The Barones. There was a passel of them, and their names and faces frequently graced the Boston Globe society and business pages. She wondered what it would be like to have that many brothers and sisters, and felt a pinch of longing. With both her parents gone, it was just Gail and her brother now, and although Adam was generous with his advice, he was busy with his own career. Gail had plenty of friends, but since college she’d missed feeling as if she really belonged.
The sound of a woman’s cultured voice and a child’s loud wail broke her reverie. Gail peeked out the doorway and spotted a statuesque, red-haired, older woman in what was obviously a designer dress. Not one smoothly coiffed hair was out of place, Gail noticed in awe as she absently smoothed her hand over her own mass of curls.
The woman held a howling, dark-haired little girl in her arms. She glanced up with a pained expression and met Gail’s gaze. “Our Molly is still adjusting.”
Curious, Gail craned her neck to get a better look at her potential charge. “A lot of us feel a little cranky when we first wake up. Amazing what a diaper change, juice and a cookie can do.”
The woman smiled and walked closer. “A diaper change for adults?”
“Well, you must admit some adults act like their underwear is a little too tight, and they don’t have the excuse of a wet diaper.”
The woman gave a throaty chuckle. “So true. I’m Moira Barone and this is Molly. Sorry I can’t offer my hand.”
“I’m Gail Fenton. Pleased to meet you and Molly.” Gail gasped at the beauty of the screaming child. “My goodness, she’s gorgeous. Even with her face red as a tomato.”
Moira chuckled again, then shook her head. “I think she’s just getting herself more worked up.”
Gail blew into the baby’s face. Molly paused in her screaming and opened her eyes, her long black eyelashes damp with tears. She stared hard at Gail, and her lower lip protruded as if she was gearing up for another cry.
“Peekaboo,” Gail said, and moved out of sight.
Silence, followed by a hiccup.
Gail popped back. “Peekaboo,” she said with a smile and moved away.
Silence again. Molly turned her head to search for her.
Gail moved back into view again. “Peekaboo.”
A slow smile curved Molly’s mouth.
Moira shook her head in amazement. “I have eight grown children, and I had completely forgotten peekaboo.”
“Too many garden-club meetings with society matrons,” a man said as he strolled into the room with Mrs. Peabody by his side.
Gail glanced at the man and her jaw dropped. Well over six feet tall, jet-black hair, chiseled facial features and the lean, muscular kind of body that no doubt had women littering his path. He probably had to beat females off with a stick. The glint of ruthlessness in his eyes affected her stomach. Other women would try to tame him, but she possessed neither the attractiveness, sex appeal or polish necessary to match wits with or seduce a man like Nicholas Barone. Besides, she knew he’d never look twice at her. Darn shame, but that was the truth. Oh well, she supposed she could admire him from afar.
She instinctively turned to Moira. The older woman was safer. “The power of peekaboo is greatly underestimated, but I’m sure you would have remembered it soon enough.”
“Perhaps necessity might have jogged my memory,” Moira said, looking down at her grandchild. “Or desperation.”
“And what would a computer specialist know about peekaboo?” the man asked, his eyes cynical.
Gail paused less than a beat. She suspected there was a reason for the cynicism, but she disliked the attitude. Something told her he wasn’t a man who worried about being liked. She met his gaze head-on, confident in her ability to care for the man’s child, and just as confident about her lack of feminine appeal. “I could write a dissertation on the subject of peekaboo. The wonderful thing about peekaboo is that it requires no special equipment and can be employed at any time, just about any place. But there are some requirements for the game.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “And they are?”
“A sense of humor and a willingness to—” She broke off, her stomach a riot of butterflies at the intent way he stared at her. Gail felt heat rush through her bloodstream.
“Willingness to what?” he prompted.
She cleared her throat and prayed in vain that her cheeks weren’t turning fire-engine red with embarrassment. “A willingness for the adult involved to completely ditch his or her dignity,” she said, pretty sure she’d just lost hers.
His lips twitched slightly. “Is that so?” He glanced at her résumé. “Why isn’t ‘peekaboo specialist’ on here?”
Gail laughed in a combination of relief and amusement. “I knew I’d forgotten something.”
“Nicholas Barone,” he said, extending his hand and meeting her gaze.
She accepted his handshake. “Gail Fenton, but I imagine you already know that.”
“You imagine correctly. You’ve met Molly,” he said, glancing down at his daughter. “Bellisima,” he said to the child, then dropped a kiss on her forehead.
Molly stared up at him and her lower lip protruded in a pre-wail position.
Gail couldn’t blame the child. If Nicholas seemed larger than life to her, she could hardly imagine what a baby might think of him.
“Please join me in the living room,” he said to Gail. “I have a few questions.”
“Of course,” Gail said. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Barone, Mrs. Peabody and Molly,” she said as the tyke began to fuss. Gail followed Nicholas into the living room.
“She hasn’t smiled for me yet,” he muttered, motioning Gail to sit across from him on the couch. He took the large wing chair.
“She’s in awe,” Gail said.
He shot her a look of doubt. “Awe?”
“Well, yes. To normal people, you’re quite tall, but to her, you’re huge.”
“Normal people,” he said, rubbing his chin.
“Average,” Gail corrected, thinking he was one of those men who couldn’t miss a day of shaving. “Something tells me you’re not familiar with the idea of being average,” she said, and bit her lip. “Sorry. That was way too personal for an interview.”
He nodded. “Yes, it was, but you’re right. Barones aren’t allowed to be average.”
She saw a world of experience in his blue eyes and knew without his saying that he had always pushed himself, that much had been required of him and that he had done whatever it took.
He glanced at the application again. “I still don’t understand why you would choose to be a nanny when you could work at any number of top companies.”
She bit back a groan. “I like to play peekaboo,” she said. “Computers don’t.”
He remained silent as if waiting for the real explanation.
“When I work with computers, I don’t feel as if I’m making an important contribution. But when I take care of a child, I feel as if I’m shaping the future. I love the feeling of connectedness I get from caring for a child.”
“Mrs. Peabody tells me both your parents are deceased,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, surprising