‘We like it. Here we are—right, boys, put the bags down and let’s leave Miss Taylor in peace to unpack for a few minutes.’
They left her and Tom alone, and Poppy rolled her eyes. “‘Nice place you’ve got here,”’ she mimicked. ‘Really, Tom, where do you get your vocabulary?’
He ignored her. ‘Is there anybody else here?’
‘I don’t think so—a cleaning lady every morning, but otherwise I think it’s just us.’
‘Cosy.’
‘Tom, spit it out—’
‘OK. I didn’t like the way he winked at you.’
Poppy laughed.
‘Well, I didn’t. It was suggestive.’
‘You’re being absurd! Anybody would think he leered!’
‘The man has money. He doesn’t have to leer.’
‘I’m not influenced by his money. Money isn’t important to me.’
‘You could get used to what it provides.’ Tom picked up a cushion and inspected it minutely. ‘Poppy, he’s very...’
‘Very...?’
‘Well—masculine...you know. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’
A faint flush touched her cheeks. ‘So he’s masculine—so what? That doesn’t mean he’s about to take advantage of our relationship and seduce me!’ She took the cushion away from her brother and hugged him. ‘Trust my judgement—the man is so desperate for a nanny he isn’t about to put a foot wrong.’
Tom snorted with disbelief.
‘Trust me,’ she said again with a comforting smile.
‘Oh, I trust you, Poppy.’ He hugged her tight, then released her a little awkwardly. Poor Tom. He’d never known what to do with her since she’d sprouted a chest and shot up nine inches in two years. Even after all this time he still hadn’t got the hang of hugging her without blushing.
He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. ‘You call me if he gives you any grief, OK?’
‘He won’t—’
‘Promise.’
She sighed. ‘I promise. Now go away and stop bristling, and let me get on with my life. I’m twenty-five, for heaven’s sake!’
She took him back downstairs and stood on the drive, watching him out of sight. Then with a sigh and a fond shake of her head, she turned back to the front door.
‘He’s very protective.’
Poppy looked up and smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t realise it showed that badly.’
Carmichael’s mouth tilted at one side. ‘That’s OK—I’d be the same if you were my sister.’
He held the front door for her with what she was beginning to realise was habitual and absolutely natural courtesy. As she passed him in the doorway, he took her arm and halted her.
‘You’re quite safe, Poppy—in spite of what happened upstairs this morning. I want you to know that.’
Her heart thumped. So she hadn’t imagined it after all! She made herself meet his eyes, then looked quickly away.
‘Thank you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think I was.’
‘I just wanted you to know.’
He released her and turned away to the library.
‘Make yourself at home,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you when you’re all sorted out.’
She went back upstairs to her little flat and unpacked her ‘essentials’—photos of family and friends, an old teddy, her jeans and sweatshirts and jogging pants, one skirt, a few blouses and her trainers, and some basics for the kitchen: tea, coffee, milk powder. She stacked her bottles and potions in the bathroom on the little corner shelf, and then that was it.
Taking her courage in both hands, she decided to go and find out what her charges were up to. That was, after all, why she was here...
Poppy found the children in the garden, mud up to their ears, constructing a dam over a little stream.
‘Dad wants you,’ one of them said. She looked hard at him.
‘William?’
He grinned. ‘That’s right—how did you guess?’
‘I didn’t—you’re quite different in a similar sort of way.’
‘Dad gets us mixed up,’ George told her. ‘Sometimes we tease him.’
She allowed a small smile to emerge. ‘I’ll just bet you do. Do you know where he is?’
‘Kitchen,’ William told her. ‘He’s making tea. He’s not very good at it; you’re better off doing it yourself.’
‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ she said, quelling the mutiny before it got under way. ‘I’ll go and see.’
‘Miss Taylor?’
She turned back. ‘Yes?’
‘Thanks for not letting us put you off—Dad would’ve killed us if you hadn’t asked him not to—he said so.’
She chuckled. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t, really—and call me Poppy. Miss Taylor makes me feel dreadfully old.’
She made her way back to the kitchen and let herself in. ‘I gather you’re looking for me,’ she told her new employer.
He was standing in his socks, polishing a pair of shoes, and he looked suddenly curiously approachable. He glanced up at her briefly. ‘Sort of. I thought you might want me to show you the ropes, but as what I know about running this house could be written on the head of a pin you’ll probably do better finding it all out for yourself. I’ve just made some tea,’ he added.
‘Yes—the boys told me.’
He looked up at her again and locked her with the laserbeam of his gorgeous eyes. Humour glimmered in their gold-green depths. ‘Did they also tell you I make lousy tea?’
She was too slow to stop the smile.
He laughed wryly. ‘Here—feel free to chuck it down the sink.’
She let the smile grow, fascinated by the crows’ feet round his eyes and the rich timbre of his laugh. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. Nobody can rum tea,’ she said optimistically.
She poured herself a cup and sat down at the table, watching him. He worked efficiently, his movements brisk and economical. He was standing with his back to her and she let her eyes track over the breadth of his shoulders, following the tapering line of his body down to the neat waist and slim hips encased in well-cut charcoal-grey trousers. The suit, still? Probably.
Even so, despite the jet-set Alpha-personality uniform, he didn’t look like a typical desk-bound executive, she thought absently. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him anywhere, and out of nowhere she remembered the feel of his chest, hard and hot beneath her palms, and the steady beat of his heart. Was that really only this morning? She felt her cheeks heat with the memory.
Enough, she chided herself. The last thing she needed was input from her hormones!
Distracted, she sipped the tea and pulled a face. The boys were right—it was awful! She pushed it away.
‘Are you the computer boffin?’ she asked suddenly.
A brow quirked. ‘Boffin? I design software, that’s all. I wouldn’t say I was a boffin.’
‘My middle brother said you were a legend.’
She was fascinated by the slow run of colour that crawled up his neck.
‘Slight exaggeration,’ he said drily. ‘Let’s just say I’ve made some lucky career moves.’
She changed tack. ‘About my flat—’
He turned his head, his brow creased. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Oh, no—no, not at all. I just wondered if I would eat with you all, or up there, and where I can go in the house—that sort of thing. I don’t want to be underfoot.’
‘Why not?’ he countered. ‘The boys are, constantly. If you’re to look after them and do your job properly, you’ll have to have the run of the house.’
He dropped his shoes to the floor and pushed his feet into them, then crouched to tie them. Poppy watched the silk shirt strain over the muscles of his back and thought she would have to burn it in the interests of her sanity, then decided it wouldn’t help. He’d look good in sackcloth and ashes.
‘I want us to have as much family life as possible,’ he was saying. ‘I know it isn’t easy wi
th me out so much, and just at the moment I’m away for days at a time, but they need continuity. That’s your job. How you do it is up to you.’
He took a mouthful of tea, grimaced at the cup and tossed the contents into the sink.
Poppy stifled a smile. ‘I expect it was cold—would you like me to make you some fresh?’
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he confessed with a chuckle. ‘I’ll be in the library—come and join me. We can sort out the bits and pieces.’
The ‘bits and pieces’ turned out to be handing over the keys of the ’little‘ Mercedes, giving her a map of Norwich so she could find the boys’ school, amongst other things, getting her to fill in her bank details for his personnel department so that she would get paid on time, and agreeing a salary.
Her agreement on the latter was tacit. She was too stunned to argue. He eyed her open mouth and laughed without humour.
‘You’ll earn it—if you stay that long.’
By the time she had got the boys to bed that night, cleared up the kitchen and gone to bed herself, she began to think he was right.
They had obviously decided that they had crawled enough, and were reverting to type. That was fine. Poppy could deal with small boys and healthy high-jinks. She was just a little out of practice.
‘Give me a week,’ she said to herself as she snuggled down in the warm bedroom under the down-filled duvet. ‘I’ll get them in line.’
Poppy always had been optimistic. That first week showed her how wide of the mark her optimism could be.
Carmichael got the week off to a flying start by announcing on Sunday morning that, as she was obviously very capable, he would go to New York as planned on Monday morning, arriving back on Friday evening.
By Friday night, she was tearing her hair out. At nine the phone rang. It was her boss, back at Norwich airport after a delay in Amsterdam, and could she pick him up as the taxis were all busy?
“The boys are in bed asleep; you’ll have to wait for one,’ she told him shortly, and hung up.
He arrived half an hour later, by which time she was regretting her impulsive behaviour, and found her in the kitchen.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked quietly.
She shrugged. ‘The boys had a fairly rough week at school. I’m sorry I snarled at you. I’ve been worried about them.’
‘How, rough?’
‘You know, attention-seeking little numbers like wetting all the chalk and putting red in the white powder paint and scribbling on the reading books—have you eaten?’
He shrugged off his jacket and dropped into a chair. ‘Yes, I’ve eaten. I could use a drink.’
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Scotch—malt, half a tumbler, as it comes.’
‘Is that wise?’
He swore softly under his breath. ‘Poppy, I don’t need nannying. No, I don’t suppose it is wise, but I’ve had a hell of a week, a lousy flight and I’ve had it up to here.’
She found the malt whisky in the sitting room and poured him a compromise. He eyed it, snorted quietly and raised the glass.
‘Cheers, Poppy. Happy days.’
Poppy’s soft heart went out to him. He looked exhausted, at the end of his tether, and he really didn’t need her lecturing him on the shortcomings of his offspring.
‘Somebody called Helen rang—she said don’t let you forget tomorrow night.’
‘What? Oh, damn. Dinner. Oh, well, I’ll see her in the office tomorrow, no doubt.’
‘Office?’
‘Yes—I’ll have to go in all day and catch up. Maybe even Sunday as well.’
Poppy was horrified. ‘Mr Carmichael, the boys are dying to see you. They’ve missed you.’
He loosened his tie, undid the collar of his shirt and sighed heavily. ‘I could go in late.’
‘That isn’t enough.’ She sat down opposite him and met his eyes challengingly. ‘They need you. I’ve had their headmaster on the phone. He wants to see you as soon as you can make it.’
He closed his eyes and his mouth hardened to a grim line. ‘Poppy, I can’t deal with this tonight.’
‘Well, you have to—you can’t just ignore them and hope they’ll go away!’
He opened his eyes and looked at her steadily. ‘Can you deal with it, please? That’s what you’re here for.’
‘No, it isn’t!’ she persisted. ‘Damn it, you’re their father, and there are some things only you can do. That’s one of them. They need your time—’
The phone rang and Poppy answered it, then covered the receiver and turned to him.
‘It’s Mike,’ she told him.
James sighed, picked up his Scotch and headed for the door. ‘I’ll take it in the library,’ he said tiredly.
Poppy watched him go, then shrugged. What more could she say? She waited till she heard his voice on the other end, then hung up the phone. Dispirited, sorry for the boys, sad for James, she made herself a drink and went up to her flat.
Some time later she heard a noise from the children’s room, and padded noiselessly across the landing in her bare feet.
James was standing in their doorway, one arm hitched up against the doorframe, defeat written in every line of his body.
He must have sensed her, because he turned round and met her worried eyes.
‘Come and have a drink in my flat,’ she urged quietly.
He turned back to the boys for a moment, then followed her, his footsteps surprisingly light.
She put the kettle on and went back into the sitting room. He was studying her photos, picking them up and putting them down.
‘You look as if you’ve had a happy childhood.’
‘I have—I’ve been very lucky.’
He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Damn it, Poppy, I’ve tried so hard to give them security in case anything should happen to me, and at the same time keep the home fires burning somehow.’ He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can go on.’
She didn’t hesitate. Without thinking about it, she crossed the room, wrapped her arms round him and hugged him.
He stiffened for a second, then his arms came up and wrapped around her shoulders, holding her hard against his chest.
It felt so good! Her hands subconsciously absorbed the feel of him, the warmth, the solid columns of muscle each side of his spine, the way his waist tapered and the slight flare of his hips.
Her breasts were pressing against the solid wall of his chest, and his long arms felt curiously protective curving round her back.
A safe haven—that was what it felt like.
At least at first. Then from nowhere the tension sprang between them and he eased away from her, looking down at her with warm, questioning eyes.
She tipped her head back, searching his face. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked him, her voice echoing her concern.
‘I’ll live. Do you know how long it is since anyone gave me a simple, uncomplicated hug?’ he asked gruffly.
Poppy felt her eyes fill. Releasing him, she turned away, unready to let him see how much he affected her. There had been nothing uncomplicated about that hug—nothing at all!
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Damn, her voice was unsteady.
‘I think not. I could do with going to bed.’ He paused by the door, his eyes locked with hers. ‘You’re a wonderful woman,’ he said quietly. “Thank God we’ve got you. Goodnight, Mary Poppins.’
Then he left her, and she made her way to bed, turned out the light and buried her head under the covers so he wouldn’t hear her crying for two small children and a lonely man who had lost his way.
‘Is Dad back?’
Poppy looked up. William was standing in the kitchen doorway, pyjamas halfway up his legs where he had grown, eyeing her thoughtfully.
She nodded. ‘He got back late last night.’
‘He didn’t come and see us.’ His voice was truculent.
‘You were asleep—he did go into your room, but he didn’t want to w
ake you.’
William sat down at the table and kicked the chairleg disconsolately with his bare toes.
She resisted the urge to hug him. Just then he would probably have thumped her. ‘What do you want for breakfast?’
‘Nothing.’
Unable to resist the unhappiness on his face any longer, Poppy sat beside him and laid her hand comfortingly on his arm. ‘You ought to have something.’
He shrugged her hand off. ‘Ice-cream.’
‘William, don’t be ridiculous,’ she said gently but firmly. ‘Have a piece of toast, or some cereal or something.’
‘I don’t want toast or cereal,’ he yelled, suddenly losing his grip and jumping up. ‘I want ice-cream!’
‘Well, you can’t have ice-cream,’ she repeated firmly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw James emerge from the library and head towards the kitchen.
‘Here’s—’
‘I want ice-cream, and if I can’t have ice-cream, I don’t want anything!’ he screamed, tears forming in his eyes, and, turning towards the door, he pushed past his father and ran for the stairs.
‘Obnoxious brat—’
‘Mr Carmichael, leave him. He’s upset.’
‘I’ll give him upset—George! George, come back here and apologise at once!’ James bellowed after him.
Oh-oh, Poppy thought. This is going to cause havoc.
‘George!’
The boy stopped and turned back towards his father.
‘I’m not George,’ he said clearly. ‘I’m William—and if you were ever here, you’d know that!’
James stared after him in horror. ‘Oh, my God,’ he muttered, watching aghast as his son ran up the stairs and disappeared. In the distance a door slammed. He glanced at his watch. ‘Poppy, calm him down, could you? I have to go out and I’m already late.’
‘You can’t! You can’t possibly go out without talking to him first!’
He turned to meet the reproach in her eyes, and flinched.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said heavily.
‘Don’t apologise to me—it isn’t me you’ve hurt. For God’s sake, he’s your son and you didn’t recognise him!’
‘From the back, running full-tilt—’
‘Is it the first time?’
Just Another Miracle! Page 3