This wasn’t a nursery, but the master bedroom.

Jacqui turned, her intention to immediately withdraw. And found herself face-to-face with Harry Talbot, standing in front of a chest of drawers, apparently looking for underwear.

Bad enough that she’d walked into his room without even knocking, but then there was the small fact that he’d just stepped out of the shower and was naked but for a towel slung carelessly about his hips.

As he spun to face her it lost its battle with gravity.

He made no move to retrieve it and, despite opening her mouth with every intention of apologizing for having blundered into his room, she found herself quite unable to speak.

He was beautiful. Lean to the bone, hard, sculptured, his was the kind of body artists loved for their life classes.

Which made the scars lacerating his back, scars which he hadn’t moved quickly enough to hide from her, all the more terrible.

Without thinking, she reached out as if to touch him, take the pain into her own body.

A Nanny for Keeps
Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

JACQUI MOORE peered through the low, swirling cloud, intent on keeping her precious car on the lane snaking between dry-stone walls that were much too close for comfort, and wished, not for the first time that day, that she was better at saying no.

‘It’s just a flying nanny job, Jacqui. A piece of cake for someone as experienced as you.’

‘I’m not a nanny, flying or otherwise. Not any more.’

‘A couple of hours, max,’ Vickie Campbell continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I wouldn’t ask but this is an emergency and Selina Talbot is a very special client.’

‘Selina Talbot?’

‘Now I have your attention,’ Vickie said, with satisfaction. ‘You know she adopted an orphaned refugee child?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen her photograph in Celebrity…’

‘We supply all her staff.’

‘Do you?’ Jacqui jerked herself back from the brink of temptation. ‘So why doesn’t she have one of your wonderful nannies to take care of her little girl?’

‘She does. At least she will have. I’ve got someone lined up, but she’s on holiday—’

‘Holiday! Now, there’s a coincidence. You do recall that you asked me to drop by on my way to the airport…’ she laid heavy emphasis on the word airport ‘…since I was passing the door anyway. You had something for me, you said,’ she prompted.

‘Oh, yes.’ Vickie opened her desk drawer and handed her a padded envelope. ‘The Gilchrists sent it.’

Jacqui took the envelope with its Hong Kong postmark and, heart beating like a drum as she tore it open, tipped out the contents. The supple silver links of the bracelet curled into her palm. A card fluttered to the ground.

With a feeling of dread she picked it up, turned it over and read the message.

‘Jacqui?’

She shook her head, blinking furiously as she bent over her bag, pushing it out of sight. Unable for a moment to speak.

‘What is it? Did the Gilchrists send you a keepsake?’

Unable to tell her exactly what the Gilchrists had done, she said, ‘Something like that.’

Vickie took it from her. ‘Oh, it’s a charm bracelet and they’ve started your collection with a little heart. How sweet.’ Then, ‘It seems to be engraved,’ she said, holding it closer to the light and squinting to read the tiny words. ‘I really must get my eyes tested, but I think it says…“…forget and smile…”.’ She frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s a quotation from Christina Rossetti,’ Jacqui said, numbly. “‘Better by far you should forget and smile, Than that you should remember and be sad.’”

‘Oh. Yes… Well. I see.’ Then, gently, ‘Maybe that’s good advice.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I know how much it hurt to lose her, Jacqui. She’ll never forget you. Everything you did for her.’

Jacqui knew exactly what she’d done. That was why she could never take the risk again.

‘Do you want me to fasten it for you?’

And because it would have looked odd if she’d stuffed it away out of sight with the card that had come with it, she allowed Vickie to fasten the chain about her wrist. Then, because she had to get out of there, she cleared her throat and said, ‘Right, well, if that’s all, I’d better be getting on my way.’

‘Don’t rush off. Your plane doesn’t leave for hours.’ Vickie smiled. One of those full-blooded, come on, I understand that you were upset, but it’s time to move on, smiles. ‘And, since you’re flying by a no-frills airline from some airport in the back of beyond, you undoubtedly need the money. You haven’t worked for months.’

‘I haven’t worked for you for months,’ she corrected. ‘Which was quite intentional. But I have been working as a temp in a jolly nice office. Regular hours, no weekends and the money isn’t bad, either.’

Vickie rolled her eyes in a give-me-strength look, not fooled for a minute.

OK, ‘jolly’ probably overstated it.

‘They’ve asked me to stay on,’ she said. ‘Permanently.’

‘It’s not even as if you’ll have to put yourself out,’ Vickie continued, treating this statement with the contempt it probably deserved and completely ignoring it.

Jacqui had done a very good job for her temporary employers, doing all the dull, repetitive jobs that no one else wanted and doing them well. She’d hated every minute of it, but it was her penance and for six months she’d punished herself. But it hadn’t helped. She was going to have to try something different and maybe her family were right, a couple of weeks on her own, with no pressures, would give her time to decide what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

‘You practically pass the house,’ Vickie persisted, crashing into her thoughts and forcing her to concentrate on the immediate problem. But then she hadn’t attracted all those crème-de-la-crème clients by allowing herself to be put off at the first obstacle.

‘Is that so? The motorway runs right through Little Hinton, does it?’

‘Not exactly through it,’ she admitted, ‘but it’s a very minor diversion. The village is no more than five miles from the nearest exit.’

‘Five? Would that be as the crow flies?’

‘Six at the most. I can show you on the map.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’

‘OK, OK, I’ll be totally honest with you—’

‘That would make a nice change.’

‘I’m counting on you.’ Oh, help… ‘Selina Talbot will be arriving at any moment and it could be hours before I can find someone else to do this for me.’

‘If you go in for Machiavellian subterfuge, Vickie, you should always have a back-up plan.’

‘Please. It’s only a little job and you wouldn’t want to leave a small child here, in my office, bored to tears, would you?’

She pressed her hand over the chain on her wrist until it dug in painfully. ‘I could live with it,’ she said. ‘Whether you could is another matter.’

‘Please, Jacqui. I’ve got meetings, interviews—’

‘And an office full of your own staff—’

‘Who are all fully occupied on vital work. Just drop Maisie off at her grandmother’s house and then you can head for the sun and spend the next two weeks without a thought for the rest of us slaving away in the cold and rain.’

‘You think you can make me feel guilty?’ she enquired, with every appearance of carelessness.

The holiday hadn’t been her idea. It was her family who kept insisting that she needed a break. Not that she needed telling. She had to face herself in the mirror every morning. Vickie, she suspected, thought she knew better and had manufactured this ‘crisis’ purely for her benefit. It was about as blatant a piece of in-at-the-deep-end amateur psychology as she’d ever witnessed and it would serve her right if she walked out and left her lumbered with a spoilt brat causing chaos in her well-run office.

‘I’ll pay you double—’

‘That is desperate.’

‘—and when you come back,’ Vickie continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘we can have a little chat about your future.’

‘I don’t have a future,’ she declared forcefully, cutting her off before this whole thing got completely out of hand.

She’d only agreed to come into the office on her way to the airport because it gave her the perfect chance to tell Vickie face-to-face that she must remove her from her books once and for all. Finally. Irrevocably. Put a stop to the tempting little job offers that she kept leaving on her answering machine.

At least in Spain she’d be safe from these sneaky little raids on her determination.

‘Not as a nanny,’ she said as she headed for the door. ‘I’ll send you a postcard—’

Vickie leapt to her feet but before she could fling herself between Jacqui and freedom, Selina Talbot swept in; tall, golden and clearly worth every cent of the millions of dollars she earned as a supermodel. The fortune she was paid as the face of a famous cosmetic company.

Maisie, her six-year-old adopted daughter—familiar from endless full-colour ‘happy family’ spreads in lifestyle magazines and the object of Vickie’s unsubtle strategic planning—was at her side.

The little girl was not wearing the wash-and-wear clothes any sensible nanny would have dressed her in for travelling. Instead she was togged out in the full fairy-princess kit: a white, full-skirted voile dress with a mauve satin sash, opaque white tights and satin Mary Janes, the perfect foil for her beautiful chocolate-dark skin. A sparkly tiara perched on top of her jet curls completed the picture. Only the wings were missing.

One of her hands was in fingertip contact with her mother. From the other dangled a small white linen tote bag on which the words ‘Maisie’s Stuff’ had been appliquéd in the same mauve satin as her sash.

The designer’s logo embroidered in the same colour suggested that the outfit was a one-off creation for his favourite model’s little girl.

Most small girls of her acquaintance—and she’d known enough to be certain of this—would have been crumpled and grubby within five minutes of being dressed in such an outfit.

Not Maisie Talbot. She looked like an exquisite doll. One of those collector’s editions that was kept in a glass case so it wouldn’t get spoiled by sticky fingers.

Most children faced with the prospect of being left in the care of complete strangers—and once again Jacqui had plenty of experience as a flying nanny to back up her theory—would have been clinging tearfully to their mother at this point.

Maisie remained still, silent and composed as Selina Talbot air-kissed her daughter from about three feet above her head and—having acknowledged Vickie’s introduction to ‘Jacqui Moore, the very experienced nanny I told you about’ by the simple expedient of handing over the matching white holdall that contained her daughter’s belongings—departed with an unnerving lack of maternal fuss.

A tug of something very like compassion for this doll-child slipped beneath Jacqui’s defences; a dangerous urge to pick her up and give her a cuddle. The impulse was stillborn as Maisie’s dark eyes met hers and, with all the poised hauteur of her mother on a Paris catwalk, warned her not to think of doing any such thing.

Then, having firmly established a cordon sanitaire about her person, Maisie said, ‘I’d like to go now, Jacqui.’ And headed for the door, where she waited for someone to open it for her.

Vickie Campbell mouthed the words ‘please’ as Maisie tapped her foot impatiently and Jacqui was sorely tempted to walk away, leaving Vickie to deal with the fallout. It wasn’t Vickie’s mute appeal that made the difference. She just couldn’t bring herself to reject a child who, despite her cool, in-charge exterior, seemed very much alone.

And she was practically passing the door.

‘You owe me, Vickie,’ she said, surrendering, helpless in the face of this two-pronged attack.

‘Big time,’ Vickie replied, with a grin that had better be of relief. ‘Come and see me when you get back and I’ll have the kind of job waiting for you that will make you drool.’

Aaah… She’d nearly fallen into the carefully set trap. Once money had exchanged hands…

‘On second thoughts, have this one on me,’ she replied. Then, giving her full attention to her unexpected charge, she said, ‘OK, Maisie, let’s go before my car gets clamped.’

‘Is this it?’ the child demanded, unimpressed, as they reached the street and she was confronted by a much cherished, but admittedly past its best, VW Beetle.

‘This is my car,’ Jacqui agreed, opening the door.

‘I never travel in anything but a Mercedes.’

At which point she began to understand Vickie’s anxiety not to be left alone with Miss Maisie Talbot for any length of time.

‘This is a Mercedes,’ she said, briskly.

‘It doesn’t look like one.’

‘No? Well, it’s a dress-down-at-work day.’

Maisie’s little forehead wrinkled as she considered this outrageous statement. Then she asked, ‘What’s a dress-down-at-work day?’

It was too late to wish she’d kept her mouth shut. Something to bear in mind, though, next time she thought of being smart with a six-year-old.

‘It’s a day when you’re allowed to go into work wearing jeans instead of a suit,’ she explained.

‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

‘For fun?’ she offered. Then, because Maisie’s idea of fun was dressing up, not down, ‘OK, well, sometimes, to raise money for charity, grown-ups pay for the pleasure of wearing whatever they want to work. Wouldn’t you like to wear your princess outfit to school instead of your uniform and raise some money for a good cause at the same time?’

‘I don’t go to school.’

‘You don’t?’

‘I have a home tutor.’ Then, ‘Is that why you’re not wearing a proper uniform? Because you’re dressing down for charity?’

Jacqui, who had never worn a uniform, proper or otherwise, pretended she hadn’t heard as she busied herself brushing down the back seat, retrieving a couple of toffee papers from the floor before she tossed in the white linen holdall next to her own bag and said, ‘OK, Maisie, hop in and I’ll buckle you up.’

Maisie stepped aboard, like a princess boarding a Rolls-Royce, and spread her skirts carefully across the seat. Only when she was satisfied with the result did she permit Jacqui to fasten her seat belt.

‘So,’ she said, in an effort to move the conversation along a little, make a connection. ‘Are you planning to be a model when you grow up? Like Mummy?’

‘Oh, please,’ Maisie said, giving her a look that would have withered nettles. ‘I’ve already done that and it’s sooo boring.’

‘I’d heard that,’ Jacqui said, getting behind the wheel and starting the car.

‘When I grow up, I’m going to be a doctor just like…’

‘Like?’ she prompted, checking the road and pulling out. But Maisie didn’t answer, she had already got out her personal CD player from the bag containing her ‘Stuff’ and clamped the headphones to her ears, plainly indicating that she had no further interest in conversation.

It was fine, Jacqui told herself. She’d got used to journeys without endless kindergarten chatter. Eventually. You could get tired of making up new verses for ‘The Wheels on the Bus’.

‘We’re nearly there, Maisie,’ she said, as she took the exit from the roundabout marked Little Hinton.

‘No, we’re not,’ Maisie replied, without bothering to look up. It certainly made a change from the more usual, ‘Are we there yet…? Are we there yet…? Are we there yet…?’

But then there was nothing ‘usual’ about Maisie.

Unfortunately the child knew what she was talking about.

The village itself was nearer ten miles than six from the motorway, but it was easy enough to find and it certainly lived up to its name. There was a village shop with a post office, a pub, a garage and a small school, where a group of children were playing a skipping game in the playground, and a scattering of houses huddled around an untidy patch of grass masquerading as a village green. It took all of five minutes to check them all out, but it didn’t come as a complete surprise to discover that High Tops was not among them.

The clue, of course, was in the name.

The village nestled in a small valley. Behind it rose a range of hills that were mostly obscured by low cloud. It didn’t take a genius to work out where a house called High Tops was likely to be.

‘So much for the “minor” in diversion,’ she muttered, pulling up outside the village shop. ‘You can forget the postcard, Vickie Campbell,’ she muttered to herself.

‘I told you we weren’t nearly there,’ Maisie said.

‘So you did.’

‘It’s miles and miles and miles. Up there,’ she added, pointing in the direction of the mist-covered hills.

‘Thank you for that, Maisie. Please don’t move while I ask for directions.’

‘I know the way. I told you, it’s up there.’

‘Lovely. I won’t be long.’

The child shrugged and clamped the headphones back in place.

‘High Tops? You’re going up to High Tops?’ The doubtful look she received from the woman behind the shop counter was not reassuring.

‘If you could just point me in the right direction?’ she prompted.

‘Are you expected?’

The city girl in Jacqui resisted the urge to enquire what possible business it could be of hers; this was, after all, deep in the country, where, according to folklore, everyone considered it their right to know everyone else’s business. Besides, she really needed directions.

‘Yes, I’m expected,’ she said.

‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then. Could you take their post for me?’

The woman didn’t wait for her to reply, just handed her a carrier bag full of mail.

‘Right, well,’ she said, ‘if you can give me directions. I’m running a bit late.’

‘All the same, you city folk. Just don’t go racing up that lane. You never know what’s on the road up there. I saw a llama once.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, which was just as well, since Jacqui couldn’t hope to top a stray llama, but led the way out of the shop to point her in the right direction. ‘It’s simple enough. Carry along here, take the first turning left past the school and keep going until you get to the top. It’s the only house up there. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you so much. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Just be careful how you go. The cloud’s low today and that lane is so full of ruts and potholes it really isn’t fit for anything but a Land Rover.’ She gave the VW a doubtful look and then did a swift double take as she caught sight of Maisie sitting in the back. ‘Is that…?’ Then, obviously deciding that it was, ‘Proper little doll, isn’t she? Her mother was just the same at that age.’ Then, ‘Well, obviously not the same…’ Perhaps realising that she was treading a dangerous line, she said, ‘She always looked like a little princess, too. I swear if she’d fallen in a midden she’d have come out smelling of roses.’

Jacqui thought that extremely unlikely, but didn’t say so. Instead she smiled and said, ‘Well, thanks for the directions. And the warning. I’ll watch out for the potholes. And the llama.’

She was definitely watching. Easing carefully over another deep rut as the wipers swatted away the moisture clinging to the windscreen, she gritted her teeth and continued to inch her way up the lane in low gear.

‘Nearly there,’ she said reassuringly, although more to herself than Maisie, who was ignoring the jolting with as much composure as a duchess. A lot more composure than she felt, as the bottom of the car ground on the edge of a deep, water-filled pothole that stretched most of the way across the lane. A broken exhaust was the last thing she needed.

The torture continued for another half a mile, ratcheting up the tension and tightening her shoulders. Finally, when she was beginning to think that she must have missed the house in the mist or that she’d taken the wrong lane altogether, an old, lichen-encrusted gate that looked as if it hadn’t been opened in years loomed out of nowhere, blocking the way. On it were two signs. One might have once said ‘High Tops’ but was so old that only the odd letter was still clear enough to read. The other was new. It read ‘Keep Out’.

She climbed out, and doing her best to avoid the mud and puddles, lifted the heavy metal closure and put her weight behind it, anticipating resistance…and very nearly fell flat on her face as it swung back on well-oiled hinges.

Maisie didn’t say a word as Jacqui scraped the mud off her shoes and climbed back behind the wheel, apparently still totally enraptured by the CD she was listening to. But she was wearing a thoroughly self-satisfied little smile that betrayed exactly what she was thinking:

Little Princess, 1—Dumb Adult, 0.

Jacqui put the car into gear and a hundred yards or so further on the shadowy outline of a massive, ivy-clad stone house, towers at each corner, the crenellated roof suggesting a fortified stronghold rather than the home of someone’s grandma, appeared out of the swirling mist.

Despite the fact that she’d never been anywhere near High Tops before, it looked vaguely familiar and Jacqui felt an odd sense of foreboding. It was, doubtless, caused by the combination of mist and mud.

She might not be totally in the mood for sun, sand and sangria, but given the choice she knew which option she’d choose. She almost felt sorry for Maisie.

Totally ridiculous of course, she told herself. At any moment the vast door would be flung open and the child enfolded in a loving welcome from her grandma, who must surely be looking out for them.

The door remained closed, however, and rather than expose Maisie’s satin shoes to the elements unnecessarily she said, ‘You’d better wait here while I ring the doorbell.’

Maisie looked as if she was about to say something, but instead she just sighed.

Jacqui was enfolded in the cold, damp air as she ran up the steps to a pair of iron-studded front doors that offered no concessions to the twenty-first century. There was nothing as remotely modern as an electric bell. Just an old-fashioned bell pull.

As she lifted her arm the silver bracelet slid down and the heart caught the light and flashed brightly. For a moment she froze, then she tugged hard on the bell pull and a long way off she heard the jangle of an old-fashioned bell.

From somewhere a dog raised its voice in a mournful howl.

Jacqui looked around nervously, half expecting a near relation of the Hound of the Baskervilles to come bounding out of the mist. Ridiculous. This was not Dartmoor… But nevertheless she shivered and, grasping the bell pull rather more firmly, she tugged it again.

Twice.

Almost before she let go there was a thud as a stiff bolt shot back. Then, as one half of the door opened, she realised why the house seemed familiar. She’d seen it—or at least something very like it—in a book of fairy stories she’d been given as a child; the one with all those terrifying tales about witches and trolls and giants.

This was the house where the big bad giant lived.

He still did.

Half an inch short of six feet—without her socks—Jacqui was tall for a woman but the man who opened the door loomed threateningly above her. OK, she was a step lower than him, but it wasn’t just his height; he was broad, too, his shoulders filling the opening, and even his hair, a thick, dark, shaggy lion mane that clearly hadn’t been near a pair of scissors in months, was, well, big. Gold eyes—which might have been attractive in any other setting—and three days’ growth of beard only added to the leonine effect.

‘Yes?’ he demanded, discouragingly.

It was a little late to wish she’d stuck to her original plan; the one where, exhaust safely in one piece, she’d be heading down the motorway with nothing more challenging ahead of her than lying on a Spanish beach for two weeks.

Instead she did her best not to think about the giant in her book who’d scared her witless as he ground little kids bones to make his bread and, with what she hoped was a bright smile and a professional manner, she offered her hand in a friendly gesture.

‘Hello. I’m Jacqui Moore.’ Then, since he clearly required more information before he committed himself to a handshake, ‘From the Campbell Agency?’

‘Are you selling something? If you are I’m afraid you’ve risked your exhaust for nothing—’

‘More than risked it,’ she responded, a shade more testily than was professional as she let her hand drop, unshaken, to her side. There had been a throaty sound from the car’s rear in those last couple of hundred yards to the house, suggesting that it hadn’t quite cleared that last pothole. ‘Shouldn’t you do something about that lane?’

‘I rather think that’s my business, not yours. Be more careful on the way down.’ And he stepped back and began to close the door.

For a moment she was too shocked to do or say anything. Then, as the gap narrowed, she did what any resourceful nanny would do in the same situation. She stuck out her foot. It was just as well she was wearing ankle boots beneath her jeans. If her footwear had been less substantial, it would have been crushed.

The giant looked at her foot and then at her. ‘There’s something else?’ he enquired. ‘You didn’t just come to complain about the state of the lane?’

‘No, I’m not a masochist, neither am I selling anything. I’m a flying nanny.’

‘Really?’ He opened the door a little wider, releasing her foot. She didn’t move it, even when his predator’s eyes took their time over a toe-to-head inspection that under any other circumstances would have invited a slap. Even if she’d been feeling that reckless, one look at the hard line of his upper lip was all it took to warn her that taking such liberties would not be wise. Finally, he shook his head. ‘No. I’m not convinced. Mary Poppins wouldn’t have left home without her umbrella.’

OK, that was it. She was here as a favour to Vickie, as a kindness to a child. She had other places to be and she’d just about had it with the giant.

‘Could you please tell Mrs Talbot that I’m here?’ she replied, in her best I’m-so-not-impressed manner. ‘She is expecting me.’

‘I rather doubt that,’ he said. Nothing much happened to the upper lip, but a shift in his expression deepened the lines about his mouth, drawing attention to its lower, shockingly sensuous companion.

‘Yes…’ Momentarily mesmerised, she had to force herself to focus on the job. ‘I’ve, um, brought Maisie…’ She turned away, not so much to indicate the child as to give herself some breathing space.

The giant in her story book had never had that effect on her.

Maisie’s response to this attention was to slump down further in the seat until all that could be seen of her was the sparkly little tiara.

‘So I see,’ the giant responded unenthusiastically after the briefest of glances and instantly losing the almost smile. ‘Why?’

‘To stay. Why else?’

‘With Mrs Talbot?’

Now he sounded perplexed. Which might have been good, since it meant she had company, except, from the way he was looking at her—as if she were crazy—she was almost certain that it wasn’t good at all.

‘With Mrs Kate Talbot. Her grandmother,’ she elaborated with exaggerated patience. Maybe it was because he was so tall, but it seemed to be taking an inordinately long time for a very simple message to reach his brain. ‘I was engaged by the Campbell Agency, on behalf of Ms Selina Talbot, to bring her daughter to High Tops. I’m actually on rather a tight schedule so I’d be grateful if I could hand her over and get on my way.’

‘I’m sure you would, but that won’t be possible. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey, Jacqui Moore.’ He didn’t sound one bit sorry. ‘My aunt—’

‘Your aunt?’

‘My aunt, Mrs Talbot, Maisie’s grandmother,’ he responded, in blatant mockery of her own earlier explanation, ‘is at present visiting her sister in New Zealand.’

‘What? No…’

Jacqui took a deep breath. Obviously there was some simple misunderstanding here.

‘Obviously there is some simple misunderstanding here,’ she said, in an effort to convince herself. Vickie might be devious but she wasn’t stupid and she took her business very seriously indeed. ‘Ms Talbot brought her daughter into the office this morning. I was there when she arrived.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘I was simply pointing out that she wouldn’t have done that if her mother was away. She must have spoken to her. Checked that it was convenient.’

‘You might have done that. I would certainly have done that…’

The giant’s mouth once more offered something that might have been a smile, except that this time no hint of amusement reached his eyes. The effect was rather more a lip-curl of contempt than a good-humoured chuckle. She dragged her gaze from his mouth…

‘…but even as a child, Sally—Selina—had a tendency to assume her wish was her mother’s command. She never did learn to ask nicely like everyone else. Perhaps when you look the way she does you don’t have to.’

‘But—’

‘Nevertheless, on this occasion she’s going to have to put her social life on the back burner and for once play at being mother for real.’

‘But—’

But she was speaking to a closed door.

Harry Talbot closed the door and collapsed briefly against it, the sweat trickling down the back of his neck nothing to do with his recent battle with a recalcitrant boiler.

Damn Sally. Damn Jacqui Moore. Damn everyone…

He straightened, took slow, deep, calming breaths and turned to face the door, anticipating further irate jangling on the bell, but whatever game his family thought they were playing, he wasn’t joining in.

Taking care of Sally’s menagerie of rescue animals was a small price to pay for solitude. They didn’t talk. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t stare at him, wondering if he’d lost his mind.

Maisie was something else.

That woman was something else.

The bell, unexpectedly, remained silent, but he didn’t fall into the trap of believing, hoping, that they had gone. She hadn’t started her car and once she’d phoned her office for instructions he knew that Miss Jacqui Moore—who, in clinging jeans and a skimpy top that clung to curves that Mary Poppins could only dream of, looked nothing like the nannies that had graced his childhood nursery—would be back demanding refuge for her charge and a little civility for herself.

She’d have to make do with one out of two. And that only as a temporary measure.

Meanwhile he wasn’t going to hang around waiting on her convenience. He had a boiler to fix.

Behind her the car door squeaked open and Jacqui turned just in time to see Maisie carefully avoiding a puddle as she eased herself to the ground.

‘Maisie, stay in the car—’ She needed to think. No, she needed to call Vickie. She’d have to get someone out here to take over from her…

‘I have to go to the bathroom,’ the child said. ‘Right now.’

With some children that would mean RIGHT NOW! With others it was more in the nature of an early warning. Although she suspected that Maisie was a child who thought that everything she wanted should be handed to her RIGHT NOW, she was counting on the fact that she wouldn’t wait until the last moment to announce her need for the bathroom. She wouldn’t take the slightest risk of spoiling her pristine appearance.

Or maybe that was simply what she hoped, putting off the evil moment when she’d have to confront the giant again.

She regarded the bell pull with misgivings. Given the choice between giving it another tug and instructing Maisie to cross her legs, she’d have chosen the latter course. Unfortunately this wasn’t about her. She was going to have to be brave. Soon…

‘Just hold on for a second or two, Maisie,’ she instructed, aware that any sign of weakness would be taken advantage of, then, pushing a strand of damp hair off her cheek and shivering a little as the cold mist seeped into her clothes, she dug her mobile out of her bag and punched in the office number. Before she bearded the giant again, she wanted to speak to Vickie and find out what the heck was going on.

‘And I want a drink,’ Maisie added, taking no notice of the instruction to stay put.

‘Please,’ she corrected automatically.

Maisie sighed. ‘Please.’

‘There’s some juice in my bag on the front seat—’

‘A hot drink.’

Little Princess, 2—Dumb Adult yet to score.

But the child had a point. She was beginning to feel the need of a cup of something warming herself. And now the idea had been put into her head, she’d welcome a comfort break, too.

‘Look, just give me a minute, will you? I need to make a phone call and then we’ll sort something out.’

Maisie shrugged and she turned her attention back to the phone.

‘Come on, come on…’ she muttered impatiently, getting clammier and colder by the minute. ‘You really should wait in the car, Maisie; it’s colder up here and your dress will go all limp in this weather,’ she said, appealing to the child’s priorities.

When there was no reply she looked around and was just in time to catch a flash of white frock disappearing around the side of the house.

CHAPTER TWO

‘OH, HECK !’

Jacqui had no choice but to abandon the call and take off after Maisie, vaguely registering a huge paved courtyard with a stable block on the far side as she rounded the back of the house.

She finally caught up with Maisie just as she stepped through the back door, which, despite the weather, was standing wide open.

‘What are you doing?’

‘No one ever uses the front door,’ Maisie said, matter-of-factly.

‘They don’t?’

‘Of course not. I’d have told you if you’d asked me.’

And, completely untouched by the mud that seemed to be clinging liberally to her own shoes, her dress as fresh as it had been when they left the office, Maisie walked into the house as if she owned it.

Jacqui, given no choice in the matter, followed her through an extensive mud room littered with boots, umbrellas and an impressive array of waxed jackets that looked as if they’d been handed down for generations—they probably had—and into a huge farmhouse kitchen warmed by an old-fashioned solid-fuel stove.

There was a large dog basket beside it, companionably shared by a buff-coloured chicken, feathers fluffed up to keep in the heat, and two, or possibly three, silver-tabby cats. They were so entwined—and so alike—that it was impossible to tell. A large, shaggy and depressed-looking hound was lying beside it, drying his muddy paws.

But for the chicken, she might have been tempted to lie down and join him. Instead she turned to Maisie and said, ‘You know, sometimes it’s better not to wait until you’re asked. Just in case the person who should do the asking doesn’t catch on to the fact that there’s a question.’

Jacqui stopped herself. Clearly this was not the kind of conversation that your average nanny had with six-year-olds in their care.

But then she was no longer a nanny.

And Maisie, who was not exactly your average six-year-old, responded with a casual shrug. ‘You didn’t listen when I told you I knew the way,’ she pointed out. ‘I didn’t think you’d listen about the door.’

Why, Jacqui silently appealed to whatever deity was responsible for the welfare of lapsed nannies, was there never a midden handy when you needed one?

‘Come on.’ And, not hanging around to debate the matter, Maisie opened another door, leaving Jacqui with no choice but to abandon the warmth of the kitchen and follow the child into a draughty inner hallway from which an equally draughty staircase—the kind constructed for servants to use in the days when people who lived in houses like this had servants—rose to the next floor. ‘It’s this way.’

‘What is?’ she snapped as the cold emphasised the dampness of her clothes. Then, closing her eyes and reminding herself that Maisie was only six, that she was the adult and needed to get a grip, said, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.’

‘S’OK.’

No, it wasn’t. It was just the latest in a long series of mistakes she’d made that day, the biggest of which had been to respond to Vickie’s call. Fooling herself into believing that it would give her a chance to convince the woman that she meant it when she said she was finished as a nanny. She’d broken all the rules and she’d been punished for it, but not as hard as she was punishing herself. And then Vickie had said that she had a package for her and she’d discovered she wasn’t quite as detached, or as strong as she thought.

She took a deep, calming breath, opened her eyes and discovered she’d just made mistake number ump-teen, because while she wasn’t paying attention Maisie had disappeared.

‘Oh, terrific!’

Clearly six months working in an office had dulled her instinct for trouble. Computers didn’t get into mischief, or disappear, the minute you took your eyes off them. She’d lost the precious edge that kept her in control…

Looking around, she had half a dozen doors to choose from and, picking the nearest, she opened it to find a large pantry lined with shelves and stacked with enough of the basic essentials to feed a large family for months. But no Maisie.

As she moved to the next door the phone in her hand began to squawk loudly. She glanced at it and realised that in her mad dash after the runaway princess, she hadn’t stopped to disconnect her call to the office.

She put the phone to her ear and without preamble said, ‘Vickie, you’ve got a problem…’

‘Jacqui? Is that you?’

‘Yes, Vickie, it’s me, Jacqui,’ she confirmed, opening door two on a butler’s pantry. ‘Jacqui,’ she repeated, ‘who you’ve sent on a fool’s errand.’

Door three, slightly ajar, revealed a small and very hard-used sitting room. Two elderly cream Labradors were in possession of the sofa and from the quantity of pale hair clinging to the fabric, considered it their personal property.

‘Relax, boys,’ she said, in response to anxious wags from two tails. Then, returning to her theme, ‘Jacqui,’ she continued, since Vickie had clearly cottoned on to the fact that she was seriously irritated and had decided to let her get it all off her chest in one go without interruption, ‘who will be invoicing you for a new exhaust.’

‘A new exhaust!’

She’d been sure that one would get a reaction.

‘Jacqui, who’s stuck in the middle of nowhere with a precocious six-year-old who not only dresses like a princess, but also thinks she is one…’

At which point she stopped of her own volition as she belatedly realised what was going on.

What a simpleton!

Vickie had said that the new nanny she’d picked for Ms Selina Talbot was on holiday prior to taking up her appointment. Clearly Jacqui was the nanny she’d picked; she just hadn’t told her yet, hoping that she could snare her with her wiles…

What a fool! She’d even remarked on the coincidence and still hadn’t twigged. ‘Take her to her grandmother’s house…’ That was all she’d been asked to do. Not ‘take her to her grandmother’. There never had been a grandmother, not in this hemisphere anyway.

And when—shock, horror—it turned out that there was no sweet and cuddly old lady standing by to offer hearth and home, only a deeply grouchy male who wouldn’t let them past the front door, Vickie was counting on Jacqui’s nurturing back-up system to kick in and take over. Knew she’d abandon her holiday to look after the child until her mother returned. After all, what else could she possibly do?

‘Jacqui? Are you still there.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m still here, but not for much longer. I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake, but you’ve finally been rumbled, Vickie Campbell, and I’m telling you, it won’t work.’

‘What are you talking about?’

She sounded so innocent! As if she really hadn’t a clue…

‘Your devious little plan to get me back on your books, earning you money, darling, that’s what! I won’t do it any more, Vickie. I told you. I can’t—’

‘Jacqui, you seem distraught. Have you had an accident? Is Maisie all right?’

‘Maisie? Excuse me? You’re worried about Maisie?’

Actually, good point. Where was Maisie? She opened another door. This time it was a small, untidy office. A small, untidy, unoccupied office. She wasn’t sure which of a number of feelings claimed priority: gratitude that she had so far avoided the resident ogre, irritation with Maisie for doing a disappearing act or just plain annoyance at herself for being so gullible.

‘I’m worried about both of you,’ Vickie said, reclaiming her attention and settling the matter. This was all her fault.

‘Me too, but mostly I’m worried about missing my flight,’ she said. ‘It was a cheap last-minute deal and I won’t get a refund from the airline. I’m giving you due warning that I’ll be looking to you to make good my losses.’ Then, syrup-sweet, ‘I do hope Ms Selina Talbot will understand why a simple two-hour job has cost her so much.’ Finally, giving up the search and resorting to lung power, she called, ‘Maisie! Where are you?’

‘Jacqui? Have you lost her?’ Vickie was beginning to sound genuinely worried, which was marginally cheering.

‘Only temporarily. I’ll have her safe and sound by the time you arrive to pick her up.’

‘Me? I can’t pick her up, I’ve got a meeting with the bank…’ Then, when Jacqui didn’t fill the silence with reassurance, ‘Where are you, exactly?’

‘Exactly? I’m in the inner hallway at High Tops, Maisie is somewhere at High Tops, too, but exactly where I don’t know. The one person who isn’t at High Tops is Maisie’s grandmother.’

‘I don’t understand. Where is she?’

‘In New Zealand.’

‘What’s she doing in New Zealand, for heaven’s sake?’

‘At a guess I’d say she’s having a holiday…’

‘OK, OK, I’m sorry—’

‘Don’t be sorry. Be here. It’ll take you an hour and a half and if you leave now there’s a chance I’ll make my flight and if that happens I might even forgive you. Eventually.’

‘Jacqui, be reasonable. I can’t leave right now—’

‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to. The clock’s ticking. You’ve just wasted a minute—’

‘Give me ten minutes! I’ll try and get hold of Selina, find out what’s going on.’

‘Nice try, but I’ve got you sussed and I’m telling you now, there is nothing you could say, nothing you could offer that would induce me to accept a post as Maisie Talbot’s nanny.’

‘But—’

‘The ogre was a nice touch, by the way. Where did you find him? No, don’t tell me. He was left over from the local Christmas production of Jack and the Beanstalk. Typecasting. With that scowl he wouldn’t even need make-up.’

‘OK, just give the phone to a nurse so that she can tell me which hospital you’re in—’

‘Jacqui! Where are you? I’ve got my tights all twisted up…’

Maisie’s yell for help from the floor above jerked her back to reality. ‘High Tops, Little Hinton, Vickie. Not quite the minor diversion I was led to believe, but they’ll give you directions—and submit you to the third degree—in the village shop. Just watch out for your back axle on the way up,’ she advised. ‘The potholes are deep and once you leave civilisation the natives aren’t exactly—’ as she turned for the stairs she realised that she was no longer alone. The ogre, no doubt alerted to her presence by Maisie’s yell for help, was blocking her way ‘—welcoming.’

Jacqui prided herself on being a thoroughly modern, sensible young woman who never succumbed to nervous palpitations or fits of the vapours, whatever the provocation, but her heart noticeably lurched at his unexpected appearance—apparently out of thin air.

He just was so physical. So heart-poundingly male. So clearly irritated to find himself under invasion.

And from somewhere—she very much feared it was her own mouth—came a small, but expressive, squeak. The kind of squeak that a mouse might make on coming face-to-face with not so much a well-fed domestic moggy, as a very wild and very hungry tiger…

‘You’re still here,’ he said, rescuing her from this bizarre train of thought. It was a statement, not a question. He clearly wasn’t pleased to see her, but it was also plain that he wasn’t altogether surprised.

‘Maisie needed the bathroom,’ she said. ‘Obviously I wouldn’t have just walked in, but I’m afraid she rather took matters into her own hands…’ or should that have been feet? ‘…and used the back door.’

‘Leaving you with little choice but to follow. I’m familiar with the way she operates. She learned it from an expert.’

‘It is her grandmother’s house,’ Jacqui pointed out, hating the fact that she was apologising when he was the one who was behaving boorishly. Maisie had every bit as much right to be there as he did. And what was he doing there, anyway?

‘Unfortunately,’ he replied, ‘as you can see, her grandmother isn’t here to take care of her.’

‘There’s clearly been some misunderstanding.’

‘That’s something you’ll have to take up with Sally. I’m fully occupied looking after her four-legged waifs and strays while her mother’s away.’

Which answered that question.

‘Yes, well, I’m doing my best,’ she said, showing him the phone in her hand, giving it a little wave to indicate that her intentions were good even while she was wondering where he’d appeared from so suddenly.

Obviously she’d known he was in the house somewhere and common sense suggested that he would hear Maisie’s cry for help. Not that there was a great deal of sense—common or otherwise—in evidence. But how on earth had he got behind her?

‘I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ve got something of a crisis going on down in the cellar.’ And he turned away from her to push open a door that was concealed in the panelling. Beyond it a flight of worn stone steps led down beneath the house.

With her imagination working overtime and her heart doing a fair imitation of a pile driver, she didn’t ask what sort of crisis. She really didn’t want to know. She just wished he’d go back to it. Whatever it was.

‘Jacqui! Where are you?’

The giant glanced up the stairs. ‘You’d better not keep her highness waiting,’ he advised, clearly recognising an imperative command when he heard it.

‘No.’ She backed in the direction of the stairs. ‘You’re right,’ she said, aware that she sounded like someone attempting to soothe a beast with an uncertain temper; one who, given half a chance, would almost certainly bite. Absolutely ridiculous, of course. While he clearly wished he’d never set eyes on her, there was nothing overtly threatening in his manner. It was just the fact that he was unnervingly…big. And here.

Although, come to think of it, she should be grateful for that. If the house had simply been locked up, she’d have had no option but to turn straight round and drive back to London. And wave goodbye to any chance of her two weeks in the sun. Not that a rise in temperature was likely to ease her heartache, but she needed to get away from family and friends tiptoeing around her. Treating her as if someone had died.

And they could probably do with the break, too.

‘I’d, um, better go and help Maisie,’ she said, taking another step back. It was one too many and she stumbled against the bottom of the stairs, lost her balance and dropped her phone as she grabbed for the banister in an attempt to save herself.

Her hand closed on air but, just as she accepted that nothing could save her, the giant reached out and caught her, holding her suspended in what, despite all her misgivings, appeared to be a very safe pair of hands.

Safe…and very large.

It was utterly foolish to imagine that they were actually spanning her waist; her waist was not of the cinched-in hand-span variety, but a rather more practical model that came equipped with a pair of sensible hips useful for propping small children on. But for one giddy moment she felt as if they did and finally understood why sane, level-headed women had allowed themselves to be laced into agonisingly small corsets in pursuit of the appearance of fragility.

Gazing up into a pair of gold tiger’s eyes, she felt very fragile indeed. Utter nonsense, of course, and she knew that she really should make an effort to stand up before she did untold damage to the poor man’s back.

She didn’t have to. He was more than capable of doing it for her and before she knew it she was upright, her face pressed against the soft wool of his shirt, immersed in the heady scents of clean laundry, fresh male sweat, hot oil…

A lot of men—and she’d worked, very briefly, for some of them—would, at this point, have taken advantage of the situation, pulling her up close to cop a cheap feel. The giant, however, wasted no time in putting clear space between them.

His very capable hands did remain firmly about her waist, but there was nothing about his manner to suggest it was anything but a precautionary measure while she regained her balance and caught her breath. Not very flattering, actually, considering it was taking a lot longer than it should have done. She put it down to the fact that it was an unusual experience to be looking up at anyone, even a man and she had to admit, as giants went, on closer inspection he was well worth looking at.

It wasn’t just his extraordinary eyes, or the breadth of his shoulders, although they were built on an impressive scale. Or even his height. Now she was standing on the same level as him, his size didn’t seem quite so overwhelming. It was true that even in high heels she’d still have to look up, but not that far, and for the first time since she’d outgrown all the girls in her class at school—and all the teachers—she felt as if she was in the right place. Which was madness, as he’d be the first to remind her. She should move…

Before she could put the thought into deed, he said, ‘OK now?’

‘Fine,’ she managed, although without much conviction and he didn’t immediately release her.

‘Sure?’

She found herself considering a feeble whimper…

‘Really,’ she insisted, pulling herself together and standing up straight.

‘You could do with something for your nerves, Jacqui Moore,’ he said, finally letting her go.

‘It’s been a trying day,’ she replied. It wasn’t getting any better and she shivered as the damp, clinging to her clothes and hair, made itself felt.

‘Any day that involves my cousin tends to be that way.’ Then, ‘You’re cold.’

‘A bit. It’s the damp. The mist is very penetrating. It can’t be healthy, living in a cloud.’

‘There are worse places, believe me, and the hill fog does have certain advantages. Unwanted visitors, for instance, rarely outstay their welcome.’

‘That I can believe and you can trust me when I say that I’ve no wish to trespass on your hospitality a moment longer than necessary,’ she replied stiffly. Whatever had she been thinking of…? ‘I’ve got a plane to catch.’

‘Then you’d better stop dithering around, falling over your own feet, and get yourself sorted out, hadn’t you?’

Charming. Just charming. But then the giant in her fairy story hadn’t been a bundle of laughs, either, she reminded herself. Definitely not the kind of bedtime reading she’d have inflicted on any child in her care.

‘I’d better sort out Maisie before I start making phone calls,’ she said, getting back to reality and making a move to retrieve her cellphone. No matter how inconvenient he found the situation, his little niece was her first priority.

He beat her to it, picking it up and handing it to her so that she got a good look at those hands. And nearly dropped it again as his long fingers brushed against hers.

‘You’d better dry yourself off, too, while you’re at it. You’ll find plenty of towels in the bathroom.’

She tried to speak, intent on demonstrating that if his manners were lacking in polish she at least knew how to behave, but was forced to clear her throat before she could manage a simple, ‘Thank you, Mr…’ Which might have worked if she’d known his name. ‘Mr…Um…?’ she prompted.

‘Talbot,’ he replied.

She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t. As if she cared. She wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in his given name but common civility required she call him something other than ‘um’, since she was clearly going to be there for longer than either of them wanted. If he preferred to keep it formal, she wasn’t going to object.

‘It runs in the family,’ he added.

‘Right,’ she said, firmly resisting the temptation to point out that just because Selina was his cousin, it didn’t follow that he would have the same name. She was sure he knew that and was simply taking the opportunity to renew hostilities.

Clearly he’d only saved her from falling to avoid giving her any further excuse to delay their departure. Tough. Now she was in the house she was going nowhere until she’d sorted out Maisie’s immediate future.

‘Well, Mr Talbot, I can only apologise for imposing on your hospitality in this way, but, since it’s going to take a while to sort out this mess and disturbing you seems inevitable, I wonder if I could possibly impose on you for a cup of tea?’ She waited for him to assure her that it would be no trouble. When this didn’t happen, she added, ‘While I go and sort out Maisie.’ Then, ‘Or maybe you’d rather I left you to sort her out on your own while I go and catch my plane.’

‘You can’t leave her here with me.’

Well, no. Obviously she couldn’t do that. But was he simply uttering the panic-stricken response of a child-phobic male? Or did he know what he was talking about?

She had to admit that he didn’t sound panic-stricken. On the contrary, he sounded like a man who knew his own mind and spoke it without fear or favour. Whether he knew or cared about child-protection regulations, they weren’t an issue for him; he was simply telling her the way it was.

‘You are the only close family member immediately available,’ she pointed out. It made no difference, of course; she couldn’t leave Maisie in his care without Selina Talbot’s explicit authority. Unlike a completely irresponsible mother, the agency couldn’t just dump the child and run.

This was a ‘hold until relieved’ situation but, with luck—and she was surely due a little luck—he might not realise that and there was a heartening pause while he appeared to weigh up the alternatives.

Then, with something that might have been a shrug, he said, ‘Indian or China?’

She just about managed to keep the ‘gotcha’ smile from her face as she said, ‘Indian, please. This is definitely a moment for bracing and cheerful, rather than fragrant and refined, don’t you think?’

She didn’t hang around to find out if he agreed. Instead, having first taken the precaution of turning round so that she could look where she was going, she headed up the stairs in search of her charge.

Maisie, hands on hips, tights in a wrinkled heap around her ankles, scowled at her from the bathroom doorway. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting hours!’

‘Actually it was minutes, but if you’d waited for me instead of disappearing—’

‘I told you I had to go!’

‘I know you did,’ she said, more gently. ‘But don’t disappear on me again, OK?’ Then, when there was no response, ‘Maisie?’

‘OK,’ she muttered.

‘I mean it.’

‘OK! I heard you, all right?’

‘All right.’

And hopefully, having established that simple ground rule, she tugged Maisie’s tights into place, then, while the child was washing her hands, took advantage of Talbot’s grudging invitation to help herself to his towels, dabbing at the bits of herself that had been exposed to the elements. With luck her clothes would dry out in the warmth of the kitchen and she wouldn’t catch pneumonia but, the way her day was going, she wasn’t counting on it.

‘OK, Maisie, let’s go and see if we can sort this mess out.’

‘What mess?’

‘Well, your grandmother isn’t here…’

‘I know.’

‘You do?’

‘I heard,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can stay here until my mother comes home. I’ve got a room of my own, you know, in one of the towers. It was decorated especially for me. The walls are mauve and the curtains are lace and it looks out over the paddock where the pony and the donkeys live.’ Then, ‘The pony’s mine.’

‘Really? I had a little pony when I was your age.’

‘Did you?’

‘Mmm. My Little Pony was the one called Applejack. She was the orange one, with apples painted on her bottom.’

Maisie regarded her with pity. ‘My pony is real. His name is Fudge. Would you like to meet him?’

‘I don’t think there’s going to be time, Maisie. The thing is you need more than a room—’

‘I’ve got more—’

‘More than a room and a pony. You need someone to take care of you.’

‘There’s Harry…’ Harry? His name was Harry? ‘…and Susan—’

‘Susan?’ The giant had a wife? Well…great. If Harry Talbot was married, or even if this woman was his partner, things might just work out. Always assuming Vickie could reach Selina Talbot before she left the country. ‘Who’s Susan?’

‘She comes in every morning to clean up and stuff.’

‘Oh. Great!’ No! Not great. And, ditching the smile—she had absolutely nothing to smile about—said, ‘Look, Maisie, obviously there’s been some kind of mix-up over the arrangements, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. Mrs Campbell, at the agency, is going to talk to your mother and sort something out.’

Maisie sighed. ‘She won’t be able to do that. My mother will be on a plane by now and you have to turn off your mobile phone when you’re in a plane.’

‘So you do.’

Bedknobs and broomsticks…

‘It’s a total pain, my mother says, but they mess with the electricity and if that gets messed up you can’t watch the movie.’

‘I can see the problem.’ Actually, Jacqui was fairly sure that if the ‘electricity’ got messed up you wouldn’t be watching anything ever again, but in view of her own imminent flight decided not to dwell on it. She had enough on her plate without worrying about some idiot deciding to phone home just for the fun of saying ‘I’m on the plane…’. ‘Do you know where your mother is going?’

‘Of course. She’s doing a fashion shoot on the Great Wall of China. That’s right on the other side of the world, you know.’

‘I had heard.’

‘It takes forever to get there, she said.’

Not exactly forever, but it was certain that Ms Talbot wouldn’t be taking personal calls before tomorrow.

Maisie looked up at her, eyes huge and very solemn, and said reassuringly, ‘It’s OK. You can stay and look after me.’

No! No…

‘Why don’t we wait and see what Mrs Campbell says?’ she suggested, brushing off the ridiculous notion that this child was in on the conspiracy.

That was bordering on paranoia.

Besides, it was not that much more than two hours since her mother had dropped her off at the agency. While normal mortals would need all of that time to get to the airport and check in, she was pretty sure that for people like Selina Talbot time was infinitely more flexible and it was possible that her plane hadn’t yet taken off.

‘Don’t you want to look after me?’ Maisie demanded, reclaiming her attention.

‘It isn’t a question of what I want,’ she said. In another time, another life—

Maisie regarded her steadily, her dark eyes wide and innocent, and said, ‘Is it because I’m not my mother’s own little girl? Because I’m a different colour from her?’

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