Major Nanny

He’d have trouble making friends. He might never fall in love and have a life partner. He might find a job he loved but he just as easily might not. She’d fight with everything inside her to help him reach his full potential, but it was impossible to tell what that potential might be right now, when he was barely old enough to tie his shoes on his own.

“The Arabian horse has a concave nose,” Zachary announced, still looking at the sock drawer. He reached in and extracted the blue socks, showing no sense of triumph as he pulled the blue socks onto his small feet. “The Morgan horse is the first American breed of horse to survive to this day.”

“He’s been reading his horse book again?” Stacy asked Charlotte.

Charlotte nodded, her shaggy red hair bouncing with the movement. “He was pretty insistent about reading it to me at bedtime. His reading is getting to be downright amazing.”

“I know he must have been disappointed not to take a riding lesson yesterday.” Stacy had been taking him for lessons every Monday and Thursday for a few weeks now. Lindsay Kemp at the Long K Ranch had started giving riding lessons to disabled children a few years ago. While Zachary’s problems were more developmental than physical, riding at the Long K had turned out to be good therapy for him. He loved horses enough to make the effort to interact with Lindsay in order to learn better how to deal with the horses.

Maybe she could sneak him down to the governor’s stables later this week. One of the groomsmen there, Trevor Lewis, had let Zachary ride one of the governor’s gentler horses a few times before. He seemed to know a little about Asperger’s syndrome—something about a cousin who had it—and he accepted Zachary’s idiosyncrasies without making a big deal about it.

“Charlotte, I’ll finish up getting him ready for school. You go ahead—I know you need to get there earlier than the children do.”

Charlotte taught Zachary and a small number of other students with learning challenges. One of the draws for Stacy when she was considering taking the job with the governor was the Cradle to Crayons day care. The reputation of its special education curriculum was excellent. Everyone Stacy had asked about the school had concurred—Zachary couldn’t ask for a better learning environment.

These days, Zachary was her reason for everything she did.

Charlotte had been a godsend. Once she’d learned about Zachary’s Asperger’s syndrome, she’d gone to work studying up on the condition and how best to work around his lack of social skills to make sure he was prepared for elementary school when the time came.

Stacy wasn’t sure she was ready to think that far ahead.

“He’s had breakfast, but he hasn’t brushed his teeth,” Charlotte warned. “His lunch is packed already—”

Stacy gave her an impulsive hug. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. Just tell me what I owe you.”

“Work in a couple of hours volunteering at the school over the next few weeks and we’ll call it even,” Charlotte said. “It was good for me to do this. It gave me a better understanding of how to deal with Zachary during school hours. It’s like on-the-job training.”

Stacy walked Charlotte to the door. “I’ll work out a volunteer schedule as soon as I get the governor settled back into some sort of routine.”

“I imagine that’ll take some doing,” Charlotte said with a wry grin as she headed out the door.

You have no idea, Stacy thought, closing the door behind Charlotte.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Harlan leaned over Vince Russo’s shoulder, growing impatient with his fellow agent’s continuing silence. Vince was Corps Security and Investigation’s go-to guy when it came to explosives. If anyone could tell them anything interesting about the undetonated bomb Stacy had found in the debris, it was Vince.

“It’s basically an Iraqi-style IED,” Vince answered flatly.

Harlan released a long, slow breath. He’d thought so as well, at first glance, though his experience with explosives hadn’t been as hands-on as Vince’s had been. A former navy SEAL, Vince had set—and defused—his share of explosive devices during his time in Iraq.

“Can you tell anything else about it?”

“It’s a common make of phone—something you could find in just about any store in America. The cops will be able to see if the phone can be traced to anyone.” Vince looked up at Harlan. “It’s not likely. The device is fairly cobbled together, but whoever made it knew what he was doing. It’s a miracle he didn’t set it off before the bomb squad got there to disarm it.”

“I was wondering about that myself—” The door to the agents’ bull pen opened and Parker McKenna wheeled Bart Bellows through the door in a manual wheelchair.

Vince and Harlan both rose to greet their boss, hurrying to shake his hand.

“Aren’t you still supposed to be in the hospital?” Harlan asked, worried about how pale the older man looked.

“Hell, if Lila can talk her way out of a hospital bed, I’ll be damned if I’m going to laze about in Austin all day.” Bart directed his sharp blue-eyed gaze at Harlan, nodding his head toward the corner. “Let’s talk, McClain.”

Harlan wheeled Bart with him to the corner, away from the other agents. “What’s up?”

“The governor asked me to get you to her ranch for lunch.”

“Why?”

“I reckon she might want to thank you again in person.”

Harlan shook his head. “I didn’t do much of anything. She should thank her aide. She’s the one who crawled into that maze and got things done.”

He’d found it hard to get Stacy Giordano off his mind over the past few hours. Her gritty courage had impressed the hell out of him, but it was the pale, troubled expression on her face when he’d left her there at the hospital to start the long drive home to Freedom that had stuck with him through the intervening hours. He knew next to nothing about her, really, but he had a gut-level sense that she was a woman under an enormous amount of pressure beyond her demanding job.

Stop it. She’s not your problem. You have all the problems you need.

“Well, be that as it may, she asked for you to be there, and you’re going. Because that woman may well be the next president of the United States, and you don’t say no to someone who might wield that sort of power someday.”

“Fine. I’m up for a free lunch.” It would be a real pleasure to eat something that didn’t come straight out of a can or a microwave plate.

Bart gave a satisfied nod and started wheeling himself back to where the other men had gathered around Vince’s computer, looking at the bomb.

Harlan joined them, catching the tail end of what Vince was telling Parker. “The setup is pretty typical of what the al Antqam were using a few years back.”

“Al Antqam?” Bart asked.

“Loosely translated, it means Sons of Vengeance,” Harlan answered, not looking away from the computer screen. “They were a particularly vicious sect working out of the Anbar Province. Gave us a whole lot of trouble for a while.”

“I know that.” Bart’s voice sounded hoarse.

Harlan looked up and saw that the old man had gone as pale as milk. “Bart, are you okay?”

Bart’s eyes darted up to meet Harlan’s. “I’m fine.” He wheeled his chair toward the door. “I’ll be here around eleven-thirty to drive you to the governor’s ranch,” he called over his shoulder to Harlan. Parker hurried to open the door for him and went with him to the elevator.

“What was that about?” Vince asked Harlan.

Harlan shook his head. “No idea.” He didn’t know much about Bart beyond the basics—he was a Vietnam vet who’d later joined the CIA and eventually became a defense contractor before he sold out for billions. But that was the sort of stuff he could have found out by going on the internet.

Parker returned a few minutes later, looking troubled. “I’m not sure Bart should have left the hospital. His hands were shaking like crazy.”

“What do you know about Bart’s history?” Harlan asked.

Parker shrugged. “Just what he told me when he hired me. Which wasn’t much.”

“Same here,” Vince agreed.

“I don’t think he’s sick,” Harlan said. “I think what we were talking about disturbed him.”

“What were we talking about—the bomb?” Vince asked.

“We were talking about al Antqam,” Harlan said, remembering the tone of Bart’s voice when he’d echoed Harlan’s words. Before he’d looked up to see Bart’s ashen face, he’d thought Bart had simply been asking a question.

Now he wondered if it was more than that.

“Well, you’re about to rub elbows with the old man during lunch,” Vince said with a shrug. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Harlan planned to do just that. But when Bart’s long black Cadillac arrived in front of the CSI headquarters shortly after eleven, the old man wasn’t inside.

“Where’s Bart?” Harlan asked the driver as he slid into the front passenger seat.

“He went on ahead earlier to talk to the governor.” The driver, a grizzled old former cowboy named Dalton Hicks, waited for Harlan to buckle his seat belt before he entered the light traffic. “Said he’d see you there.”

Harlan knew from listening to Bailey Lockhart talk that Twin Harts Ranch was still a working cattle ranch, but he had to admit, if he hadn’t known that already, he’d never have guessed it by looking at the imposing two-story white villa that served as the governor’s home. Sugar-white columns flanked the portico, and a long outside corridor, shaded by another portico with columns, extended nearly the length of the house.

“Nice, huh?” Hicks drawled as he pulled up in front of the entrance. “Wait till you see the inside.”

Harlan unfolded himself from the Cadillac and walked to the door. Beneath his feet, the narrow walkway was polished marble, making him wish he could take off his dusty boots to keep from marring the shiny surface.

He didn’t see a doorbell, so he rapped the heavy brass knocker against the white door. A pair of glass insets reflected his own face back to him, preventing him from seeing inside. But he heard movement, the flurry of footsteps, and the door swung open wide.

It was the governor herself who answered the door, to his surprise. “Welcome, Mr. McClain. So nice to see you again.”

“Should you be answering the door yourself?” he couldn’t help asking as he followed her through a large, ornate foyer into a hallway that was only slightly narrower. “Someone just tried to kill you.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I saw who was there. And the glass in the door is bullet-resistant.” Her lips curved. “Besides, the Texas State Troopers in my security detail have been tracking your arrival since you drove onto Twin Harts land ten minutes ago.”

He should have known. He supposed a woman of Lila Lockhart’s power and controversial outspokenness couldn’t thrive this long in a volatile political climate without knowing how to take a few precautions to protect herself.

The governor led him into a cozy sitting room filled with large, dark-wood furniture and colorful woven rugs. Paneling darkened the walls and gave the place a rustic feeling at odds with the European refinement of the ranch house’s exterior.

A woman of many contradictions, Harlan thought as the occupants of the study turned to look at the newcomers.

Bart Bellows was there, his chair parked in front of the large river stone hearth, where golden flames licked lazily at a slab of hickory firewood. He grinned at Harlan as if he were keeping a juicy secret. Next to Bart, a sandy-haired man wearing a neat business suit watched Harlan’s approach with an oddly speculative gleam in his blue eyes.

And in an armchair adjacent to the stranger, Stacy Giordano sat quietly, her gaze watchful and wary.

“Stacy, I’m sure you remember Mr. McClain,” the governor said, waving for Harlan to sit on the small sofa across from Stacy. Stacy flashed him a quick smile as he sat, briefly transforming her features as if a beam of sunlight had fallen across her face. The smile faded quickly, her gaze returning to Lila’s face as the governor sat beside Harlan on the sofa.

“And this is Greg Merritt,” the governor added, waving toward the stranger. “He’s going to be my campaign manager. Greg, this is the man I was telling you about, Harlan McClain.”

Merritt rose and extended his hand to Harlan. He spoke with a mild Texas twang. “Happy to meet you, Mr. McClain. The governor tells me you were instrumental in saving her life yesterday. We’re all very grateful.”

“Just call me Harlan,” he said, uncomfortable with the praise considering how little he’d done compared to Stacy. But before he could protest, the governor cut in.

“I am deeply grateful to you, Mr.— Harlan.” The governor smiled, then turned to look at Stacy. Her smile grew warmer. “And to you, darlin’. I won’t forget what you did for me. But that’s not really why I asked the two of you here for lunch.” She took a deep breath, as if bracing for what she would say next.

Stacy’s gaze briefly connected with Harlan’s. He saw a hint of surprise and, unexpectedly, a flicker of dread.

“In two weeks, I intend to hold my first official fundraiser for my presidential campaign. Right here at Twin Harts. I’m going to ask that lovely girl Carrie Rivers to entertain us again.” The governor smiled brightly. “It’s going to be a party just about as big as Texas. Of course, Stacy will be in charge of bringing the party together. Nobody can get things done for me better than she can.”

The dread in Stacy’s eyes turned into full-blown panic.

“And you, Harlan, will be in charge of security.”

Harlan glanced at Stacy again. Babysitting the governor and her entourage of fans and followers wouldn’t normally be at the top of his list of desirable assignments, though he had to admit the recent attempt on Lila Lockhart’s life added a little zing of excitement to the prospect.

But working day in and day out with the governor’s enigmatic—and intriguing—aide?

Now, that might turn out to be a real challenge.

Chapter Four

“I want to go riding, Mommy.”

Setting aside her pile of notes, Stacy turned to look into her son’s bright blue eyes. He wore an expression she was coming to know well, the “come hell or high water” look he gave her when he was determined to get his way.

“Zachary, I told you I have to work this afternoon.” She knew she was fortunate to be able to work from home when necessary. She and Zachary lived in the guesthouse at Twin Harts, so she was only a short walk from the governor’s own office at the ranch house.

“I was supposed to go riding Monday, but you changed the plans.” He sounded quite put out about it, too.

“Yes, I changed the plans. I told you why I changed them, didn’t I? Miss Lila had to visit the capitol, and I had to go with her. Remember?”

And then things blew up, literally, and now I have to work with a big, hard-muscled ex-military man with sexy brown eyes whom I can’t stop thinking about no matter how I try.

“You changed the plans, and I didn’t get to ride.”

“I’m taking you to see Miss Lindsay tomorrow, remember? It’s your regular riding lesson.”

Zachary’s round little face darkened. “You have to take me twice a week. I have to get a riding lesson in before tomorrow. I have to.”

Even though his vocal inflections and pronunciation were still those of a child of five, the words he chose and the sentence structure he used were far beyond his years. It was one of a wide range of possible indicators of Asperger’s syndrome. So was his dogged obsession with horses.

Some aspies became obsessed with video games. Some focused on planes or trains or cars. Zachary’s obsession with horses seemed to date back to the age of three, when her ex-husband’s parents had given Zachary a rocking horse for his birthday. That had been shortly after Stacy had started to realize her beautiful, bright son wasn’t the same as other children.

He’d been diagnosed with Asperger’s a few weeks later. For about three months, she and her ex-husband, Anthony, had struggled against the diagnosis, trying to come up with some other rational explanation for Zachary’s developmental difficulties. But all the signs were there, and finally, Stacy had been forced to face the truth. Her son was going to have a radically different life than the one she’d dreamed of when she’d first learned she was having a baby.

She’d accepted the truth. Anthony had not.

“Tell you what,” she said, gazing at her son with so much love in her heart she thought it might burst, “I’ll see if Mr. Miller can work you in at Miss Lila’s stable, okay?”

Zachary cocked his head, as if considering the offer. “Okay. What time?”

She glanced at her watch. It was almost two, and she had at least another hour’s worth of calls to make. “How about three? I’ll call Mr. Miller and see if he can work you in.”

She found the number for the stables and dialed, hoping the affable stable manager would be able to find a gentle horse for Zachary to ride around the paddock for a while this afternoon. If not, the rest of her day was going to be sheer hell.

The stable manager, Cory Miller, answered the phone. He was a gruff old Texan who’d been with the Lockhart family since Lila’s daughters and son were children. “Trevor’s nearly through with his work for the day—I can have him let Zachary have a ride.”

“Thank you so much, Cory!” Stacy nearly melted with relief. Trevor was one of the younger grooms. He seemed to enjoy letting Zachary take rides now and then. Maybe Zachary would settle down now and let her get on with the plans for the governor’s fundraiser. “And Cory? Please don’t tell the governor about this. I don’t want her to think Zachary’s getting in anyone’s way.”

“I don’t reckon she’d think that,” Cory protested. “But all right, Ms. Stacy. I’ll keep it to myself.”

Maybe Lila wouldn’t think she couldn’t handle the job because of Zachary’s special needs, but Stacy was in no position to put her job at risk. Lila paid very well, enough to cover the costs of Zachary’s weekly therapy sessions. If something happened to change the governor’s mind about Stacy’s ability to do the job, she didn’t know if she’d be able to find another job as flexible and lucrative.

Had she been wrong to believe she could handle a job as demanding as being Lila Lockhart’s aide-de-camp?

For a brief while, Lila had even named Stacy campaign manager for her presidential run, until Stacy—and others in the governor’s circle of friends—had convinced her that hiring a seasoned political pro was the only smart choice. Though deeply flattered by Lila’s confidence in her instincts and skills, Stacy knew her limitations. Lila deserved the best. Greg Merritt was the best.

Despite the daunting list of phone calls Stacy needed to make before Zachary’s impromptu riding lesson, she couldn’t concentrate. Zachary was being too quiet, so she took a quick break to see where her son had disappeared to.

She found him in his bedroom, riding the rocking horse his grandparents had given him. He chattered quietly to the toy, as if giving it commands. At five, he dwarfed the toddler’s toy, the sight comical enough to make Stacy smile.

He looked up at the sound of her footsteps on the hardwood floor, then resumed his play. No expression of welcome. No smile. Not even a grin of embarrassment at being caught playing with a baby toy.

Tears stung her eyes, but she fought them off, even though he wouldn’t react to them anyway.

“Is it time to go?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the rocking horse.

“Not yet.” She retreated from the room and let the burning tears fall, even though she knew she’d probably regret the show of weakness later, not being the sort of person who gave in to self-pity. But after the past few days, she supposed she could cut herself some slack.

It wasn’t as if the next couple of weeks were going to be any less stressful, after all. Between preparing for the fundraiser and working long and no doubt demanding hours with Harlan McClain, the next couple of weeks would be like living in a pressure cooker.

And if she wasn’t careful, the whole situation just might blow up on her. Because there was something about Harlan McClain that seemed to press all her buttons, good and bad.

When Anthony left, she’d thought her disillusionment and sense of betrayal had immunized her against the charms of any male besides Zachary. But even in the middle of a life-and-death situation in Austin, something about Harlan McClain had made its way past the walls she’d spent the past year and half building to keep herself and Zachary safe from any more unnecessary disappointments.

There had even been that moment, brief but powerful, when she’d literally fallen into his arms and realized that she could still feel wildly attracted to a man despite her determination to never be the fool again.

She’d have to be very careful not to let Harlan McClain slip through her defenses again.

THE GOVERNOR HAD GIVEN HARLAN a day off before starting work on the security plans for the fundraiser. He supposed she thought he’d need to tie up any loose ends in his personal life, since she clearly expected him to spend most of his waking hours at the ranch, coordinating the event. But he didn’t have any loose ends to tie up. His life these days was blissfully uncomplicated—no wife, no kids, no one to answer to besides Bart Bellows and his fellow agents at CSI.

Yeah, life was just a big ol’ bowl of cherries.

Well, except for the fact that the dream home he’d spent so much time planning for and saving for had gone to his ex in the divorce. Never mind that Alexis had been the one getting naked with the contractor—her daddy was a golfing buddy of the divorce court judge, and if that hadn’t been enough, the high-priced Atlanta lawyer she’d hired somehow managed to twist Harlan’s years of outstanding service in the Marine Corps into de facto abandonment of his wife and their marriage.

Goodbye, two-story farmhouse in Walnut Grove, Georgia. Hello, three-room man-cave in Freedom, Texas, with the thrift-store furnishings and only the big-screen TV he’d eked out of the divorce settlement to give him any sense of his old life following him into his new one.

Well, there was also his trusty old Ford F-10 pickup. Alexis never liked the truck, and he supposed he should just be glad she got all the vindictiveness out of her system by taking the house.

A quick rap on the door of his apartment dragged him out of his grim funk. Matt Soarez stood outside, holding a pink envelope. One black eyebrow arched upward. “It’s for you.”

Harlan took the envelope. It had his name written on the outside in a familiar script and smelled of gardenias. Well, hell.

“Holding out on us, McClain?” Soarez grinned broadly. “Who’s the lady?”

“She’s no lady.” Harlan grimaced. “She’s my ex-wife.”

Soarez winced. “I thought she was back in Georgia.”

“So did I.” Harlan frowned at the pink envelope. “Where did you find this?”

“In front of my door.” Matt lived in the next apartment to his own. “I just got home from lunch at Talk of the Town.”

Harlan glanced at his watch. It was after three. He shot Soarez a skeptical look.

“Hey, it’s my day off,” Soarez said with a grin. “Faith and I have plans to make, you know.”

“Plans for the wedding?” Not that Harlan cared about things like weddings or marriage or that mewling little baby girl of Faith Scott’s that Soarez was so sappy over. But anything to keep from opening the envelope from Alexis.

“Well, yeah, that, too.” Soarez’s grin widened further. “But first, we’re moving in together.”

Not what Harlan expected, though it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Soarez had been spending most of his hours away from work over at Faith’s place anyway. He lived right down the hall from Harlan, but Harlan hardly ever saw him outside of work anymore. “When’s that going to happen?”

“This weekend, unless something comes up at the agency.” Soarez’s dark eyes glittered with happiness. “I get to be a full-time daddy to Kayleigh.”