The Nanny's Plan

by Donna Clayton

  “I might be able to help.”

  He brightened. “You think?”

  “My French is nowhere near fluent, but I’ll be happy to give it a try. Let me go get my French dictionary. That should help.” She turned toward the stairs to her room.

  “Meet me in the study,” he called after her.

  When she returned with dictionary in hand, Pierce had poured out two glasses of wine. He picked up one glass by its stem and offered it to her.

  “I thought we could use a drink while we translate.”

  “Thank you.” She took a sip. Then she caught his gaze over the rim of the delicate glass, the omnipresent hum that vibrated between them making itself known in a very big way. She swallowed.

  “Should we get started?” Without waiting for an answer, Amy set the book and the wine on the desktop and looked down at the letter. She studied it for a moment and then placed her finger on the header. “It is from the perfume company—” she grinned up at him “—but you already knew that much.”

  “Jean Langfitt is the man with whom I have the most contact.”

  The proper grammar he used would have sounded stilted had she been the one who used it. Suddenly she felt lacking. How on earth could someone like her help someone like him?

  He doesn’t know you’re deficient, a quiet voice reminded her.

  She found the man’s name at the bottom of the paper. “Yes, it’s from Dr. Langfitt. Did you know that Jean is the French version of John?”

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  “And Dr. Langfitt is the company’s director of…um—”

  “Research and development,” he supplied. He pulled the desk chair out for her. “Sit. I don’t want you hunching over. Who knows how long this will take?” Then he slid a side chair over next to her and sat down beside her.

  Amy was cognizant of the fact that his knee was pressed against her thigh, but she tried her darnedest to ignore it and the electric surges his nearness sent skittering across her skin.

  “Okay.” She focused every ounce of concentration on the paper in front of her. “Let’s see. He hopes you are well—that sentence was easy enough. ‘Je suis heureux de vous faire part que le parfum extrait de vos fleurs a fait frémir notre nez.’” She murmured to herself, “Fait fémir is thrilled. Fleurs is flowers. So this guy is pleased to report…” She shook her head as her voice trailed off. “This doesn’t make sense, Pierce.”

  She flipped through the dictionary. And after only a couple of minutes rechecking the translation, she began, “From this letter…” Confusion had her shaking her head and the rest of her sentence trailed off. “But that would be a silly thing for him to say….” Again she stopped, feeling embarrassed that she might not be able to help him after all.

  All she could do was give the translation her best shot.

  “According to this,” she said, pointing to a line of the letter, “Dr. Langfitt’s nose is thrilled with the scents extracted from your flowers.”

  Immediately it became obvious that Pierce understood the strange statement.

  His mouth widened in a relieved grin. “Not nose as in the body part. Nose. With a capital N.”

  She still didn’t get it, and she was sure her face expressed just that.

  “A Nose,” he explained, “is the job title of the person who mixes scents. The person who creates the different perfumes sold around the world.”

  His green eyes twinkled with excitement, and it was impossible not to get caught up in it. But she dipped her chin and directed her gaze back to the letter.

  “Well,” she continued, “according to the good doctor—” she reached for her dictionary again “—the Nose wasn’t able to reproduce, no, duplicate…the Nose wasn’t able to duplicate the scent of your flower.”

  “Woo-hoo!” Pierce lifted his fist into the air, joy exploding from him like air from a balloon that had been poked with a pin.

  She started, and couldn’t help but laugh along with him. This was obviously very good news.

  “You see, if the scent of the flower I created could be duplicated by mixing already known fragrances,” he explained, “my work would have been worthless.”

  The joy rushing through him made his already handsome face even more so. Amy couldn’t help but stare.

  “There are different types of fragrances,” he continued, evidently unaware of the rude manner in which she gaped. “Woodsy scents like cedar and sandalwood. Animal scents, mostly musk. Flower essences. There are thousands of those. Fruit extracts and oils. What makes my flower special is that its fragrance combines an intriguing combination that subtly mimics aspects of them all.”

  “Amazing.” Taking her eyes off his gorgeous face, his animated features, was impossible.

  “My best selling point was my belief that the scent from my flower can be used in perfumes for both men and women.”

  Calling herself captivated wouldn’t have been far off the mark. “So…this is good news.”

  “This isn’t just good news. This is great news. My hybrid flower has a natural fragrance that can’t be duplicated by an expert. This means a patent. And more money than I’ll be able to spend in my lifetime.”

  She thought about the custom-built home he lived in, his huge piece of property, the lab, the greenhouse. He already had everything he could possibly want.

  “Something tells me,” she surmised, the words tumbling off her tongue before she thought much about it, “that your happiness doesn’t rely much on money.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. It has very little to do with money.”

  “You’re pleased because you’ve done something remarkable.”

  Pierce only smiled.

  Because she thought he needed to hear the words, she whispered, “Your father would be proud.”

  Time seemed to hover, and for the span of a single heartbeat Amy feared he had been offended. But then he reached up and cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand.

  “I could just kiss you.”

  She couldn’t draw breath. And it was almost a certainty that she was going to fall into the intense depths of his eyes.

  “I think I will.”

  He leaned in and covered her mouth with his. The red merlot on his lips, on his tongue tasted heady, and although Amy had barely tasted the wine in her glass, she felt drunk. Inebriated beyond reason.

  She closed her eyes, took his bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled. Without breaking contact with his mouth, she smiled when she heard the low groan that rumbled deep in his throat.

  Warning flags began waving furiously in her head. This wasn’t right! This was the very thing she’d been working so hard to avoid.

  She whispered his name and knew that all she was feeling was expressed in her tone.

  “Please—” His voice was as rusty as old nails. “Let’s just enjoy this moment, Amy. Just this one moment. No strings attached. Just…let me…”

  He kissed her, and if Amy had felt intoxicated a moment before, it was nothing compared to the wooziness infecting her now. Her knees quivered even though she was seated. The muscles of her arms quaked with weakness. Even her spine seemed to have become fragile and frail, and she was sure she would slide right out of the chair onto the floor.

  But she didn’t. What she did do was surrender to Pierce’s plea. And she savored every second.

  Oh, boy, did she ever!

  She lowered her lids, leaned into him and slid her hands along his corded forearms, the fine, springy hairs tickling the sensitive skin between her fingers. Where flesh contacted flesh, Amy felt scorched by the velvet heat of him.

  And he kissed her.

  Barraged with sensation, she moved her palms upward, felt his tight biceps, his broad shoulders, the expanse of his chest beneath the soft cotton of his shirt.

  And he kissed her.

  His hands cradled her face, their tongues dancing erotically. The scent of him swirled around her, filling her nostrils. The feel of his pounding heart thundered
beneath her fingertips. The wine-sweet taste of him pervaded her very existence.

  And he kissed her.

  Desire slugged through her body, engorging her, inflaming her to heights she’d never before imagined. She wanted him close, and, as if of their own volition, her hands clenched the front of his shirt and tugged him to her.

  And he kissed her.

  Through the sensual haze fogging her brain she became cognizant that his hand had dropped from her face to cup her breast. Her nipple tightened into a hard and lusciously painful nub when he lightly grazed the pad of his thumb over it.

  He pulled his mouth from hers, but kept his lips so close that she could feel each gasping breath he took. With a touch that was feather soft, he roved his full bottom lip down over the curve of her chin. His moist mouth rambled a path of sweet kisses up her jaw, over her cheek and temple. His lips swept across her forehead like the echo of a whisper, then they made their way oh-so-slowly, oh-so-lightly down the bridge of her nose.

  The kiss had ended. But the moments of bone-deep passion hadn’t lessened one iota. In fact, the fervor pumping through her rose to a fever pitch.

  Her body felt racked as she struggled to inhale oxygen into her lungs. He was so close, and she yearned so deeply, that she came to the conclusion that there was only one aim for them. One end.

  To become one. To bond in the most intimate way a man and woman could.

  The thought made her eyes fly open, and she saw that he was staring at her. His gaze was drugged with his overwhelming need. Never in her life had she felt more feminine, more desired.

  “Amy, we’ve got to stop. I know I said we should enjoy the moment, but…honey—” his swallow was jerky “—we’ve got to stop before this goes too far.”

  She knew he was right. Well, her head knew he was. But her heart and her body wanted to scream, “Why?”

  Not too much later they sat in the living room, he on the couch and she in a chair. However, even though they took great care to keep their distance, Amy could feel that something had changed between them. Something incredible. On several different levels.

  Like a volcano that had unleashed itself in an explosion of molten lava, the force of their burning attraction had diminished. Oh, it was still there. Continued to simmer. But the kiss they’d shared had acted as a relief valve of sorts that had released the pressure they’d both suffered.

  And Amy couldn’t help but conclude that the very core of their relationship had been transformed, as well. She felt comfortable with him. She trusted him with every fiber of her being.

  The fact that he’d been as charged with passion as she, yet had possessed the strength and the willpower to end the kiss was proof that he was worthy of her trust. He knew that getting involved wasn’t what she wanted. He knew she wouldn’t have wanted to cross the line. And he’d kept that from happening. He’d kept his cool.

  He had let her know by his actions that he could be relied upon, could be counted on to do the right thing…no matter how heated the situation might become. That meant a great deal to Amy.

  She found her heart was warm and pliant. What she was feeling was gratitude. He could have taken her tonight. She’d have gladly given the very essence of herself to him. However, he’d made certain that that hadn’t happened. The appreciation gathering in her chest had her wanting to do something nice for him. Made her want to give him a gift to replace that most precious one he could so easily have acquired, but had chosen to respectfully decline.

  “Isn’t it incredible,” she finally said, “how we are shaped by our past?”

  “I know I sure was.” Pierce leaned forward and refilled her glass with the merlot.

  The small smile she offered him conveyed her silent thanks.

  “But it’s also incredible,” Amy continued, “how the past shapes each of us differently.”

  A tiny frown creased the area between his eyebrows and she could tell he wasn’t certain what she meant.

  She explained, “Take you and your sister, for instance. You were raised by the same mother, had the same father, suffered the same paternal neglect, yet each of you grew up with greatly differing opinions regarding love and family and relationships.”

  The pucker remained embedded in his brow.

  “Oh, come on now.” She chuckled. “Don’t tell me you haven’t ever thought your sister’s choice of husbands was…a little different from the norm.” Reaching out, she picked up her wineglass from where it sat on the coffee table.

  “I’m not that much younger than your sister,” she told Pierce. “When Cynthia came to Lebo with Reverend Winthrop, I was aware of the talk.” A grin spread over her mouth. “You know how small-town people can be. Gossip becomes a recreation.”

  His features relaxed, then he actually smiled. Delight seeped through her like liquid fire, warm and enticing.

  “People whispered about—” she lowered her voice to a bare hush “—the age difference.”

  Pierce laughed outright.

  “They certainly didn’t mean any harm, you know,” Amy continued. “It just gave them something to talk about. Some way to pass the time.” She paused long enough to take a sip from her glass. The wine tasted luscious, the flavor reminding her of the heady tang of Pierce’s kiss.

  She blinked, moistened her lips and focused.

  “Even the least talented armchair psychologist would be led to the conclusion that your sister just might have been looking for a father figure.”

  He looked thoughtful now, his gaze suddenly weighty with reflection.

  “I admit,” he said, “that I had the same thought when Cynthia announced her plans to marry John.”

  “However, your father had a most dramatically opposite effect on your attitudes regarding family.”

  Pierce nodded.

  She’d laid the groundwork. Now was the time for her to lay her tiny pearl of wisdom on that foundation…offer him a small but terribly important gift.

  “You’ve claimed,” she began, “that you’re just like your father. That you’re so caught up in your work that you could never be good daddy material.” She paused in order to make an impression. Then she added, “But I wonder if you’ve allowed yourself to be, well, deluded.”

  His pensive expression tightened. He was frowning again. But Amy was determined to bestow her thoughts on him—a notion that just might free him from the prison in which he’d interned himself.

  When she didn’t immediately clarify her statement, he said, “Deluded? How so?”

  “I don’t believe you’re anything like your father.”

  Her bold proclamation made the pucker between his eyebrows deepen.

  She scrunched up her nose. “Let me rephrase that. I believe you’re less like your father than you perceive.”

  His glass sat on the end table, forgotten, as he concentrated every nuance of his attention on her. His gem-green eyes darkened with wariness, but she resisted the urge to look away.

  She pressed forward with resolve. “Yes, like your father, you love your work. And your choice of careers is right along the lines of his. And I believe that there was a time when you spent every waking moment in your lab and the greenhouse. That you were truly absorbed with your research, your experiments. I believe that if you wanted to, you could become an honest-to-goodness workaholic. Just like your father.”

  Leaning forward, she set her glass on the table. She continued in a whisper-soft tone, “But Pierce, you have to admit that all that changed once your nephews came to stay with you.”

  His eyes, his expression, his thoughts were indecipherable. She hadn’t a clue what was going on in his head, or what he might be feeling about what she said. At any moment he could explode in anger, or hug her with gratitude—she couldn’t tell.

  “Your behavior toward those boys,” she told him, pointing toward the ceiling, toward that part of the house where Benjamin and Jeremiah were fast asleep, “has been filled with nothing but love and kindness and concern. You care
about those children. That much is obvious. And you’ve given generously of your time.” Emotion tightened her throat and she had to strain to continue. “Something your own father never did.”

  His jaw tensed and his eyes glistened. The sigh he heaved was heavy.

  “But Amy—” his voice nearly broke “—anyone can do something, act a certain way, for a short time. A few weeks. A month or two. But old habits die hard—”

  “But they can die.”

  He looked unconvinced.

  After a moment he reached up and scrubbed his fingertips back and forth across his forehead. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. But I just can’t agree with you. Haven’t you ever heard that old adage that the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree?”

  Astonishment widened her eyes. “How can you say that? What about Cynthia? The two of you grew up in the same house. Under the same circumstances.”

  He rested his elbow on the arm of the couch. “Why is this so important all of a sudden? I’ve survived just fine being on my own—”

  “That’s why it’s so important, Pierce,” she said, slicing his sentence clean in two. “You haven’t survived just fine.”

  His whole body seemed to grow taut. Clearly he wasn’t happy with her estimation. If she was reading his features correctly, he found her belief to be something akin to a wild accusation.

  Before he could become too aggravated with her, she rushed to explain. “What I mean is, it seems to me that your life here…before the boys arrived…has been, well, kind of lonely. You spend your time with your plants, doing your research. You’re too isolated, Pierce. Too secluded. It isn’t natural. It isn’t right.”

  “Wait a minute now.” He bristled. “It’s not like I’m a hermit. I’ve dated. Cynthia has pushed quite a few women on me over the years.”

  She cast him a sardonic expression. “A few dates here and there, with women who are pushed on you. What kind of life is that?”