Caroline Cross - Operation Mommy

Her friend Beau would probably laugh himself silly and say this was what happened to misguided journalists who thought they wanted out of the business. Furthermore, he’d probably claim that this was why he’d lent her his cottage on his brother’s Puget Sound estate in the first place—so she could discover for herself how ill-suited she was for “normal” life.

Well, maybe he was right, Shay thought wryly, as a noisy rush of footsteps sounded overhead. A second later Brady, Nick and Mikey began to shout, “Up here! We’re up here!”

She heard a distant cry of acknowledgement, followed by the din of booted feet thundering up the stairs and coming down the hall. She flinched as she pictured the black marks the firemen’s rubber-soled boots would leave on the pale wood floors and thick carpets...a half second before she reminded herself to be grateful for small favors.

At least they weren’t hacking their way through the walls.

Above her, the tromping stopped and a barrage of questions started.

“Did one of you kids call 911?”

“Where’s the injured party?”

“Is your mom or dad home?”

“This better not be a prank!”

“Are you boys here all alone?”

“What’s the problem?”

As Shay could’ve predicted, all three Morrisons tried to answer at once.

“We don’t got a mom,” Mikey volunteered.

“Brady called. He’s the oldest!” Nick declared.

“It’s Shay,” Brady said urgently. “She’s stuck in the laundry chute!”

“Hold on, son. She who?”

“Not she, Shay! ” Brady corrected, sounding exasperated.

Shay sighed. “Hang in there, Brutus. From the sound of things, it’s going to be a while before we’re liberated.”

* * *

“Just make sure they’ve initialed those lease-reversion clauses when the contracts show up, Helen,” Alex Morrison said into the car phone, guiding his sleek silver Mercedes into the divided highway’s passing lane to get around a slow-moving tractor-trailer rig. “It’s taken six weeks to get them included—I don’t want any more delays or screw ups. Have the attorneys go over them, and if everything looks all right, messenger them to me at the house.”

“Yes, sir.” Helen O’Connell, Alex’s longtime secretary, sounded crisp and efficient as usual. “Anything else?”

Alex gave a tired sigh. “I hope not. After the past few weeks, I’m ready for some quiet time at home.”

Helen made a commiserating sound. “I trust everything is all right with the boys, then?”

Alex frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, it’s only that when Brady called—”

“Hold on. Brady called? When?”

“Why, day before yesterday.” The line crackled briefly as the road dipped. “Don’t tell me Whitset didn’t give you my message?”

“Whitset? Whitset’s wife went into labor two days ago. He fainted in the delivery room and knocked himself silly. When he came to, he barely remembered his name, much less to pass on any messages.”

“Oh, dear,” Helen said.

“Right,” Alex said grimly. “Did Brady mention why he was calling?”

There was a pause before Helen said apologetically, “Well, yes and no. He said there was something about Mrs. Kiltz he needed to tell you.”

For an instant Alex’s mind was blank and then he swore under his breath. Mrs. Kiltz was the nanny he’d hired right before he left. “ Great. Did he say what?”

“No, sir. He just asked that you call.”

“You didn’t hear sirens or anyone screaming, did you?”

He was only half joking, and Helen knew it. “Not this time,” she quickly reassured him. “Actually, now that I think about it, he seemed extremely cheerful, so I’m sure it couldn’t have been anything too major. I asked if Mrs. Rosencrantz had left for her vacation on schedule, and he said yes. I asked if things were all right with the temp the agency sent to fill in for her, and he said yes. And when I asked how everything else was, why, he laughed and said it was perfect.”

“Terrific.” Alex’s apprehension shot up a notch. The last time Brady had claimed everything was “perfect” had been right before a Lawrence of Arabia play set, complete with a genuine Bedouin tent and a pair of very cranky camels, had been delivered to the house.

Purchased at great expense through one of the home shopping channels on Alex’s credit card, the play set had been touted as the ultimate educational experience. Heaven knew Alex had certainly learned a lot. He’d learned the true meaning of the phrase “all purchases final.” He’d learned that in Port Sandy County, camels were considered exotic pets and that you were hit with a whopping fine if you didn’t have the proper permit to keep them. He’d learned that when annoyed, the homely creatures spit. But most of all, he’d learned to be on guard when his eldest son started bandying about the word perfect.

“Is that all, sir?”

“Yes. Unless the house has burned down—” he tried to inject a light note into his voice and failed “—I should be in the office sometime next week before I leave for New Mexico. You know the drill—if anything comes up, call.”

“Yes, sir. And don’t worry. I’m sure everything is fine with the boys.”

“Right. See you next week.” Alex disconnected, waited for a dial tone, then punched his home number on the speed dial at the same time he slowed the Mercedes for his exit.

He turned west at the bottom of the ramp and headed into the late-afternoon sun, grateful for the car’s air conditioning. He listened impatiently as the phone began to ring. He was too tired for this right now, he thought. When he had gone to Aristo Cay Resort at the end of May, he’d never expected to be there six weeks. After negotiating its purchase from the Carlyle family for months prior to his arrival, he’d been confident the deal was set and all that was left to do was fine-tune the agreement.

A major miscalculation on his part. But then, there was no way he could have known that Hiram Carlyle’s only daughter, Miranda, had recently divorced. Or that she would take one look at him and get it into her head that a temporary merger should be a condition of the sale.

Alex grimaced. Although he hadn’t lived like a monk in the four years he’d been widowed, he had made it a firm rule not to mix sex with either his business or family life.

Where his family was concerned, his reasoning was simple. His sons had already lost their mother. No matter what it took, he was determined to protect them from such heartbreak in the future. Since he knew he’d never remarry, there was no reason to involve the boys with women he knew would never be more than casual companions.

Professionally, it was simply a sound business practice. He was thirty-five, unmarried, and CEO of Morrison Retreats, which owned and operated five small, exclusive resorts spread across the United States. The business had been his salvation after his wife died, and he wasn’t about to jeopardize it for anything as fleeting as physical pleasure.

Convincing Miranda Carlyle of that, however, had taken a while.

On the other end of the line, the phone continued to ring. Where the heck was everyone? Even if the nanny was tied up with the boys—or the boys had tied her up, which had actually happened a few sitters ago, the housekeeper, temp or not, ought to answer.

Unless something had happened. Unless—

Alex took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Knock it off. Just because no one’s answering the phone doesn’t mean something has happened. More likely the housekeeper was vacuuming and didn’t hear the phone, and Mrs. Kiltz and the boys were taking a nature walk or something.