"Do you remember the summer you tried to teach me to play golf?" his little sister asked.
"How could I forget? You sucked."
"No, you sucked. Big-time." He heard her getting to her feet – it took a while – then he felt her hand on his shoulder. "Let Quade teach her, Mitch. He has the time, he's patient. And he's a good communicator."
"I said I'd do it and I will."
"Stubborn ass."
But the insult came coated in a smile, a smile that wiped the scorn from her eyes and softened her expression. Probably because, through his office window, she watched her patient husband playing ball with his son and communicating with his nanny. Making her laugh. Something in his gut wound tight. Something that had nothing to do with stubborn.
"I'll teach Emily to drive," he said. "You need Quade at home."
"Because of jelly bean?" She touched a hand to her belly. "My doctor says I have another month to go. Unfortunately."
"Julia's doctor said she had another month to go." And their sister had scared the stuffing out of them all with her early, emergency dash to the maternity ward. Beside him Chantal shifted restlessly, maybe remembering, maybe worrying, and he looped an arm around her shoulders, reminding her that family would be there for her, too. "You'll do fine, sis."
"I know."
In silence they observed the game unfolding outside. Quade had turned football coach, kicking to Joshua who caught the high ball, evaded a feeble attempt at a tackle from Emily and steamed toward the try line. Mitch nudged his sister. "Did you see that take? Like father, like son."
Chantal snorted, distracted as he'd intended. She slanted him a look. "How is he doing?"
"You have to ask? Look at him."
And they did, saw his serious little face as he tried to teach Emily how to kick the football. She tried, she failed, she shrugged and passed the ball back to the four-year-old expert whose chest puffed with self-importance.
"That's the magic of Emily," he said quietly.
"The perfect nanny." Her pause seemed measured. Or careful. "Has she said anything more about leaving?"
Leaving. The word was a sick, scary feeling in his gut, a fist clenching his throat. Still he managed to ask, "To you?"
"No. But I did promise to keep my ear out for jobs, and yesterday I heard about a lawyer who's looking for—"
"Don't even think about telling Emily," he ground out. Then, "I need her to stay, sis."
"For how long? Indefinitely?"
"Preferably, yes."
Chantal eyed him narrowly, as if trying to decide if he was joking or for real. Then she gave a short, strangled laugh. "Then perhaps you should marry her."
* * *
Chantal's visit completely shot his working day. After she left – after she deliberately sought out Emily for a none-too-brief and private consultation – he couldn't even stare at the walls in peace. Now he walked the office, wall to wall and back again, his temper sparking.
She wasn't leaving; he wouldn't allow it.
And how will you stop her? Bolt the doors, padlock the gates, impound the car keys? The irony of the last option brought his pacing up short. He rubbed at the tension knot in the back of his neck. So, okay, honesty time. He hadn't avoided driving lessons for lack of time or opportunity. He'd been avoiding the closeted closeness of a vehicle, one-on-one, until his libido settled down.
Some time next century.
Just thinking about their last encounter, not an hour ago, ignited his blood all over again. After waving Quade and Chantal goodbye, Joshua dragged them both into the sitting room to watch Blues Clues. Somehow a tickling game got out of hand and his hands got on Emily, and the silliness turned sultry when she stopped squirming and he looked into her eyes.
Awareness arced between them, immediate and electric. His hands tightened on her waist and under her soft flannel shirt he imagined her bare skin, milk pale, satin smooth. Her mouth had softened, her lips parted, he'd caught a glimpse of her small, pink tongue. Mitch groaned, remembering. If they hadn't been on the sitting room floor in broad daylight, if Joshua hadn't bounced back into the room with the toy he'd run to fetch…
And he was expected to lock himself inside a car with her? For an hour or more?
Yes. He'd given his word; he had to do it. And he had to keep his hands to himself. She was his nanny, his employee, and his thoughts alone would send her packing.
Perhaps you should marry her.
Earlier he'd laughed dismissively at Chantal's tongue-in-cheek suggestion, but he wasn't laughing now. The perfect nanny, the perfect stepmother for Joshua. The perfect wife? Mitch's heart knocked against his ribs, the rhythm a powerful mix of hope and deep-seated terror.
He'd married Annabelle in haste, because he'd wanted her, because she thought she'd wanted him. When the haze of lust lifted, he'd found himself married to a woman he didn't really know – a pregnant woman he didn't really know – let alone like. If he were to marry again, it would be for practical reasons, and six months ago Emily would have topped his list of perfect, practical candidates. Her even temperament, her empathic insights, her warm, quiet presence in his home every day.
Her lush body in his bed every night.
No. That particular part of his body wasn't motivating any marriage decision, not ever again. He huffed out a hot, wry breath. Any marriage decision. What was he thinking? It had taken three weeks and a lost child to convince Emily to come work for him – to trial him as a boss, for cripe's sake! – so why would she consider marrying him?
What could he offer?
Not a damn thing he could think of, but he could at least keep his promise regarding her terms of employment. Keys in hand, he strode out to the sitting room and stuck his head through the doorway.
"Who wants to go get ice cream?"
"In town?" Joshua bounded to his feet. "Me, me, meeee!"
Predictable. Mitch's gaze shifted to Emily … Emily shaking her head. "I think I'll pass."
"Uh-uh. You don't get to pass." Mitch tossed the keys in the air and caught them again with a decisive snatch of the hand. "It's time for your first driving lesson."
* * *
An argument wasn't the best way to start a lesson, Emily knew, but she couldn't help objecting. Forget the fact that the word driving made her as nervous as a pigeon in a cathouse. Forget the added stress of him sitting beside her, issuing tight-lipped instructions. She simply couldn't handle the size or manual transmission of his tank of a truck. Which didn't stop Mitch insisting she could.
After kangaroo-hopping down the drive until the engine stalled – for the third time – she turned to him, teeth set. "I told you I couldn't do this."
"And I told you we'd keep trying until you could. Today Joshua only wants ice cream. Next week it could be medicine. Now, clutch in—"
"Look, Mitch, I can barely see over the wheel. It's dangerous." She flicked a telling glance at the rear-view mirror, at the precious cargo strapped into the car seat of the crew cab, oblivious to the tension up front. "Think about it."
He caught her point and considered it for all of, oh, two seconds. "Fine. I'll drive."
Relief washed through her, so liberating she actually slouched over the wheel. "Thank you," she whispered.
"We'll borrow Julia's car for lessons until I can buy you something suitable."
She straightened abruptly. "I told you before, I don't want you buying me a car."
"I wouldn't be buying it for you. I'd be buying it for Joshua, for his care and security."
Okay. She could concede that point, for now, although the uncompromising set of his jaw did not bode well for future discussions on the matter. Or for a nice, relaxed afternoon drive, she added as he curtly suggested they change seats. Perhaps after the ice cream break his mood would mellow.
It didn't. In fact, after ice cream things got worse. First, Julia decided Joshua should stay with her, to help with Bridie. At nine months, Bridie was a bundle of chortling mischief even Joshua could not i
gnore. He agreed she needed some guy company … as long as he didn't have to change diapers. Emily felt a sense of doom enfold her in a blanket of gray, as heavy and ominous as the winter sky above. Then Julia handed over the keys to her compact sedan, and she started to sweat.
Fifteen point four-five fraught minutes after clearing the town's derestriction signs, the rain started. Not driving torrents that defied the efforts of windshield wipers and forced drivers to pull over and wait it out, but a gentle misting drizzle.
"Wipers," Mitch directed.
Until this moment she'd been so intensely focused on performing the mechanics of foot and hand and eye coordination – never her strong point – that she'd paid little attention to the conditions. The prospect of rain. She wet her dry lips and attempted to prise her fingers from the steering wheel. Failed. "I can't," she croaked.
"What do you mean, you can't?"
When she didn't answer – what could she say, that her fingers seemed stuck to the wheel? – he reached across and flicked the switch himself.
"There's a lay-by a few hundred yards ahead," he said tersely. "Pull in there."
Absolutely. I can manage that.
Amazingly she also managed to unpeel her hands from their death grip. An inordinate sense of satisfaction started to well up inside her, and she closed her eyes, overcome, overwhelmed. She drew a long, sustaining breath and found it filled with the clean scent of rain … and man.
Her nerves fluttered back to life. They were alone. Cocooned in a car that suddenly felt way smaller than it looked. Isolated by the blanket of softly falling rain. Alone … until panic crept out of the darkness. It closed in around her, her dark, unwelcome friend, stealing her breath and her reason.
As if from an immense distance she heard movement, the click of a seat belt, the creak of upholstery, and she saw a hand reaching toward her, just like the other time. Without thought, without logic or purpose, she reached for her door handle and bolted.
* * *
Chapter 6
«^»
From inside the car, the rain had appeared deceptively gentle. Outside, Emily hadn't taken a dozen steps before feeling its cold, soaking impact. A half dozen more and it dampened her crazy, panicked flight impulse. Where was she going, anyway? They'd pulled up beside a quiet rural road with nothing in sight save a rickety three-wire fence and, beyond it, a stand of straggly eucalypts with several drenched sheep camped under their questionable shelter … until the slam of a car door sent them scuttling.
Looking back, she saw a darkly glowering Mitch across the rain-slicked roof of the little sedan. No wonder the sheep had run away. "Get back in the car," he barked.
"No." She tossed her head, for emphasis and to remove a hank of wet hair from her face. Even to herself, her refusal seemed as childish and pointless as leaving the car in the first place, yet the prospect of facing Mitch's inevitable inquisition … no way.
"I remember you telling me once how much trouble you have saying that word. No." Eyes never leaving hers, he started around the car. "How you were afraid of earning your parents' displeasure so you always agreed. Miss Compliance, you called yourself."
Emily fought the urge to back up, to turn and flee.
"You want to tell me what's changed?" he asked. Apparently nothing, because despite the stridency of her no, despite her desire to act stronger, to stop giving in to moments of weakness, she'd jumped out of that car. And now she watched his steady, purposeful approach and a frisson of déjà vu – that night he tracked her across Gramps's verandah – sent her spinning around and setting off down the roadside. She heard his muttered reproach, then the heavy squelch of his boots on the wet ground as he strode after her. Felt the steel of his grip as he grabbed her arm and whirled her around.
"What's going on, Emily?"
"I had to get out," she began, "out of the car."
"Claustrophobia?"
She shook her head.
"What, then? You suddenly felt like taking a walk?"
To escape the chill in that narrow, dark glare she closed her eyes, but he pulled her close and a tiny shiver rippled through her skin. Not the cold, she knew, but awareness of his hard heat, his scent, the resonance of his voice as he explained in a low, taut voice that even Joshua knew to keep out of the rain.
The subtext of that message arrested her response midshiver. He thought her a child, a particularly inept child in need of his protective care. That cruel truth should have stopped hurting months ago, yet the barb still stung deep. "I'm not a child, Mitch. And I can tell you right now that a walk in a cyclone holds more appeal than getting back in that car."
"Did the rain spook you? Because you were doing fine before you needed the wipers." Dark brows drawn together, he flipped to journalist mode, piecing his story together. "Was it raining when you had your accident?"
Her gaze shifted, uneasy. A dead giveaway.
"What happened, Em?"
Both hands clasped her upper arms, firm and resolute and warm despite the rain, and Emily inhaled a quick breath. Then she looked into his eyes and released that air on a slow sigh. He wasn't letting her go until she answered. To his satisfaction. "I was carjacked, okay? It was night and, yes, it was raining and in the city and sometimes those triggers freak me out so much I can barely breathe let alone think straight."
The explanation tumbled out, one word on top of the next, and, when her voice hitched at the end, Mitch's hold on her arms gentled. The slightest of movements up and down managed to infiltrate her layers of clothing – managed to feel almost like a caress. The rain and the cold and the atmosphere all seemed to ease, as well. Like a hitch in time.
"When did this happen?" he asked.
"After I left you … your apartment … I got a job nannying for some doctors in Sydney, and this night, my night off, I was going to the movies. In the city." A tremor shivered through her body. "Anyway, after that happened, I couldn't keep the job. They had three kids and a lot of sports and stuff to get to. I came back to Plenty. Gramps's things had to be packed up."
And she didn't have anywhere else to go. For a long moment Mitch couldn't respond, couldn't think under the pounding weight of a dozen conflicting emotions. He focused on the fiercest – the one demanding he find this creep and tear him limb from limb. Jaw clenched, he forced out one question. "Did he hurt you?"
"No. He threatened me and he scared me half to death, but he pushed me out and—"
When she winced, he realized that his redoubled hold on her arms was hurting, but damn it— "He pushed you out of the car? And you let us believe you'd had some standard traffic accident? Hell, Emily."
Under his hands he felt her tense and forced himself to ease off, to soothe any damage by rubbing his hands over her arms, her shoulders, her arms again, while fury and protectiveness and frustration and anger played war games in his gut.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"I'd lost my grandfather and then my share of his will. My home. My pride. Don't you think I felt enough of a victim without sharing this low point, as well?"
"We could have helped—"
"How?" she almost spat back, her forcefulness so unlike Emily that it set him back on his heels. She took the opportunity to twist free, to stand there rubbing her arms as if to rid them of his touch.
Bad move, Emily, he thought, temper crackling. "For a start, I wouldn't have been in the passenger seat for your first driving lesson." Barking out orders. Chantal or Julia – any woman – should have been doing the teaching. "And I sure and certain wouldn't have made you drive in the rain."
Same as he shouldn't be letting her stand in the rain. On the road a farm truck slowed as if preparing to stop, and Mitch waved it on, then shook his head at the absurdity of their situation. Why were they having this discussion on the side of the road in the rain? He made a decision, didn't ask permission. Moving swiftly, he picked her up and started for the car before she could do more than drop her jaw in outrage.
Halfway there,
she started to struggle. He ignored her as best he could, given the way her wriggling meant holding her more firmly. Given the fact they were both wet, clothes clinging, her soft curves molded against his hard torso. One part instantly grew harder, but he didn't give a damn. He had other things to contend with … such as opening the car door.
"Put. Me. Down."
He obliged, sliding her to the ground and trapping her still-wriggling body against the car. But when he dipped down and reached around in a blind search for the door handle, she drew an audible breath and went very still. Because he was touching her? Because that contact sizzled and steamed? Because her jacket had come undone and her shirt was very, very wet? He sucked in a breath.
Little Emily Warner wasn't so little.
Light-headed, he straightened and leaned back and deliberately fastened his gaze on her face. No lower. Jeweled raindrops clung to her skin and her eyelashes, and he felt an insane compulsion to lean forward and lick them away. Tenderness and fierce, throbbing desire blurred into one slow roll of want. He touched a hand to her face, thumbed away the wetness along one cheekbone. "You look like a half-drowned kitten," he said thickly.
Against him, beneath him, her whole body stiffened. Her eyes narrowed and for a second he expected her to hiss like a cornered cat. But she spoke in clear, strong, defiant syllables. "Let me go, Mitch."
He might have listened, obeyed, if he hadn't seen the fine flutter of her pulse. If his own fierce ache hadn't howled in response. Instead he kissed her. The second his mouth closed over hers, as he felt the warm expulsion of her surprised breath and the coolness of her rain-slick lips, a tiny What am I doing? alarm went off in his brain.
But the first shy stroke of her tongue against his bottom lip flipped that alarm switch off. His brain shut down and his body took over, sinking into her heat, tongue against tongue, savoring her sweet taste as the cold turned to fire. Everywhere they touched burned, and Mitch battled a raging need to fill his hands with every one of her hot curves. To rip away clothes and taste her rain-wet skin in a dozen different places. Right now. Against his sister's car, on the side of a public road. In timely punctuation, a passing vehicle honked its horn.
A TEMPTING ENGAGEMENT Page 6