His to Command: the Nanny: A Nanny for Keeps. Cara Colter
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need them, since she isn’t staying.’
Jacqui wasn’t a violent woman, but if he’d been an inch or two smaller, she might just have seized his shoulders and shaken him. As it was, he’d probably laugh and his face might crack in two. Safer not to risk it. She’d have to start smaller. Try and tease out a smile…
She stopped. No point in wasting time worrying about ‘smile’ therapy; she would be more usefully employed in seizing the moment, reasoning with him. The kettle boiled just then, distracting her and by the time she’d poured water over a tea bag in a mug for herself, and made coffee for Harry Talbot, she’d thought better of it.
If she reasoned and failed, then he’d just end up more stubbornly fixed in the position he’d adopted. Every time he said ‘she isn’t staying’ the words would became harder to retract.
And Maisie wanted to stay.
Better not give him the chance, she decided, dunking the tea bag.
Better to just wait until Vickie had spoken to Selina Talbot, at which point everything would doubtless resolve itself. And in the meantime she’d deal with the situation on the ground. One crisis at a time.
At least he seemed disinclined to rush off for once. She wouldn’t get a better chance to talk to him. Nothing to threaten him—which was rather an odd thought under the circumstances; he was the ogre, not her—but just in the hope of finding common ground.
They hadn’t, so far, had what could be described as a normal conversation.
‘Does that chicken actually live in the kitchen?’ she asked, saying the first thing that came into her head. Normal? ‘Or is she sick?’
‘The story is that one of the cats brought her in out of the rain when she was a chick and treated her as part of her litter.’
‘Are you suggesting that she thinks she’s a cat?’
‘That’s Aunt Kate’s theory.’ The look he gave her suggested otherwise.
‘You’re not buying that?’
‘I haven’t noticed any identity problem when the cockerel’s preening his feathers, but if the choice was a basket in front of the stove or slumming it with the rest of the birds in the hen house, which would you choose?’
‘That’s a deeply cynical point of view.’
‘And your answer is?’
‘She’s a smart hen.’ Then, ‘I’ll bet the eggs confuse the heck out of the cats, though.’
There! She nearly had him with that one. He didn’t actually smile, but there was definitely a giveaway crease at the side of his mouth. What he did do, was pick up the cafetière and pour himself a mug of coffee.
Classic distraction behaviour, she thought. She’d have done the same thing herself if she’d being trying to hide laughter. Or tears.
Maybe there was hope for him yet.
‘Where were you going?’ he asked, glancing sideways and catching her watching him.
‘Nowhere,’ she said, slightly flustered. She hadn’t moved…
He turned and leaned back against the worktop, still looking at her. ‘For your holiday?’
Oh, that. She’d forgotten all about Spain. Besides, it was warm enough in here to toast her skin. Not that he was crowding her. There was clear space between them, but the plush, wrap-around robe was much too warm.
And not nearly respectable enough.
It was too short, of course. They always were, but she’d never actually thought of her ankles as something she needed to cover up. But now her bare ankles seemed to suggest bare legs, which suggested all kinds of other possibilities.
And it felt much too tight.
While it was supposed to be her size, it had obviously been washed often and she had the unsettling feeling that somewhere down around her thighs it might be gaping open, just a bit.
She didn’t dare look down.
To do so would simply draw attention to the fact. Not that he seemed interested in her legs.
On the contrary, his gaze seemed to be riveted on the deep vee where the wrap crossed over her breasts.
Not in any sense of the word leering. Just looking at her as if trying to remember something…
Which was crazy.
She was crazy.
She was, she reminded herself, a picture of modesty beneath this barely adequate robe.
When there was every likelihood that you’d have to turn out in the middle of the night, half-asleep, to tend to a disturbed child, it didn’t take long to discover that smart nannies wore sensible PJs.
Not that it was a problem now, but she couldn’t af-ford to toss out perfectly good nightwear and there was nothing in the least bit flimsy about the jersey sleep shorts and vest she was wearing. OK, this one just happened to be a vest top with shoestring straps—she’d seen a pack of three in a sale and treated herself for the holiday—but even so she’d have been wearing a lot less on a Spanish beach.
But then this wasn’t a beach.
This was an isolated house with a man she didn’t know. And he was staring at her cleavage.
Bad enough.
But her cleavage was responding…
CHAPTER FIVE
‘DO YOU want milk?’ she asked. She didn’t wait for his answer, but crossed to the fridge, taking her time about it, using the opportunity to wrap herself closer in the robe, pull the belt tighter while she had her back to him, before turning with the jug.
‘No, thanks,’ he said, when she offered it to him.
She had the feeling that he knew exactly what she’d done, but there was no sign of a self-congratulatory smirk. He just stared into his coffee as, discarding the tea bag, she splashed milk into her own mug.
‘Isn’t it rather late for black coffee?’
He didn’t answer, just gave her a look that suggested she was treading a very fine line, but then he’d been doing variations of it since she’d arrived. It was, she suspected, supposed to have her running for cover. It reminded her of an unhappy child, testing to the limits her resolve to love her. Testing her promise to stay…
‘Just my professional opinion,’ she added.
‘Keep it for Maisie, Mary Poppins.’
If he wanted her to duck for cover, he’d have to do better than that. Mary Poppins was, after all, ‘practically perfect in every way’. One of the good guys.
‘Lack of sleep can turn anyone into a grouch,’ she said, not backing down, even though holding his gaze seemed to be having a detrimental effect on her knee joints. Turning them to mush as a small voice in her head whispered, ‘Touch him. He needs someone to hold him…’
She cleared her throat to shut it up and said, ‘But you’re right, it’s absolutely none of my business. Just don’t blame me if you can’t sleep.’
‘Why not? I think we both know that you’ll be the one keeping me awake—’
He paused, as if the image his words evoked had caught him by surprise and he’d forgotten what he was about to say. Time slowed and the air pressed against her, making her conscious of every inch of her skin as her mind filled with a picture of him in a dimly lit room, bare shoulders propped up against the pillow, arms behind his head, wide awake. Thinking about her.
It wasn’t just her knees, but her entire body responded to this disturbing image with the heavy drag of sexual awareness, the ache of need. The swelling breasts, the taut,