Alison Roberts - Single Dad Needs Nanny - Sheriff Needs a Nanny

“I was military first. Marine, like my dad. But I decided I liked having more control over my life, so I only did four years. Law enforcement seemed a natural choice from there.”

“Structure and discipline on your own terms?”

He watched her out of the corner of his eyes, obviously bothered at being pegged so accurately in a casual observation. Actually, he’d surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to be so at ease, so funny. This was where he felt at home.

“As a teacher of twenty to thirty five-year-olds, I’d think you‘d be a fan of a controlled environment,” he challenged her.

She laughed. “What I know, as the teacher of thirty kindergarteners, is that control is an illusion.”

“Come on, you give me a schedule for Mickey every day. You have routine down to a science.”

“Oh, I’m all about structure and routine,” she readily agreed—those were a teacher’s biggest tools. But his version and hers were polar opposites. “But in the classroom my day moves from one chaotic moment to the next. When you work with kids you have to be flexible. You never know what’s going to happen, so you have to be prepared for anything. I imagine your days are much the same.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re comparing a kindergarten class with criminals?”

“Of course not,” she assured him. “But keeping the peace, monitoring behavior, dealing with cultural differences. It’s all part of our day.”

“I never really thought of it that way.”

“Most people don’t, but a classroom is a microcosm of the community. Oh!” She spotted a stack of thick books full of photos. “Are these mugshots? Can I look?”

“Yeah, they’re older versions, hard copies. Most mugshots are online now. Technology is great. It helps to narrow down by characteristics—height, weight, coloring, etcetera. But sorry.” Trace walked to the counter holding the books and flipped the covers closed. “The pictures are for case purposes only.” He shrugged. “Every one gets their privacy protected these days. Even known felons.”

“Actually, I can understand that.” Nikki fingered the edge of one of the books. “I check the public Web site for sex offenders on a fairly regular basis. And I can tell some people are only there because of indiscretions gone public.”

“Let me guess.” He stood hands on hips, every inch the hardcore cop. “You think it’s unfair for a dumb college prank like mooning someone in a passing car to classify someone as a sex offender?”

“No,” she disagreed—surprising him, no doubt. She drew in a calming breath and tried very hard not to think beyond the conversation. “It’s a hard line, but if someone is stupid enough to expose themselves in public then it could be a precursor of future deviant acts. When it comes to the safety of kids, I don’t think the line can be too hard.”

Needing the distraction, and a reminder of all things innocent and good in life, she checked on Mickey. He slept peacefully in his stroller, his thick lashes a dark shadow on baby-soft skin. His sweetness helped settle the ghosts of harsh memories.

When she stood up straight, Trace was too close.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently.

“What?”

“You’ve dealt with a victim of sexual abuse?”

She swallowed hard. Obviously she hadn’t been as good at hiding her feelings as she’d hoped. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to stomach in my life. The helplessness was overwhelming.”

“Nikki.” He cupped her cheek, his thumb a soft caress as he swept away a tear. “You have to know you helped.”

“Too little, too late.” For just a moment she rested her head on his shoulder, absorbed his strength and his warmth. “She was so small, so quiet, how could anyone want to hurt her?”

His fingers laced through her hair as he hugged her to him, his touch tender where his body was all hard muscle. And his low voice whispered to her. “There’s no sense to be found in these cases. You help where you can and live with what you can’t change.”

She shook as memories bombarded her. “I’ve never known such hate. I can’t think about it or I lose myself in the rage.”

“No,” he agreed, “you can’t dwell on the bad.” He lifted her chin so she looked into his intense green gaze, so close she could see the scars on his soul, and she knew he knew. “You have to focus on the good you did. You can’t let the hate win or she won’t be the only victim.”

“That’s what the counselor said. And most of the time I can deal with it. Monitoring the public Web site gives me a sense of being proactive. Being responsible for young kids is huge, and I want to be able to protect them when they’re in my care. If I can recognize a predator before he harms a child, it’s worth the effort.”

“I think you’re brilliant. Now, what can we do to put a smile back on your face?” He eased away, but his hand warmed the small of her back, holding her steady. “Do you want to see how my handcuffs work?”

“No,” she mumbled, as she took the tissue he handed her. As she mopped her face and his heat retreated, she realized what an emotional mess she’d become. How mortifying. Trace must want to be anywhere but here right now. But as she peeked at him around the tissue he looked anything but terrorized.

“Nikki,” he said. Her name. Nothing more. But the softness of it, the intimacy of it, broke down the distance his persistent formality upheld between them.

Even as her mind shouted bad idea , Trace stepped close again, lowered his head, and claimed her mouth. On a catch of breath, she opened to him, and he deepened the kiss. A hard arm around her waist swept her closer to him, so they touched from shoulder to thighs, his strength and confidence an intoxicating combination as she melted in his arms.

Ignoring the warnings clamoring through her head, she surrendered to the passion, meeting his tongue with hers in a sliding dance of desire.

It felt so good to be held, to lean—just for a moment—on someone strong and giving.

She drew back at the thought, recognizing despite her passion-drenched senses the fallacy of her conception. She had no right to lean on Trace. This was a moment out of time for her. For him.

She had no doubts he’d be as appalled as she once they regained their equilibrium. Stepping back, she cleared her throat, seeking a less-dangerous distraction.

He’d been wonderful, actually. It had really helped to talk to someone who understood. But time to let him off the hook.

She lowered the tissue and batted her eyes at him. “I don’t think I’m ready for handcuffs, but you can let me shoot your gun.”

His gaze blazed a molten emerald heat. It took him a moment to move from hot and bothered to cool, calm lawman. Blinking, he cleared his eyes and propped his hands on his gun belt. He narrowed his eyes at her. “You want to shoot my gun?”

“Yes, please.”

He shifted his gaze from her to the sleeping baby then back. “Now you’re just pushing my buttons. This isn’t the time or place for target practice.”

“Okay, yeah, a little.” She cleared the thickness from her throat and tossed the tissue into a nearby trashcan. “But maybe we could go to the range sometime.”

“Guns aren’t toys, you know.” He looked so torn—all macho cop, but still wanting to distract her from her emotional meltdown. How sweet was that?

“Actually, I do know. My dad was a navy chief. He taught me to shoot. We used to go to the range together.”

“Really?” Clearly surprised, he swept his emerald gaze over her with a new level of interest that had her breath catching in the back of her throat.

“Well, then, it’s a date.”