Nanny

by Christina Skye

  Yet here he was, poised for the biggest political push of his life, a process that would swallow up almost all of his time and what little privacy he had left. It was an insane time to consider getting married.

  But he had never wanted anything more.

  The yellow light blinked on his phone. “Yes, Margo.”

  “Your brother’s calling, Senator. Line two.”

  “Got it. When I’m done, let’s knock out the rest of these letters. Then you can go.” Leaning forward, he punched a button. “So, do we have our support for the wetlands conservancy or not, Greg?”

  A chair creaked. Tate could almost see his chief political advisor dig into the pile of papers and press clippings that accompanied him everywhere. His ammunition dump, Greg called it.

  “Better than I hoped. I’ve located two corporate sources ready to back your initiative, along with half a dozen grassroots conservation groups. It will make damned good press—more important, none of it will cost the public a cent. I’ve set up two interviews for you next week, but there’s just one problem.”

  Wasn’t there always? “Who’s out for blood today? Sanders? Ashford?”

  His brother gave a dry laugh. “Neither. This enemy is worse, Tate. It’s your own lack of time. Your schedule is completely booked, and I don’t know where to fit in anything else.”

  “You and Margo can find a way to shoehorn them in. Something else bothering you?”

  Papers rustled. “I ran into another reporter from The Wall Street Journal. He asked when you were going to formally declare.”

  “And you put him off, politely but firmly.”

  “Of course.” There was a brief hesitation. “He told me there’s a feeling you aren’t serious about becoming president. He was basically trying to bait me into an exclusive story, but it’s worrisome nevertheless. He also said . . .”

  “Go on, Greg.”

  “Damn it, he said a friend of his would double whatever salary I was getting from you.”

  Tate studied the stuffed armadillo. “Nice offer. I trust that you told him no.”

  “Of course I did. I’m not going anywhere, especially over to the media. We’ve had our differences, but that’s ancient history now. This means there’s more negative buzz about your presidential race. Someone could be trying to mow you down early.”

  “Nothing we can’t handle. You’re better at your job than you realize, Greg.”

  “It would be easier if you’d finalize, Tate. You’ve got a shot straight to the very top, and voters are ready for fresh ideas and new energy. I’m getting forty or fifty calls a day from people who want to volunteer for your campaign, even before it’s officially announced. Mother called today and said your demographics are off the chart, according to one of her lobbyist friends. Our only challenge will be timing. You need to set a date for the official announcement before these negative rumors snowball. I know you’re distracted with the wedding coming up—”

  “My focus is hardly in question,” Tate said impatiently. “I’m taking the minimum time off, exactly as we agreed. Damn it, this is August recess, my only time free.” Why did he feel guilty for trying to have some semblance of a life?

  “True enough, but the clock is ticking, remember that.”

  “I’ll think about a date, Greg.” Tate glanced at his watch. “Gotta go, bro. Five more letters to dictate. Is there anything else?”

  “Have you heard from Mother? She left a message here and sounded upset.”

  Tate stared at the photo of his brother and his mother hiking in Alaska. “I spoke to her a while ago. She had to drop some things at Cara’s, and apparently there was some kind of problem with a dead rat in Cara’s car. Don’t worry, it’s nothing. She’s probably stressed from all the wedding preparations.”

  “In that case, I’ll see you at the airport later. I’ve got those health-care documents you wanted to review.”

  “If I don’t hurry, I won’t make it to the airport. Getting Cara to take three days off was no easy matter, either.”

  “She has that Costello appeal coming up, as I remember. Any problems there? You’d hope a conviction of racketeering, vice, trafficking in human illegals, and a few counts of murder would stick.”

  “Costello’s going down and staying down. Cara and her people built a solid case against him, and this appeal has no merit.”

  “I heard one of the earlier witnesses wants to change his testimony.”

  Tate frowned. “Really? Cara didn’t mention that to me.”

  “She probably forgot with all the distractions. Now get finished there and go meet her.” Greg Winslow sighed. “As for me, I’ve got a date with two angry lobbyists. With a little luck I can keep them from strangling each other over Caesar salad and grilled chicken Florentine.”

  “Rock on.” Smiling, Tate put down the phone. Then he picked up a file and started fleshing out answers to mail that couldn’t wait.

  Cara stood at her office window watching a layer of gray haze climb up from the Pacific. The shot fired at the house had left her terrified, and she was determined to get the girls away as soon as possible. She had always considered herself a strong woman with a solid moral compass, but the last weeks had begun to tear away her strength, filling her with doubts.

  As the gray haze continued to climb, she thought about the girls. How could she bring her children into danger? How could she let them suffer for the difficult job she did? And how could she inflict her past on Tate if it could harm his career?

  Audra’s school gift was back in place on her desk, the clay body repaired. Unable to sleep, Cara had spent the hour before dawn gluing the fragile chips back into place.

  Sighing, she picked up a photo of her girls laughing on a beach in North Carolina, and another of Sophy in a recent dance costume. Her throat tightened at the thought of one of them caught unaware in her bedroom.

  Struck down by a bullet.

  With tears in her eyes she picked up a family shot of her older sister outside her rustic house in Oregon, flanked by her three handsome boys of seventeen, fifteen, and twelve. Melody and her husband were ecologists with the forest service and their kids lived a life right out of Wild Kingdom. They were safe and sheltered, surrounded by beauty, and their boys had learned to paddle a canoe almost as soon as they could walk. It was still hard for Cara to believe that Mel’s oldest son, Jordan, was heading off to college in the fall.

  As she studied the photo, she made a mental note to call her sister and catch up on all the family developments this weekend. Too many months had gone by since she and her sister had spoken.

  There was a low tap at her door, and her assistant opened it, elegant in gray pants and a gray cashmere sweater. “Tony called. He wants to talk to you about the Costello appeal. And you also have a visitor,” she announced grandly.

  “Who?”

  “Me.” Looking tan and very fit, Melody, Cara’s sister, strolled through the door. “Since I never hear from you, I decided to swing by on my way back from a conference at Berkeley.” After a tight hug, Mel moved back to study her sister. “So why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “To me it is.”

  “The girls are fine. Sophy loves her ballet and Audra—well, she’s going through some teen angst, but I’m sure it will pass.”

  “Don’t talk to me about teens. Next year I’ll have three of them, God help me, even if Jordan will be off at college.” Mel sank onto a chair by the window, studying Cara. “You’re working too hard. You and the girls should come up to Oregon and we’ll take you camping. Jeff and the boys will get you unwound with some mountaineering. Since Jordan has his own canoe now, he’d take you on the ride of your life.” She touched Cara’s arm and held it. “We’d all love to have you. Don’t worry about calling first.”

  “It sounds so wonderful, Mel. I’d love to, but . . .” Cara gestured at her crowded desk. “I’m locked in here.”

  “Think about it. The offer always hold
s.” Melody took the family picture from Cara’s hands. “The boys have grown since this was taken. Michael and Chance are giving kayak lessons this summer, can you believe it? And Jordan is busy getting ready for college.” She handed the picture back to Cara. “Hard to believe how things change. It seems just yesterday that I met Jeff, and you graduated from law school.” She stood up, pacing the small room. “I can’t stay. I’ve got to be back at the airport by five for my flight. Besides, you have work up to your ears.”

  “You can’t leave yet. Let’s at least have coffee while you fill me in on the boys and all the news.”

  “Next time.” Mel smiled wistfully. “I can see how busy you are. Your assistant had three calls on hold and by now there are probably five waiting. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  Their eyes met.

  “I owe you,” Mel said quietly. “I’ll never forget.”

  Cara hugged her sister. “Don’t say another word.”

  “You never told, did you?”

  “No. I made you a promise, and I’ll keep it.”

  Mel slid the strap of her computer case over her shoulder. “Are you keeping Tate and his family in line?”

  “Greg and Amanda have been very helpful in planning the wedding.” Cara frowned. “You and Jeff and the boys are still coming, aren’t you?”

  “Couldn’t keep us away. I always knew you’d marry someone important—the same way I knew you’d be someone important.” Mel frowned. “Greg and Amanda haven’t been making you jump through hoops, have they?”

  “Of course not. Amanda has been wonderful about organizing the reception, and Greg put together the guest list.”

  “Just you, Tate, and four hundred of Amanda’s friends,” Mel said wryly. Then she shook her head. “Don’t mind me. I’m just grumpy from traveling, and I miss my boys. Who knew I’d turn into such an old crone?”

  “You’re not a crone, you’re wonderful. Give them all my love.” Cara looked at the picture. “You look so happy together.”

  “We are.” Mel smiled gravely. “Get some rest. I expect to see a serenely radiant bride when I get to Wyoming.” She turned at the door. “It was the right thing to do.”

  Cara took a deep breath. “I know.” Most of the time, Cara thought.

  After her sister left, she stayed at the window for a long time, lost in thought.

  The kitchen was gleaming.

  Fresh salsa cooled in clay pots and beef strips were marinating for carne asada. Patrick Flanagan hummed as he finished pounding dough for the yeasty French loaves Sophy and Audra loved so well. He took great delight in the knowledge that he was very, very good at his work.

  Imelda peeked inside. “I’m finished. Do you need anything before I leave?”

  “Not a thing.” Smiling, Patrick offered her a freshly baked croissant. “Take one for the road.”

  Imelda sighed. “You are very bad for me, Patrick.”

  “When you’re in my kitchen, there’s no willpower allowed.” Flipping his towel over one shoulder, the chef leaned back against the granite sink. “Did you hear that truck noise earlier? Ms. Mulvaney told me one of the workmen dropped his hammer and broke an upstairs window.”

  “I heard the window break. It is like a gunshot, I am thinking. And so much glass in the bedroom. It is good that one of the workmen came soon after to help me clean or I would still be working.”

  “One of the workmen? Funny, I never knew one who was anxious to do cleanup.”

  “Oh, he is a very nice man. Very strong hands. If I am ten years younger . . .” Imelda smiled, mischief in her eyes. “But I am not, so I will drive home to my cats and my crossword puzzles instead. You are leaving soon?”

  “In half an hour,” Patrick said cheerfully. “Or I may wait until Ms. O’Connor comes home. I like to be sure the food is hot when they’re ready to eat.”

  “Such a conscientious man.” Imelda nodded approvingly. “Some woman will be very lucky to have a fine husband like you, Patrick.”

  “Oh, I’m too busy to get married. Give me the field any day.” Smiling, he waved good-bye to the housekeeper, then went back to his perfectly rising dough.

  The chemistry of making bread was always an intricate challenge, and Patrick Flanagan liked to test himself. It was pleasant to be close to his new family, too. For so many years he had been without roots or clear purpose.

  But no longer. As he kneaded the soft dough, he thought about the powder in the jar he kept at the bottom of his leather satchel. The little bottle hidden on a shelf in his apartment.

  His hands tightened, squeezing dough out through his fingers like strips of pale skin. All it would take was a few pinches.

  Control, he thought sharply. No sudden changes of plan. There would be time for action soon enough. The gunshot had gone perfectly. His friend had left his kayak, climbed onto a rock out of sight, and fired as planned. The warning had been delivered.

  The dead rat had been Patrick’s contribution. He still had to smile at the look of sheer terror on Amanda Winslow’s face in the garage. One minute she was snapping out orders, the next she was babbling in terror. So delicious.

  As a boy he’d never been able to lie well. But now he was a man, and he’d discovered he had a real gift for shaping his lies to suit different people. He considered his next lie as he kneaded the dough one last time. At first, all that had been asked of him was simple surveillance, acting as a set of eyes and ears inside the house, but soon other assignments had come. It had been easy for him to read Cara O’Connor’s personal mail, then pass on the information in his neat, detailed handwriting. It had been simple to hint to Audra that she was overweight and ugly, but of course he loved her anyway. How kind he had been, sympathizing with Cara O’Connor’s busy schedule and her terrible regret at missing such a large part of her girls’ day. He laughed when he thought how subtly he had fueled all her regrets.

  Delicious, he thought. He loved being a chef, but his new career was so much more satisfying. He would receive another twenty thousand dollars soon.

  “Bread’s done,” he said happily. “Now to the oven.”

  He stared around his gleaming kitchen. Yes, he’d have a lovely meal ready and waiting for his favorite family.

  chapter 20

  Audra and Sophy paced anxiously. Summer had tried to distract them with offers of food, television, and a Frisbee game, but the girls weren’t interested. They were worried that their mother wasn’t home yet, and soon Summer was feeling anxious, too. She was pulling out her phone to call Cara when a green Saturn raced around the corner and up the driveway.

  When Cara emerged, clutching her briefcase, she looked rattled. “Sorry, my battery died, and I had to get a tow into Monterey. Thankfully they had a loaner.” She hugged Sophy and smoothed Audra’s hair. “No long faces allowed.”

  “You should have called,” Audra said in a high, tight voice. “I was—we were all worried about you. You always tell me to call. And Patrick’s been keeping dinner warm for hours and everything.”

  Cara had a stricken look on her face as she leaned down to hug Audra hard. “I’m okay, honey. We’re all okay. This weekend up at the ranch is going to be wonderful.”

  “You still should have called,” Audra muttered. “And what was wrong with your car battery? Didn’t you buy one two months ago?”

  “I suppose the salt air took its toll.” Cara rubbed her neck, frowning. “I’ll ask when they bring the car back.” She glanced at her watch and gasped. “Yikes, let’s go see Patrick and have dinner. Then I need to pack. Who wants to help?”

  “Me,” Sophy said, waving a pink glove.

  “I’d better help, too.” Audra took her mother’s arm. “Last time you forgot to pack any socks, remember?”

  “I’m so glad I have you to keep an eye on me, honey.” As Cara patted her daughter’s arm, she glanced at Summer. “Are you packed, too?”

  Summer knew the question was far from casual, considering her real destination. “Everything’s rea
dy.”

  Sophy skipped across the grass. “All you’ll need at the ranch is jeans and boots—and more boots, Ms. M. There’s a lot of horse poop up there.”

  Summer held open the door. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be very, very careful.” Her cell phone began to vibrate. “Why don’t you go ahead and eat while I check on Gabe? He’s supposed to drive us to the airport, I believe.” As the others went inside, Summer walked across the grass and pulled out her phone. “Mulvaney, here.”

  The news wasn’t especially good.

  The forensics report on Cara’s box showed unidentified oil traces on the brown paper wrapper, along with a mineral oil–based ink, and further results would take a week.

  “That’s all?” Summer asked impatiently. “Unidentified oil traces?”

  Her boss gave an impatient huff. “Cut me some slack, Mulcahey.” A fiftyish Afro-American with a mind like an ICBM, Morrison Haley had grown up on the toughest streets in Detroit, always an inch over the line with the law, which made him a damned hard man to fool. A determined local priest had helped him secure a football scholarship to UCLA, where he’d been a record-breaking linebacker.

  The special agent in charge of the Philadelphia field office was known as Mo to his friends, and Summer was one of the select few accorded that privilege.

  “Right now we’re up to our ears in terrorist sight-ings, most of them tips from whackos. Add in a string of armed robberies and a counterfeiting chain and you’ll see why we’re understaffed. I’ve already transferred your box to Quantico for further tests, but it’s not deemed high priority.”

  “Look, Mo—”

  “Sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do. Ask Ms. O’Connor to put in a word with the senator. He may have the juice to get some action, but I don’t. End of story.” He sounded disgusted, and Summer felt just the same.