Читать книгу Undercover Nanny - Wendy Warren - Страница 12

“I don’t have money for a swimsuit.” And if I did, it would be a tankini from Land’s End, not the kind of one-piece people buy when they actually intend to swim.

Daisy, the nanny, stood with her arms crossed, red Dansko sandal tapping the smooth floor. Three feet away, Max held up two hangers with the kind of solid, utilitarian swimsuits worn by Olympic athletes and members of the Polar Bear Club. Yech!

“I don’t really need a suit, anyway,” D.J. pointed out. “You’re going to be at the pool. I can sit on the sidelines in case one of the kids decides not to swim. We could…color.”

Max frowned heavily. “All the kids will swim. They love it. Livie’s going to start lessons at the Y. You may be at the pool a lot.”

He let the comment hang in the air. You may be at the pool a lot…as if she’d already agreed to his year contract. D.J. glanced at Anabel and Livie, trying to hide in a rack of clothing. The boys were a few feet away, scooting matchbox cars across the floor. All were within earshot, so she decided not to say anything now, but tonight she was definitely going to have to disabuse him of the idea that she was a permanent hire.

“I’m sure the pool has a lifeguard, right? And the kids can wear those floaty devices. So I’m good with shorts. I brought shorts.”

“Daisy, if it’s about money, I’ll pay for the swimsuit,” Max told her. “Think of it as an employer-supplied uniform. Look, as far as I know there’s no lifeguard at the pool we’re going to today,” he told her when she looked as if she was going to protest again. “I’d feel better if I knew you were there.”

Daisy cringed. She had to divulge her secret now: the only emergencies she felt capable of handling around a pool were refilling a margarita pitcher and applying sunscreen.

“I can’t swim,” she said, her voice low, the words deliberately mumbled.

Max craned his head toward her. “Say again.”

D.J. made a face. He’d heard just fine; the disbelief in his expression told her so. Raising her chin, she announced more clearly, “I cannot swim.”

The entire Wal-Mart got quiet. That’s how it seemed to D.J., anyway.

She was ashamed about very little in her life, but somehow her inability to execute a decent freestyle, or even to dogpaddle, felt embarrassing down to her core. The whole world knew how to swim. Every parent taught his kid how to float in a pool or at least sent the poor shlub for swim lessons. In her case, neither event had happened. Her birth family had spent too much time fighting or drying out in detox centers to recall they even had a kid. And her early foster families had neither the time or patience to show her how to swim when they had more pressing concerns, like teaching her not to mouth off at the slightest provocation or steal from her foster siblings. By the time she’d moved in with the Thompsons she’d been twelve and adept at avoiding issues that bothered her.

“I’m just not crazy about water,” she told Max, willing him to drop the subject.

He didn’t. “Are you afraid of the water?”

“No, I’m not ’afraid.’” For some reason she hated that word. “I don’t like to get wet.”

Slowly, he lowered the swimsuits he’d been holding for her approval.

D.J. felt a prickly heat fill her face. She just wanted to get out of here. Was that too much to ask for? “It’s not a priority. I live in the Pacific Northwest. I don’t need to swim.”

“What do you do when you go to the coast?”

D.J. shrugged. She’d been working since high school. She’d only been to the coast a couple of times.

“What if you go sailing or take a cruise?” Max persisted. “You ought to be able to tread water, at least.”

“Why? Because I’m going to fall in? How many people really do that? I don’t think that’s an issue.”

Crossing his arms, Max wagged his head, a papa lion setting the standard for his pride. “Knowing how to swim is a safety precaution, if nothing else. You may want to go river rafting or kayaking some day. You have to know how to handle yourself.”

“If I have that much time off and that much money, I’ll go to Nordstrom, thanks. I handle myself great there.”

Max shot a quick look at the kids to make sure they were still close and still occupied. Then he focused again on Daisy. He felt his own stubbornness rise to meet hers. He got a kick out of this enigmatic woman. Her odd mix of toughness and vulnerability captured him. One minute she was all confidence and wry independence. You could see it by the way she swaggered in her jeans, the way she’d put her hands on her hips and cocked a brow in warning at the boys when they’d teased Anabel about having to wear glasses.

On the other hand, Daisy could seem utterly out of her element and uncertain. Max wanted to know what made her tick. He wanted to know what kind of woman dressed in designer jeans, a red tank top and a dozen skinny bracelets to go on a family bike ride, but seemed utterly absorbed in the activity and unaware of the looks every boy, man and old fart sent her as she pedaled past.

If he had hired her for the restaurant, they’d probably have a full house every night.

The fact that he’d seen other men ogle her was probably what had led him to pick out two of the more modest bathing suits on the rack. The long-legged beauty before him had never swum in the ocean, Max realized. She’d never been skinny-dipping. Right or wrong—and, okay, it was definitely wrong—he wanted to be the first one to introduce her to those pleasures.

The hours he’d spent with Daisy Holden had all of Max’s senses stirred and shaken.

Returning the blue suit to the rack, he grimaced. It shouldn’t even occur to him to touch the nanny; he sure as hell hadn’t thought about touching Mrs. Carmichael.

Nothing regarding this situation with Daisy was normal. He wanted her signature on a year contract—though he’d settle for six months—because he knew the kids needed some continuity. So did he. Also, he needed to show the social worker that he had child care lined up, that the kids’ welfare was his top priority and that everything was finally under control. That part made sense. But if he thought about it a little, how persuasive would Daisy be?

Max tried to picture Nadelle Arnold, the social worker with a bite like a Doberman pinscher, warming up to Daisy, and he couldn’t do it. Nadelle was conservative and sharp as nails. From the getgo, Max had felt that the woman was looking for reasons to discredit him as a guardian. God knew he’d given her plenty of ammo. He had no experience taking care of kids 24/7; the house had been in chaos every time she’d arrived. Plus, he had thrown away a decent accounting job for a lifelong dream of opening a restaurant. Now he’d hired a nanny who was young, beautiful and had no formal nanny experience. Maybe he needed to have his head examined.

Daisy was still staring at him mutinously, arms wrapped so tightly around her waist she was probably cutting off her air supply.

“This one’s red,” he said, waggling the remaining suit. “You like red.” He gave a nod to the top that showed off her curves. She’d been wearing red the first time he saw her, too. “Pick a suit. I’ll teach you to swim.” Before she refused—and she was going to, he could tell—Max sighed. “Fear of water could be a problem when you’re taking care of four kids who love to swim, Daisy. We’re an outdoorsy family.”

“I said I wasn’t afraid.”

“Fear of drowning then.”

“I’m not afraid of drowning! I just never…I haven’t had…” He looked at her doubtfully, conveying his certitude that she was scared but didn’t want to show it. The tactic worked. “Oh, fine, I’ll try on a bathing suit!” She grabbed the red number out of his hand and quickly chose two other suits from the nearest rack. “I’ll be back,” she said, the implied instruction clear. You stay here. There would be no swimsuit modeling.

Attitude colored her every step away from him. She was peeved. Watching her stomp away, Max grinned. He had no idea if he’d saved himself and his family by hiring Daisy, or if he was setting up his own slow torture.

D.J. stood under the shower in Max’s master bathroom. The tears that flowed down her face mingled with the streams of water from the showerhead. She cried silently so no one would possibly hear her, but she felt like six kinds of a fool, nonetheless.

D.J. remembered exactly the last time she cried, it happened that infrequently. And usually for a very good reason. When Eileen died—that was the last time. This time she didn’t have a reason at all. Well…

Max had taught her to dog paddle. That was her reason.

Scrubbing her hair more vigorously than necessary, D.J. tried to put aside the image of his smiling at her fumbling attempts to swim without snorting a schnozful of chlorine. He’d smiled patiently, full of encouragement…the way he’d smiled at James when the less athletic twin had tried to dive like his brother, and the way he’d smiled at Liv in her water wings. The amazing thing was that D.J. hadn’t felt diminished by his consideration; she’d felt nurtured. Held. Even when his hands hadn’t been touching her. And when they had…

Lordy, Lordy. What was wrong with her?

Putting her palms on the slick, tiled wall in front of her, D.J. braced her quivering body. She was strong. She was independent. For years and years she’d viewed herself that way and believed her survival depended on her strength. She didn’t know the shaky, glob of Jell-O feeling inside her, and she didn’t want to know it. Max Lotorto was merely a man. This excess of emotion was absurd. She must be PMS-ing.

Turning off the water, D.J. wrapped a towel around her body and stepped from the shower. Max had said he wanted to talk to her after the kids were fed. Most likely he was going to press his point about a contract. Naturally she would not agree, but she wanted to be able to think clearly, unemotionally when they spoke, so that she could impress upon him the need to search for a real nanny. Immediately.

After today D.J. knew it was time to leave. With luck, Loretta would be satisfied with the information D.J. currently had and would offer appropriate compensation. Maybe the money wouldn’t be as good as what they’d originally agreed on, but once D.J. was safely back in Seattle, she could get a second job to pay off the bills that were in arrears. It would all work out.

That was her chant as she dressed in a denim skirt and short-sleeved blouse. It will all work out for everyone…It will all work out for everyone….

She was about to leave the bedroom when her cell phone rang. Running to retrieve the phone from her purse, D.J. frowned at the name showing on her caller ID: the Oasis. What was that? The phone number had an unfamiliar area code.

She pressed the talk button. “D. J. Holden.”

“Ms. Holden? This is Loretta Mallory.”

Relief and adrenaline surged concurrently as D.J. hurried to close the bedroom door. She could hear the children playing in their rooms and had earlier left Max in the kitchen, working on the Italian meal he’d promised them. She assumed he was still there. “Loretta,” she breathed as the door clicked. “Boy, am I glad to hear from you! Gotta tell you, I was a little worried when I spoke to your housekeeper. She wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

“Janelle is well-trained to protect my privacy.” Loretta spoke with a lock-jawed stinginess that made nearly every sentence she uttered sound like it required exhausting effort. D.J. had thought she was used to the affectation, but this evening the older woman sounded more stiff-lipped than usual.

“I respect your privacy,” D.J. assured her politely, “but when I’m working on a case, I like to keep in touch with my clients. Even if they’re on vacation.” When Loretta chose not to respond, D.J. asked, “How long will you be gone?” She lowered her voice. “I have some information—quite a bit, actually—about your grandson. I think you’ll be very pleased. I’d like to give you the information in person.”

“Impossible. Tell me what you’ve got.”

“We can’t meet in person?”

“No, Ms. Holden. I’m recuperating. I had minor surgery.”

Recuperating. Loretta was recuperating? Then why all the secrecy regarding her location? If there was one thing that bugged the stuffing out of D.J., it was finding out that clients were lying or hiding important details. Quickly she put together the facts: ill matriarch is looking for estranged heir; ergo, matriarch could be very ill and trying to hide it.

D.J. didn’t have the patience right now to muck around. “Loretta, are you ill?” she asked baldly, unmindful of her client’s penchant for privacy. If D.J. was about to reunite Max with a dying grandma, she wanted to know it. She didn’t want to spring it on him.

“No, I am not ill,” the woman snapped as if the very word was offensive. “I am the picture of health, Ms. Holden. What information do you have for me?”

Hardball, eh? For dramatic effect, D.J. allowed a sizable pause. “Where are you, Loretta?”

D.J. knew she was pushing her luck. She still wanted the money from this gig, but now she wanted to protect Max, too. The more information she had about Loretta, the more information she could give Max when the time came. Now that she knew him, she didn’t want him to walk into a situation completely blind.

It took Loretta several long moments to decide how to answer. “Kindly remember that I am paying you, young woman,” she snapped imperiously, but just as D.J. thought she might have to back down, Loretta sighed noisily, indicating she was about to speak again. “I am the CEO of a company founded by my husband. I worked as hard as anyone to make the business a success. I sacrificed. Yet after my husband died, I had to fight for the right to remain part of a company that would not have existed without me. In some ways, it is still a man’s world…D.J.” This time she emphasized the unisex initials. “Working in the industry you do, I expect you to know that. What you have probably yet to realize, however, is that power in business also belongs to the young. I am seventy-one years old. To protect my position on the board, I should not appear older than fifty-five. I had liposuction.”

D.J. was momentarily stunned into silence. The way the conversation had been heading, she’d expected Loretta to say she’d had a facelift. But, “Liposuction?”

“Correct. I expect your discretion.”

Realizing she had pressured Mrs. Mallory into a disclosure that was, after all, none of her business, D.J. agreed swiftly. “You’ll have it.”

Without further ado, Loretta said, “And now I believe you have some information for me.”

“Yes.” Unconsciously glancing toward the closed door, D.J. said, “I’m working for your grandson. I’ve had a lot of opportunity to observe him over the past few days.”

“You’re working for him?” Loretta sounded surprised and impressed. “How did this come about?”

“Max owns a bar in Gold Hill, Oregon. I applied for a job—”

“My grandson owns a bar?” Loretta may have tried to keep her tone neutral, but was unsuccessful at masking her disappointment. “He’s remodeling half of it into an Italian restaurant.”