Undercover Nanny

“Obviously, this wasn’t the greatest day…for any of us.” From what remained of his humor, he summoned a smile. “I wouldn’t want to repeat it myself. I tell you, dealing with contractors is a lot like dealing with kids. Everything happens on their time frame, they get to pout, and you’re the one who has to pay for it all.”

Mrs. Carmichael crossed surprisingly muscular arms over her grandmotherly bosom. The curl of her lips said it all: tell me something I will care about.

Adrenaline pumped into Max’s system. He rubbed his hands together, warming up for the old college try. “All right. First of all, do not worry about the dinner. We’ll order pizza for the kids, and you and I can sit down and—”

“Dinner is the least of your concerns, Mr. Lotorto. Those two hooligans have been acting like wild animals all day.” She pointed behind him to the two boys who had obviously not stayed put. “First they dug a hole in the garden—”

“No, it’s a time capsule,” James asserted, evidently certain this tidbit of information would cancel any wrongdoing. “We’re puttin’ Sean’s dead lizard in it.”

Max lowered his brow. “Shh.”

“Then they put shaving cream on the windows—”

“Uh-uh, it was cleaning stuff. We were helpin’ clean them,” Sean whined in protest.

Max raised a finger to his lips. He could not afford to lose the only help he had. Returning his attention to Mrs. Carmichael, he tried to commiserate. Having lived with the twins for several months, it wasn’t hard. “I can see how irritating that must have—” he began.

“And then they tried to set fire to the house.”

“Fire?” Max knew these kids. They were boisterous, a bit too creative in their play, but ultimately they were good kids trying to find their way through circumstances that would have been difficult for anyone. They weren’t delinquents. They had never deliberately hurt anyone or anything. “If they were playing with matches, I’ll deal with them.” He turned briefly to shoot both boys a warning glare. “I will definitely deal with them. But I think we ought to be careful about suggesting they intended to burn down the house—”

“They made a fire in the middle of their bedroom.”

James ran forward, accompanied by his brother, and tried to speak again. Max pressed a hand over each boy’s mouth. All he made out was a muffled “…campout…”

His head began to throb, right between the eyes. There had to be a way to deal with this firmly but calmly, rationally. “Here’s what I suggest. I think we should all go back in the house, and—”

“They used a box of your cigars for kindling.”

“—talk about—” He halted. “Cigars? Imported cigars? With a little hut…and a palm tree on the box?”

Mrs. Carmichael shrugged eloquently. “How should I know?” She shook her head. “No more box.”

The throb expanded to the top of Max’s head. He wanted badly to yell, but how could he? He was failing these kids.

The thought made him furious and frustrated, but not at them. They were innocent victims, loved by a mother who, unfortunately, had never been able to give them stability. So many times they’d been unceremoniously dumped in Max’s life—a few days here, a couple of days there. But this time, they were here for good, and though they had known Max and loved him all of their lives, they probably sensed by now that the emperor had no clothes: Max knew how to be fun for a weekend, but he didn’t know jack about being a parent.

No way could he do this alone.

His mind raced as he groped for a way to plug the hole in this sinking ship. Before he could make another gambit, however, the woman he’d hoped would be his salvation put her hands on her hips and said, “You won’t like to hear it, people never do, but what those boys need is a good horsewhipping. I’d have done it, too, but they locked themselves in the bathroom.”

Against his legs, Max felt the boys stiffen. Anger pumped more adrenaline into his veins. With her elbows sticking out and her slivered eyes spitting threats, Carmichael, the self-avowed übernanny, looked startlingly like Miss Gulch in The Wizard of Oz just before she took Toto away from Dorothy.

“Mrs. Carmichael,” he warned in a low, cautionary voice, “try to remember what I told you.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Bad blood breeds bad blood, and from what you said about their mother, those two are likely to be in prison before they’re ten.”

“Mrs. Carmichael—”

“You’ll be doing yourself a favor if you let Social Services handle them.”

Sean squeezed tightly against Max’s knee. Max felt his anger reach frightening proportions.

Tightly controlling himself, he leaned down and murmured to James. “What did you call your brother?” James whispered in reply, eliciting a nod before Max straightened. “Mrs. Carmichael,” he said, “you are a poo-poo doo-doo brain.”

The woman’s mouth opened and closed like a baby bird trying to feed.

“And just so that you and I completely understand each other, do not ever mention Social Services in connection with my children again, not even if you’re standing on the other side of town in a soundproof booth.”

“I quit!” the woman snapped, face growing redder with each second.

Maxwell smiled grimly. “Just when I thought we were getting along.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s nostrils flared, but she spun without another word and stalked to the maroon Buick she’d parked at the curb.

Max didn’t wait to watch her get in. He turned the boys around, nudging them toward the house. On the porch, ten-year-old Anabel stood somberly with her arm around Livie, their baby sister. Garbed as usual in her thrift-store fairy princess costume, she had what appeared to be either makeup or strawberry jam all over her face. Her huge, worried eyes swallowed her face.

Max ground his teeth. Terrific. So much for setting a good example. They’d heard everything.

Tossing his ex-nanny’s apron onto the sofa, Max clapped his hands with forced joviality. “So, who’s starving? I’ll order pizza.”

Anabel was the only one who spoke. “We had pizza last night.”

Fatigue pulled Max’s body like gravity. Very little frightened him in life. He hardly ever panicked, and he hardly ever prayed. Hard work, truth, loyalty—those were the values he believed in. They ought to be enough to bring a man through most difficulties. Now he stood in his living room, with four pairs of worried eyes watching him, and directed this message heavenward: SEND HELP.

Chapter Two

Daisy June Ryder liked fashion. Before the business had started gasping for breath, and she’d opted to pay the past month’s utility bills plus as much of the back rent as she could—which wasn’t much, really—from her personal checking account, clothes and shoes had been her number-one material indulgence.

So when she dressed for success as a prospective babysitter, D.J. put on her favorite sixty-five-dollar Melrose Avenue jeans, an Anna Sui top that she’d bought at a second-time-around chic boutique and her Nine West boots.

With a name like Daisy June, a girl was practically forced to develop a sense of style.

Besides, D.J. was nervous, and clothes, she had long since discovered, could act the part of old friends. People might come and go, but her pink suede slides would follow her anywhere.

Yesterday evening she’d sat in a parked car down the block from Maxwell Lotorto’s house and watched him engage in a confrontation with a stout gray-haired woman. Hunched low in the front seat of her Mustang, she’d watched four young children follow Max and the woman out of the house. With her window rolled down, D.J. caught enough of the conversation to glean that the children belonged to Max, that the irate woman was either a housekeeper or nanny, and that she was quitting or being fired. Maybe both.

D.J. had never believed in angels or anything like that, but if she did, she’d swear one had been guiding her footsteps last night. She’d been in just the right place at just the right time to gather a solid foundation of information.

Standing in front of Tavern on the Tracks for the second time in fewer than twenty-four hours, D.J. attempted to quell that slightly sickening butterflies-in-the-belly feeling by calling it excitement. She’d spent years making her living by locating missing persons, some of whom had taken exception to being found. She had not yet, however, changed her identity or masqueraded as someone else to get the job done.

Today would be her first day “undercover.” Today D. J. Holden, P.I., kick boxer extraordinaire—if she did say so herself—and undoubtedly the only woman in her yoga-for-relaxation class licensed to carry a concealed weapon, was going to be Daisy June Holden, career babysitter.

Without doubt, she was better suited to investigative work than to child care. She’d done a good portion of her own growing up as the only kid in the home of two much older adults, but she’d adored Bill and Eileen Thompson. She’d followed Bill around like a pup on a leash, absorbing knowledge about his private investigation business like soil absorbs rain—naturally, effortlessly.

She expected to expend a lot more effort learning to corral a bunch of rugrats.

Late-morning sunshine warmed the pavement of the small northern California town of Gold Hill, making D.J. squint. She left her sunglasses on top of her head, nonetheless, wanting to appear casual, eminently approachable when she walked into the restaurant that adjoined the bar. Tavern on the Tracks was comprised of two adjacent storefronts, each with its own entrance. On the right was the bar. On the left was a space that appeared to be undergoing renovations. A sign on the latter space said that an Italian restaurant would be opening soon. Yesterday D.J. had been to the bar; today she decided to investigate the restaurant.

Licking her lips, she walked across the threshold.

It was dark in the as-yet-unlit restaurant. She looked around, making out only shadow. It was way dark.

Standing still while her eyes adjusted to the dimness, D.J. let her ears do her investigating for her. Not only was it dark, there was a vaguely smoky, musty smell in the room that made her think of Mickey Spillane novels.

Until she heard giggles. Giggles and whispering that sounded distinctly juvenile.

As her eyes adjusted from outdoors to indoors, D.J. carefully approached one of the leather booths.

On the floor beneath the table, two squirmy, chortling boys huddled together like puppies.

She crouched down for a better look. “Hello.”

When they saw her, the bolder of the boys put his finger to his mouth and hissed, “Shhhhh. You’ll alert enemy forces.”

“Sorry,” she whispered back. “Why are you hiding?”

The other boy started to answer, but the first child clamped a hand over his mouth. “We can’t talk to you until we know whose side you’re on.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “I’m on your side.”

“You gotta get under here then.”

D.J. viewed the cramped space and gave a mental shrug. If you can’t beat ’em…

She grunted as she crawled in beside her new comrades. With her five-foot, seven-inch frame hunched beneath the table, she felt like an arthritic turtle and knew she wouldn’t be able to hold out long. “What’s the location of the enemy forces?”

“They’re over there.” The curly headed self-appointed spokes-person of the duo pointed in the direction of the neighboring bar. “Eatin’ stuff.”

“Eatin’ stuff.” D.J. nodded. “Why aren’t you two over there eatin’ stuff?”

“Eatin’ on a mission is sissy.”

“But I’m hungry,” his partner piped up.

D.J. looked at the other boy, physically a near carbon copy of his compatriot. Obviously brothers, they looked little like Max, which meant, she assumed, that they favored their mother.

Yesterday’s discovery of the children and the apparently defecting caregiver had not told her everything she needed to know, but it had given her a place to start. Max Lotorto needed child care. His wife must have passed on or moved on, because he clearly had responsibility for these kids. Assuming the woman was alive, what had made her leave gorgeous Max and their four kids? Was she still in the picture at all? D.J. had no outstanding maternal instincts, but voluntarily leaving one’s children did not sit well with her.

If the children’s mother was alive, perhaps Max had some fatal flaw that had made the marriage untenable. That was the kind of information Loretta wanted, the kind of information D.J. had come to the restaurant to get.

The boys began nudging each other and whispering. “What are your names?” she asked them.

The gigglier, hungrier one started to answer, but his brother gave him an elbow shot to the ribs. “We’re not supposed to tell,” he said over his brother’s cry of “Ow!”

“That’s when we’re outside,” the other boy said, elbowing back.

A skirmish—one that would surely put D.J. at risk from a flailing appendage—seemed about to ensue, until a very deep, very authoritative masculine voice called out, “Sean! James! Where are you?”

“Shhhh,” the boys hissed to each other. In a loud whisper the more dominant child commanded, “Change locations, change locations!” Both boys scrambled on their hands and knees to a new hiding place, presumably the next table over.

D.J. tried to scooch out, using her elbows and knees, but getting out from under the table wasn’t nearly as easy as climbing beneath it in the first place, and a pair of work-boot-shod feet entered her line of vision before she had time to straighten.

A hand appeared before her face, palm up. She took it.

Work roughened but warm and large, Maxwell Lotorto’s big mitt made hers feel small and feminine—quite a shock given that in elementary school the other girls had voted her “biggest girl’s hand in fifth grade.”

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she noted the surprise—then suspicion—in his gaze. He definitely recognized her from yesterday.

Letting go of her hand, Max watched her steadily, no doubt awaiting an explanation, and D.J. would have loved to provide one, but her mouth was so dry she had to lick her lips again, and in truth she hadn’t thought of an explanation for something like this.

Finally he spoke for her. “So why, he wonders, has the lady come back to hide under his table?”

“Good question.” She had to smile, nodding her appreciation. “I’d start there. But I wasn’t hiding, actually. I was becoming acquainted with two very personable young men. Yours, I assume?”

More giggling from the next table over. Hands moving to his hips, Max glanced the boys’way. “Get out here, you two. It’s time for lunch.”

The twin brothers scampered out to stand side by side before Max. “Go next door. Frankie made tuna.”

“Yuck! Free Willy sandwiches.” Once again Sean was not shy about his position.

Max shook his head. “Don’t start. Free Willy was a whale.”

James’s eyes grew wide. “I’m not eatin’ whale!”

While Max’s body vibrated with the effort to maintain his patience, D.J.’s shook with the attempt to suppress laughter. The poor guy looked exhausted, which, for D.J.’s purposes wasn’t such a bad thing.

Issuing his next directive as a not-to-be-flouted command, Max said, “Tuna is not a whale. It comes out of a can. Frank went to the trouble of making you lunch, so don’t insult him. And FYI, I don’t advise climbing under tables if you want to meet girls.” His gaze returned to D.J. “They hardly ever hang out there.”

James giggled. “She’s not a girl.”

While Max returned his attention to the boy, D.J. shivered for a reason most unprofessional. The man had eyes like a winter ocean: stormy and moody, beckoning with mystery and secret. His expression today was far less open than it had been yesterday, but when he held her gaze it seemed he was daring her to look away. As an investigator, D.J. felt enjoyably challenged. As a woman, she felt…ensnared.

That wasn’t good.

“Lunch,” Max told the boys again in a flat tone that brooked no refusal. “Ice cream later if you finish everything.”

The boys looked at each other with huge, eager eyes. They raced off, leaving D.J. alone in the vacant restaurant with Max.

Her subject had dressed casually in worn jeans, a red cotton shirt with the tail out and his boots. He was in the mood for work, not play, a fact his next words confirmed.

“It’s a busy day around here. What can I do for you?”

There’s the door, what’s your hurry, eh? Determined not to take offense, D.J. reminded herself she was also here for work.

Years of faking confidence until she’d actually acquired some made her back straight and her shoulders square. She smiled. “You can let me make your life simpler.”

He reared back ever so slightly, but that hint of surprise told D.J. she’d just taken the upper hand.

“How,” Max said, “do you propose to do that?”

“By working for you.” D.J. tossed her head, flicking her dark hair behind her. “You probably don’t remember me,” she demurred, realizing full well that he did. “I stopped by your bar last night. I see you’re opening a restaurant and you’re going to need a staff. I’ve been involved in the restaurant business for years.” D.J. looked him straight in the eye and refrained from adding, but only if you consider how often I eat in them. “I can do whatever. Wait tables, be a hostess.” She glanced around. “Hammer a few nails.” She didn’t mention the children yet, or his need for child care. All in good time.

Max eyed her up and down, his scrutiny so blatant she didn’t know whether to pose or cross her arms over her chest.

“You’re not from around here.”

“I was passing through town yesterday evening,” she told him, using the simple story she’d concocted to explain her appearance in a small-town bar, dressed to the hilt, and her subsequent desire to look for work here. “I was on my way home from a friend’s wedding. It was quite a bash. Naturally, I don’t dress like that for job interviews.”

“Where’s home and where was the party?”

“Ashland.” D.J. named a city south of Gold Hill. “That’s where the wedding was. And I’m from Portland.”

“Portland. Aren’t there any waitress jobs in Portland?”

“Sure.” Taking a deep breath, she put a sad little wriggle into the exhale. “But so are my fiancé and his new girlfriend.”

As a little girl, D.J. had heard a story about an angel who wrote down everything a person said or did, recording the entries in a big book for God to read when He was deciding who got into Heaven and who didn’t. There was a page for good acts and one for sins. If the angel existed and was listening to half of what she’d said so far today, she was in deep doo-doo.

The frown marring Max’s handsome brow dropped lower. His lips pursed as he digested the information she was feeding him. She didn’t want him to work at it too long.

“I really want to relocate to someplace peaceful, and I’m going to need a job right away. If you already have a full staff, maybe you know of another restaurant job in the area? I don’t mind the dirty work. Even dishwashing is fine.” She curled her polished fingers into her palm, hoping he had a nice big dishwasher in his kitchen. “Oh, and by the way,” she said as if the thought had just occurred to her, “I baby-sit, too. I mean, if you and your wife or someone you know ever needs anyone.”

Smooth, Daisy. Oh, smooth. Make him think it’s not all about him. “I know this is a small town, and there may not be much work, so I’m willing to be flexible. And cheap for the first month trial period.” And if that don’t grab you, Mr. Lotorto, I can’t imagine what will.

Maxwell’s brow arched perceptibly with each fib she told. He was definitely mulling it over. “How flexible are you willing to be?”

Daisy shrugged. “Make me an offer.”

Max wanted to bite the hook; she could tell. “How do you feel about full-time work with kids?” he asked.

She plastered an enthusiastic smile over her natural trepidation. “I love kids. Your boys are great.”

“How do you feel about them 24/7?”

“So, just to get this straight. You want a babysitter? Someone to watch your children while you’re working?” So far this was playing out the way she’d intended it to. D.J.’s maternal instincts were nil, but hanging out at the restaurant or at Max’s home, watching the kids would give her a chance to observe Max up close and personal, and a few hours of playing cops and robbers under the tables wouldn’t kill her.

Max frowned over her question. “No.” He gave a quick, sharp shake of his head. “I don’t want a babysitter. I need a nanny.”

Good Lord. A nanny? Nannies were responsible for discipline. Nannies were responsible for feeding. Nannies…

Lived in.

“I could be a nanny,” D.J. blurted before she let herself think twice. The investigator in her could no more turn down the opportunity to spend legitimate time in Maxwell Lotorto’s home than her inner clothes hog would say no to free Jimmy Choo shoes.

“Do you have experience with kids?” Max’s narrowed eyes suggested he might already be reconsidering his hasty overture.

“Do I have experience!” D.J. decided to lay it on thick. “I have thirteen brothers and sisters.”

Max’s astonishment was gratifying. “Thirteen?”

Give or take. A baker’s dozen was probably a conservative estimate of the boys and girls with whom she’d spent her early, early years. The fact was they were all foster siblings, some of whom D.J. had known a month on the outside, and she hadn’t seen any of them since she was twelve. She had never actually taken care of children, but growing up around them had to count for something.

Max ran a hand over his ink-dark hair and shook his head. “And I thought four was a handful.”

“Are you on your own with your children?”

“Yeah. Our housekeeper…retired recently.”

“Oh.” Retired, huh? If that scene on his front lawn had been a “retirement,” she’d machine wash all her hand-knit sweaters on Hot.

“Yeah. She was a great gal. The kids loved her. They’re very loving kids.”

“I’m sure they are.” Poor Max. His page in the recording angel’s book wasn’t going to look any better than hers. “That must have been very hard, losing someone you all counted on.”

“It hasn’t been easy. I’m working a lot, trying to get this restaurant opened. School doesn’t start for another few weeks, and I don’t want to put the kids in day care.” He was starting to appear endearingly less cocky, more earnest. “We’ve had some upheavals here lately. I’d like to give the kids continuity.”

Which meant they hadn’t had any for a while. D.J. filed the information away for Loretta. She’d have to probe later and get further details.

For some reason, a fresh pang of guilt squeezed her chest. She reminded herself that this was a job. A good one.

“Do you have references?” he asked.

“For waitressing, not for babysitting,” D.J. said.

She’d already phoned Angelo at the gym and her neighbor Mrs. Pirello to tell them she might need a cover for a job she was working. They both owed her a few dozen favors and had family in the restaurant business. Devoted NYPD Blue fans, they had agreed immediately to help out.

“For waitressing I can get you a résumé. I don’t have anything on me, though.” Going whole hog, she grimaced, cheesily snapping her fingers. “Darn. Too bad I didn’t think to slip a résumé into my suitcase. I packed quite a few clothes, because I decided to vacation in the Rogue Valley for a week before the wedding. I could have started right away.”

He was still wavering, changing his mind about hiring someone with no experience. Never mind that the thought of caring for four kids could send her running for antacids; the fact that Max had second thoughts about hiring her made D.J. want to fight for the job.

C’mon, Maxie, give it up, she thought. Heck, if Loretta liked what D.J. had to report, Maxwell Lotorto and his kiddos would be richer than Oprah very shortly. Loretta wanted an heir, but she wanted one capable of running the family business. If Max proved to be responsible and genuine, with a head for business on his broad shoulders, then he would assume his rightful place in the family biz. He’d be able to hire a veritable Mary Poppins to be his nanny. A team of Mary Poppinses. D.J. figured Max might take exception to her subterfuge at first, but in the end he’d thank her. Who wouldn’t?