise. He sat up a little straighter and stretched his arms a bit. “About the meals. You know, I’m fair certain I’ll feel up to standing a wee bit tomorrow. Perhaps I could resume my duties in the kitchen.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “I can handle it, Mr. Butler.” Remy grinned. “I’m a good cook…for a price.”

  “Name it,” Butler blurted out.

  “Hey!” Danielle propped her hands on her hips and scowled at the pair of them.

  Butler gave her an apologetic look. “No offense, lass, but Julia Child you’re not.”

  “Oh, fine,” she snapped, unreasonably hurt at having her paltry domestic skills criticized. “I’ll gladly turn my apron over to the Cookin’ Cajun here. Everybody knows I wasn’t cut out for kitchen duty or diaper detail.”

  Remy gave her a curious look, having picked up a little too keenly the bitterness in her tone. He glanced from her to Butler and back, reading a tense mix of emotions on the two faces.

  “Now, lass—”

  “We ought to let you rest, Butler,” Danielle said stiffly, fearing she had already let something slip that she would rather have kept firmly tucked away. She didn’t like the way Remy was looking at her and she knew she didn’t want to hear what Butler was about to say. She backed toward the door, fighting the need to simply turn and hightail it. “Besides, we really shouldn’t cluster ourselves all in one room this way. Jeremy is liable to nail the door shut.”

  Remy bid Butler a restful night and followed Danielle back out into the hall. “You sure you don’t mind me cookin’, chère?”

  “Mind? Why should I mind?” She flapped her arms in an exaggerated shrug and twirled around the kitchen like a demented ballet dancer, gesturing to the stove, the cupboards, the gourmet gadgets lining the countertops. “Cook! Cook away! Cook yourself into a frenzy!”

  “You just seem a little upset, is all,” he observed, taking a baby bottle from the drainer by the sink. He went to the refrigerator, took out a carton of milk and filled the bottle, keeping one watchful eye on Danielle throughout the entire process.

  The lady was rattled about something and he was willing to bet it was something a lot more important than macaroni surprise. There were things going on here he knew nothing about, but he could feel the undercurrents just the same. He could also feel the need to reach out to Danielle, to offer support and comfort. It unnerved him a little bit. She wasn’t the kind of woman who normally inspired protective feelings in him, not by a long shot.

  Danielle watched him shut the refrigerator with a breath-catching little bump of his hip. He went to the stove and set about warming the baby’s bottle, his movements as sure as if he’d done this every day of his life. For the short time she’d been in charge of Eudora she had gone around with a book on child care in one hand until she’d practically had to have the thing surgically removed.

  “I seem upset to you?” she asked. All the reminders of her ineptitude ganged up on her at once and lodged like a rock in her chest. The calm she had worked so hard to resurrect had deserted her utterly, leaving her feeling more unsettled than ever. “Well, in addition to being a rotten cook and a lousy babysitter, I’m also a temperamental bitch,” she said, her voice hoarse from trying to hold back her true emotions. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and gave Remy her haughtiest look, though she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Us rich women are often like that, you know. You might as well get used to it.”

  With that she flounced from the room, leaving nothing behind but the sting of her words and a fragrant trail of Giorgio.

  Remy made a face and whistled through his teeth as he stared at the swinging door. “The lady bites like a gator. I wonder why.”

  five

  FEELING LIKE A FOOL, DANIELLE WANDERED barefoot out onto the wide veranda that graced the front of the Beauvais house. Remy had to believe she was a little unhinged after her performance in the kitchen. She was beginning to wonder about it herself.

  The time she’d spent in Tibet had been intended as healing time, time to put things in perspective, time to reconcile herself to her future and dull the memory of what had happened in London. She had spent months living in a simple shanty on the edge of the Chang Tang plateau with only a yak and a goat for company. Her days had consisted of work, shooting endless rolls of film of the bleak Tibetan landscape. Her nights had consisted of quiet meditation. She had returned feeling at peace with herself. But that sense of peace had been both false and fragile. Now she felt a fool for ever having believed in it.

  As a sense of despair welled up inside her, she hugged a smooth wooden column, pressed her cheek against the white painted wood. She was vaguely aware of the heavy scent of flowers in the thick warm air, sweet and cloying like a bordello madam’s perfume on a Saturday night. The sun had set but darkness had yet to wrap its cloak around the Big Easy. The Garden District was quiet. The French Quarter would just be coming to life.

  Out on the street a carriage full of tourists clomped past, drawn by a tired-looking black horse. The tourists craned their necks to get a look at the magnificent homes that lined the block. Cameras swiveled in Danielle’s direction and she managed to smile at the irony of her being a subject of a photographer’s curiosity.

  Remy stepped out onto the veranda with Eudora tucked into the crook of one brawny arm, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Danielle watched from the corner of her eye as he settled himself back in one corner of the porch swing and gave the baby her bottle. His dark eyes drifted her way and studied her openly for a long moment before he spoke.

  “Why don’t you sit down, chère?” he asked, his voice low, his tone not overtly sexual, but inviting and compelling.

  Danielle felt as if she were walking through ankle-deep molasses as she crossed the porch. Her instincts were screaming at her to run away, but she blatantly ignored them. She was a grown woman, a woman of the world, a—how she was growing to hate this word—mature woman. She would sit on this swing and have a civil conversation with this man, just as she would get through these next weeks living in the same house with him.

  She wedged herself into the opposite corner of the swing, drew her feet up to the seat, and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I’m sorry I snapped at you in the kitchen. I’ve been a little on edge lately.”

  Remy continued to study her, unblinking, his expression closed. “Why is that?”

  There was a wealth of reasons, none of which she was willing to explain to him. The temptation, however, was strong. She felt a part of herself wanting to tell him, and that kind of wanting was a dangerous thing when having was out of the question.

  “I’m not used to being around so many people,” she said. It was at least part of the truth. “The part of Tibet I stayed in isn’t exactly Times Square.�
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  Remy took his cigarette from his lips and tucked it behind his ear like a pencil. His thick brows drew together as he looked at her with open curiosity. “What were you doing all that time in such a place?”

  Hurting, thinking, doing penance, and trying to heal, she thought, but she glanced away from him again before he could see any of those answers in her eyes. “I was taking pictures. I’m a photographer.”

  “Oh yeah? Like for a magazine or what?”

  “I sometimes contribute photographs to magazines. Most of my work ends in galleries and books. My series from Tibet will be a book. Moonscapes, Landscapes: A Portrait of Tibet.”

  Remy looked suitably impressed. There was something else in his expression, too, though, something like concern. He shifted Eudora in his arms, adjusted the angle of her bottle, scooted over on the bench an inch or so. “You travel around a lot doing that?”

  “All over the world.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you?”

  “Why would it bother me? I grew up living out of suitcases. My mother was an international model. She took me with her everywhere she went.”

  “But don’t you ever get the urge to just stay home, put down roots, raise a family?”

  “My home is wherever I hang my camera bag.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Is none of your business, Mr. Doucet,” she said coolly, lifting her slim patrician nose a notch.

  Remy scowled at her tone of voice. She was trying to make him back off. He didn’t for a minute believe she was the kind of society lady who demanded the hired help bob and tug their forelocks in her presence. That was the impression she was trying to give him now, though.

  She had unfolded her long legs from the seat of the swing and demurely crossed them in that impossible pretzel-twist taught at finishing schools. She was good at looking cool and unapproachable, but the act was wasted on him. He had held her, had felt the fragile vulnerability that lay beneath her surface; he had tasted the sweetness in her kiss. There was much more to Danielle Hamilton than prim deportment and a taste for the finer things, and he had every intention of uncovering the secrets that lingered in her big eyes.