A TEMPTING ENGAGEMENT

by Bronwyn Jameson

  "I suggested he show a little faith in his staff."

  She exhaled softly, the breath lifting a loose strand of her white-blond hair. "He apologized rather nicely."

  "And I didn't?"

  Hell. Mitch raked a hand through his hair. Two minutes alone and they were on the brink of another clash. He could all but hear the crackle of tension in the air, and he didn't need to ask if she got his point. The past swirled, dark with shadowy secrets, in her eyes.

  "You had no need to apologize." Her voice sounded about as tight as her pale-knuckled grip on the empty glass. "I told you nothing happened."

  "Hell, Emily, you were in my bed, and I can't remember anything after kissing you. If that's all that happened—"

  "It is." She put the glass down with a decisive clunk. "You were drunk and grieving and, yes, you kissed me, and we somehow ended up in your bed. You passed out and that's all that happened."

  The rushed telling brought a flush to her face, the same sweet, pink color he'd seen all over her body that next morning. "We also, somehow, ended up naked," he pointed out.

  The color in her cheeks flared, hotter, darker, but she met his eyes. "You didn't have a clue what you were doing. Or who with."

  "I knew who I was with, Emily," he said emphatically. "Now I need to know what I did."

  "Nothing, Mitch." Temper sparked in her eyes, charging Mitch with the same fiery frustration.

  "It's not 'nothing' if it sent you packing and if it's still preventing you taking your job back. Damn it, Emily, I've given you the freedom to name your price and conditions. I've given you thinking time. Joshua loves you and I'm pretty sure you feel the same way. If it's not me – if it's not about that night – then what's the problem?"

  With the music suddenly shut down, that last question sounded far too loud, aggressive, abrasive. Obviously, his sister thought so, too, because from beside the stereo she insisted, "Stop bullying her."

  "Butt out, Chantal." His focus switched back to Emily, needing her response, her answer. "Tell me why you won't come and work for me."

  "How about because you're obnoxious," Chantal said, putting herself between them, arms folded, expression determined.

  "She needs a job, sis."

  "We're working on that."

  Everything inside him ground to a halt. "Care to explain?"

  "Good grief, Mitch, you can't force Emily to work for you. And when she makes up her mind – which won't be with you standing over her – it will be because she has choices. Now, was there anything else you wanted?" his sister, the turncoat, asked sweetly. "Besides the chance to browbeat my houseguest?"

  Seething, Mitch gritted his teeth. "If it's still all right with your houseguest, I'd like to buy her grandfather's dog for Joshua."

  * * *

  Through an agency in Cliffton, Mitch found temporary child care in the form of a middle-aged cleanliness guru with the unlikely name of Mrs. Grubb. More interested in keeping the house free of dust and lint than keeping Joshua entertained and happy, she wasn't working out.

  As if to punctuate that thought, her vacuum cleaner started up, its high-pitched whine eating through the last of his concentration. Earmuffs, industrial strength. He started a mental shopping list, then wondered if Mrs. Grubb did shopping. It would get her out of the house, even if it did defeat the child care purpose of her employment, because he was not, no way, sending Joshua to any shopping center.

  The machine's whine intensified as his office door opened, then ebbed as it clicked shut. Joshua rested his chin on the edge of the desk and looked up at him with serious eyes. "Is it 'kay to ask one question?"

  "Only one?" Mitch ruffled his hair. "Spit it out, bud."

  "Is it time for Digger's walk yet?"

  "Not quite." He swung back to the desk and right-clicked on the computer clock. "When the big hand's up here, see? You can check on the kitchen clock. Okay?"

  Joshua sighed heavily. "’Kay, Daddy."

  That despondent little voice, the sound of his retreating footsteps, the restrained thud of the closing door – they all combined to knock the stuffing right out of Mitch. A numbing sense of acceptance rose up to fill the void. Emily wasn't changing her mind. For over a week he'd kept his distance, working while he could, making do with this temporary excuse for a nanny, waiting for any sign of Em's attitude mellowing.

  It hadn't; it wouldn't. Because no matter how many times she denied it, how many times she used that nothing word, she couldn't hide the tumult in her eyes. He had slept with her. He'd shattered her trust in him as a boss and as a man, and his ham-fisted attempt to force the full story from her hadn't done his cause any favors.

  He'd blown it.

  Now he needed to contact some decent agencies and start the nanny hunt all over again. Since his current chapter wasn't going anywhere – two pathetic paragraphs since lunch – he clicked online and searched for the Yellow Pages.

  Fifteen minutes later he'd set the wheels in motion, but the consequences grated as harshly as the incessant howl of the bloody vacuum cleaner. Another nanny who wasn't Emily. It felt … wrong.

  With a soft oath, he spun his chair away from the desk and took his frustration to the kitchen. While he waited for coffee to brew, he grabbed a fruit box from the fridge and went searching for the son who made his world seem more right. The rumpus room was empty and he combed the rest of the house – resisting the impulse to check inside Mrs. Grubb's cleaner – and came up Joshua-less.

  Recalling his question about walking Digger, Mitch checked the kitchen clock. Ten to four. His mild irritation morphed to annoyance as he headed outside. Joshua knew he had to ask before going outdoors. It was a rule. But that's where he'd be, playing with his new best friend.

  He wasn't in the yard. Worry churning his gut, Mitch strode back inside, flicked the off switch on the machine-from-hell and faced down Mrs. Grubb's indignation. "Have you seen Joshua?"

  "Why, he's in the rumpus room, watching tele—"

  Mitch didn't wait around. He was back outside, calling out to Joshua, whistling for Digger. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Find the dog and he would find Joshua.

  Nothing.

  His heart pounded. Think, Mitch, think.

  Emily. All day Joshua had harped about showing her Digger's latest trick, and that's what the four-o'clock walk was all about. Going to see Emily. His panic steadied. With five, ten minutes head start he'd be still on the road. A quiet road, he reminded the sudden jitter in his pulse. Only local traffic to a handful of farms.

  Grabbing his cell phone, he strode to his truck, fired the engine and turned down the drive. The road was empty, no traffic, no boy. Resisting the urge to drive fast, he scanned the roadside thoroughly, across the long-grassed paddocks either side. No fair-haired boy, no dog, no sign of activity except a soaring hawk intent on some ground prey.

  Phone in hand, he dialed Chantal's number, impatiently waited six rings before Emily's quiet hello. Thank God, someone was home.

  "Is Joshua there?"

  A beat of pause. "No. Should he be?"

  "He's missing. I thought he headed down to see you. Can you check outside?"

  Barely breathing, he awaited her reply, all the while steadily surveying the landscape for any sign of boy or dog. His whole body tightened with expectation, fear, hope when he heard the clunk of the phone being lifted.

  "I'm sorry, Mitch. I'll start walking back from my end across the paddocks. Don't worry, that's where he'll be, somewhere between the two houses."

  Mitch nodded, unable to speak, unable to see beyond the awful, pounding revisitation of his worst nightmare.

  His son was lost.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  They tramped the thickly grassed fields between Mitch's and Chantal's homes, calling, whistling, receiving no reply save the distant caw of a lone crow. Emily's stomach churned, sick with panicky fear. The urge to run, to scream Joshua's name, clawed at her composure. Guilt clawed at he
r conscience.

  He'd been bringing Digger to visit. If she'd taken the job, or even taken the time to visit… If she'd not been so selfishly absorbed in her own fears…

  "Mitch!"

  Startled by that distant call, Emily swung around to see a familiar farm truck barrel to a stop right beside Mitch. Quade swung from the cab, followed by both Anderson brothers from down the road.

  One look at the men's faces shattered her sharp spike of hope. They weren't delivering good news, but they were more than doubling the feet and eyes in the search. Perhaps now the fields would not seem so endless, the horizons so far, night so near. Especially now that real numbers were on the way.

  "We should wait here for the Rescue Squad, plan our—"

  "You can wait." Mitch interrupted Quade's suggestion, his gaze fixed on the forest to the east. The Tibaroo Nature Reserve. Haven to rabbits and hares and wildlife. Heaven to a terrier-cross with an instinctive nose for pursuit.

  Emily's heartbeat skipped. "He can't have gone that far," she murmured, hopeful, hoping.

  Mitch didn't answer. He was already striding into the lengthening shadows, toward the eucalypts that loomed tall and dark in the graying light of dusk. Emily rubbed her hands up and down her arms to ward off the sudden chill. How much more menacing they must appear to one small boy.

  Alone.

  The tide of panic rose again, lapping at her confidence, flooding her senses. Until her gaze fixed on Mitch's broad, straight back. The man with the most at stake still managed to radiate strength and purpose and calm determination.

  The panic receded as she released a long pent-up breath and hurried after him. Index fingers to tongue, she whistled the long-two-note, short-note call that Digger recognized. That was her purpose – to find the dog that would lead them to the boy.

  "You should wait with the others," Mitch called over his shoulder.

  "What others?"

  He turned then, narrowed gaze scanning the small search party. The Andersons tracked a wide arc to his left, Quade trod a diagonal path to his right. No one had waited; they had all taken their lead from him. Something flickered in his eyes – recognition? renewed resolve? – then he gave a short, sharp nod and continued.

  But when they reached the fence demarking forest from farmland, still with no sign of boy or dog, Quade stopped his brother-in-law with a hand on his shoulder. "The Rescue Squad is five minutes away. They know this place – bushwalkers get lost here every other month. Let them do their job, mate. They'll have searchlights."

  As if on cue, the sun commenced its slide behind the hills, signaling the approach of night. Darkness. Fear. A muscle jumped in Mitch's tightly clenched jaw, and when he rested his hands atop the solid timber stile, Emily saw their fine tremor.

  Beneath the stoic facade, the determined stride, Mitch Goodwin was terrified.

  That knowledge hit hard, winding her for a moment. Her peripheral senses registered the activity around her – Quade cursing the lack of cell phone coverage; the Andersons striding back the way they'd come, waving directions to an approaching truck – while her heart ached to reassure the man at her side, to soothe his anguish.

  Mouth dry, heart thumping, she touched a hand to his ramrod-straight back, felt his tension, the jump in his nerves, and had to say something, anything.

  "Do you think he would have come this far?"

  "If the dog chased a rabbit, if he followed the dog." He shrugged, a short, sharp movement. "Yes."

  Her dog. She'd thought him the perfect companion for Joshua, lively and mischievous and adventuresome – if only she'd considered the other side to those qualities. This outcome. Her fault. If they found him … no, when they found him, she would make it up to them both.

  "We'll find him, Mitch," she whispered.

  For a moment he said nothing, just stood there staring into the darkening bush. Then slowly he turned to look right at her. "I shouldn't have lost him. I shouldn't have failed him again."

  The haunted pain in his eyes, the bleak bitterness of his voice – she had experienced those before. His failure to save his marriage, to talk his beautiful, runaway wife into returning, had consumed him, Emily knew, but did he feel he'd failed Joshua, too? Because he couldn't salvage his marriage, because he'd struggled with child care arrangements? Because a nanny had lost her headstrong charge in a city mall?

  The last time, she had tried to comfort him with words, words that seemed like tired old platitudes. Now only one thing needed saying, one certainty. "You won't fail him, Mitch. You never have."

  "You know that for a fact?"

  "My heart does," she said simply, holding his gaze, wanting so badly to wrap her arms around him, to hold him, to ease his anguish.

  Denial burned in his eyes, but before he could speak, a distant shout broke the intense intimacy that bound them. More voices, then lights crested the hill and cut across the field. Caught in their artificial brilliance, his face looked harsh, his torment so sharply hewn that she started to lift a hand, to reach out, but a flicker of caution in his eyes stopped her.

  The searchlight moved on, past them, and he wheeled away, hurdling the stile in one smooth leap. Emily had only clambered halfway over the rough timber structure before he disappeared around the first curve in the fire trail that snaked into the trees.

  "Mitch. Wait up!"

  Heart pounding, she raced after him, wide eyes scanning the ground for branches or exposed roots that might trip her up. Ahead she heard the occasional crack of a twig beneath his boots or caught a glimpse of his pale-blue sweater between the dark columns of stringy ironbark. She thanked the Lord he wasn't wearing his dark coat.

  Fifty yards farther she wished her heavy, constricting coat to perdition. She paused, lifted her fingers to her lips, but needed to quiet her labored breathing before she could whistle effectively. Then she trudged on at a slow jog, determined to catch up with him, surprising herself by doing so around the next curve in the trail. Stock-still, he stood straight and tall, listening.

  "Did you hear something?"

  "Shhh," he cautioned, a hand on her sleeve. Then his eyes narrowed. "Hear that?"

  All senses straining, she listened, one pounding beat of her heart, two … then she heard it, somewhere to their right. A low, whimpering sound, almost as soft as the darkness. Mitch's grip on her sleeve tightened for a millisecond – the time it took him to breathe "Joshua" – and then he ploughed into the undergrowth like some human bulldozer.

  Emily wavered. Should she race back for the others or follow him? One sharp yap – absolutely Digger – sent her crashing into the bush in Mitch's wake. Thick, hot tears of blessed relief blurred her vision, and she tripped over a log, felt herself falling and grabbed for the spindly branches of a low-growing shrub. Needle-sharp spines bit into her palms and a loose branch lashed her throat as she went down in a heap. Around her the silence seemed eerily complete.

  "Mitch?" she called, her voice rising on a slight note of panic.

  "Over here."

  Clambering to her feet, she saw him ahead, off to her right.

  "We're both over here."

  At first she wondered if she'd misunderstood that simple pronouncement, but when she hunkered down in front of Mitch she realized that father and son were bound so closely in each other's arms that she'd missed the small body. The pain of relief ached in her chest, the effort of holding back her dammed-up tears scalded her throat.

  At her feet Digger whined, a low, keening call for sympathy, and Mitch opened his eyes. They appeared uncannily dark, still haunted, still pained. One large hand was splayed against his son's fair head, holding him tightly against his chest as if he might never let him go.

  "Is he all right?" she managed to mouth.

  Mitch nodded. Then he released a long whoosh of residual tension and fear. "Thank you, God."

  He allowed Joshua to cling a moment longer, then eased him back enough that he could look into his face.

  "You're just fine, aren't you,
bud?"

  Joshua scrubbed a fisted hand across his face and sniffed loudly. Then his small face crumpled and he burrowed back against his father's broad chest.

  The expression on Mitch's face shifted. A new determination sculpted his mouth in a firm line. The stubbornness in his jaw intensified, fire burned in the depths of his dark eyes as they met Emily's. "You'll start Monday."

  He didn't ask, he stated the bald fact, and Emily didn't say a word. Didn't even nod. She knew the answer was written all over her face, had been ever since Joshua went missing. She would start right now if that's what he wanted, but Monday gave her two days to steel herself. Two short days when six months hadn't been nearly enough.

  Heaven help her.

  * * *

  The next day Mitch learned that nothing with this new, quixotic Emily was that easy … not with his little sister, the champion negotiator, in her corner. Yes, she would start on Monday, but on a trial basis.

  "And if this trial fails?" he'd asked.

  "I won't leave you in the lurch. I'll stay until you finish your book or find a suitable replacement." Which sounded fair enough, except her cool, uptight tone reeked of Chantal's coaching – how else could she have known he was writing a book? – and he couldn't stop himself retorting in a similar tone.

  Less than two minutes later the employment negotiations had lapsed into a ridiculous game of one-upmanship. He insisted she live in. She chose the smallest, least comfortable of the three unoccupied bedrooms. Since it was the farthest from his, Mitch gritted his teeth and let it be … after informing her that he would be teaching her to drive.

  Ten days later, as he prowled the verandah in a restless after-midnight ritual, he could still see the fiery spark in her eyes as she swung around to deliver her comeback. And as for the comeback itself … he shook his head, remembering. "Fine. You can try and teach me to drive providing you forget about what happened that night. No more questions, no more demands."

  What the hell possessed him to agree? Sure, he'd been caught off guard by her audacious demand. He'd laughed at its twisted irony – she wanted him to "forget" a night he didn't, largely, remember.