The Nanny's Secret. Grace Green

his shoulders.

      “Hey, Fliss,” he said. “You ready?”

      “Come in,” she said. “Meet my employer. I just have to pop upstairs and get my bag.” She turned to Jordan. “This is Hugh Andrews, Jordan, an old friend. Hugh, this is Jordan Maxwell. I’ll be right back…”

      Jordan nodded curtly.

      “Don’t let me interrupt you,” Hugh said, waving a hand towards the shepherd’s pie. “Don’t let your dinner get cold. Sit down, man.”

      “It’ll wait.” Jordan shoved his hands into his pockets. “So…” he searched for something to say “…you’ve known Ms. Fairfax for some years?”

      “I knew her brother first, actually. He was the one who introduced us.”

      “Denny.” The name grated on Jordan’s ears. It seemed as if he was fated to meet people connected to—

      “No, not Denny. He was older. It was the other brother, the younger one. Felicity’s twin.”

      “She has a twin?” Good Lord, another Fairfax.

      “Had.” Hugh’s face sobered. “Todd. He was a fisherman—died two years ago when his boat capsized in a storm.”

      As Jordan took this in, he heard steps approaching.

      “Don’t say anything about it,” Hugh murmured quickly. “It devastated Fliss. She never talks about it.”

      When Felicity came into the kitchen, Jordan found himself looking at her in a new light. Looking at her properly, for the first time.

      “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” she said. “Could you give me a house key?”

      All he’d seen previously, because he’d never wanted to let his eyes linger on her longer than absolutely necessary, was that she had a long blond braid, a generous mouth and wide-set gray eyes. Now, as he met those rather lovely gray eyes, he saw a hint of sadness there, which was in direct contradiction to her pleasant, questioning smile.

      “Jordan?” She waved a hand before him. “Do you have a spare key?”

      “Sure.” He crossed to the desk under the wall phone and opening a drawer, fumbled around till he found the key he was looking for. He walked over to her. “There you are.”

      She held out a hand, and he saw a fretwork of faint lines on the palm. He also saw delicate blue veins at her wrist. How fragile she was. That surprised him, because although she was slim and slightly built, he had not thought of her as “fragile.” She gave off such an aura of determination and self-confidence and energy.

      He dropped the key onto her palm and she closed slender fingers around it. Her nails were neatly manicured, and buffed to a shine. Pretty hands. Feminine.

      She smelled of wildflowers and citrus, romantic and energetic, a tantalizing and intriguing blend.

      “When you’ve finished your shepherd’s pie,” she said, “you’ll find some bread pudding in the oven.”

      With that, she followed Hugh outside, leaving him feeling confused and off balance, and unable to pin down the unsettling new emotions she’d stirred up inside him.

      Felicity didn’t get back to Deerhaven till almost two in the morning, but though sleepy and bone-tired, when Hugh dropped her off she had that satisfied feeling of a job well done.

      “Thanks, Hugh, I owe you,” she told him through his open window of his van. “I do appreciate all your help!”

      “No problem.” He looked up at the house. “Lights are all out.”

      Felicity yawned. “I’ll have to be quiet.”

      “Have you got the bread and buns?”

      “Right here.”

      “Don’t forget to set your alarm!”

      “It’s going to be a short night!”

      She watched him leave, and then went around to the back door.

      Once inside, she put on the kitchen light, and after putting the bakeries away, noticed a note on the island. Expecting that Jordan might have written a few words to thank her for making dinner, she flicked it up and with a feeling of anticipation, she read what he’d written:

      Don’t forget to let that *&%$* cat out. He’s been yowling like a banshee all night.

      Ungrateful wretch! she muttered.

      And screwing the paper into a hard little ball, she flung it, in a fit of pique, across the room.

      Jordan cautiously opened the kitchen door just before seven next morning, half expecting to see the cat throwing up again. But there was no sign of him.

      The only thing on the kitchen floor was a wad of paper.

      He picked it up, unrolled it.

      And saw the note he’d written the night before.

      Remorse stabbed him. She must have been exhausted when she got back—he’d heard the car arrive, around two o’clock. She’d have come into the kitchen, feet dragging, glad to be home…only to be greeted by his bad-tempered complaint.