THE NANNY'S SECRET

by Monica McLean

  All right, damage control time. He had to lighten the mood, let her unwind after the ordeal she'd suffered today, get his own mind back on track before he blew it big time.

  He relaxed his death-grip on the steering wheel, reached over and handed her a mini Mylar balloon taped to a stick. "From the hospital's gift shop. Not a lot of selection."

  "For Timmy?" she asked, taking the balloon from him.

  "Congrats? I don't think so." He pulled onto the long ribbon of highway that would take them back to Wister. "It's for you."

  "For me?" Disbelief tinged her voice.

  "Sure. I didn't want to show up empty-handed after your big day. I figured you were too old for lollipops."

  She gave a small chuckle—a soft, sultry sound that washed over him like warm, apple brandy in the winter and gave him the same rush. "You're kidding, right?" She stuck a hand into her coat pocket and pulled out a sucker. "Ta-da."

  "All right, nix that." Brooks rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm too old for lollipops."

  "No way. I got one for you, too."

  "For me?" It was his turn to sound surprised.

  She nodded and pulled a second sucker from her pocket.

  "Cherry or grape?" She held one in each hand, offering him first choice.

  Brooks gave her a sidelong stare.

  "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

  "I haven't had a lollipop since I was a kid."

  "That long, huh? Did they even make them back then?"

  "Hey! It wasn't that long ago."

  "Uh-huh." She peeled off one of the wrappers. "You probably don't even remember what you're missing, right?"

  He cast her a suspicious glance. "What flavor's that?"

  "Cherry. My favorite."

  "In that case, I'll take grape."

  She smiled and unwrapped the second one for him.

  "Thanks."

  "Thank you for my balloon." She popped her sucker into the side of her mouth, waited until he'd done the same, then smiled in satisfaction.

  Brooks shook his head. She was quite a sight when she eased up even the least little bit, and damn if she didn't have the finest smile. A smile like hers could brighten up the gloomiest of days.

  "Don't tell me. I know." Amelia pulled up her legs and leaned sideways on the seat. "I'm easily amused."

  "Hardly. This is a rare treat."

  "It is good, isn't it?" She'd misunderstood, but he let it go.

  "Yeah, it's good." He grinned. "Real good." When her smile widened, a gut-deep hunger roared inside him. He scowled and rubbed his thigh, as if he could work out his desire like a sore muscle at the end of a hard day.

  Amelia wrapped her arms around her legs and dropped her head back against the rest, fatigue evident in the telltale way her eyelids drooped, reminding him of Timmy.

  "Why don't you take a nap? Mitch already picked up the chief, so we're headed straight home. I'll wake you up when we get there."

  "No, thanks. I don't want to choke on my lollipop."

  "You just want to make sure I stay on the road."

  "The thought occurred to me."

  "I've driven in a lot worse than this." He told her about the time Dean broke his leg—major plaster—and the drought that had given way to a flood with the first real downpour in over a year. "Roads were washed out. You couldn't see two feet in front of you."

  "Don't leave me hanging. Finish the story. There's a happy ending, right?"

  "You didn't notice his wooden leg?"

  She opened her mouth to reveal a bright, red tongue.

  "Kidding."

  "Not funny." She snapped her mouth shut.

  "Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Sugar makes me punchy. By the way, your tongue's red."

  "Is it? Yours is purple."

  He frowned and stuck out his tongue in the rearview mirror. "Purple." He nodded. "And I have you to thank."

  "You're welcome. Eyes on the road. Finish the story." No sooner had the words left her mouth than she grimaced. "Sorry. That sounded really pushy. I didn't mean to—"

  "Yeah, you're real bossy, lollipop. Gotta work on that." He brandished his sucker. "Can't have you fitting in with the other two tyrant females running our household. A real tragedy that would be, answering to three of you."

  She looked pensive at first, like she didn't know what to make of him, then a tentative smile played on her lips. "You were making fun of me that time."

  "Maybe." He stuck the lollipop back into the side of his mouth. "So you want to hear a happy ending or chew me out? Because if it's all the same to you, I'll pass on—"

  "Finish, smarty-pants."

  "Yep. Gonna fit right in." Brooks grinned and shook his head, then finished narrating the trials and tribulations of getting Dean situated. "Jo set his leg, and he had a full recovery. Aside from occasional aches and pains, he's good as new. You'll see come summer. He hasn't slowed down on riding lessons one bit." He scowled, thinking of the city girl to whom Dean had taken more than a passing fancy. The first few summers hadn't concerned him much, but this was the third, and she was graduating from college next year. They weren't kids anymore.

  "So you saved the day."

  "What?" He pulled his thoughts back.

  "Dean. The accident. You trudged through a torrential downpour and saved the day."

  "Right." He tipped back his head. "Forty days and forty nights. Did I mention that part?"

  She chuckled. "All right, Noah. I trust you to get me home in one piece." She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. "I do love the sound of rain."

  And he loved the sound of her calling his ranch "home." More than he should. He clamped down on his jaw. "Rain'll be snow by the time we hit the gate. Weather's fickle as a woman in these parts."

  "As a man, you mean. Men are the fickle ones."

  "Yeah, that's what I meant." He grinned and slanted her a dubious look.

  Her eyelids fluttered. "I thought so." She yawned. "Maybe I'll just rest my eyes a bit…"

  "You do that."

  "Brooks?"

  "Hmm?"

  "What you did for me today … I won't forget it."

  He wished he could, wished he never knew how her body felt against his, the softness of her hair, or the beat of her heart.

  "Rest your eyes, lollipop."

  Outside, the wind howled, slapping against the truck. Rain softened to mist, then sleet. The rhythmic back-and-forth swish of the wiper blades mingled with the heater's whir. Amelia conked out within minutes.

  Brooks reached over and took the lollipop stick from her mouth, his gaze lingering on the slight curve of her lips. She was soft and sweet, and she deserved to find peace. And in that instant, he knew he would help her.

  He would be Amelia Rigsby's friend.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  As Brooks expected, sleet turned to snow before they reached the Triple H: another nuisance storm that dumped a couple inches. Cows in the pastures would find sage and bushes to bed down their calves. He would go out after supper and spread more straw in the corrals, so the stock forced in wet, sloppy areas had a dry place to lie down.

  He eased up the rutted driveway to the house, checking his herd and inspecting fence lines. Built on a hillside, the big, bungalow-style ranch house was made of cut sandstone with cobblestone pillars on front and back porches. From habit, Brooks started to pull up to the back porch, then turned around so Amelia's door opened to the steps.

  He cut the engine, but she didn't stir. "We're here."

  He got out and went around to her side. He tapped the window with his key. Nothing. He unlocked her door and carefully opened it. Her head slumped against his chest. Thick, clean hair spilled across his arm like spun silk.

  A ripple of heat curled in his gut. He drew a breath and braced himself, leaned over and unbuckled her seat belt.

  He ignored the soft whisper of her breath on his cheek and the sweet scent of cherry. He told hims
elf to wake her, to let her walk into the house on her own two feet. His mind rattled off a dozen reasons why he couldn't let himself touch this woman, under any circumstances. And still, he found himself slipping one arm around her waist, the other under her knees.

  He lifted her easily into his arms and kicked the door shut with his boot. Her body was soft and pliant against his, and the heat that had started in his gut slowly spread outward. He gritted his teeth and carried her up the steps to the porch, trying not to jostle her too much.

  At the door, he reached for the knob and came within inches of flattening his nose when he found it locked.

  Oh, sure. Now they decide to lock the door. He shook his head, reflecting on the day he'd come home to find the red shoes and his mystery woman asleep on the couch.

  His mystery woman.

  Brooks swallowed and stared down at her. She wasn't his. Not by a long shot. But she was a mystery, one that intrigued him more each day.

  He couldn't deny the fact he liked her. More than he should have. More than he wanted. He liked the way she smiled, the way she walked, the way she talked, the way she didn't … the sound of her laughter, deep in her throat.

  In the golden light of the lamp post, he studied her face, relaxed in sleep. The tension around her mouth and eyes had eased. The shadow of her eyelashes fell against her cheekbone. Even closed, something about her eyes drew him…

  Was it the perfect symmetry in the way the arch of her eyebrows framed her eyes?

  For the briefest of seconds, he found himself imagining she was his woman, envisioned laying her down on his bed and pictured her hair fanned across his pillow. As the unbidden image burned in his mind, his gaze fixed on her lower lip.

  Then her eyelids fluttered, and he jerked back with a silent oath. "Are we home?" Soft, brown eyes gazed up at him through lowered lashes, and damn if his insides didn't turn to mush.

  "Yeah." He swallowed. It wasn't like he was going to do anything. But he'd thought about it. Oh, man, had he thought about it. And if she kept looking at him the way she was, he was going to keep right on thinking.

  Put her down. Open the door. Go take a cold shower.

  "Brooks?"

  "Hmm?" he grunted.

  Her eyes were searching his, as if looking for answers. He wanted to tell her not to look too close, that she wasn't going to like what she saw. But then, her gaze lowered to his mouth. And lingered. Slowly her fingers wound into the hair at his nape, and she lifted her head to brush her lips against his. The contact was brief, fleeting, over before it even fully registered she had kissed him.

  She had kissed him.

  Brooks held his breath for the span of three heartbeats. Three loud, unsteady heartbeats.

  Around them, snowflakes flurried, and the wind blew. But in the shelter of the covered porch, time stood still.

  "Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

  With a curt nod, he closed his eyes and swore softly.

  "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

  Neither did he. As if his will belonged to someone else, he bent and swept his lips across hers. Just once. One more innocent taste was all he intended, all he needed to dispel the god-awful, gnawing curiosity. This time he paid attention. This time he made note of everything—the satin smoothness of her lips, the sweet, fragrant smell of her skin, the warm tickle of her breath against his face. He etched every detail into his mind to remember later.

  "You're welcome," he said, lifting his mouth, forcing himself to end the kiss. But when he did, a muffled whimper followed in his wake. To his surprise, it came from her—not him—and her head trailed after his in protest.

  Protest, as in she wanted him to kiss her.

  "Damn, woman." His voice vibrated with desire. He wasn't strong enough for both of them. He licked his lips and tasted her. "Cherry." He groaned. "My favorite, too."

  "More?" Whether it was a plea or an offer, the single word wasn't more than a cracked whisper.

  Brooks didn't know who moved first, only that their seeking lips found their way together again, joining and molding, neither brief nor casual this time, but long and purposeful.

  She tasted like heaven, like balmy summer nights and carefree laughter and a million stars twinkling above. She was everything and nothing he'd imagined, and the thought of anyone hurting her turned the fire in his loins to a searing ache in his heart.

  Tenderly he kissed her chin, her cheekbone, her eyelid, the bridge of her nose. "Ah, Amelia." He sighed, wanting more than anything to lay her down someplace soft and take his time touching her as she'd never been touched before, to show her there was good in this world, and she deserved it.

  But it was her lead; his job was to follow.

  And he would, wherever she wanted to go.

  "What do you want, honey? Tell me, and it's yours."

  With astonishment, he felt her cup the side of his face and lifted his head to gaze into heavy-lidded eyes that held equal measures of desire and uncertainty. When she touched his lips with her fingers, he shuddered and closed his eyes. "Grape's good, too," she whispered, and it took every ounce of his control to keep from crushing her mouth with his.

  Instead he caught her index finger between his teeth, nibbling as he flicked his tongue against the sensitive pad.

  Her eyes widened, and her lips parted. "Oh."

  Brooks smiled in satisfaction. Dipping his head, he caught her lower lip and sucked gently, forcing himself to savor her slowly—ever so slowly—like the last piece of holiday candy, knowing when it was gone…

  The cold air swirling around his head told him to stop, warned this was going nowhere, that they were only complicating an already-complicated situation. But futures didn't concern him with the warmth of her body so close, so he turned a deaf ear to logic and held her even closer. He would give her whatever she wanted, touch her as long as she let him, and deal with the consequences later. Much later.

  His tongue traced over the seam of her lips, and when they fell open, he gave a strangled groan and accepted her silent invitation. She kissed him with tender hesitation, growing increasingly bold, gripping his collar.

  He eased her legs down, sucking in a sharp breath when her thigh brushed against him. But when he expected her to draw back, she moved even closer, her hands splaying across his shoulders, fitting herself to him. He bit back a groan.

  "You feel … so good," she said between breaths, as if voicing a deep, dark confession.

  He gripped her hips and swallowed hard. "So do you."

  When she whispered his name, he thought for sure he was a goner. No way was he going to live to see Friday. Every cell in his body was crying out for completion, screaming that he needed to be inside this woman, to make slow, sweet love to her and show her in the most primal way how it was supposed to be between a man and a woman.

  When she stretched up and lifted her face, he complied and kissed her thoroughly. "Brooks…?" She gasped, hands clutching his shoulders, hips moving restlessly against him. Driving him out of his ever-loving mind.

  He swore softly and pulled her more fully against him. When she moaned, his control snapped. He caught her arms and pressed her against the door, kissing her long and deep.

  But something had changed, almost right away, intruding on his passioned haze. Her body had gone rigid as a board—the only one getting anything out of the moment was him.

  Brooks jumped back as if she'd branded his chest with a red-hot iron—D for dumbass.

  His breathing shallow and choppy, he stared at her in dazed confusion. Eyes shut, face contorted, head tilted away, she looked as though he'd made her trek through cow dung in those blasted high heels.

  "Amelia, I'm sorry, I… Ah, hell." He rubbed a hand over his face. What could he tell her?

  That he'd been thinking about her in ways he shouldn't have? That when he held her in his arms, all sense of logic stampeded from his brain? That she was a boy's fondest wish and a man's carnal desire?

  Big, brown e
yes flickered open then, guarded and wary as a spooked colt's. One strong gust of wind, and she'd likely bolt for the barn.

  One step forward, five steps back.

  Damn it all to hell. Brooks cursed his own stupidity. He rode into dangerous territory the instant he'd put her down. He knew he wasn't like her, content to sample what she couldn't have. He had to curb his impulses, stamp out his needs before they took over. Before it was too late.

  Before he couldn't be just her friend.

  "I'm sorry," he said again, lifting his hands in appeal. "I was out of line. Way out of line. It won't happen again. I swear."

  She frowned and drew her coat closer around her.

  Something in her eyes disturbed a remote, shadowy place inside him. The image of his father's hand flashed in his mind. Angry welts. Empty apologies. His mother's tears.

  Brooks knew of men whose apologies rang hollow, and he couldn't blame Amelia for doubting him.

  He lowered his own hands, vowing from that moment on, he would show Amelia with his actions—not just his words—that aside from this slip, he was a man of honor and integrity.

  He fished in his pocket for the keys, unlocked the door and held it open for her.

  "Thanks," she whispered and stepped inside. "Brooks?"

  "Yeah?" He closed the door behind him.

  "I didn't plan that. I … I don't want you to think I intended to lead you on and then—"

  "Stop." He clenched his jaw, barely resisting the urge to bash his head against the wall. "Gotta stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault, honey. I'm a grown man. I'm responsible for my own—"

  "I kissed you. I told you what I wanted. I … asked for it." She looked down, fidgeting with her coat zipper.

  Brooks frowned and took off his Stetson, combing his fingers through his hair. "You didn't ask for it, Amelia. Believe me, I know asking." He knew begging, too. "And that ain't it. You had a rough day. You needed a little comforting. You didn't need to be pawed." He was the one who needed that.

  "But I started it…"

  "And I should have ended it. Better. I won't put you in that position again." His voice was gruff, his jaw set in determination. "You don't know me well enough to trust my word, but it's good. You'll see."