“Yeah.” Blake lifted a brow at her. “What is with you today? All this parental instinct talk? If you’re worried about me and Pandora, we’re okay. I’ve already fallen for her like the proverbial ton of bricks.”
“I know. It’s not that. It’s me.” She gave him a wry smile. “You know, it’s always about me.”
Her brother studied her for a moment. “Some might believe that. But you’ve got a heart of gold, Gemma. You’re always willing to give away what you’ve got or raise money for good causes.”
“Maybe I need to get more hands-on.”
“Like?”
She knew it was crazy. Completely. Yet she couldn’t think of a better way to prove Devlin utterly, totally wrong.
“That cop who needs a nanny,” she said, slowly, as her common sense tried to rein in the insane idea. “Who is he?”
“Dante Mancuso,” Blake said, lifting his coffee cup. “Word from Juliette is he’s a good guy. Pulled himself up from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks and made something good of his life.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” he asked, taking a sip.
“Be nanny to those babies.”
Blake made a strange sound, as if the coffee had suddenly gone bad. Or as if he’d choked on that last swallow.
“You...what?”
“I’ll take the job,” Gemma said.
He stared at her. She stared back, her mind set now that she’d voiced it. He started to speak. Stopped. Started again. Stopped again. Then, in a tone she could tell was purposely level, he said reasonably, “If they tracked people who know even less than he does, you’d be on the list.”
“I can learn,” she said stubbornly.
“You’re smart, and you’ve got drive,” he agreed. “Nobody raises money for charity like you do without it. But that’s a lot different than dealing with babies.”
“Nobody’s born knowing,” she pointed out.
“No. But they usually have time to learn before it’s in their lap, so to speak.”
“So I’ll learn fast.”
“Why would you want to do this?”
“Maybe I don’t like not knowing anything about...the whole baby thing.”
Her brother studied her for a long, silent moment before saying softly, “Does this have anything to do with Dev Harrington?”
She stiffened. “Why would you ask that?”
“Look, I don’t know the guy, but—”
“Exactly.”
“I just don’t like to see you hurting.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not hurting. I’m mad.”
“Uh-oh. Mad like when you painted my shoes red, or mad like when you broke that window in Dad’s car?”
“Mad like when Anna Witton called me a useless socialite,” she muttered.
Blake smiled at that. “And look what you turned that into,” he said softly. And she knew he meant that was when she’d begun her philanthropic efforts, determined to prove the former mayor wrong. Well, and to show her father she was good at something. And she had found, to her surprise, that not only was she good at it, she loved it. It gave her a sense of fulfillment that nothing else in her life ever had.
Even Dev.
She brushed away that traitorous thought as she made her way back to her car after Blake had to leave for an appointment. And for a few minutes she sat tapping a finger restlessly on the steering wheel of her racy little red coupe.
You can’t be serious about hiring that useless little socialite.
Mayor Witton’s words echoed in her mind. She’d proven her wrong—more than wrong.
And now, she thought determinedly, she would prove Dev wrong, too. So wrong he’d have to admit she’d be the perfect wife—and eventually mother. She’d just postpone the mother thing as long as she could.
She started the car and left the parking lot with a bark of tires.
* * *
It was noon before Dante had a chance to check and verify that yes, he had pulled his T-shirt on backward this morning. Which explained the irritating rub of the collar against his neck all morning. A morning spent doing everything but work. A dozen phone calls and he was no closer to finding the help he needed. All the nanny agencies he’d tried were more than ready to send people out for interviews. Tomorrow, or the next day. He didn’t think he’d live that long.
The girls had finally gone to sleep, but only after he’d brought Flash in and the big dog had settled down beside them. He’d noticed very late last night, when it seemed the wailing would never stop and he’d expected the neighbors in his condo building would be pounding on the door any second, that they quieted when the bloodhound wearily lumbered over and sat in front of them as if he were staring them down with those mournful eyes. And as long as he stayed, they kept quiet. Dante had spent the rest of the night dozing on the floor beside his partner; what little sleep he’d gotten he owed to the animal. Who had featured in the snippets of wild dreams he remembered, born of some children’s tale where a dog had served as a nanny.
“If only,” he muttered now as he looked at the odd trio.
He caught himself tugging at the neck of his shirt again. He glanced around the office; there was nobody else here at the moment. He quickly tugged the shirt out of his jeans, pulled it up to where he could slip his arms out of the long sleeves, and turned it around the right way. Like everything else since yesterday, it got tangled, and by the time he’d gotten his arms back through and reached to pull the shirt back down, he was no longer alone.
For an instant he thought he’d somehow dozed off. Because the woman standing across the office gaping at him was something out of a particular type of male dream. Tall, willowy and dark eyed, long hair in loose waves with streaks of golden brown that framed her face... And that face. Damn.
He shook his head sharply, half expecting her to vanish. She did not. Instead she just stood there as if as stunned as he. She wasn’t quite as tall as he’d thought, because a good three inches of it was the heel on the shoes that matched the soft, silky gold shirt she wore with tan slacks.
She matched her hair, he thought numbly.
And then he realized he had frozen in the midst of reaching for the hem of his shirt. And she was staring at his bare torso.
His abs contracted involuntarily. Hastily he tugged his shirt down, forgoing tucking it in for the moment. He felt another—lower—involuntary response, but quashed it rapidly. This woman, whoever she was, was way, way out of his league. He could tell that from the designer clothes and expensive jewelry.
She’s probably just stunned—and offended—to walk in and find a guy with his shirt half off. She looks the type.
Which brought him to the question of how she’d gotten in here. Normally civilians didn’t just walk in. They had to get past Lorelei Wong first, and the woman was a very efficient guardian of the gate, as it were. Usually.
“Can I help you?” he asked with businesslike politeness.
“I...” She swallowed, as if she were as rattled as he was. But damned if he was going to apologize for his appearance when she was the one who was