“Welcome home,” Max said from the corner. “You’re fired.”

Slapping her hand over her mouth, D.J. gasped. “I didn’t realize I had a curfew! If I’d known I could have told you to… stick it in your ear.”

“Nice talk. They teach you that in nanny school?”

“What are you so upset about?” D.J. demanded to know. “Did your girlfriend leave early?”

An expression of such clear disdain crossed Daisy’s face that Max’s attitude took a sudden swing…for the better.

Hell, he loved it when she did that—tossed her head like a a sassy colt and gave him her best “I couldn’t care less” look. Because that’s when he knew she did care.

Dear Reader,

Well, it’s September, which always sounds like a fresh start to me, no matter how old I get. And evidently we have six women this month who agree. In Home Again by Joan Elliott Pickart, a woman who can’t have children has decided to work with them in a professional capacity—but when she is assigned an orphaned little boy, she fears she’s in over her head. Then she meets his gorgeous guardian—and she’s sure of it!

In the next installment of MOST LIKELY TO…, The Measure of a Man by Marie Ferrarella, a single mother attempting to help her beloved former professor joins forces with a former campus golden boy, now the college…custodian. What could have happened? Allison Leigh’s The Tycoon’s Marriage Bid pits a pregnant secretary against her ex-boss who, unbeknownst to him, has a real connection to her baby’s father. In The Other Side of Paradise by Laurie Paige, next up in her SEVEN DEVILS miniseries, a mysterious woman seeking refuge as a ranch hand learns that she may have more ties to the community than she could have ever suspected. When a beautiful nurse is assigned to care for a devastatingly handsome, if cantankerous, cowboy, the results are…well, you get the picture—but you can have it spelled out for you in Stella Bagwell’s next MEN OF THE WEST book, Taming a Dark Horse. And in Undercover Nanny by Wendy Warren, a domestically challenged female detective decides it’s necessary to penetrate the lair of single father and heir to a grocery fortune by pretending to be…his nanny. Hmm.

It could work….

So enjoy, and snuggle up. Fall weather is just around the corner….

Happy reading!

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

Undercover Nanny
Wendy Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for the Ladies of Love—Ginger Kentzell, Darla Lukenbaugh and Susan Lute—fellow writers, sisters, soul mates. How did we get so lucky? I love you, Ladies!

WENDY WARREN

lives with her husband, Tim, a dog, a cat and their recent—and most exciting!—addition, baby daughter Elisabeth, near the Pacific Northwest’s beautiful Willamette River. Their house was previously owned by a woman named Cinderella, who bequeathed them a gardenful of flowers they try desperately (and occasionally successfully) not to kill, and a pink General Electric oven, circa 1958, that makes the kitchen look like an I Love Lucy rerun.

A two-time recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award for Best Traditional Romance, Wendy loves to read and write the kind of books that remind her of the old movies she grew up watching with her mom—stories about decent people looking for the love that can make an ordinary life heroic. Wendy was an Affaire de Coeur finalist for Best Up and Coming Romance Author of 1997. When not writing, she likes to take long walks with her dog, settle in for cozy chats with good friends and sneak tofu into her husband’s dinner. She always enjoys hearing from readers, and may be reached at P.O. Box 1208, Ashland, OR 97520.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

Wham!

Daisy June Holden slammed her fist into a stomach so dense it nearly broke her knuckles. Her victim jerked, but that was all. D.J. danced back, whirled and shot a roundhouse kick to his head.

Take that.

He never flinched.

Feet shuffling expertly, she ducked out of the way of a retaliatory punch and narrowed angry eyes at her assailant. You’re goin’ down.

His smirk pissed the hell out of her. She dove at him, throwing two unforgiving shots to his rib cage, an uppercut to the jaw and the final blow—a cruel, cruel strike to his groin.

Panting from exertion, D.J. hopped back, assessed her opponent’s condition and allowed herself a brief victorious smile. You lose, pal. Crime never pays.

Wiping the sweat from her brow with a bare forearm, she used her teeth to tug the boxing glove off her right hand and flexed her fingers.

“Sheesh, D.J., have a heart, would ya?” Angelo Fantozzi, owner-manager of Angelo’s Gym Downtown, looked mournfully at the man-shaped punching bag he provided for his clients. Helping D.J. off with her remaining glove, he tucked them both under his arm and massaged her sore fingers. “You keep whaling like that on my equipment, I’m going to have to get all new stock. What’s the matter? You get up on the wrong side of the bed or something?”

Immediately, D.J.’s stomach began to churn. Angelo was the best, a king-size teddy bear, but she had never discussed her problems with him. She’d come to the gym this morning so she could work out some of the tension that was turning her into an antacid junkie. When it came to conversation, however, she disliked turning herself inside out so other people could see her troubles.

No…that wasn’t true. She didn’t “dislike” it; she hated it. Chronicling her woes out loud made her feel weak, tragic.

Fixing her problems—that’s what D.J. liked.

She glanced back at Angelo. He was waiting for a response, and he didn’t look like he was going to take “No problem” for an answer, so she shrugged. “PMS.”

Immediately the giant man turned beet red. “Oh, yeah, okay, well, whatever.” He patted the air with a beefy hand and walked away.

D.J. smiled. Pity that her troubles couldn’t be averted as easily as Angie.

Taking a deep breath, she blew it out slowly then rolled her shoulders. Angelo’s punching bag wasn’t the only thing going down. Thompson Investigations, the detective agency D.J. worked for—had worked for in one capacity or another since she was sixteen years old—was about to sink faster than stones in a river…unless D.J. found a way to keep it afloat.

Her stomach gurgled unpleasantly, making her regret the Danish she’d eaten before her workout. Wiping her face with the thin towel she’d slung around her neck, D.J. had made it halfway to the women’s showers when the pager at her hip buzzed. Looking down, she read the numbers on the digital display, and her heart started pumping as if she’d begun her workout all over again. This was the call she’d been hoping for.

Rushing to her locker, she fumbled with the combination, dragged out her duffel bag and rummaged through its jumbled contents. Seizing her cell phone, she checked the pager again then punched in Loretta Mallory’s home phone number—the private line.

D.J. had met with the elderly woman yesterday to discuss Loretta’s needs, private-investigatorwise. The case she had in mind was a bit more involved than the missing persons or cheating spouse cases D.J. usually handled, but that was good; the fee would be greater than usual, too. Unfortunately for D.J.’s burgeoning ulcer, Loretta was also careful and conservative and had opted to sleep on her decision to use D.J.’s services.

A sudden case of cottonmouth made D.J. realize how worried she’d been that Mrs. Mallory wouldn’t call, even to say she’d hired somebody else. Loretta Mallory was a wealthy woman, who could afford to pay top dollar, and D.J….

“I am a professional who can deliver the goods,” she said under her breath, hoping the mantra would buck up her resolve in the event her prospective client required more convincing. Thompson Investigations needed this job like a calf needed milk.

The phone rang twice before a cultured but obviously elderly voice stated, “Loretta Mallory.”

D.J. took a calming breath. Confidence begat power, and power was far more persuasive than desperation. Remembering that, she spoke as smoothly and evenly as any person with an urgent need could expect of herself. “Mrs. Mallory, this is Private Investigator Holden. I just received your page.”

Bette Davis put it best: “What a dump.”

D.J. stood just inside the door of Tavern on the Tracks, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim bar lighting. When they did, she almost choked.

The large square room was decorated in sixties-style restaurant chic—burgundy leather, tufted chairs that had been patched a few times too many, round wooden tables, threadbare navy-blue carpeting and red flocked wallpaper that looked as if it was molting.

At 4:00 p.m. only a few customers perched on the tall stools tucked up against a bar that ran almost the full length of the far wall. It looked like “happy hour” could use a Prozac here at the tavern. Fortunately that suited D.J. just fine this evening. She was looking for someone, and when she found him, she wanted his full attention.

In a ridiculously tiny but fashionably correct purse, she’d tucked a snapshot of the man she’d come to see—Loretta Mallory’s grandson.

Maxwell Lotorto was the heir to the Mallory supermarket dynasty—Loretta’s daughter’s only child. Loretta had not seen her wayward grandson since he was a teenager, but she had a photo that was taken at his high school graduation—fifteen years ago. With no idea how to find Maxwell, Loretta had started interviewing P.I.s.

Standing straight and tall, D.J. squared her broad shoulders in a red dress that fit like a layer of glue. Fixing her gaze on the bar, she ignored the row of male backs on the customer side in favor of the man tending to drinks. Her brown eyes narrowed. Her heart rate accelerated. It always did when she was this close to victory.

The photo in her purse showed a young man with black hair. Dressed in a cap and gown for his high school graduation, he was tall with strong shoulders, but at seventeen he still had the lean, gangly look of a teenager.

The person behind the bar was all grown-up. And undeniably, heart-thumpingly masculine.

Maxwell Lotorto’s looks were a striking combination of light and dark—dark hair, light skin, light eyes. He was a tall drink of water, too. Even at five foot seven and in three-inch heels, D.J. didn’t come close to his height. For a moment she wondered if she had the right Max Lotorto. Then he looked up.

The dim room disappeared. Eyes the color of an overcast sky zeroed in on her like radar, and pure male heat radiated from their depths. He neither smiled nor acknowledged her in any other way, but the steadiness of his gaze made several of the other men at the bar turn to see what he was looking at.

D.J. struggled to maintain her concentration. She was here to do a job. Finding Max Lotorto was merely the beginning. Loretta Mallory would not pay a small fortune for a mere missing-persons gig; what she truly wanted was to have her grandson investigated. Evaluated. She wanted details, as many as she could get so she could decide whether to herd her AWOL lamb back to the fold. D.J. had opinions—mostly negative—about ordering an investigation before deciding whether to hook up with your own flesh and blood. But then again she didn’t have millions to protect, and Loretta was looking for an heir, not only someone with whom to share Thanksgivings.

More importantly, Loretta paid top dollar for services rendered, so D.J. intended to keep her opinions to herself and give the woman everything she asked for. Thompson Investigations had two weeks to cough up five months of back rent or they’d be doing business from the pay phone at Hot Dog Hut. If this job was successful, on the other hand, they’d be debt free—and then some—for awhile.

To investigate Maxwell to Ms. Mallory’s satisfaction, D.J. knew she had to be very creative. Loretta wanted info that only a person close to her grandson could possibly know. Before she’d even gotten in her car to drive down here, D.J. had decided that by the end of the evening Mr. Lotorto was going to do one of two things: hire her to work for him or ask her out on a date.

Lifting her chin, she met his gaze squarely as she slipped onto a barstool. Then she breathed in deeply. Let the games begin….

Max watched the cat-eyed brunette seat herself at his bar with the same effortless grace she’d demonstrated on her walk across the room. Four of his five customers had turned to gawk at her the moment she’d strolled in. She hadn’t noticed. All her attention had been on him. Flattering.

Glancing away from her wasn’t easy, but he made himself do it. When their eyes had met and held, he’d felt a surge of pure male want, the kind that could make a man’s desire circumvent his sanity.

Max decided to let the beauty wait a bit, checking first on his other customers, making sure they were all topped up. Harvey Newhouse looked at him like he was crazy. Raising his right hand to hide the gesture he made with his left, Harv pointed to the newcomer as if he thought Max might have missed her in the early-evening “rush.”

“You want another beer, Harv?” Max wiped the bar in front of the older man. Scowling, Harv jerked his head to the right, another subtle cue.

Max ignored the directive, turning instead to Steve Shaynor, owner of the local feed and tackle. “How about you, Steve? You ready for another Dewar’s?”

Steve scowled at the younger man. “You got a customer,” he growled, and then, in a stage whisper the back row of an amphitheater could have heard, he hissed for extra clarification, “The girl.”

“I believe they mean me.”

She had the voice of a torch singer, and Max felt it wrap around him like a coil heater. He turned to her, resigned to the inevitable the instant he saw the humor in her up-tilted eyes and the wide unabashed smile. No question about it. He wanted what he saw.

Picking up a cocktail napkin, Max reached across the bar to set it in front of her. Her gaze fell to his forearm, bared by rolled-up shirtsleeves, and lingered there. He barely resisted a Cro-Magnon urge to flex his muscles.

Holding her gaze, he asked, “What can I get you?” “Seagram’s. On the rocks. With a twist.”

She named a call whiskey. Expensive. Smooth. Strong. Definitely not for the faint-hearted.

Look all you want, Max, old buddy, but don’t touch. Remember you’ve sworn off.

Deftly pouring her drink, he set it in front of her. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you.” She raised the glass before he could turn away. “Here’s to good luck. May she continue to smile.”

“Continue?” Picking up a clean bar towel, Max wiped out a shot glass—proper bartender behavior—but his eyes never left hers. “Have you been having a run of good luck lately?”

“Obviously.” She tilted her head. The curtain of straight hair fell like a dark-chocolate waterfall, and her comment emerged half flirtatious, half factual. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Max laughed outright. She was something.

He leaned forward, folded his arms on the bar and said, “That may be luck…or just bad taste in drinking establishments.” He’d lowered his voice so the regulars—who were all ears at the moment—wouldn’t hear. Smiling into the amused brown eyes, he added, “If you need anything else, just whistle.” Briefly his gaze dropped to her scarlet lips.

Taking his bar towel and his shot glass, Max turned away from temptation. Smart move, he congratulated himself, expelling the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

So long, gorgeous, he thought, not without regret, certain his evening bartender, Dave, would arrive before she was ready for her second drink.

Damn.

D.J. realized she was staring after Maxwell and mentally shook herself. Raising the drink he’d set in front of her, she was shocked to see that her hand actually trembled.

Well, for Pete’s sake! she thought disgustedly.

The man had thrown her totally off course. And she never lost focus when she was on a job. Never, never!

Taking a sip of the drink she had ordered simply to fit in, D.J. grimaced and tried not to cough. She wanted Maxwell’s attention again, but not because she was gagging at his bar.

Setting the drink aside, she looked up to watch Max confer with another man who’d entered the area behind the bar. Facing her direction, the second man was in the process of tying an apron around his waist when he saw D.J. His eyes glinted with clear, un-complicated interest, and he hitched his chin toward her. Max glanced back.

D.J. caught her breath. If you need anything else, just whistle.

Her lips slipped into pucker mode, but Max turned away again before she could generate any sound.

After another few words with the bartender, who had obviously come to take his place, he called goodbye to the regular customers and left.

D.J. stared after him in dismay. He was leaving? At…she checked her watch…barely four-thirty? That was not the plan.

So much for a knock-’em-dead dress and killer shoes whose only victims at the moment were her poor, pinched toes.

Sticking her thumbnail between her teeth, she started chewing. Dang, she hated failure, even little failures. Granted, she could spend the evening pumping the guys at the bar for information, but that would be admitting that Max Lotorto had gotten the best of her on the very first day.

She took her thumb out of her mouth as the new bartender headed her way, an inviting smile on his classic hottie face. D.J. smiled only vaguely in return. Grabbing her purse, she took out several dollars, tossed them on the bar next to her barely touched drink and stood.

You snooze, you lose, Daisy June.

It was a plain fact that no one got anywhere by mulling her options over and over. Sometimes you had to act first, mull second.

If you need anything else, just whistle….

As she sauntered from the bar, D.J. puckered up and blew.

Max walked the seven blocks from his work to his home with a sense of purpose, thinking only about the night ahead. As much as he could, he kept his mind on images that were safe, like the inch-thick Black Angus sirloin and the ice-cold Olympia beer—still the best beer—that figured heavily in his evening’s plans. And a muscle-relaxing soak in a tub that would, he decided, be as steaming hot as the brewski was cold.

And a cigar. Yeah.

A smile curved his lips. One of the mellow Cuban beauties he’d ordered off the Internet for his birthday.

If his plans seemed more suited to a phlegmatic retiree than a thirty-two-year-old virile male who could just as easily have been planning a night of outrageous sex, well, so be it. The one thing Max did not want to think about tonight—not even for a little while—was the lady in red. Too tempting. Too complicated. Strictly off-limits.

For the past several months women had ranked low on Max’s list of priorities. Not that he would lack for female company if he wanted it. On the contrary, he knew that women were never very far away.

What he’d lacked in his life up to now was purpose. He’d made money; he’d traveled the world. He’d played hard with few regrets when the mood struck. But he had never felt a driving reason to get up every morning, to be responsible all day, to live for something larger than his own interests.

He had a reason now. He had four.

Unconsciously Max increased his pace, anxious to end the day and begin the evening.

Turning up the cracked cement path leading to his front door, he felt his shoulders begin to relax for the first time all week. To say the past three months had been chaotic was an understatement. Every day he’d felt like he was juggling balls that refused to stay in the air. As of yesterday, though, thanks to a goddess named Ella Carmichael, Max had finally been able to restore order to his home life. Tomorrow he would begin in earnest the extensive remodel he planned on the restaurant and bar he had recently purchased, but tonight…

Max grinned. Ah, tonight his biggest dilemma would be deciding whether to eat first or take his bath. Fitting his key in the front lock, he turned the knob and opened the door to his sanctuary.

“Give me back my wizard wand or I’ll zap you with my laser stick!”

The shrill demand rent the air, slapping Max in the face like a stun gun.

“No! It’s mine. You stole it from me, you poo-poo doo-doo brain!”

“You’re not allowed to call me that! You’re a poo-poo doo-doo brain, you poo-poo doo-doo brain fart head.”

The arguing mounted rapidly in both urgency and volume. Max raised his hands as two small but surprisingly strong bodies hurled themselves at his legs with enough forward momentum to shatter his kneecaps. His breath hissed between gritted teeth as he held back the curse that wanted desperately to explode free. Small hands flailed about his legs. Max tried to grab at least one of them.

“Whoa!” he commanded when he trusted himself to speak without swearing. “Knock it off!” His demand went unheeded. Taking full advantage of his baritone, he hollered over the din. “What is going on?”

A pair of deceptively angelic faces surrounded by ruffles of blond curls looked up at him, for this one moment, silent. Then Sean’s hand shot out, pointing at his twin brother, James. “He did it!”

And the quarrel raged again.

Max clamped a hand over the mouth of each twin. “Where’s Mrs. Carmichael?” He’d hired the stalwart nanny three days ago because she had assured him that no domestic challenge was too daunting. She would easily—but with great love, of course—put order to the chaos that had become his life. Today was her first day, and upon waking this morning, Max had felt a degree of gratitude he’d never quite experienced before.

Slowly, with trepidation, he let go of James’s mouth first. James was generally the more amenable twin, but you couldn’t be too sure. Max looked at him with what he hoped was warning in his eye. Don’t mess with me, kid. Just give it to me straight.

“She’s in the kitchen, cleaning up the dinner.”

Cleaning up the dinner. Max’s brows swooped together. So, that’s what he smelled. “Did it burn?”

James shrugged.

“Where are your sisters?” Before the boy could answer, the steel-haired dynamo who’d promised him a miracle marched out of the kitchen.

“Good, you’re home.” Built like a small tank in orthopedic shoes, Mrs. Carmichael nodded once, sharply. Her hands went to the apron tie at her back. Pulling the garment over her head, she shoved it at Max’s chest on her way to the door. “Good luck.”

“What?” Caught off guard, Max stared at the wadded-up apron.

“The girls are trouble, but those two—” she stabbed a quivering finger at James and Sean “—will be the death of you.” Her hand grasped the doorknob.

Max felt the boys’ shoulders tense at the housekeeper’s harsh words, but he couldn’t afford to stop and soothe them. Peeling the twins off his legs for now with the order to “Stay put,” he followed the woman out the door, catching up with her on the front lawn. “Wait, wait!” When he touched her elbow, she whirled and glared at him. Promptly he let go.

“Dinner is burned,” she said. “Somebody turned off my timer. And I hope you don’t need clean shirts tomorrow, because the laundry never got done.” She raised her chin, daring Max to complain. He didn’t intend to.

“Obviously, this wasn’t the greatest day…for any of us.” From what remained of his humor, he summoned a smile. “I wouldn’t want to repeat it myself. I tell you, dealing with contractors is a lot like dealing with kids. Everything happens on their time frame, they get to pout, and you’re the one who has to pay for it all.”

Mrs. Carmichael crossed surprisingly muscular arms over her grandmotherly bosom. The curl of her lips said it all: tell me something I will care about.

Adrenaline pumped into Max’s system. He rubbed his hands together, warming up for the old college try. “All right. First of all, do not worry about the dinner. We’ll order pizza for the kids, and you and I can sit down and—”

“Dinner is the least of your concerns, Mr. Lotorto. Those two hooligans have been acting like wild animals all day.” She pointed behind him to the two boys who had obviously not stayed put. “First they dug a hole in the garden—”

“No, it’s a time capsule,” James asserted, evidently certain this tidbit of information would cancel any wrongdoing. “We’re puttin’ Sean’s dead lizard in it.”

Max lowered his brow. “Shh.”

“Then they put shaving cream on the windows—”

“Uh-uh, it was cleaning stuff. We were helpin’ clean them,” Sean whined in protest.

Max raised a finger to his lips. He could not afford to lose the only help he had. Returning his attention to Mrs. Carmichael, he tried to commiserate. Having lived with the twins for several months, it wasn’t hard. “I can see how irritating that must have—” he began.

“And then they tried to set fire to the house.”

“Fire?” Max knew these kids. They were boisterous, a bit too creative in their play, but ultimately they were good kids trying to find their way through circumstances that would have been difficult for anyone. They weren’t delinquents. They had never deliberately hurt anyone or anything. “If they were playing with matches, I’ll deal with them.” He turned briefly to shoot both boys a warning glare. “I will definitely deal with them. But I think we ought to be careful about suggesting they intended to burn down the house—”

“They made a fire in the middle of their bedroom.”

James ran forward, accompanied by his brother, and tried to speak again. Max pressed a hand over each boy’s mouth. All he made out was a muffled “…campout…”

His head began to throb, right between the eyes. There had to be a way to deal with this firmly but calmly, rationally. “Here’s what I suggest. I think we should all go back in the house, and—”

“They used a box of your cigars for kindling.”

“—talk about—” He halted. “Cigars? Imported cigars? With a little hut…and a palm tree on the box?”

Mrs. Carmichael shrugged eloquently. “How should I know?” She shook her head. “No more box.”

The throb expanded to the top of Max’s head. He wanted badly to yell, but how could he? He was failing these kids.

The thought made him furious and frustrated, but not at them. They were innocent victims, loved by a mother who, unfortunately, had never been able to give them stability. So many times they’d been unceremoniously dumped in Max’s life—a few days here, a couple of days there. But this time, they were here for good, and though they had known Max and loved him all of their lives, they probably sensed by now that the emperor had no clothes: Max knew how to be fun for a weekend, but he didn’t know jack about being a parent.

No way could he do this alone.

His mind raced as he groped for a way to plug the hole in this sinking ship. Before he could make another gambit, however, the woman he’d hoped would be his salvation put her hands on her hips and said, “You won’t like to hear it, people never do, but what those boys need is a good horsewhipping. I’d have done it, too, but they locked themselves in the bathroom.”

Against his legs, Max felt the boys stiffen. Anger pumped more adrenaline into his veins. With her elbows sticking out and her slivered eyes spitting threats, Carmichael, the self-avowed übernanny, looked startlingly like Miss Gulch in The Wizard of Oz just before she took Toto away from Dorothy.

“Mrs. Carmichael,” he warned in a low, cautionary voice, “try to remember what I told you.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Bad blood breeds bad blood, and from what you said about their mother, those two are likely to be in prison before they’re ten.”

“Mrs. Carmichael—”

“You’ll be doing yourself a favor if you let Social Services handle them.”

Sean squeezed tightly against Max’s knee. Max felt his anger reach frightening proportions.

Tightly controlling himself, he leaned down and murmured to James. “What did you call your brother?” James whispered in reply, eliciting a nod before Max straightened. “Mrs. Carmichael,” he said, “you are a poo-poo doo-doo brain.”

The woman’s mouth opened and closed like a baby bird trying to feed.

“And just so that you and I completely understand each other, do not ever mention Social Services in connection with my children again, not even if you’re standing on the other side of town in a soundproof booth.”

“I quit!” the woman snapped, face growing redder with each second.

Maxwell smiled grimly. “Just when I thought we were getting along.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s nostrils flared, but she spun without another word and stalked to the maroon Buick she’d parked at the curb.

Max didn’t wait to watch her get in. He turned the boys around, nudging them toward the house. On the porch, ten-year-old Anabel stood somberly with her arm around Livie, their baby sister. Garbed as usual in her thrift-store fairy princess costume, she had what appeared to be either makeup or strawberry jam all over her face. Her huge, worried eyes swallowed her face.

Max ground his teeth. Terrific. So much for setting a good example. They’d heard everything.

Tossing his ex-nanny’s apron onto the sofa, Max clapped his hands with forced joviality. “So, who’s starving? I’ll order pizza.”

Anabel was the only one who spoke. “We had pizza last night.”

Fatigue pulled Max’s body like gravity. Very little frightened him in life. He hardly ever panicked, and he hardly ever prayed. Hard work, truth, loyalty—those were the values he believed in. They ought to be enough to bring a man through most difficulties. Now he stood in his living room, with four pairs of worried eyes watching him, and directed this message heavenward: SEND HELP.

Chapter Two

Daisy June Ryder liked fashion. Before the business had started gasping for breath, and she’d opted to pay the past month’s utility bills plus as much of the back rent as she could—which wasn’t much, really—from her personal checking account, clothes and shoes had been her number-one material indulgence.

So when she dressed for success as a prospective babysitter, D.J. put on her favorite sixty-five-dollar Melrose Avenue jeans, an Anna Sui top that she’d bought at a second-time-around chic boutique and her Nine West boots.

With a name like Daisy June, a girl was practically forced to develop a sense of style.

Besides, D.J. was nervous, and clothes, she had long since discovered, could act the part of old friends. People might come and go, but her pink suede slides would follow her anywhere.

Yesterday evening she’d sat in a parked car down the block from Maxwell Lotorto’s house and watched him engage in a confrontation with a stout gray-haired woman. Hunched low in the front seat of her Mustang, she’d watched four young children follow Max and the woman out of the house. With her window rolled down, D.J. caught enough of the conversation to glean that the children belonged to Max, that the irate woman was either a housekeeper or nanny, and that she was quitting or being fired. Maybe both.

D.J. had never believed in angels or anything like that, but if she did, she’d swear one had been guiding her footsteps last night. She’d been in just the right place at just the right time to gather a solid foundation of information.

Standing in front of Tavern on the Tracks for the second time in fewer than twenty-four hours, D.J. attempted to quell that slightly sickening butterflies-in-the-belly feeling by calling it excitement. She’d spent years making her living by locating missing persons, some of whom had taken exception to being found. She had not yet, however, changed her identity or masqueraded as someone else to get the job done.

Today would be her first day “undercover.” Today D. J. Holden, P.I., kick boxer extraordinaire—if she did say so herself—and undoubtedly the only woman in her yoga-for-relaxation class licensed to carry a concealed weapon, was going to be Daisy June Holden, career babysitter.

Without doubt, she was better suited to investigative work than to child care. She’d done a good portion of her own growing up as the only kid in the home of two much older adults, but she’d adored Bill and Eileen Thompson. She’d followed Bill around like a pup on a leash, absorbing knowledge about his private investigation business like soil absorbs rain—naturally, effortlessly.

She expected to expend a lot more effort learning to corral a bunch of rugrats.

Late-morning sunshine warmed the pavement of the small northern California town of Gold Hill, making D.J. squint. She left her sunglasses on top of her head, nonetheless, wanting to appear casual, eminently approachable when she walked into the restaurant that adjoined the bar. Tavern on the Tracks was comprised of two adjacent storefronts, each with its own entrance. On the right was the bar. On the left was a space that appeared to be undergoing renovations. A sign on the latter space said that an Italian restaurant would be opening soon. Yesterday D.J. had been to the bar; today she decided to investigate the restaurant.

Licking her lips, she walked across the threshold.

It was dark in the as-yet-unlit restaurant. She looked around, making out only shadow. It was way dark.

Standing still while her eyes adjusted to the dimness, D.J. let her ears do her investigating for her. Not only was it dark, there was a vaguely smoky, musty smell in the room that made her think of Mickey Spillane novels.

Until she heard giggles. Giggles and whispering that sounded distinctly juvenile.

As her eyes adjusted from outdoors to indoors, D.J. carefully approached one of the leather booths.

On the floor beneath the table, two squirmy, chortling boys huddled together like puppies.

She crouched down for a better look. “Hello.”

When they saw her, the bolder of the boys put his finger to his mouth and hissed, “Shhhhh. You’ll alert enemy forces.”

“Sorry,” she whispered back. “Why are you hiding?”

The other boy started to answer, but the first child clamped a hand over his mouth. “We can’t talk to you until we know whose side you’re on.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “I’m on your side.”

“You gotta get under here then.”

D.J. viewed the cramped space and gave a mental shrug. If you can’t beat ’em…

She grunted as she crawled in beside her new comrades. With her five-foot, seven-inch frame hunched beneath the table, she felt like an arthritic turtle and knew she wouldn’t be able to hold out long. “What’s the location of the enemy forces?”

“They’re over there.” The curly headed self-appointed spokes-person of the duo pointed in the direction of the neighboring bar. “Eatin’ stuff.”

“Eatin’ stuff.” D.J. nodded. “Why aren’t you two over there eatin’ stuff?”

“Eatin’ on a mission is sissy.”

“But I’m hungry,” his partner piped up.

D.J. looked at the other boy, physically a near carbon copy of his compatriot. Obviously brothers, they looked little like Max, which meant, she assumed, that they favored their mother.

Yesterday’s discovery of the children and the apparently defecting caregiver had not told her everything she needed to know, but it had given her a place to start. Max Lotorto needed child care. His wife must have passed on or moved on, because he clearly had responsibility for these kids. Assuming the woman was alive, what had made her leave gorgeous Max and their four kids? Was she still in the picture at all? D.J. had no outstanding maternal instincts, but voluntarily leaving one’s children did not sit well with her.

If the children’s mother was alive, perhaps Max had some fatal flaw that had made the marriage untenable. That was the kind of information Loretta wanted, the kind of information D.J. had come to the restaurant to get.

The boys began nudging each other and whispering. “What are your names?” she asked them.

The gigglier, hungrier one started to answer, but his brother gave him an elbow shot to the ribs. “We’re not supposed to tell,” he said over his brother’s cry of “Ow!”

“That’s when we’re outside,” the other boy said, elbowing back.

A skirmish—one that would surely put D.J. at risk from a flailing appendage—seemed about to ensue, until a very deep, very authoritative masculine voice called out, “Sean! James! Where are you?”

“Shhhh,” the boys hissed to each other. In a loud whisper the more dominant child commanded, “Change locations, change locations!” Both boys scrambled on their hands and knees to a new hiding place, presumably the next table over.

D.J. tried to scooch out, using her elbows and knees, but getting out from under the table wasn’t nearly as easy as climbing beneath it in the first place, and a pair of work-boot-shod feet entered her line of vision before she had time to straighten.

A hand appeared before her face, palm up. She took it.

Work roughened but warm and large, Maxwell Lotorto’s big mitt made hers feel small and feminine—quite a shock given that in elementary school the other girls had voted her “biggest girl’s hand in fifth grade.”

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she noted the surprise—then suspicion—in his gaze. He definitely recognized her from yesterday.

Letting go of her hand, Max watched her steadily, no doubt awaiting an explanation, and D.J. would have loved to provide one, but her mouth was so dry she had to lick her lips again, and in truth she hadn’t thought of an explanation for something like this.

Finally he spoke for her. “So why, he wonders, has the lady come back to hide under his table?”

“Good question.” She had to smile, nodding her appreciation. “I’d start there. But I wasn’t hiding, actually. I was becoming acquainted with two very personable young men. Yours, I assume?”

More giggling from the next table over. Hands moving to his hips, Max glanced the boys’way. “Get out here, you two. It’s time for lunch.”

The twin brothers scampered out to stand side by side before Max. “Go next door. Frankie made tuna.”

“Yuck! Free Willy sandwiches.” Once again Sean was not shy about his position.

Max shook his head. “Don’t start. Free Willy was a whale.”

James’s eyes grew wide. “I’m not eatin’ whale!”

While Max’s body vibrated with the effort to maintain his patience, D.J.’s shook with the attempt to suppress laughter. The poor guy looked exhausted, which, for D.J.’s purposes wasn’t such a bad thing.

Issuing his next directive as a not-to-be-flouted command, Max said, “Tuna is not a whale. It comes out of a can. Frank went to the trouble of making you lunch, so don’t insult him. And FYI, I don’t advise climbing under tables if you want to meet girls.” His gaze returned to D.J. “They hardly ever hang out there.”

James giggled. “She’s not a girl.”

While Max returned his attention to the boy, D.J. shivered for a reason most unprofessional. The man had eyes like a winter ocean: stormy and moody, beckoning with mystery and secret. His expression today was far less open than it had been yesterday, but when he held her gaze it seemed he was daring her to look away. As an investigator, D.J. felt enjoyably challenged. As a woman, she felt…ensnared.

That wasn’t good.

“Lunch,” Max told the boys again in a flat tone that brooked no refusal. “Ice cream later if you finish everything.”

The boys looked at each other with huge, eager eyes. They raced off, leaving D.J. alone in the vacant restaurant with Max.

Her subject had dressed casually in worn jeans, a red cotton shirt with the tail out and his boots. He was in the mood for work, not play, a fact his next words confirmed.

“It’s a busy day around here. What can I do for you?”

There’s the door, what’s your hurry, eh? Determined not to take offense, D.J. reminded herself she was also here for work.

Years of faking confidence until she’d actually acquired some made her back straight and her shoulders square. She smiled. “You can let me make your life simpler.”

He reared back ever so slightly, but that hint of surprise told D.J. she’d just taken the upper hand.

“How,” Max said, “do you propose to do that?”

“By working for you.” D.J. tossed her head, flicking her dark hair behind her. “You probably don’t remember me,” she demurred, realizing full well that he did. “I stopped by your bar last night. I see you’re opening a restaurant and you’re going to need a staff. I’ve been involved in the restaurant business for years.” D.J. looked him straight in the eye and refrained from adding, but only if you consider how often I eat in them. “I can do whatever. Wait tables, be a hostess.” She glanced around. “Hammer a few nails.” She didn’t mention the children yet, or his need for child care. All in good time.

Max eyed her up and down, his scrutiny so blatant she didn’t know whether to pose or cross her arms over her chest.

“You’re not from around here.”

“I was passing through town yesterday evening,” she told him, using the simple story she’d concocted to explain her appearance in a small-town bar, dressed to the hilt, and her subsequent desire to look for work here. “I was on my way home from a friend’s wedding. It was quite a bash. Naturally, I don’t dress like that for job interviews.”

“Where’s home and where was the party?”

“Ashland.” D.J. named a city south of Gold Hill. “That’s where the wedding was. And I’m from Portland.”

“Portland. Aren’t there any waitress jobs in Portland?”

“Sure.” Taking a deep breath, she put a sad little wriggle into the exhale. “But so are my fiancé and his new girlfriend.”

As a little girl, D.J. had heard a story about an angel who wrote down everything a person said or did, recording the entries in a big book for God to read when He was deciding who got into Heaven and who didn’t. There was a page for good acts and one for sins. If the angel existed and was listening to half of what she’d said so far today, she was in deep doo-doo.

The frown marring Max’s handsome brow dropped lower. His lips pursed as he digested the information she was feeding him. She didn’t want him to work at it too long.

“I really want to relocate to someplace peaceful, and I’m going to need a job right away. If you already have a full staff, maybe you know of another restaurant job in the area? I don’t mind the dirty work. Even dishwashing is fine.” She curled her polished fingers into her palm, hoping he had a nice big dishwasher in his kitchen. “Oh, and by the way,” she said as if the thought had just occurred to her, “I baby-sit, too. I mean, if you and your wife or someone you know ever needs anyone.”

Smooth, Daisy. Oh, smooth. Make him think it’s not all about him. “I know this is a small town, and there may not be much work, so I’m willing to be flexible. And cheap for the first month trial period.” And if that don’t grab you, Mr. Lotorto, I can’t imagine what will.

Maxwell’s brow arched perceptibly with each fib she told. He was definitely mulling it over. “How flexible are you willing to be?”

Daisy shrugged. “Make me an offer.”

Max wanted to bite the hook; she could tell. “How do you feel about full-time work with kids?” he asked.

She plastered an enthusiastic smile over her natural trepidation. “I love kids. Your boys are great.”

“How do you feel about them 24/7?”

“So, just to get this straight. You want a babysitter? Someone to watch your children while you’re working?” So far this was playing out the way she’d intended it to. D.J.’s maternal instincts were nil, but hanging out at the restaurant or at Max’s home, watching the kids would give her a chance to observe Max up close and personal, and a few hours of playing cops and robbers under the tables wouldn’t kill her.

Max frowned over her question. “No.” He gave a quick, sharp shake of his head. “I don’t want a babysitter. I need a nanny.”

Good Lord. A nanny? Nannies were responsible for discipline. Nannies were responsible for feeding. Nannies…

Lived in.

“I could be a nanny,” D.J. blurted before she let herself think twice. The investigator in her could no more turn down the opportunity to spend legitimate time in Maxwell Lotorto’s home than her inner clothes hog would say no to free Jimmy Choo shoes.

“Do you have experience with kids?” Max’s narrowed eyes suggested he might already be reconsidering his hasty overture.

“Do I have experience!” D.J. decided to lay it on thick. “I have thirteen brothers and sisters.”

Max’s astonishment was gratifying. “Thirteen?”

Give or take. A baker’s dozen was probably a conservative estimate of the boys and girls with whom she’d spent her early, early years. The fact was they were all foster siblings, some of whom D.J. had known a month on the outside, and she hadn’t seen any of them since she was twelve. She had never actually taken care of children, but growing up around them had to count for something.

Max ran a hand over his ink-dark hair and shook his head. “And I thought four was a handful.”

“Are you on your own with your children?”

“Yeah. Our housekeeper…retired recently.”

“Oh.” Retired, huh? If that scene on his front lawn had been a “retirement,” she’d machine wash all her hand-knit sweaters on Hot.

“Yeah. She was a great gal. The kids loved her. They’re very loving kids.”

“I’m sure they are.” Poor Max. His page in the recording angel’s book wasn’t going to look any better than hers. “That must have been very hard, losing someone you all counted on.”

“It hasn’t been easy. I’m working a lot, trying to get this restaurant opened. School doesn’t start for another few weeks, and I don’t want to put the kids in day care.” He was starting to appear endearingly less cocky, more earnest. “We’ve had some upheavals here lately. I’d like to give the kids continuity.”

Which meant they hadn’t had any for a while. D.J. filed the information away for Loretta. She’d have to probe later and get further details.

For some reason, a fresh pang of guilt squeezed her chest. She reminded herself that this was a job. A good one.

“Do you have references?” he asked.

“For waitressing, not for babysitting,” D.J. said.

She’d already phoned Angelo at the gym and her neighbor Mrs. Pirello to tell them she might need a cover for a job she was working. They both owed her a few dozen favors and had family in the restaurant business. Devoted NYPD Blue fans, they had agreed immediately to help out.

“For waitressing I can get you a résumé. I don’t have anything on me, though.” Going whole hog, she grimaced, cheesily snapping her fingers. “Darn. Too bad I didn’t think to slip a résumé into my suitcase. I packed quite a few clothes, because I decided to vacation in the Rogue Valley for a week before the wedding. I could have started right away.”

He was still wavering, changing his mind about hiring someone with no experience. Never mind that the thought of caring for four kids could send her running for antacids; the fact that Max had second thoughts about hiring her made D.J. want to fight for the job.

C’mon, Maxie, give it up, she thought. Heck, if Loretta liked what D.J. had to report, Maxwell Lotorto and his kiddos would be richer than Oprah very shortly. Loretta wanted an heir, but she wanted one capable of running the family business. If Max proved to be responsible and genuine, with a head for business on his broad shoulders, then he would assume his rightful place in the family biz. He’d be able to hire a veritable Mary Poppins to be his nanny. A team of Mary Poppinses. D.J. figured Max might take exception to her subterfuge at first, but in the end he’d thank her. Who wouldn’t?

With the goal of entering the Lotorto home uppermost in her mind, Daisy had to thank her lucky stars for what happened next.

A tiny girl not much higher than Max’s knee, ran in from the lounge. The area all around her lips was stained red from something she’d eaten. Since she’d come from the bar, D.J. guessed she’d been filling up on maraschino cherries. There were tears in her eyes as she clung to Max’s leg, and her bright red lips quivered.

“Sean says I ate Free Willy! I don’t want to eat a whale!”

The tiny person let loose a torrent of sobs worthy of a Broad way star. Her hollering apparently drew the three other children. Even before Max could admonish the boys for goading their sister, they began to heatedly defend themselves while the elder girl patted the little one—maybe a bit too hard—on the back. As the little one cried, spurts of tears arced from her eyes as if they were tiny fountains. Then she leaned forward and barfed on Max’s shoes.

Max looked down then up, locking gazes with D.J. “Get your suitcase and meet me back here at three. You’re hired.”

“And this is the master bedroom,” Maxwell said, concluding an abbreviated tour of the rustic, ranch-style house set on two un-landscaped acres along Sardine Creek Road in Gold Hill, Oregon. “I haven’t had time to move all my things out yet, but make yourself at home.”

He’d rushed D.J. through the kitchen, living and dining areas and hadn’t shown her the kids’ rooms yet at all. For good reason, too, D.J. guessed. The house looked like a family of monkeys inhabited it. Obviously, Max had made a quick trip home earlier in the day to arrange the endless stacks of papers, books and games into some approximation of order; but riotous piles of loose things, and garbage pails overflowing with paper cups, cereal boxes and who knew what else, wouldn’t win the Good Housekeeping seal of approval. The brief—very brief—glimpse he’d allowed her of the kitchen had almost made her call Loretta to quit.

Turning to Max, she plastered a game smile over her misgivings. She was no coward. If she had to, she could suck it up and restore order to this pigsty. “Thanks. I’m sorry to be kicking you out of your room.”

Behind the fatigue, a flash of wry humor lit his light eyes. “I’d sleep in the backyard on a bed of nails if it’d help get this household on track.”

“When did it go off track?” D.J. punctuated her question by swinging her suitcase onto the well-made bed. Clearly Max had taken more trouble with this room than with the others. If there’d been any reminders of the children’s mother—photos, clothing—it was all gone now.

D.J. knew her curiosity was a tad more than professional. Aside from being big and strong and darkly gorgeous, Max appeared to have boundless patience with his kids. He really enjoyed them, which made D.J. endlessly curious about the woman whose absence was forcing him to secure child care. Where was she? Was she coming back?

Unfortunately, D.J. sensed already that Max was not a spill-his-guts-on-the-first-date kind of guy, so she would keep everything casual for the next day or so. It wasn’t going to be easy. Protective of her own information, D.J. nonetheless had a natural curiosity about other people—how they’d been raised, what their families were like, how they lived. In high school she’d frequently been in trouble for talking too much, and in one of her first jobs, as a cashier, she’d almost been canned for interrogating her customers. She’d developed more subtlety since then.

To convey a relaxed attitude, she unsnapped her suitcase, intending to unpack while she spoke. “So are you completely on your own with the kids?”

“Yeah.” Max had hesitated a second before he answered.

Taking a chance, she pressed just a bit. “Has it been that way for long?”

Max hovered near the door. He spotted some loose change lying on the dresser, scooped it up and put it in his pocket. D.J. sensed he was stalling. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in later. Right now I’ve got to get back to the tavern. My lead bartender fell off a damn roof and broke his ankle this morning, so I’ve got the night shift until he can work or I can find someone to cover.”

“You’re leaving?” The rush of pure fear that shot through her veins amazed D.J. Not being able to question Max further didn’t bother her nearly as much as the thought of being left alone with the kids so soon. “Uh, I’d hoped you could stick around, acquaint me with the routine.”

“You’ve probably gathered by now that there isn’t one.” He smiled, and for a moment the one-sided quirk of his lips completely distracted her. “Besides, with your background, you’ll be able to teach me a thing or two. Thirteen brothers and sisters.” Max whistled softly. “I was an only child, so to me four kids is the equivalent of a preschool. I was able to get hold of your former employers, by the way. They gave you glowing recommendations. Said you’re a crackerjack waitress. Very organized and good with people. I’d say those are excellent qualities to apply to child care.”

D.J. smiled a little weakly. “I’d say so.”

Max leaned a shoulder onto the door frame. “Don’t worry about anything. The kids seemed to like you.”

Au contraire. The kids had stared at her with big eyes and distinct doubt when he’d introduced her as their nanny. She couldn’t show fear, trembling and trepidation, though. Not after the song and dance she’d given him.

“Okay. Yeah, we’ll have a great time. Hope your bartender’s better soon.”

Still seated on Max’s bed a full ten minutes after he’d left the house, D.J. clasped her hands on her knees, back rigid as a steel girder. She felt as though she was waiting outside the principal’s office. She couldn’t seem to get the information from her head to her gut that from here on in she was the principal.

Max had started a video for the kids, who were still in the living room and still quiet, but she knew she had to get out there soon. For one thing, she’d conned him into believing her housekeeping skills were on a par with her child care abilities. Which they were.

Unfortunately.

Slapping her knees, D.J. stood and shook the nerves from her body. Time to sally forth and set a few precedents for running this house; she couldn’t spend all her time corralling children. Matter of fact, she’d have to come up with a few clean-up projects to keep the kids busy so she could focus on Max when he was home.

Cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders to loosen up, D.J. commanded her feet to move toward the door. She’d work in a quiet yoga session later, but now it was time to get out there.

Wishing she’d thought to buy a couple of toys, utterly willing to resort to bribery right off the bat, she walked sprightly down the hall, clapping her hands as she neared the living room. “Okay, kiddos, ready to have some fun? I… Ah!” The sight that greeted D.J. stopped her dead in her tracks and elicited a swear word before she could censor herself.

Four children and one can of whipped topping had wreaked havoc on the already disrupted living room. Ribbons and clouds of the stuff covered the coffee table, sofa, windowsills. “What are you doing?” Heaven help her, but she swore again.

One of the twins responded. “You said a baddie.”

Yes, she had. And now she was speechless.

“She sa-id—” The other curly headed brother began a singsong recounting of her indiscretion, using the word several times in succession.

“James, stop that,” D.J. ordered.

“I’m Sean! And you sa-id—”

The youngest child, Livie, sat on the sofa with a huge teddy bear at her feet, clumsily ladling ice cream out of a half-gallon container. Both the bear and the child, D.J. noticed, had ice cream mustaches. “She said a baddie, she said a baddie…” Livie chanted, kicking her feet.

“All right, everybody stop saying that.” All she needed was for Max to come home the first day to find that his kids had increased their vocabulary by one colorful curse.

Anabel, the older girl, sat in a chair, her eyes glued to the TV. One of the twins, the one who wasn’t Sean, started squirting the table again.

“Hey!” D.J. sprang into action, hopping over assorted toys to grab the offending item from James’s hand. “What is this?” She turned the plastic container over in her hands. “Squeezable mayonnaise?”

“We ranned out of whip cream.”

“All right, give me anything edible.” They stared at her dumbly. “Fork over the food!” She held out her hands and motioned to the little dears. “All of it. Right now.” Collecting the can of whipped cream from Sean and the ice cream from Livie, whose lower lip started to quiver sadly, D.J. said, “There will be no more gourmet art as long as I’m here. Food belongs in bellies, not on tables or any other furniture. Is that understood?”

She received no response, other than big-eyed stares from the three younger children. Anabel continued to watch the TV. “Excuse me,” D.J. said, stepping into her line of vision. “You seem somewhat normal. May I ask what you were doing while your brothers and sisters were destroying the living room?”

Brown eyes, large and beautiful behind a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, and dramatically more solemn than the dancing blue eyes of the other children, gazed at D.J. “I was waiting for you to come out of the bedroom.”

Right. Anabel: one. D.J.: zero. “Well, I’m out now, so here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to clean up this living room. Then—”

“I’m hungry,” James said.

Sean echoed immediately, “Me, too. I’m starving.”

Livie said plaintively, “Is it time for dinner yet?”

D.J. stared. Were they joking? You could start a burger franchise with what they’d spread on the coffee table. “Didn’t you eat anything while you were doing that?” She pointed to what looked like a model of Mt. Everest.

Sean shook his head. “That was for Livie’s bear. It’s his birthday.”

The little girl nodded hard. “He wanted to play ice cream parlor.”

With a heavy sigh and a shake of her exotically dark head, Anabel slid off her chair to approach D.J. “I’ll take these things to the kitchen,” she said, removing the ice cream and other weapons of living room destruction from D.J.’s arms. “You’d better get the kids something to eat before they have a major meltdown.”

The girl trooped off to the kitchen, and D.J. felt a ridiculous urge to call out, “Don’t leave me!” despite the fact that Anabel, too, was only a child. But at least she seemed to know what she was doing. Taking a deep breath, D.J. said, “All right. We’ll clean up here, and then we’ll eat some dinner. Okay?”

Ending with a question was her first mistake. Sean leaped up. “Jamie’s starving,” he informed in a sudden show of brotherly support.

“So’s Livie.” Jamie jumped up, too.

Swinging her legs, Livie picked up her previous chant. “You said a baddie…you said a baddie….”

D.J. wanted Max to come back. Right now. In the restaurant he had juggled all four kids, kept his sense of humor and managed to appear relatively sane. Of course, he’d had practice at this. He’d given her his cell phone number; she could call him for a little five-minute-advice session. She could imagine him responding in that half-wry, half-soothing tone he had and felt better already.

Unfortunately, she could also imagine him wondering what kind of wimp he had hired, and that did not sit well at all.

Whipped cream and mayonnaise slipped in glops from the table to the carpet. Livie’s bear dripped ice cream onto the sofa.

The boys joined their sister’s chant.

And D.J. realized she wasn’t nearly as tough as she’d thought.

Chapter Three

Sunshine spilled across the green hills like drizzles of honey, sweetening the earth, kissing the children’s skin as they romped and laughed in the afternoon rays. Daisy grinned at the children’s antics.

“Anabel! Sean, James, Livie!” she called, waving them over. “Time for your music lesson.”

Picking up her guitar, she lowered herself gracefully to the warm grass. Immediately the children scampered over. They looked so darling in the outfits she’d made for them. And you could hardly tell that the jumpers used to be a set of curtains hanging in her bedroom.

Positioning her fingers behind the frets, Daisy strummed a few chords from the children’s favorite song. “You know this one, so I’ll begin and then you join in. James, remember the line is ’jam and bread’ not ’yam and bread.’” James flushed, but giggled along with the others. “All right, here we go.”

Strumming the intro and nodding in time to the music, Daisy lifted her voice. “’Doh, a deer, a female deer…’”

Sitting upright on the couch, D.J. heard herself gasp as she came fully awake. Dazed, she looked around. The living room lights were still on, and the TV screen glowed with the image of Maria and Captain Von Trapp joining their family onstage for a patriotic rendition of “Edelweiss.” Swinging her feet to the floor, D.J. calmed her labored breath.

Oh, dear God.

She’d popped The Sound of Music into the VCR after the kids had lost the bedtime battle, and the living and dining rooms had been restored—through a heroic effort of her own blood, sweat and tears—partially to order. Recalling that the lead character in The Sound of Music was a nanny, she’d hoped to pick up a few pointers. Her night had been torture.

After the kids started screaming for food, D.J. had discovered that there wasn’t any. A few slices of bread, two eggs, a mostly empty box of corn flakes and a jar of peanut butter was all she’d had to work with. Her cooking skills were more practical than creative, so a trip to the market had been unavoidable.

And that was when the real trouble began. D.J. never again wanted to visit a market with anyone under six foot two. Never. Making the dinner, however, had made the nightmare of shopping seem like a stroll down a country lane.

No two kids had wanted the same thing. Their choices had ranged from chicken nuggets to French toast to corn dogs and tater tots. Anabel had thought they should have a roast, mashed potatoes and two vegetables because then all the food groups would be represented. D.J. had settled the dilemma by buying hot dogs with buns, frozen tater tots, chicken strips from the hot deli and a bag of carrots and celery sticks as a nod to the food pyramid.

It should have been easy. But the water for the hot dogs had boiled over, the tater tots had turned into tater rocks in the microwave, and Livie had pronounced the coating on the chicken strips “yucky,” upon which she’d proceeded to peel off the crumbs, dropping them onto the already abused carpet. D.J. didn’t even want to think about the damage four children and a bottle of squeezable ketchup had done.

Checking her watch, she gasped.

Midnight. For pity’s sake! She’d spent her whole evening cleaning to establish her fake identity as a twenty-first-century Mary Poppins. Then she’d snoozed when she should have snooped.

Pushing herself off the couch, she turned off the TV and went to check on the kids. Relieved to see that they were still sleeping soundly, she decided to search the hall closets first, hoping to find photos, files, anything that might interest Loretta and tell her something about her grandson’s potential as heir apparent and future CEO of the Mallory Superstores dynasty. The chaos D.J. had witnessed so far in his home life wasn’t a plus, but she’d bet the mere fact he had children would tickle Loretta’s fancy.

D.J. tried to picture the surprise and the smiles when Loretta realized she was a great-granny four times over and Max realized he’d never have to worry about finances again.

Opening the closet door, she scanned piles of hastily folded linens and towels, but nothing of real interest. She was stretching to peek at the top shelf when she heard the click of the front door.

Given the late hour, she shouldn’t have been surprised by Max’s arrival, but the sense that she was doing something wrong made her heart skip. When the living room door creaked, she reacted automatically. Shutting the closet door as quietly as she could, she ran on tiptoe to her bedroom. Standing in the dark with her ear to the closed door, she listened to the approach of Max’s footsteps and waited for her runaway pulse to calm down. The closer the footsteps, the more nervous she became.

Uncertainty washed through her. Uncertainty and doubt and a sudden desire to run. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt this nervous.

Bill Thompson, owner and founder of Thompson Investigations—and the man whose future she was currently trying to save—would read her the riot act if he knew she was “undercover.” He’d always insisted on taking straightforward missing-persons cases, tracking down deadbeat dads or surveying cheating spouses. He’d taught D.J. it was possible to make a good living and do a good service at the same time without endangering oneself or others. D.J. used to tease him that he liked surveillance because it enabled him to make a living drinking coffee and eating his wife’s homemade doughnuts while he sat in his car.

Now she wished she’d at least talked to him about this case before she’d taken it. But lately Bill seemed so distracted.

Bill and his wife, Eileen, had been her foster parents for eleven years—until she’d turned eighteen—and they’d been the only consistent family she had ever known. Nearly a year ago now, Eileen had lost her battle with cancer, and since then Bill spent most of his time traipsing off to visit distant relatives he’d never before mentioned and taking leisurely side trips to tiny towns with even tinier tourist attractions. He hadn’t once mentioned their precarious financial situation to D.J. or that the rent was in arrears.

The somewhat scary, somewhat exhilarating truth was that she was on her own this time, and though D.J. trusted herself, she did wonder whether she’d seen a few too many Charlie’s Angels reruns, because there had to be, oh, a zillion better ways to get the information Loretta wanted and to collect the big bucks than to move into her grandson’s home under false pretenses. If the money wasn’t so important right now, she might truly turn back. Maybe she’d slip Loretta’s phone number to Max and tell him, “Listen, you look like you could use a nice inheritance. Go call your granny. I won’t mention the TV dinner I found under the couch.”

Another surge of anxiety pumped through her. The fact was she did need this money: she wanted Bill’s business to be there, alive and kicking, so that things could go back to normal when he felt more like himself again.

So much had changed since Eileen died, but grief didn’t last forever. Some day Bill would be ready to work again, and D.J.’s life would settle back into the routine she had come to know and trust. Working alongside Bill had grounded her, given her a focus and purpose that replaced the loneliness she had once believed might be her constant companion.

No, D.J. wasn’t going to turn back from this job. It didn’t matter whether Max was a decent guy or Attila the Hun; Loretta was going to get the most honest and detailed report as D.J. could give her.

Slowly, quietly, she turned the knob and opened the door…just a hair…to peek out.

Max had passed her bedroom to enter the boys’ room. D.J. could neither see nor hear anything until he reemerged a minute later to check on the girls. Either Anabel or Livie must have stirred, because D.J. heard the soft sounds of an adult murmuring a child back to sleep. She closed her door as gently as she could, remaining very still, trying not even to breathe audibly.

Once more, Max passed her door without stopping. The hall closet opened and closed, then footsteps faded away. D.J. waited a moment or two. When she was absolutely certain Max had vacated the hallway, she dimmed her light all the way, opened the bedroom door and slipped out as silently as she could. Positioning herself so that she had a clear view of the living room without making her own presence known, she watched Max toss a thin blanket onto the sofa. Before he sat, he studied the room, noting the books that were now on the shelves. With something akin to awe, he ran a hand over the newly cleared coffee table.

You should have seen it when it was an ice cream sundae. D.J. smiled, surprisingly touched when she saw him shake his head and smile at the order she’d restored. The room was by no means perfect; domestic details were not her forte. But the improvement was obvious and clearly a godsend to the overworked dad.

And Max did look exhausted as he reached into his pocket to extract keys, a wallet and some spare change. The coins and keys he set on the coffee table. The wallet he opened before setting it, too, on the table.

Resting his elbows on his knees, he linked his fingers behind his neck as if it ached and stared at the open billfold.

He’s looking at a photo, D.J. concluded, certain she was correct when his features tightened and the muscles along his jaw tensed. She was on the verge of stepping forward—she wanted to see that picture!—when he sighed heavily and started to speak.

“I don’t know how to do this, Terry. I swear, I have no idea how to do this alone.” He rubbed his eyes. D.J. strained to hear the next whispered words. “The kids need you. I need you. Wherever you are, babe, you’ve gotta help us make this work.” He ran his hands through his hair, mussing the black waves. Then he leaned back with his arms behind his head. As he closed his eyes, D.J. thought she heard him swear.

She stood motionless several more seconds.

Terry.

Babe.

Moving into Max’s home had inspired a wealth of new questions, but so far no hard answers. If Terry was Max’s wife, the children’s mother, why weren’t there any pictures of her in the house?

Moving as carefully as she could, D.J. crept back to her room, shut the door and sat on the bed in the dark. Her foot nudged the purse she’d dropped on the floor. Fishing blindly through the bag, she found a stick of gum, unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth.

The kids need you….

It was too soon to draw conclusions, and any decent P.I. knew that assumptions weren’t worth the effort it took to come up with them, but D.J. would have bet her last stick of Juicy Fruit that Terry was the children’s mother, that she had died and that her passing had been recent.

I need you…

Since she was on a roll, D.J. made another conclusion: Max still loved Terry. Very much.

Bringing her thumb to her mouth, D.J. gnawed on a cuticle, the very habit she’d tried to replace with chewing gum and frequent manicures.

Terry must have been beautiful. The children certainly were, and Max—

Biting her thumb so hard it hurt, D.J. scowled and whipped her hand down to her lap.

Gritting her teeth, she shook the pain from her thumb. Something about the way Max looked at the photo in his wallet had distracted her. She needed to concentrate on the relationship between him and Loretta.

Clearly, being the sole provider for four children was taxing Max to the limit. So, why hadn’t he contacted his grandmother for help? He had to know that his mother’s family made Donald Trump look like a slacker. Even if he’d never known Loretta up close and personal, surely no one would fault him for approaching her now.

According to Loretta, she and her daughter—Maxwell’s mother—had been estranged for years before the younger woman’s death fifteen years prior. Loretta had offered no explanation for the estrangement and had made it clear to D.J. that the topic was not open for query.

Loretta had not seen her grandson since he was a restless, and according to Loretta, hot-tempered teenager. She wasn’t even aware that she was a great-grandmother. D.J. didn’t have all the details about Max that Loretta had requested, but so far he appeared to be a man that would make a granny proud. Gut instinct told D.J. that Max was a good person.

She, on the other hand, was in his house, lying with every breath she took.

Undressing in the dark, conscious that her muscles were already protesting all the bending and stretching she’d done during her cleaning spree, D.J. hoped her conscience would bother her less in the morning.

Setting her internal alarm for 7:00 a.m., she lay on her back and stared into the darkness, waiting for sleep to overtake her. She had plenty to think about while she drifted off, but one image in particular kept coming back: Max on the couch, staring at the photo in his wallet and looking very much as though he was determined not to cry.

Rolling onto her side, D.J. scrunched the pillow till it suited her and closed her eyes. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that she doubted there was a man alive who had ever looked at her picture like that.

“Hey. What do you think you’re doing?” Max’s whisper held more than a hint of censure.

“We’re watching,” Sean whispered back. “She kinda spits when she sleeps.”

“Come out of there. Right now!”

D.J. frowned, blinked and woozily lifted her head. The voices she heard were evidently not part of a dream. By the time her eyes focused, she saw the backs of three little people as they marched out the door, having been duly chastised by the frowning countenance of Maxwell Lotorto. He reached for the knob, but looked up to catch her watching him. A cautious smile replaced the scowl.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

Gingerly, D.J. sat up, pulling the sheet with her. Sneaking a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand, she almost groaned. So much for her internal alarm, previously as trustworthy as Big Ben. It was eight-thirty already.

“I hope the kids didn’t bug you.”

D.J. ran a hand through her hair. “No.” She tried to smile, but it wasn’t easy. Not only was she, the nanny, the last person up this morning, but also beneath the sheet, D.J. wore only a T-shirt and panties—no bra, no pajama bottoms. Granted, she was covered by a bedspread and a sheet hiked up to her chin, but she felt more self-conscious than she had the first time she’d stayed at a man’s apartment overnight. “Sorry I stayed in bed so long. I’m usually up way before now.”

He waved her guilt away. “You had a tough first night. At least that’s what Anabel tells me.”

The kid with her finger on the pulse of the food pyramid had ratted her out? “It wasn’t bad.” D.J. protested mildly, but if he already knew about James’s collision with a spaghetti sauce display at the market, or about the scorched hot dogs she’d tried to convince the children were “cook-out style,” she figured her goose was cooked.

“My brothers and sisters are all adults now. I’m a little out of practice with kids.”

Max accepted that easily. “Tell me about it. I think I’m still there myself.” Awkwardly D.J. laughed with him. “The teenage years.” He shook his head, looking, D.J. thought, a bit green around the gills. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to those. Especially with the girls.”

D.J. arched a brow. “Why ’especially with the girls’?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He waved a hand in her direction. “Teenage girls want to talk about bras and boys. What do I know about that?” Taking a moment, he amended, “Actually, I know a lot about bras and boys, but nothing I want to tell Anabel or Liv.”

Max looked so adorably cocky and disgruntled and paternal, D.J. wanted to laugh…until the talk of bras made her remember she wasn’t wearing one under her thin muscle shirt. She tugged the sheet closer.

“Well, I think I’ll get up now.” She waited for Max to leave, but he seemed preoccupied, as if he hadn’t really heard her, and he definitely wasn’t leaving. D.J. tried again, prompting gently, “I need to get up, and I’m…not really dressed for company.”

That got his attention. His gaze traveled down the sheet and bedspread as if it just occurred to him she might not be wearing jeans under there.

He turned red—actually grew red—beneath his collar. “Right. I’ve already got the kids’ breakfast on the table, so take your time. When you’re ready, we can have coffee. And a talk.”

Smiling agreeably until he left the room, D.J. stayed in bed a couple of minutes after he closed the door. Criminy! She’d over-slept, so Max had been forced to fix the children’s breakfast, and still he wanted to have “a talk,” surely about her staying on as a nanny. Either the man had an appreciation of equality that would make working women everywhere lust after him…or he was truly, truly desperate. Maybe both.

Her stomach growled loudly as she grabbed her clothes and headed for the shower. Maybe he’d take pity and feed her, too.

Heading toward the dining room, where the kids were squabbling over whose chocolate chip pancakes had the most chips, Max took a minute to draw a deep breath and clear his head.

She’s the nanny, he reminded himself, striving to keep his eye on the big picture. Daisy Holden, as she’d introduced herself yesterday, would be a great fling, no doubt about it. And, frankly, he could use a good fling. With all the responsibility he’d assumed over the past four months, Max figured he deserved a fling. He’d earned a night—what the heck, maybe two—of carefree laughter and lust.

Not with Daisy Holden, though.

Long Thoroughbred legs and wide, sexy smile aside, Daisy Holden was going to make an even better nanny than she would a fling. And Max needed a nanny more than he wanted a lover. He needed someone with staying power in order to impress the social worker who’d been scrutinizing his home, his life, his bank account and just about everything else for the past month. A social worker from the Department of Human Services held his family in the palm of her hand. If he failed to impress her with his ability to create a stable home, he could lose the kids.

Briefly, Max closed his eyes, amazed by how quickly that thought could flood his body with fear. He wasn’t perfect. God knew his parenting skills could use a shot in the arm. He lost his temper too often with the twins. He was a total pushover with Liv. He sometimes forgot that Anabel wasn’t as grown-up as she liked to pretend and failed to anticipate her needs.

But he’d loved them all from the day they were born. The five of them made a pretty motley crew, but they needed each other. And they were fresh out of other family. If the state decided that Max was not able to care for the kids on his own, the only alternative would be foster care.

When he pictured Livie being taken away—when he thought of any of the kids being separated from each other or from him—Max felt an overwhelming need to shove his fist through the wall.

Daisy Holden didn’t know it yet, but she was their last hope. Two days ago they’d been falling apart faster than a house of cards. Last night he’d come home to a stocked refrigerator and a house that looked more like a home than it had in months. Nanny Holden might not be professionally trained, but she had experience; if he could keep her around, the threat hanging over them might very well be solved.

Pushing away from the wall, Max pressed on toward the dining room. He had a goal and he had a plan. The goal: to secure a commitment from Daisy Holden. Max wanted her signature on a year-long contract.

The plan: send the kids outside so he could have a little time and a little privacy to woo the nanny into staying.

Chapter Four

Ohmigod, the man can make pancakes. If he’d thrown a few sausages on the plate, D.J. would have followed him anywhere. Drawing her fork lazily through the remaining puddle of maple syrup on her plate, she watched his bottom while he cleaned the skillet.

Focus, Daisy, focus! she commanded herself. Ogling her employer’s tush when she was supposed to be watching his children was not the rip-roaring start she’d intended today. Gamely, she reached for sticky plates.

“I’ll take these,” she said to the children.

One plate clattered to the table when Sean practically screamed, “I’m not finished yet!”

D.J. jumped back, surprised by his vehemence. Not finished? All he’d done was draw squiggles in the syrup for the past ten minutes. She wasn’t sure how to respond. The only irascible children she’d ever spent time with were herself and a couple of foster siblings who made the cousin in Harry Potter look like Beaver Cleaver.

Fortunately, Max intervened. One good glare from over his shoulder was enough to make Sean lower his chin to his chest. “Apologize to Daisy for using that tone. We don’t scream at each other in this house. At least not much,” he added, winking at Daisy.

While Sean apologized, D.J. nodded and faked a brief coughing fit into her napkin to hide the blush creeping up her neck. Yes, she actually felt her face heating from the single wink Max tossed her. It was upsetting. She wasn’t a virgin, for heaven’s sake, and she wasn’t here to date him. But there was something disturbingly intimate about sitting at his breakfast table.

She’d never lived with a man or come close to marriage. She’d never dated anyone with kids. As a child, she’d bounced from one home to the next and had occasionally woken up wondering if she was having Raisin Bran with the Meltons that day or eggs and toast with the Donleavys. It wasn’t until she’d moved in with the Thompsons that there was any continuity in her life. They had become her eighth and final set of foster parents.

Perhaps because she’d moved so much in her life, sharing a table with a family had always seemed like an intimate experience to D.J., one that subtly highlighted who truly belonged and who was just visiting.

“Bring me your plates,” Max instructed the kids. “Then I want you to put all the toys that are in the backyard onto the patio so I can water the lawn.” A few grumbles greeted his request. He silenced them with a raised hand. “Toys on the patio,” he repeated. “Or no bike ride, no picnic, no swimming pool and no Game Boy. Now move it. Move it!”

D.J. felt a surge of foreboding—and quite possibly the pancakes—rise to her throat. Bike ride, picnic and swimming pool? She might know squat about the care and feeding of children, but sheer gut instinct told her those activities required supervision. More than that, they required an ability to corral children while performing physical feats. How was she going to do all those things and search the house for information on Max? Besides…

She couldn’t swim.

While the children scrambled off their chairs with their breakfast plates and then hustled out the kitchen door, D.J. wondered how she was going to investigate Max when he decided to fire her.

Setting the plates to soak in the sink, he grabbed a towel and turned toward her. “I figured getting rid of the munchkins for a while would give us a chance to talk.” He nodded toward her dish. “How was breakfast?”

“Terrific.” She hopped up, plate in hand. “You’re a good cook.”

Taking the plate from her, he slipped it into the sink. “I like cooking for someone with a good appetite,” he told her, his cloud-colored eyes and bourbon voice turning the comment into a skin-shivering compliment. “The kids play with more food than they eat.” A lopsided grin tugged his lips. “Although you look a little kidlike yourself right now.” Wiping his hand on a dish towel, he pointed to the corner of her mouth. “You’ve got a little chocolate there.”

“I do?” Embarrassed, D.J. automatically sent her tongue in search of the smudge.

Max watched her efforts, but shook his head. “You’re missing it. Here.” Leaning in, he licked his own thumb then touched it to the corner of her mouth and rubbed. It was exactly what he might have done for one of the kids. And it was nothing like what he might have done for one of the kids. Tingles zigged down D.J.’s spine then zagged back up again. “Got it,” he said, examining the spot that was now transferred to his thumb. “Hmm. Chocolate and maple syrup.” He put the tip of his thumb in his mouth and sucked it clean. “Not bad.”

Ohmigod.

The kitchen door banged open, nearly making D.J. jump in the air. Sean…or James…barreled in. “We found a snake!” He raced to a cupboard. “I need a jar.”

Max caught the boy before he could begin his jar search. The elder Lotorto shifted gears a lot more easily than D.J. could. She was still vacillating between hyperventilation and not inhaling at all. “I don’t think so, partner. No more pets. Besides, you’re supposed to be cleaning up.” Over the boy’s fervent protests, Max guided him to the door.

“But he’ll be gone if we don’t get him now. James is holdin’him.”

“Tell James to put the snake down, so he can pick up some toys.”

“Awww, Uncle Max…”

“Sean, if I have to come out there—”

Uncle Max?

Max shoved Sean out the door, walked to the refrigerator and swigged orange juice from the carton as if it were a shot of something far more soothing. Midswig, he caught himself and swore. “Sorry.” Setting the juice on the counter, he got a glass. “I lived alone so long, I’ve still got a lot of bad habits.”

Uncle Max? Uncle? “You’re not married?” D.J. blurted, realizing immediately she was going to have to work on subtlety. “I mean, I thought…I assumed you were married to the children’s mother. That you were their father.”

Max drank half a glass of juice then set it aside and frowned. “Their mother was my cousin.” He smiled. “You thought I was their father? That makes sense. I suppose I was so relieved to hire you, the little facts slipped my mind.”

“Little facts? Mr. Lotorto, that is not a little fact.” Questions raced through D.J.’s brain faster than she could sort them.

Laughing, Max reached for her elbow. “Mr. Lotorto? You can’t be that angry about an oversight.” Holding her arm, he guided her calmly toward the living room. “Come on, let’s sit down while we have the chance. Not even 9:00 a.m., and I’m beat already.” His smile was tired as he pointed her toward the sofa and settled himself on a large chenille-covered easy chair. “Embarking on fatherhood and a new business at the same time isn’t exactly what I’d planned.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t the children’s father?”

Facing her, he wiped the smile from his face and said, “I just didn’t think about it. Honest. Does it make that big a difference?”

D.J. thought a moment and decided that yes, it made a very big difference, though she’d have a hard time articulating why. She knew that decent men, good men, accepted the responsibility of single parenthood. But how did one characterize a man willing to take in four kids he hadn’t even fathered? Also, D.J. had expected Loretta to be mighty pleased at the news she had grandchildren. Now D.J. would have to find out whether Loretta was related to the kids at all.

“Actually, I’m not their uncle,” Max said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Terry was my cousin. Let’s see, that would make me…”

“A saint.” D.J. gaped at the man before her. Good Lord, not only hadn’t he fathered the children, he wasn’t even their immediate family. Nor was he being paid. The foster families who’d taken her in had been compensated fairly well by the state.

“I’m their second cousin,” Max corrected, quickly disabusing her of the saint notion. “Believe, me, Daisy, I have never been in line for canonization. I’m just a guy muddling through.”

Exactly what she’d expect a saint to say. So Terry, the woman whose picture he’d looked at with such tenderness, had been his cousin. “Why?” she asked bluntly. “Why are you raising your cousin’s children?” A thought occurred to her. “Is this a temporary setup?”

“No, it’s not temporary.” Max looked angry, even offended. “The kids are going to stay with me. Right here. I don’t consider family a temporary arrangement.”

Sorry. His tone might have cowed someone else into abandoning her questions. But if anything, D.J. was more curious than before. What made a single man willing to turn his life upside down?

“Where is your cousin?”

Max’s jaw tensed. A distant, unhappy expression entered his eyes. “She passed away.”

So this really was permanent. “Look, Max, I’m not implying you can’t handle this, but aren’t there other people who could help out? Other relatives?”

Max’s expression turned more intense than she’d yet seen it. “I didn’t mean to snap at you before, but you’re not the first person to ask whether this is temporary. Or to suggest that it should be.” He leaned forward. “The kids and I are on our own, Daisy. Except for you.”

Nerves and a growing sense of foreboding made D.J.’s deliberate laugh a little too loud. “That’s not saying much, Max. I’m a…a waitress.”

“How dedicated are you to waitressing?”

“How dedicated?”

“Do you see yourself waiting tables a year from now?”

She hadn’t seen herself waiting tables for five minutes. Not until the idea of going undercover had entered her mind. “I suppose I don’t really have a career plan,” she fibbed, since she couldn’t tell him that in five years she planned to own one of the most successful P.I. firms in Portland, Oregon.

“Stay with us, then.”

The pancakes D.J. had eaten seemed to fall to her feet. She didn’t know how to respond, so Max filled in the silence.

“Let’s sign a year contract—you, me and the kids. We’ll jump into this thing together. We need you, Daisy.”

Holy cow. Holy cow. He wasn’t kidding. She’d expected him to ask her to stay a couple of weeks—three on the outside—while he looked for a professional child care provider. “But…I’m not a nanny,” she stumbled.

“You’re great. The kids like you. I like you. Last night I came home to a clean house and kids who were fed and in bed at a reasonable hour. It finally looked like someone knew what they were doing around here.”

Visions of burnt hot dogs and fried chicken coating ground into the carpet came swiftly to mind. “But I’m not a real nanny.”

Max shrugged. “If you want to get technical, I’m not a real daddy. Love and instinct cover a lot of mistakes.” Max relaxed forward, elbows on his knees. “I like having you here, Daisy. You fit us.”

As a professional, D.J. tried to ignore the highly unprofessional fingers of pleasure that skittered up her spine. She fit?

“The fact is I can’t take care of these kids and run a business by myself. I need you, Daisy Holden, and now that I’ve found you, I don’t intend to let you go.” A smile, wry, attractive, almost infectious, spread across Max’s face. “We haven’t discussed hours or days off yet, but I’ll give you a tip—you can pretty much write your own ticket. Anabel and the boys will be in school next month. I take Mondays off, and Livie can come to work with me one or two other days during the week.”

“But I’m not a—”

“Also, I’ll double what you could have made waiting tables at the tavern.”

D.J. breathed in and out slowly. She couldn’t very well tell him that the money didn’t matter, not after the song and dance she’d given him about needing a job. What could she say? “Thanks, but your grandmother has offered a lot more money for investigating you than you could afford to pay me for being a nanny.” D.J. shook her head imperceptibly. This is what happened when you lied: you had to think of more and more lies to cover the first one.

“Thank you for your faith in me, Max,” she began hesitantly.

Max winced. “I hear a ’but’ coming. Tell you what—don’t say it. Don’t decide yet. I think fate brought you to me, Daisy June,” Max smiled, but he didn’t look as if he was kidding at all. “You showed up exactly when I needed you, even though you’re not from around here. That’s not the kind of divine gift I want to ignore.”

D.J. was sure she’d stopped breathing—which, looking on the bright side, would effectively eliminate her ability to respond. Oh, what a tangled web we weave…

The slider to the backyard opened and closed. Small feet pattered across the linoleum floor and into the living area. Arms down by her sides, Livie ran with a bobbing motion that made her pigtails bounce. Pigtails that big, strong, masculine Max must have put in her hair. A fresh wash of tears streaked the four-year-old’s face. Only when she reached Max did her arms rise in the child’s universal language. Lift me.

Max rose and, with one fluid sweep, had Livie in his arms before he’d even asked what was wrong. When her tears turned to hiccuping sobs, he cupped the back of her head and pressed her close. The gesture was so protective, it almost made Daisy believe that nothing bad could ever happen to this child.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Max murmured as she calmed a bit.

“I got bi-bi-bit!” Livie cradled her own tiny hand.

Shifting his hold on her slightly, Max examined the offended appendage. Clearly, he didn’t see anything. “What bit you?”

She hiccupped several more times then managed to choke out, “A ladybug.”

“Sweetheart, ladybugs don’t bite.”

“Y-yes, they d-d-do!”

As carefully as if it were spun from glass, Max lifted Livie’s hand and healed it with a kiss. “That must have hurt really badly,” he told her, looking into blue eyes that held his. “You’re very brave.”

The twins invaded the room next at their usual boy pace. Anabel followed more sedately.

The chattering about snakes, about who picked up more toys, about where in the yard they would bury a dead gopher if they found one, began immediately. Over the growing cacophony, Max’s gaze met Daisy’s. “Guess we better get this show on the road.” He seemed resigned, a little frustrated, and maybe a tiny bit wary now as he looked at her. “I think I caught you off guard. I didn’t even ask you if you like us. Let’s shelve the conversation for now and pick it up again later.”

He herded the kids to their rooms to get their swimsuits, while she followed ponderously, biting her tongue so she wouldn’t admit out loud that yes, darn it, she liked them a lot.

Daisy poked her head outside the women’s room at Wal-Mart and looked around. Ascertaining that the coast was clear, she emerged from the restroom, leaned against the wall near the door and unzipped her fanny pack. She had two phone calls to make; this was the first chance she’d had all day.

Max had stayed home from work, but instead of giving her the day off to make her decision, he expected her to accompany them all on an “adventure day.”

Apparently, he’d promised the kids a day of fun, which, to accommodate their juvenile tastes, meant the aforementioned bike ride, a picnic and the activity they were currently pursuing—shopping for a bathing suit so Daisy, too, could partake of the community swimming pool.

Oh, joy.

Max had asked her to take the day to decide whether she’d stay or go. There was no decision to make. She wasn’t a nanny. She wasn’t even a waitress. She was a private investigator, and she was starting to dislike this job.

Max needed to look for real child care; he didn’t need to be lulled into a false sense of security, thinking D.J. might actually accept the job permanently. On the other hand, if she told him she wasn’t staying, he might find someone else and fire her before she’d collected all the information Loretta wanted.

Pulling her cell phone out of her fanny pack, D.J. dialed Loretta’s number then checked her watch—2:00 p.m. They’d already gone on their bike ride and picnic. Max had bought them all sandwiches at a market deli, where the lady behind the counter clearly knew him and his charges and was blatantly curious about D.J. Max was saved an introduction when Sean or James—D.J. was still having trouble deciding who was who—informed everyone within earshot at the small, locally owned market that “This girl’s our new nanny. She’s prob’ly better than the old ones. We dunno yet.”

During the picnic, which took place in a park next to a fire station, Max spread out a blanket while D.J. awkwardly handed out sandwiches. Awkwardly, because it failed to occur to her that the sandwiches needed to be unwrapped for Livie and the boys. Or that stupid, idiotic juice cartons spewed like damned geysers if you didn’t hold them properly when you stuck the little straw in.

The boys had guffawed, Anabel had sighed in her too-grownup way, which was going to doom her to perennial geekdom in junior high if she wasn’t careful, and Liv had looked as if she was going to cry when she realized most of her juice was watering the park lawn.

Well, pardon me. I drink out of cups! Daisy had wanted to shout, but Max had come to her rescue by claiming it happened to him all the time, too. Then he shared his lemonade with Liv, whispering in the girl’s ear that he would never, ever share his drink with anyone but his best girl.

D.J. pressed Loretta’s number into her cell phone. She was ready to give Loretta the information she currently had, and as far as D.J. was concerned that ought to be enough. Loretta had wanted to know her grandson’s personal habits, whether he was in a relationship and, if so, what kind of woman he was with—someone who might go after his money should their relationship falter, or a woman who was financially independent? She wanted to know if Max had a good work history. She’d asked D.J. to secure his TRW report and, if possible, copies of his tax returns for the past five years. None of those requests was out of the ordinary, but now D.J. realized that all Loretta would glean from that kind of information was a pile of facts.

Loretta needed to watch her grandson express amazement over the boys’ discovery of a cricket and to observe his interest as Anabel painstakingly explained the difference between dry ice and the kind they had in the picnic hamper. She needed to be present when Max made Liv feel like the most important little girl in the world. Then Mrs. Mallory would know what D.J. had already discovered: Max was wonderful.

D.J. didn’t want to be in his house under false pretenses anymore. She didn’t want to lie to him eight sentences out of ten—even if it was for a pretty good cause. Max had integrity. D.J. had only known him two days, yet she admired him already. For the first time, she felt embarrassed to be investigating someone. She longed to talk the situation over with Bill, but he’d been away on another of his excursions when she’d left Portland. She didn’t know where he was exactly. So D.J. lectured herself: Max’s opinion of you is irrelevant. This is a job; it’s not personal.

Punching the send button, she waited for the phone to ring.

Shifting to stand by the drinking fountain at Wal-Mart as three women and their children pressed past her on their way to the ladies’ room, D.J. willed Loretta to pick up.

On the fourth ring, the housekeeper answered. When D.J. asked for Loretta, she was told that Mrs. Mallory was “out of town for the next two weeks.”

“What? I wasn’t told she was going out of town,” D.J. protested. “Where can she be reached?”

“She can’t, miss,” the housekeeper answered shortly. “Mrs. Mallory left strict instructions that she is on vacation and does not wish to be disturbed.”

D.J. scowled into the phone. “Excuse me? She and I are working together. She can’t be out of touch that long.”

The housekeeper insisted that Mrs. Mallory could do what she liked, whereupon D.J. copped an attitude at least as snooty as the housekeeper’s and said, “Tell Mrs. Mallory that if she wants information about her grandson, she needs to get in touch with D.J. Holden ASAP.” Then she left her cell phone number and rang off, feeling exasperated with Loretta and with herself. She should have asked Loretta many more questions the first time they met. How had she become estranged from her daughter, for instance, and why hadn’t she tried to get in touch with Max before now?

It occurred to D.J. that at this point she knew more about Max than she did about her real employer.

Checking her watch, she saw that she’d been away from Maxwell and the crew for fifteen minutes. Hoping she could safely borrow five minutes more, she dialed Bill’s cell phone. He had no idea what she was up to.

His phone rang three times before voice mail picked up. “Hi. You’ve reached Bill. I’m gone fishing. It’d be a crime against nature to leave my cell phone on when I’m exploring God’s country, but you can leave a message. If the fish aren’t biting, I’ll call you back.” Beep.

What? Now he wasn’t answering his phone? “Bill, it’s Daisy.” She hurried to speak after the tone, using her given name because neither Bill nor Eileen had liked it when she called herself D.J. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going fishing? You don’t even like fish!” Taking a breath, she tried not to sound as frantic as she felt. It simply wasn’t like Bill to disconnect completely. “Listen, where are you exactly? Call me on my cell, okay, as soon as you get this. I’m in southern Oregon, by the way. I took a job down here. It’s a good one. I’ll be home soon.” She paused, wondering what else she should tell him: I’m trying to save our business? She didn’t want to sound nagging or judgmental or paranoid, but she wished he’d acknowledge the financial trouble they were in. “Okay. Well. Call me.”

Snapping her phone shut, D.J. slumped against the wall. Bill had always been such a rock. Now he wasn’t even trying to save the agency he’d spent thirty-some years building, and she couldn’t predict his actions at all.

Bill simply hadn’t recovered from the loss of Eileen; that had to be the problem, and it was up to D.J. to help. Like her, he had no one else. Bucking up her resolve, she knew she wouldn’t let Bill or the business down.

“Hey, there you are.” Max rounded the corner with one twin hanging on his leg, another hanging upside down in his arms. Anabel and Liv brought up the rear. “The boys need to use the john. Will you watch the girls?” Anabel’s wary expression said she wasn’t at all certain D.J. was up to this task.

“I got a bathing suit,” Livie announced gaily. “It’s brand-new, and it gots beautiful flowers. I’ll show you.”

D.J. smiled. It was nearly impossible to hang on to tension when the winsome four-year-old blinked those blue eyes up at her. She wondered if Terry had been a devoted mother. The kids’ basic happy natures and Max’s love for his late cousin suggested that she’d done a good job with the kids.

“Did you get a bathing suit, too, Anabel?” D.J. asked the preteen, hoping to receive at least a brief answering smile.

The girl pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I don’t need one. Uncle Max has a lot of extra mouths to feed now, and my bathing suit still fits.”

Geez, Louise. D.J. glanced at Max, who rolled his eyes.

“You’re very thoughtful, Anabel,” D.J. commended. And way more grown-up than you should be. Anabel too easily assumed a parental role, which made D.J. wonder if she should amend her estimation of Terry. D.J. had been like that, too, as a kid. She’d figured out early on that she’d have to rely on herself. Did Anabel feel the same? D.J. made a mental note to get more concrete information about Max’s cousin as soon as she could.

Max interrupted her thoughts. “Now that Livie’s got a new swimsuit, when we come out, we can get one for you.”

It took D.J. a moment to realize he was addressing her and not Anabel. “Oh, you know, about that—”

James squealed as Max dipped him toward the ground. This time D.J. was sure it was James. She’d realized she could distinguish between the twins if she remembered that James’s hair was curlier.

Max swung the little boy like a pendulum, making him chortle. D.J. grinned. For a flash, she wondered what might have happened if she and Max had really truly met in a bar, no hidden agenda involved, with her in a red dress and him seeing her from twenty feet away and sending her a drink. On the house.

“So, you’ll watch the girls while the fellas and I are taking care of business?”

D.J. nodded. “Sure. I’ll be here.”

Max gave her a lingering look that sent about a thousand butterflies swirling through her stomach. “I’m counting on it.”

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