Читать книгу His Potential Wife - Grace Green, Grace Green - Страница 8

TWELVE hours. That was how long she had lasted…

And, Willow reflected unhappily, she’d have to admit as much to Dr. Galbraith in the morning.

Fighting tears of misery and frustration, she stepped into the bath she’d run for herself in her en suite bathroom. Nothing was worth this hassle. The Galbraith children were monsters. They had absolutely defeated her attempts to get through to them and all day long had deliberately set themselves to provoke her.

But she’d been determined not to let them get the better of her and she’d really believed she had come out on top…until after she’d finally managed to settle them down for the night and had retired to her own room.

There, to her dismay, she had discovered that furtive little hands had been at work in her backpack. Oh, she could have forgiven the splodges of blue toothpaste gel squeezed over her best cream sweatshirt. She could even have forgiven the scarlet felt pen scrawls over every page of her new journal—a present from her mother. She could even have forgiven the broken chain of a favorite necklace. What she found impossible to forgive was the destruction of the last precious photograph of her father and herself, taken just weeks before he died.

Someone—Lizzie?—had tugged the picture from its brass frame and crumpled it into a crackly ball.

It was the final straw in a day straight out of hell.

And she needed to talk to someone about it!

There was a phone on her nightstand, and after her bath she put on her T-shirt nightie, and slumping down on the edge of the bed, called her mother and spilled out the whole dismal story.

Gemma Tyler “tsked” in all the right places, and when her daughter was finished, said softly, “Willow, the first day on a new job is very often the worst.”

“I know, Mom. But I’ve had first days on new jobs before and not one was a tenth as bad as today. These kids are monsters, they really are.”

“Tell me about them.”

Willow wriggled onto the middle of the bed and lying back on her pillows, stared up at the ceiling. “The eldest, Lizzie, is blond and a true beauty. Her sister, Amy, has the loveliest curly red hair and big blue eyes. And Mikey looks so cute he could model diapers on TV—”

“They sound nice—”

“Looks are only skin deep, Mom. Lizzie’s as hostile as she is beautiful, her sister shouts ‘Black!’ if I as much as think ‘White’…and Mikey…that child bellows ‘Not!’ at me every time he opens his little mouth!”

“Ah.” Sympathy flowed across the line like a warm milk and honey drink. “I can see you have your work cut out for you. Tell me,” Gemma continued before Willow had time to tell her she was quitting in the morning, “just one thing. When you look at these three children—I mean, really look at them—do you see at least a kernel of good in them?”

Willow crinkled her nose. A kernel of good? She wanted to say “No, absolutely not!” but she tried to be fair. And reluctantly she recalled that when she’d gone upstairs to check on the children during what she’d told them was to be their daily after-lunch “quiet time,” instead of finding Mikey in his crib where she’d settled him she’d found him in Lizzie’s room. Amy was there, too. The three were cuddled up asleep on top of Lizzie’s bed…and Lizzie had her arms protectively around her two younger siblings.

The sight had touched something deep in Willow’s soul.

But that had all gone by the wayside ten minutes later when the trio charged downstairs, squabbling and shoving and making so much racket they could have been an army.

“Ye…es, Mom. I do think there might be a kernel of good in them.”

“Then you mustn’t give up. These poor tots have lost their mother and it’s only natural they’d fight against anyone who tried to take her place. You must give them a chance to work through their grief. And you must find a new place, for yourself, in their wounded hearts.”

Wounded hearts.

Out of the blue, the words brought a tightness to Willow’s throat and tears to her eyes as she remembered how wounded her own heart had been after her father had died.

And she knew, then, that she wouldn’t run away from this daunting task that fate had sent her. She would stay on, at Summerhill, for as long as these children needed her.

“Good morning, Ms. Tyler.”

“Good morning, Dr. Galbraith.”

Scott leaned back against the counter, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug, as he regarded his new employee who had just raced into the kitchen. She’d come to a breathless halt and was darting a panicky glance around the room, taking in the harvest table with its empty chairs.

Flustered and flushed, she blurted out, “I’m sorry, I slept in and the children aren’t in their rooms and—”

“Not a very good start.” He sent her a look of challenge. “I hope this isn’t going to be a regular occurrence?”

“No, of course not!” Her flush deepened. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Perhaps my children are too much for you. They tired you out yesterday?”

She ran her hands nervously down the sides of her shorts. “The first day with a new family isn’t always easy. But your children are definitely not too much for me. Now if you’ll just tell me where they are—”

“Relax.” He put down his mug and filled another one with coffee. “They’ve been fed and watered and they’re in the den, watching TV. Lizzie’s in charge. But you and I need to talk. Please sit down.”

He saw wariness flicker in her eyes—wariness and anxiety.

What a funny little creature she was, he reflected as he set her mug on the table. If he’d had to choose one word to describe her, it would be “forgettable.” Swiftly he ran a gaze over her and took in sandy sun-streaked hair scraped back in a neat ponytail. Eyes that couldn’t make up their mind if they were green or gray. Nice skin but without a scrap of makeup other than a touch of pink lip gloss. And under her white T-shirt and perky pink shorts, the slim figure of a teenage boy.

As she slipped onto her seat and reached awkwardly for her coffee mug, he frowned. She hardly seemed the same person he’d had the altercation with in Morganti’s. Then she’d been all fire and spit and though she’d irritated the hell out of him, he’d had to admire her spunk. Now she looked ready to jump out of her skin.

He dragged out the chair opposite hers and sat down. “Ms. Tyler.” He tried to keep the impatience from his voice. “Do you think I’m an ogre?”

She blinked. “No, of course not—”

“Ms. Tyler.” He rat-tatted the fingers of one hand on the pine table surface. “If we’re to have any kind of a working relationship, you’re going to have to be honest with me. I’ll ask you again, do you think I’m an ogre?”

She met his gaze steadily. “No, Dr. Galbraith, I don’t.”

“Well, good.” He leaned back in his chair. “So—” he quirked one black eyebrow “—what do you think of me?”

“It’s early days, Dr. Galbraith. I don’t—”

“You must have formed some opinion!”

Ah, now he saw her eyes spark with the same fire he’d noticed at their first meeting.

“All right,” she said. “Since you insist on knowing, I’ll give you my opinion. I believe that ever since your wife’s death you’ve been wallowing around in an absolute emotional mess and you’re pretty sure your children are, too, especially Lizzie, so you’ve been cutting them all a lot of slack—way too much slack—and they’ve taken advantage of it. Are still taking advantage of it. And of you. In a nutshell, they’re totally out of control—which is something a man like you finds intolerable but under the circumstances you’re suffering it and this is putting even more stress on you. Oh, you’re in quite a pickle, Dr. Galbraith. Quite a pickle.”

Her words scraped still-tender scars off painful wounds, exposing raw nerves that screamed in protest. He felt blood pound against his eardrums, but even as he struggled to curb his emotions, a surge of anger sent reason flying out the window.

The girl was outspoken and way out of line.

He would fire her.

His decision was swiftly made…the way he made most decisions. He was not, nor had he ever been, a ditherer.

But before he could tell her she was “out,” he heard the thunder of approaching feet accompanied by Amy’s screams and Lizzie’s gratingly familiar “Pest! Pest! Pest!”

And as the noise reverberated in his head, he acknowledged—reluctantly, frustratedly, wearily—that firing Ms. Tyler was not an option. She was right. He was in a pickle, one helluva pickle. And though she was far too blunt for her own good, he had to admit he’d asked for it.

Furthermore, the reason she’d managed to upset him was that she’d hit the nail on the head…and the truth hurt.

Willow Tyler was as perspicacious as she was plain.

And she had survived a day that would have sent any of his previous five nannies running for the hills.

So after all, though Ms. Tyler had certainly got off to a bad start this morning, there was still a hope—however small that hope might be—that she would turn out to be the one person who could make his small family functional again.

“You certainly don’t pull your punches,” he said. “But I did ask for your opinion so I can’t complain. I hope you’ll always be as forthright with me. If there’s one quality I appreciate in a person, it’s honesty…and the flip side, of course, is that I can’t tolerate deceit!”

He saw an odd expression flicker over her eyes—he thought for a moment it was fear, but he quickly dismissed the idea. She had told him the truth, so what did she have to be afraid of? Puzzled, he tried to figure out what it could have been…but before he could come up with an answer, he heard his storming troops thunder ever closer. With a wince, he forgot all about Ms. Tyler’s odd expression and shoved himself up from the table.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said hurriedly, “I have to go out. I’ll be back in the early afternoon.”

Feeling like a commander deserting on the eve of battle, he swiveled around and strode to the back door. Wrenching it open, he stepped outside and slammed the door shut just as his children erupted into the kitchen.

He stood on the stoop, leaning back against the door and sending up a prayer of gratitude for his timely escape.

Then inhaling a deep breath of the morning-scented air, he was about to leave when through the open window he heard the nanny say, in a clear and decidedly no-nonsense voice, “Before we make any plans for the day, I want you to know how upset I was last night when I discovered that one or more of you had snuck into my room and destroyed some of my treasures.”

He froze where he stood. They’d sneaked into her room? They’d not only gone through her private things, but they had destroyed some of them?

Anger swelled up inside him. This was intolerable. He’d march inside right now and sort the little devils out. But good!

Wheeling around, he reached for the door handle. No way should she have to put up with—

He stopped himself just as he touched the knob.

And told himself to calm down.

Think it through.

And when he did, he realized it would be a major mistake to insert himself into the situation. He couldn’t run interference every time the children misbehaved. It would ruin any hope Ms. Tyler had of gaining their respect.

In the long run, it would do more harm than good.

So he stood there a little while longer, listening, then he turned away from the door and made his way to the three-car detached garage that sat on the grounds at the westerly side of the house.

“So…is that understood?” Willow stood over the children, who were clustered in a hostile group by the kitchen table. “We all have our own areas of privacy, and those areas are sacrosanct.”

“What’s sacrosanct?” muttered Amy.

“It’s what she said.” Lizzie sounded sullen. “We don’t go there. It’s private. We don’t touch stuff that belongs to other people. Just like you should never have touched my book and ripped out the page!”

“I didn’t!” Amy cried. “I told you last night, it just fell out and I put it in Mikey’s crib so you—”

“Children.” Willow gritted her teeth. “Let’s move on, shall we? Let’s start over. It’s a new day.”

Lizzie avoided looking at her. “Where’s Dad?”

“He went out.”

Lizzie frowned. “Where did he go?”

“He didn’t say,” Willow responded lightly. “But since it’s such a lovely day, we’ll all go out, too.”

“Don’t wanna go out!” Amy fisted her hands on her hips. “Wanna watch TV!”

“Me, too!” Mikey dumped himself solidly down on his bottom, his attitude screaming I’m on strike!

“We’ll go for a swim.” Willow opened the fridge and took out a jar of peanut butter. Scooping a bag of buns from the bread bin, she said, “We’ll pack a lunch and have a picnic after.”

Lizzie finally raised her eyes and fixed her with a scornful gaze. “We can’t go for a swim. Dad says it’s too late in the season to bother opening up the Summerhill pool!”

Willow slit the buns and began spreading them with peanut butter. “We’re not going to be using your pool.” She rummaged in the cupboard, found a jar of honey and screwed off the lid. “Now would you run upstairs, Lizzie, and fetch all the swimsuits?”

“How do you know we’ve got any!” Amy screwed up her freckled little nose. “We might not!”

“Not!” bawled Mikey.

“If you don’t have any swimsuits,” Willow said in an airy tone, “then you’ll all have to skinny-dip!”

Lizzie gaped. “You can’t make us!”

Willow slathered honey atop the peanut butter. “You’ll have the choice of skinny-dipping or going into the water with your clothes on. It’s up to you.” She focused her gaze on the buns as she sliced them into neat quarters.

“We’ve got swimsuits.” Lizzie’s tone was dour.

“Good!” Willow packed the sandwiches in a plastic bag.

“But,” Lizzie sneered, “we won’t be using them today because we’re not allowed to go in public swimming pools! Our last nanny said that’s where people pick up all sorts of things like athlete’s foot and…other dangerous bugs!”

“So there!” Amy was triumphant. “We’re not allowed.”

“Not!” echoed Mikey.

“We won’t be going to a public pool.” Willow arranged the bag of sandwiches in her backpack.

“Then where are we going?” Lizzie’s chin had a belligerent jut.

“It’s a surprise.” Willow regarded her charges with a pleasant smile. “But I think you’re going to enjoy it.”

Scott got home around two and as soon as he walked into the kitchen, he spotted the note propped against the fruit basket on the harvest table.

Dr. Galbraith,

I’ve taken the children to the creek, to play in the shallower water down below the swimming hole.

How was his new nanny coping? he wondered. He could just imagine the protestations she’d been subjected to when she’d suggested a swim. No matter what she’d suggested, the arguments would have been the same. And if the kids hadn’t objected in so many words, they’d have expressed their hostility in attitude. He’d seen them in action untold times, with the previous five nannies.

It might be interesting, he reflected, to take a stroll through the forest, and sneak a peek at the situation.

The swimming hole was on the Galbraith estate, and because of the craggy cliff that rose from the far bank, the area was inaccessible to the public and could be reached only via a private trail through the woods from Summerhill.

He hadn’t been near the old swimming hole in years; and he wondered, idly, how Ms. Tyler even knew of its existence.

Willow packed away the picnic things and stood for a moment watching the children frolic in the shallow waves that washed over the smooth sun-warmed sandy beach.

It had been difficult for her to come here. She’d found it distressing to walk past the deep secluded pool where she and Chad had spent so many secret hours swimming together as teenagers—but she’d known her charges would love playing in the water and on the sandy beach so she’d made the effort. And now she was glad. They’d had fun.

They made a colorful picture, she mused as she watched them splash around in their expensive designer togs, Lizzie in her yellow bikini, Amy in a blue one-piece, Mikey in his neon-orange shorts.

She should have brought her camera. She would, when they came back another day.

But it was time now to be heading home, so she should be calling to them to come and get dried off and dressed.

First, though, she should put her own clothes on.

She slipped behind a leafy bush high enough to give her some privacy from the children but not too high that she couldn’t see over it to check on them.

She slipped off her bikini…and then, on an impulse, stretched up her arms to the sky, relishing the unfamiliar and primitive sensation of being naked in the golden sun—

A twig crackled nearby.

Her pulse gave an erratic jump, and when she slewed her gaze to where the sound had come from, she felt her heart stop. Scott Galbraith was standing as if frozen to the spot, just three yards away on the fringe of the forest, his blue eyes staring at her with as much shock as she knew must be glittering in her own.

Suppressing a horrified gasp, she swept up her towel and screened herself from the neck down. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire; her heartbeats scrambled out of control. She clamped her jaw to keep from yelping “What are you doing here?” and waited tensely for him to make a move.

He grimaced.

And then muttering something under his breath, he took a step backward.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was thick, his tone filled with abject apology. “I didn’t mean…I only walked over to…I just thought I’d—oh, dammit, Ms. Tyler,” he sputtered. “I hadn’t a clue that you’d be…I hadn’t a clue I’d find you…”

“Naked?” Willow’s voice came out as coolly as she’d ordered it to—and with just the right touch of wry amusement. “Dr. Galbraith, this is surely not the first time you’ve seen a nude woman. And I’m sure it won’t be the last. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get dressed and attend to your children.”

He looked as if he was going to say something more.

Again she waited. And willed him to leave.

In the end, he scratched a hand clumsily through his hair, twisted his face in an expression of excruciating embarrassment, before turning away with one last muttered “Sorry,” and disappearing into the forest.

Willow’s breath quivered out in a whimper of relief.

He was gone.

Thank heaven.

But…oh Lord…what a disaster!

How on earth was she going to face the man now? Now that he’d seen her with nothing on but her watch!

Scott crashed through the woods, wondering if he’d ever felt so stupid. What a blundering idiot. Served him right, for snooping. He’d got more than he bargained for. Far more.

How was he going to face her now?

And would he ever again be able to look at her without picturing her naked? He groaned. If only he’d turned up five minutes later. If only he hadn’t walked out of the trees just as she’d stretched her arms up to the skies, gilded in sunshine like a wood nymph, without a stitch of clothing and her smooth skin tanned to a deliciously dusky brown except for the stark white areas where her bikini—

Oh damn, damn, damn!

He punched one hand into the palm of the other. Willow Tyler had told him that morning that he was in a pickle. He snorted. A pickle was mild compared to the situation he was in now.

He’d asked Ida Trent to send him a plain-Jane nanny. A plain-Jane nanny she was not. It wasn’t that she was a looker; in fact, hadn’t he already decided her face was eminently forgettable? The problem was…her figure. It was exquisite. The most exquisite he’d ever seen and—she was right about one thing!—he’d seen more than a few naked ladies in his day! But he just couldn’t have this girl prancing around the house in skimpy T-shirts and shorts now that he knew what she looked like underneath.

He needed to suit her up in armor—some kind of armor that would obliterate the sexy image from his mind.

He pondered the problem as he emerged from the trees and started walking up the path to the house. And then, just as he reached the back door, the solution came to him.

The nannies who’d worked for him in the city had worn uniforms ordered from the smartnannies.com catalog—each outfit consisting of a crisp blue dress, with white collar and cuffs; white stockings; white lace-up shoes.

And that, of course, was the answer. He would put Ms. Tyler in a uniform. Then she’d blend in with the woodwork. And far from being stimulated to fantasize about her, he wouldn’t even see her!

It would work.

He groaned again and rolled his eyes heavenward.

It had to work!

“Ms. Tyler, could you come into my study for a moment?”

Willow paused at the foot of the stairs, her stomach sinking. Dr. Galbraith had kept scrupulously out of her way for the rest of the day after the creek incident and she’d hoped she could escape to her room for the night without having encountered him. Her hopes were not to be realized.

Indicating the pile of clothing and towels clutched in her arms, she said, “Okay if I put these in the washer first?”

“Sure, go ahead.” He withdrew into his study again, but left the door open.

Willow hurried along to the laundry room, wondering what he was going to say. Was he going to fire her? Did he think her behavior that afternoon had been…unbecoming? Well, she’d find out soon enough!

After setting the washer going, she brushed a nervous hand over her hair, making sure her ponytail was tidy, before making her way reluctantly through to the study.

She gave a light rat-tat on the door and walked in.

Her employer was pacing restlessly, his head down, his hands jammed into his trouser pockets.

As she entered, he halted and jerked his head up.

“Ah, there you are.” He looked as ill at ease as she felt. And that gave her confidence a slight boost. She said, quietly,

“You wanted to see me.”

“I wanted to tell you that the cook/housekeeper I’ve hired—a Mrs. Caird—will be starting tomorrow. She’ll do all the cooking plus all the housework, except for your laundry and the children’s, and the cleaning of your room. Will that be satisfactory?”

Willow nodded, feeling dizzy with relief that she still had her job. “Of course. But…I’ll have the run of the kitchen, for making snacks for the children and so on?”

“That’s something you can arrange with Mrs. Caird. I’m sure she’ll have no objections as long as you clean up after yourself.”

“Thank you.” Willow turned away and started toward the door.

“Er…before you disappear again…there’s something I…need to know.”

Willow turned around, questioningly. But when she saw the evasive expression in his eyes, she felt a quiver of apprehension. Was he going to chastise her, now, for her immodest behavior that afternoon?

“Ye…es,” she said. “And what is that?”

“I need to…know…er…your measurements.”

“I don’t understand. What measurements?”

A vein throbbed at his right temple. “Do I need to spell it out?” He scowled at her. And dark color seeped into his cheeks. “The usual measurements, for heaven’s sake!”

“The…usual measurements?”

“The size, Ms. Tyler, of your waist, and your hips. And—” he looked as if he was going to choke on the words but finally he got them out “—the size of your breasts.”