Undercover Nanny

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.