Undercover Nanny

She, on the other hand, was in his house, lying with every breath she took.

Undressing in the dark, conscious that her muscles were already protesting all the bending and stretching she’d done during her cleaning spree, D.J. hoped her conscience would bother her less in the morning.

Setting her internal alarm for 7:00 a.m., she lay on her back and stared into the darkness, waiting for sleep to overtake her. She had plenty to think about while she drifted off, but one image in particular kept coming back: Max on the couch, staring at the photo in his wallet and looking very much as though he was determined not to cry.

Rolling onto her side, D.J. scrunched the pillow till it suited her and closed her eyes. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that she doubted there was a man alive who had ever looked at her picture like that.

“Hey. What do you think you’re doing?” Max’s whisper held more than a hint of censure.

“We’re watching,” Sean whispered back. “She kinda spits when she sleeps.”

“Come out of there. Right now!”

D.J. frowned, blinked and woozily lifted her head. The voices she heard were evidently not part of a dream. By the time her eyes focused, she saw the backs of three little people as they marched out the door, having been duly chastised by the frowning countenance of Maxwell Lotorto. He reached for the knob, but looked up to catch her watching him. A cautious smile replaced the scowl.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

Gingerly, D.J. sat up, pulling the sheet with her. Sneaking a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand, she almost groaned. So much for her internal alarm, previously as trustworthy as Big Ben. It was eight-thirty already.

“I hope the kids didn’t bug you.”

D.J. ran a hand through her hair. “No.” She tried to smile, but it wasn’t easy. Not only was she, the nanny, the last person up this morning, but also beneath the sheet, D.J. wore only a T-shirt and panties—no bra, no pajama bottoms. Granted, she was covered by a bedspread and a sheet hiked up to her chin, but she felt more self-conscious than she had the first time she’d stayed at a man’s apartment overnight. “Sorry I stayed in bed so long. I’m usually up way before now.”

He waved her guilt away. “You had a tough first night. At least that’s what Anabel tells me.”

The kid with her finger on the pulse of the food pyramid had ratted her out? “It wasn’t bad.” D.J. protested mildly, but if he already knew about James’s collision with a spaghetti sauce display at the market, or about the scorched hot dogs she’d tried to convince the children were “cook-out style,” she figured her goose was cooked.

“My brothers and sisters are all adults now. I’m a little out of practice with kids.”

Max accepted that easily. “Tell me about it. I think I’m still there myself.” Awkwardly D.J. laughed with him. “The teenage years.” He shook his head, looking, D.J. thought, a bit green around the gills. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to those. Especially with the girls.”

D.J. arched a brow. “Why ’especially with the girls’?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He waved a hand in her direction. “Teenage girls want to talk about bras and boys. What do I know about that?” Taking a moment, he amended, “Actually, I know a lot about bras and boys, but nothing I want to tell Anabel or Liv.”

Max looked so adorably cocky and disgruntled and paternal, D.J. wanted to laugh…until the talk of bras made her remember she wasn’t wearing one under her thin muscle shirt. She tugged the sheet closer.

“Well, I think I’ll get up now.” She waited for Max to leave, but he seemed preoccupied, as if he hadn’t really heard her, and he definitely wasn’t leaving. D.J. tried again, prompting gently, “I need to get up, and I’m…not really dressed for company.”

That got his attention. His gaze traveled down the sheet and bedspread as if it just occurred to him she might not be wearing jeans under there.

He turned red—actually grew red—beneath his collar. “Right. I’ve already got the kids’ breakfast on the table, so take your time. When you’re ready, we can have coffee. And a talk.”

Smiling agreeably until he left the room, D.J. stayed in bed a couple of minutes after he closed the door. Criminy! She’d over-slept, so Max had been forced to fix the children’s breakfast, and still he wanted to have “a talk,” surely about her staying on as a nanny. Either the man had an appreciation of equality that would make working women everywhere lust after him…or he was truly, truly desperate. Maybe both.

Her stomach growled loudly as she grabbed her clothes and headed for the shower. Maybe he’d take pity and feed her, too.

Heading toward the dining room, where the kids were squabbling over whose chocolate chip pancakes had the most chips, Max took a minute to draw a deep breath and clear his head.

She’s the nanny, he reminded himself, striving to keep his eye on the big picture. Daisy Holden, as she’d introduced herself yesterday, would be a great fling, no doubt about it. And, frankly, he could use a good fling. With all the responsibility he’d assumed over the past four months, Max figured he deserved a fling. He’d earned a night—what the heck, maybe two—of carefree laughter and lust.

Not with Daisy Holden, though.

Long Thoroughbred legs and wide, sexy smile aside, Daisy Holden was going to make an even better nanny than she would a fling. And Max needed a nanny more than he wanted a lover. He needed someone with staying power in order to impress the social worker who’d been scrutinizing his home, his life, his bank account and just about everything else for the past month. A social worker from the Department of Human Services held his family in the palm of her hand. If he failed to impress her with his ability to create a stable home, he could lose the kids.

Briefly, Max closed his eyes, amazed by how quickly that thought could flood his body with fear. He wasn’t perfect. God knew his parenting skills could use a shot in the arm. He lost his temper too often with the twins. He was a total pushover with Liv. He sometimes forgot that Anabel wasn’t as grown-up as she liked to pretend and failed to anticipate her needs.

But he’d loved them all from the day they were born. The five of them made a pretty motley crew, but they needed each other. And they were fresh out of other family. If the state decided that Max was not able to care for the kids on his own, the only alternative would be foster care.

When he pictured Livie being taken away—when he thought of any of the kids being separated from each other or from him—Max felt an overwhelming need to shove his fist through the wall.

Daisy Holden didn’t know it yet, but she was their last hope. Two days ago they’d been falling apart faster than a house of cards. Last night he’d come home to a stocked refrigerator and a house that looked more like a home than it had in months. Nanny Holden might not be professionally trained, but she had experience; if he could keep her around, the threat hanging over them might very well be solved.

Pushing away from the wall, Max pressed on toward the dining room. He had a goal and he had a plan. The goal: to secure a commitment from Daisy Holden. Max wanted her signature on a year-long contract.

The plan: send the kids outside so he could have a little time and a little privacy to woo the nanny into staying.

Chapter Four

Ohmigod, the man can make pancakes. If he’d thrown a few sausages on the plate, D.J. would have followed him anywhere. Drawing her fork lazily through the remaining puddle of maple syrup on her plate, she watched his bottom while he cleaned the skillet.

Focus, Daisy, focus! she commanded herself. Ogling her employer’s tush when she was supposed to be watching his children was not the rip-roaring start she’d intended today. Gamely, she reached for sticky plates.

“I’ll take these,” she said to the children.

One plate clattered to the table when Sean practically screamed, “I’m not finished yet!”

D.J. jumped back, surprised by his vehemence. Not finished? All he’d done was draw squiggles in the syrup for the past ten minutes. She wasn’t sure how to respond. The only irascible children she’d ever spent time with were herself and a couple of foster siblings who made the cousin in Harry Potter look like Beaver Cleaver.

Fortunately, Max intervened. One good glare from over his shoulder was enough to make Sean lower his chin to his chest. “Apologize to Daisy for using that tone. We don’t scream at each other in this house. At least not much,” he added, winking at Daisy.

While Sean apologized, D.J. nodded and faked a brief coughing fit into her napkin to hide the blush creeping up her neck. Yes, she actually felt her face heating from the single wink Max tossed her. It was upsetting. She wasn’t a virgin, for heaven’s sake, and she wasn’t here to date him. But there was something disturbingly intimate about sitting at his breakfast table.

She’d never lived with a man or come close to marriage. She’d never dated anyone with kids. As a child, she’d bounced from one home to the next and had occasionally woken up wondering if she was having Raisin Bran with the Meltons that day or eggs and toast with the Donleavys. It wasn’t until she’d moved in with the Thompsons that there was any continuity in her life. They had become her eighth and final set of foster parents.

Perhaps because she’d moved so much in her life, sharing a table with a family had always seemed like an intimate experience to D.J., one that subtly highlighted who truly belonged and who was just visiting.

“Bring me your plates,” Max instructed the kids. “Then I want you to put all the toys that are in the backyard onto the patio so I can water the lawn.” A few grumbles greeted his request. He silenced them with a raised hand. “Toys on the patio,” he repeated. “Or no bike ride, no picnic, no swimming pool and no Game Boy. Now move it. Move it!”

D.J. felt a surge of foreboding—and quite possibly the pancakes—rise to her throat. Bike ride, picnic and swimming pool? She might know squat about the care and feeding of children, but sheer gut instinct told her those activities required supervision. More than that, they required an ability to corral children while performing physical feats. How was she going to do all those things and search the house for information on Max? Besides…

She couldn’t swim.

While the children scrambled off their chairs with their breakfast plates and then hustled out the kitchen door, D.J. wondered how she was going to investigate Max when he decided to fire her.

Setting the plates to soak in the sink, he grabbed a towel and turned toward her. “I figured getting rid of the munchkins for a while would give us a chance to talk.” He nodded toward her dish. “How was breakfast?”

“Terrific.” She hopped up, plate in hand. “You’re a good cook.”