Cara Colter - His to Command - the Nanny - A Nanny for Keeps

She didn’t disturb him, but instead tucked up her feet and, easing up the down-soft cushion that had been pillowed beneath her, curled up against the high side of the sofa.

The dog raised his head hopefully, but she put a finger to her lips and whispered, ‘Lie down.’

Maybe he understood, or maybe he was smart enough to realise that, since she was staying put, he had nothing to gain—and a warm place in front of the fire to lose—if he moved and disturbed the sleeping man. But he dropped his chin back onto his paws, rolled his eyes up at Harry and sighed.

Like Maisie, he was another soul yearning for a kind word, a tender touch from the object of adoration.

The thought took her somewhat by surprise. Why would Maisie yearn for attention from Harry? If he really had a problem with her adoption? Had there been something shady about that? He’d implied he knew about such things.

Yet that awkward, slightly aggressive way Maisie talked about him, acted around him, bore all the hallmarks of an unspoken need to be noticed, loved.

‘Penny for them?’

She jumped, dragged out of her thoughts by Harry’s voice.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. How’s the head?’

‘OK. A bit tender where I caught the corner of the desk, but actually—’ she smiled, although the nod that went with it might have been a mistake ‘—not bad. You looked as though you needed the sleep, too.’

He bent, picked up the book and rose to his feet. ‘Just resting my eyes,’ he said, dismissing her concern as he returned it to the shelves.

There had been a moment when, still drowsy, he’d forgotten the mask, but it was back in place now. She wouldn’t be fooled by it though; he could be as grouchy as he liked, she had his number. Quite what she was going to do with it was another matter.

‘I’m ready for that cup of tea now,’ she said, unwinding, carefully, from the sofa. Or she would be once she’d used the bathroom. ‘Can I make one for you?’ Then, as she spotted the tea tray set for two, ‘Oh.’ She reached out and touched the pot. It was stone cold. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

He checked his watch. ‘A couple of hours. You will let me know if you feel nauseous?’

‘You think I went to sleep because I have concussion? Nothing that exciting, I promise you. I was just tired. I’m afraid I didn’t sleep very well last night.’

Cue apology for low-status bedroom, query re mattress, general concern of host over comfort…

Clearly he needed a prompt. ‘Please, don’t apologise. Really. The bed was fine. I was just worrying about Maisie.’ Then, since that didn’t stir him to remorse, ‘Have you checked to see if the phones are back on?’

‘Not lately,’ he admitted. ‘Help yourself.’

He indicated a phone on a small writing desk standing by the window.

Unlike its more workmanlike counterpart in the office, this was free of all clutter and contained only a slender laptop computer and telephone. She lifted the receiver. There was no dial tone, but the dog, sensing the possibility of action, came across and then, when she didn’t move, began snuffling beneath the desk, rattling something against the skirting board.

Glancing behind the desk to see what he’d got, she realised that it was the phone jack. It wasn’t plugged into its socket, but was lying on the floor.

About to tell Harry, she caught sight of Susan and Maisie, in her ridiculous combination of frilly frock and rubber boots, hand-feeding carrots to a couple of donkeys who were leaning over the stone wall that divided the driveway to the house from a field, and, in a sudden flash of understanding, knew what had happened.

Maisie. She had done this. Gone round the house quietly disconnecting the phones. Hidden her cellphone. Just to gain a little time.

Was she really that desperate to stay?

‘Well?’ Harry asked.

She jumped at the nearness of his voice and practically collided with him as she swivelled round to block him from seeing what Maisie had done.

For a moment the room swam and she put out a hand to stop herself from falling.

Harry caught her shoulders to steady her.

‘Jacqui?’

As she looked up at him, his face no longer distant, withdrawn, angry, but showing only concern for her, the sensation of falling didn’t go away.

‘Are you feeling dizzy?’

No…Yes…Not in the way he meant…

‘I’m fine,’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘Unlike the telephone.’

Cross as she was, all her protective instincts came rushing to the surface. Telling him what Maisie had done would only make things worse between them and she rationalised that a few more minutes wasn’t going to change things.

All she had to do was wait until Harry was safely out of the way, plug it back in and leave him assuming that the telephone people had been working on the line somewhere .

‘Is the line still dead?’ he asked.

That small voice that lived in the subconscious urged, ‘Tell him…’

She ignored it.

‘Er—yes,’ she said, fingers mentally crossed as she held up the receiver so that he could listen for himself. ‘Not a peep.’

Although this was technically true, she was well aware from Sunday School that this was something called ‘lying by omission’ and her voice had that slightly ‘peepy’ quality that her mother would have recognised instantly. Of course, that might have had more to do with Harry’s hand on her shoulder, his closeness, than a total inability to fib without her voice going up several octaves .

He took the receiver from her, but maybe he’d learned his lesson from the last time, because he didn’t bother to listen, simply replaced it on the cradle .

‘I’d better take another look at your scalp,’ he said.

He didn’t wait for her permission before he parted her hair with what, for a big bad giant, was exquisite gentleness. But agreeable as this might be, she leaned back—just sufficiently to show him that she could do this without falling over, but not far enough to break contact—and said, ‘Can I get this straight? When you say that you’re a doctor…’

‘Yes?’

‘You do mean that you’re a doctor of medicine?’

Jacqui finally got the smile she’d been waiting for. Genuine humour. The kind of creases around the eyes that looked so good on a man. The kind of creases around the mouth that were so unbelievably sexy…

‘That’s a very good question, Jacqui. It suggests your brain is still in good working order.’

Oh, good grief, that had to mean the answer was no…

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Do you have an equally good answer? Or am I to accept from the fact that you evaded giving me one that you are, in fact, a doctor of philosophy? A scholar of some deeply obscure subject such as Babylonian cuneiform, perhaps? Or the breeding habits of natterjack toads? Or even…’

‘Relax, Jacqui. Your head is safe in my hands.’

It didn’t feel safe. He might know what he was doing, but his careful probing of the damage was sending very unsafe tingles skittering down her spine. But that was what a bang on the head would do for you. Knock things loose. Especially sense; he was the big bad giant who lived at the top of the mountain, she reminded herself…

‘Medicine is the family business. My greatgrandfather was the local doctor.’

‘Really? The village doesn’t look big enough to support its own surgery.’

‘It used to be in the days when farming was done by men rather than machines. It finally closed about ten years ago when my cousin was lured away to a large practice in Bristol that has its own dedicated team of support staff.’

‘Nice for him. Not much fun for the locals. What do they do now?’