Nanny (12 page)

chapter
14

A
udra clung to Liberace, crawling along a high branch. She could see the wall, see her own window.

Sweat crept down her neck. She was grounded now, thanks to her tricks on the new nanny. But if she were caught tonight, she'd be grounded for the rest of her life.

If I don't get caught,
she swore,
I'll never sneak out again. Never ever.

She had already lowered the ladder via her rope, and as she crept along the branch she noticed a light in the new nanny's guesthouse. Gabe was still up, too, judging by the lights in his rooms.

What if they saw her?

Seconds later the window was open, and she helped Sophy cross the sill. After that, she set Liberace down, raised the ladder and stowed it away, then tiptoed across the floor, undressed quickly, and slid into bed.

Audra's heart continued to pound madly, but as minutes passed without discovery, she gradually began to slip into sleep.

She was dreaming about surfing when a hand circled her arm.

Sophy was standing near her bed, looking frightened. A big stuffed crocodile stuck out beneath her arm.

“What?”

“I can't sleep. I had bad dreams again.”

Audra sighed and sat up. “What is it this time, the big orange worms or the green talking cats?”

Sophy stood very still. “This time it was a man. He was standing at the foot of my bed, watching me.” Sophy clutched her crocodile tighter. “Just watching.”

“Who?”

“I don't know.”

Audra pulled back her covers. “Dreams don't mean anything, silly. Come on, let's go to sleep.”

“But he was ugly.” Sophy slid into the bed, shivering as Audra pulled the covers back up. “And this dream was different.
Important,
like a warning.” She lay tensely, staring through the window at the mist. “Something's going to happen, Auddie. I know it.”

“Go to sleep,” Audra said impatiently. “Stuff like that doesn't mean anything.”

But Audra lay awake for a long time, watching shadows move against the lawn. Sophy's dreams weren't like other people's dreams. Her sister's dreams—the ones she called
important
—had a bad habit of coming true.

 

With a curse, Gabe shoved back his blanket and checked his watch. Summer should be finishing her second security tour shortly, and then it would be his turn.

She was one hell of a woman, Gabe thought grimly. Spit-shined and buttoned-down, hungry for action and a chance to prove herself.

All job, she had told him. But there had been vulnerability in her face, just for a second, when he'd been working that damned cactus needle out of her lip. Gabe had found himself wanting to explore her lips slowly and see what it took to coax out a sigh of pleasure.

He shook his head, fully aware that Summer Mulvaney was off-limits.

Buck naked, he trotted to the shower and swung the elegant control bar until frigid water filled the air. He barely noticed the pain in his right knee or the stiffness in his leg. The scars from his last round of surgery were finally starting to fade, but he was still far from his full fighting capacity. With luck and some serious sweat, he'd be at eighty percent by the time this mission was done.

After a quick shower, Gabe cut the water and did a slow knee bend. Ligaments tightened and muscle burned, but he savored the pain like an old friend. At one time he had despaired of recovering his mobility, and a SEAL with limited capacity was bound for a desk assignment or training responsibilities. Both were crucial tasks, but not ones that Gabe had joined the Navy to carry out, and the sooner he regained his range of motion and full strength, the sooner he'd be reassigned to the dangerous work he did best.

Grabbing a towel, he dried quickly and dressed in black shorts. His knee burned as he pulled out a locked metal case, keyed the code, and located three documents. After studying two maps thoroughly, he unrolled a set of blueprints to the clinic in Los Reyes where Cara O'Connor had been a patient in 1986.

The blueprints were dated 1983.

He punched in a number on his encrypted cell phone and waited for the recorded message to click in.

“Yeah, this is Morgan,” he said. “I need a large pepperoni with double cheese, so get your butt in gear and start cooking.”

He glanced at the display and smiled when his phone rang five seconds later. “You're late, Teague. I could be a dead man in five. What kept you—a hot date with a smoldering brunette?”

At the other end of the line, Ishmael Teague flipped off the microwave communication prototype he'd been testing and said one gruff phrase in answer.

Gabe barked with laughter. “Same to you, pal. I'd say in spades, but you'd probably kick me around the block.”

“Damned straight. And it only took me three seconds to call back.” Izzy hesitated. “How's your leg?”

“Top-notch, compadre. No pain anywhere.” The lie flowed easily, but neither man believed it for a second. “I need an update on the clinic blueprints. I don't want any surprises down in Mexico, so I need to know all renovations or structural changes that have been completed. And while you're doing that hacker-magic of yours, see if you can scout out the placement of any security cameras and alarm systems. I should be able to spot most of them, but I'm taking nothing for granted.”

Izzy chuckled. “You don't want to be a guest of the Mexican Federales for the next ten years?”

“Sorry, I've got better plans. As soon as I wrap up this mission for Senator Winslow, I've got two weeks' leave and I'm chartering a boat in Tortola. Are you up for some sun, sangria, and a few adventurous ladies in search of a clothing-optional escape?”

“Name the place and the time. Just get that leg of yours in shape first,” Izzy said quietly. “And you'll have your blueprints in an hour or so.”

“Show-off.” Still smiling, Gabe hung up. Ishmael Teague was a genius at finding things most people considered invisible. If any plans were available, he would find them.

Focusing, Gabe sank into another deep knee bend. Remaining crouched, he ticked off the seconds on his watch.

The burn grew to an angry throb as he approached two minutes, but Gabe gutted out the pain, blocking the memories of the high-altitude, low-opening jump that had gone wrong months before, landing him on a rocky slope rather than a deepwater lagoon off the coast of Australia. He'd nearly bought it on that jump, thanks to an inexperienced pilot.

But Gabe Morgan was an expert at knowing his own limits. He took everything right to the edge, and was pale and sweating when he extended his bad leg into a lunge position.

Experience had taught him that pain could be your friend if you let it, and his pain was going to get him strong again, back into the action where he belonged. With that thought in mind, he closed his eyes and kept right on counting.

 

“Cara?”

Pacing the room, Cara cradled her phone. She was too distracted to read and too worried to sleep. “I'm still here, Tate.”

“Are the girls asleep?”

“For an hour.” Cara stopped at a big glass table covered with photographs. She smiled at the picture of Audra tying her first fishing lure and Sophy riding her first bike. Memories washed over her in waves as she realized how soon her precious girls would be grown up, waving her good-bye.

“Honey?”

“Sorry, Tate. I've just been thinking that I may take some time off. The girls need me now and I'm always missing some event or other. San Francisco can get along without me for a few years.”

“You love your job, Cara. It's not something you can walk back into easily.”

“I know that.” She cradled a photo of Audra and Sophy riding horses on Tate's ranch in Wyoming. “But it's a possibility.”

“You know I want you and the girls with me. But if I run, there will be impossible hours, endless stress, and more impossible hours.”

Cara closed her eyes tightly. “You
have
to run, Tate. You'll be our best president.”

“You and my mother keep telling me that, but I'm not so sure.” Tate sighed. “I should probably go. I have a six
A
.
M
. conference call.”

“Get some rest.” Cara's voice was husky. “Think of me, wrapped around you.”

“If I think of that, I'll never sleep. By the way, I called Amanda and apologized abjectly for cutting her off. She suggests that you take the girls up to the ranch for a few days. I didn't tell her that we'll be there this weekend.”

Cara smiled. Amanda Winslow's charm was as legendary as her stubbornness. No mother had done more to further her son's career or welcome a new woman into his life. “I'll call her tomorrow and say we'll set a day. The girls will love seeing her.” Cara smiled. “Did she ask you about my dress again?”

“Only a thousand times.” Tate's voice fell. “Forget about the dress and think about how much I love you. I wish I didn't have to wait for breakfast to see you, so I'm going to turn off the light and think about when we finally stop this charade and sleep in the same bed.”

The line went dead, and Cara put down the phone, listening to the silence of the house. For some reason the stillness left her uneasy, filled with fears too vague for names.

Instead of sleeping, she decided to check on Audra and Sophy, then make sure that all the doors and windows were closed. FBI agents were trained, tough professionals, but no one could be as paranoid as a mother.

chapter
15

T
he next morning, clouds piled in from the west as Summer turned up the front drive. Audra dumped her backpack on the seat and slid in, making room for Sophy, who carried Liberace in a cage. She'd pleaded with her mother for permission to take the pet to class for show-and-tell, but Cara had explained that ferrets were currently illegal in California. Though the regulations were based on misinformation, it wouldn't do to flaunt them, and Sophy had finally agreed to take a stuffed corduroy ferret. It wasn't half as much fun—but at least it wasn't illegal.

She still insisted that Liberace go along for the ride, safe in his cage.

Sophy's pink gloves were back in place, Summer noted, a perfect match for pink flowered capris and pink sneakers. It was a fashion look that only a nine-year-old could carry off, Summer thought wryly.

“Everything stowed? Schoolbooks, lunch boxes, ferrets?” Summer took the muttering as assent and headed down the road to school. Cara and the senator had left an hour earlier after a hurried breakfast of oatmeal, croissants, and eggs with the girls. The senator had been joined by a secretary and a senior staffer, who were staying in Carmel to prepare for a benefit the senator was hosting for a local women's crisis center.

Because today was a half-day at summer school, Summer was scheduled to pick up the girls before lunch and make sure they were packed by the time Cara returned at five-thirty.

As she stopped at the corner, she saw Audra's friend waving to them.

“I forgot, Tracey needs a ride.” Audra moved over to make room, her face unreadable.

Tracey was dressed in sequined flip-flops, a midriff-baring top, and a skintight denim skirt. Interesting school uniform, Summer thought, managing a cheerful greeting as Tracey scooted in next to her friend.

“Sorry, but I missed the bus, and our BMW is in the shop. Stepfather #4 says it's the brakes, but his car knowledge sucks, so who knows?”

Audra elbowed her friend, who shrugged, then produced a pack of cigarettes from her backpack.

Sophy's eyes grew huge as Tracey flipped open a heavy gold lighter.

“Please don't smoke in the car,” Summer said calmly. “Sophy has allergies, and I doubt it's good for her ferret.”

Tracey sighed, but pocketed the lighter and studied Summer. “So you're—what, the new nanny?”

“That's right.”

“What happened to the old one? Susanne What's-Her-Name, who laughs like a horse?”

“Ms. Broyland had appendicitis, so I came to fill in for a few weeks.”

“You don't look like a nanny.” Tracey sounded querulous, like a sulky child.

Summer smiled slightly. “You never know.”

“And what's with your hair? It looks—weird.”

Audra sighed and rolled her eyes.

“This cut? It's all the rage,” Summer lied calmly. “Back East, anyway.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Tracey, isn't it? You live one street over?”

“Yeah, that's me.” The girl drummed red-tipped nails on the window. “You come from San Francisco?”

“No, I live near Philadelphia. I taught at a small women's college there.”

“No shit.” Tracey frowned as Audra gave her another jab with her elbow.
“What?”

“I think Audra doesn't like your language.”

“Yeah, well, sorry and all that. So what did you teach at that college?” Tracey sniggered. “Crewelwork or something doofus like that?”

“I taught serial profiling.”

“Huh?”

“Analysis of criminal psychology for female police officers.” Summer had decided on this story with Cara. Staying close to the truth was always the best idea.

“No sh—” Tracey crossed her arms. “I mean, no kidding. So that's like murders and stuff?”

“You got it.”

“Awesome. You dig into their minds, see what makes them tick?”

Summer nodded. “You look for patterns and try to recognize when they'll do it again.”

“So you've met a lot of criminals and crazy people?”

“Enough.” Summer swung neatly around the corner, pulling into a spot at the side of the parking area while little girls skipped past in bright shorts and bigger girls slouched along in miniskirts and peasant blouses.

A California education, Summer thought. Free and energetic, full of talk and creativity. Nothing like the cold, Pine-Sol–scented halls of her schools back in Pennsylvania, dominated by the click of identical polished loafers, knife-sharp pleated skirts, and silent female hierarchies.

She passed Sophy her lunch box, and the girl took it carefully, then said good-bye to her pet ferret, who made short,
chirr
ing sounds. Audra was already outside, waiting impatiently, but Tracey was still studying Summer in the rearview mirror.

“You ever kill anyone?”

“I'm not in that kind of work,” Summer said blandly. It was a lie. She'd killed once and clawed through gasping nightmares for months afterward.

Tracey started to say something else, but a car horn sounded behind them. Her face closed down, sullen and unreadable. “Yeah, well—see you.” She closed the door and shouldered a red leather bag that probably cost a month of Summer's wages.

The honking came again, and this time a sleek silver BMW arrowed into the spot beside Summer. A man jumped out, his baggy brown uniform distinctly out of place among the sea of bright skirts and dresses.

He called to Tracey, looking expectant, but the girl tossed back her hair and shrugged, bored as only someone who is sixteen can look. The man in brown—Tony's Autobody, according to the back of the shirt—started to talk louder, leaning in with arms moving.

Tracey was completely unimpressed, shaking her head.

Summer rolled down her window, trying to pick up some of the conversation, but Tracey shrugged and raced off toward the front entrance, while Mr. Autobody stood glaring after her.

Summer locked the SUV and followed with Sophy, checking out the area for idling cars, loitering workers, or any other potential threats. Her route brought her past the man in the Autobody uniform, who made a rude gesture in Tracey's direction, then stalked back to the BMW.

Because Cara had insisted the girls' routine stay as normal as possible, Summer hung back unobtrusively amid the chattering crowd flowing down the hall. Sophy had a violin lesson first thing, and Summer watched Audra escort her sister to the music room, where Sophy was greeted by her teacher. Then Audra continued up the stairs, headed for the language wing.

After making sure Audra entered Intermediate Spanish, Summer circled back to the front steps, pleased to see a plainclothes security guard in position. The woman would make periodic spot checks on both girls, Summer knew.

She had argued for even more supervision, but no officers could be spared without clear evidence of intended harm. That left Summer on her own, which was generally the way she preferred to work, anyway.

She checked her watch, then trotted down the steps. There was still time for a slow circuit of the school grounds before she returned to the house.

 

A delivery truck was backing toward the garage when Summer turned the corner in front of the O'Connor house. The driver slammed on his brakes, cursing at a snappy silver BMW that raced along the driveway and cut around him on the right.

“You got a death wish or something, moron?”

The driver of the BMW—Tony's Autobody again, Summer noted—fishtailed hard, then shot out of the car. In seconds the two men were circling and trading insults that would have made a mobster's hair curl.

After more arguing, the Autobody poster boy waved his papers in the air and pointed toward the house.

The truck driver swung up his arms. “Not here. Can't you read? This is 1221,
not
1251.” The trucker gave an angry wave at the neat brass letters on the front porch. “Now get lost, because you're costing me time, which I ain't got any extra of.”

The repairman slouched to the car, ground into gear, and raced back to the road, making a rude gesture.

Headed to Tracey's house, Summer concluded. Given his number-reading abilities, she didn't place much confidence in how long the repaired BMW would hold up.

She looked up to see Gabe leaning against her window, watching the BMW.

“Whole lot of activity for a Friday morning. Tony's Autobody?”

“Wrong house. He was returning the car to Tracey Van Doren's house.”

“I thought the car looked familiar. Everything quiet at school?”

Summer nodded, gathering her purse and Liberace's cage. “I'd like to go over the plans for Mexico before I leave to pick up the girls.” Summer looked up the driveway as the back door opened. A tall woman in a pink Chanel suit was talking with Imelda. “Who's that?”

“Amanda Winslow, Tate's mother. She charmed most of Washington in her day, and she still makes heads turn. I think she came by to drop off a silver urn and a painted platter for Cara, but it might have been a painted urn and a silver platter. She and Patrick were arguing about how to make the perfect sushi roll, the last I heard.”

Summer had to admit that Tate's mother was striking. Her laugh was infectious as it drifted over the lawn. “Any strife there?”

“The mother-in-law part, you mean? Not a whiff. Her son's in love and she supports him two hundred percent. She says Cara and the girls are the best thing that ever happened to him.” Gabe looked at Summer and shook his head. “Relax, will you?”

“I must have missed that part of the job description,” she said flatly. “Can we go over those plans now?”

Amanda Winslow turned as a short man in a denim chef's jacket and a red beret came to the back door, accompanied by Imelda.

“That's Cara's chef, I take it?”

“Patrick, the wizard with pastry.”

The senator's mother appeared to be issuing a string of orders, which the chef listened to carefully, but he stopped nodding when the truck driver jumped down and began to unload produce boxes.

“But I need the organic,” the chef said anxiously. “I ordered raspberries and basil.”

The driver shrugged. “I got rounds to finish, Rodney. I can't stand here all day yapping.”

“It's Patrick, not Rodney. And there must be a mistake. I didn't order these things.”

The driver leaned closer and waved his clipboard. “Fratelli and Sons don't make mistakes, understand?”

“But—”

“Listen, Rodney, I need a signature, and one way or another, I'm gonna get it. You see what I'm saying?” Scowling, the driver headed back behind the truck while the chef stared glumly at the clipboard.

Gabe rubbed his jaw. “The man is a genius with pastry dough, but hopeless with pressure, I'm afraid.”

“Why doesn't he order from someone else?”

“It's hard to find good suppliers. In San Francisco, he could pick and choose, but not here.” Gabe rolled his shoulders. “I'd better go help him with those potato sacks. Come on, I'll introduce you.”

Summer followed Gabe to the garage, where the young chef was struggling with a fifty-pound bag of russet potatoes, which he dropped when he saw Gabe and Summer.

“If you're here to cancel the prosciutto delivery,” he said to Summer, “I may have to kill myself.”

“Relax, Patrick. Your prosciutto's safe for the time being.” Gabe pointed over his shoulder. “This is Summer Mulvaney, the girls' new nanny.”

Instantly Patrick brightened, pumping Summer's hand. “Great to meet you. Ms. O has been really jazzed about you coming.” His brow rose. “Do you like white truffle oil?”

If this was some kind of arcane test, Summer didn't have a clue to the right answer. “Sometimes.”

Patrick rubbed his hands eagerly. “Great. I'm making focaccia with white truffle oil and caprese salad for lunch. Audra loves both of them. The girl has excellent taste, for a teenager. No fast food and Oreos for her.” He took off his beret and wiped his forehead. “What am I going to do about baby artichokes? I need them for the benefit dinner Ms. O is planning.”

Gabe hefted a bag of potatoes. “You're on your own there, Patrick. I've got two hundred roses and seventy-five calla lilies to worry about.”

Up on the porch, Amanda Winslow turned, following Imelda back into the house. Summer heard something about organizing table skirts.

Meanwhile, Patrick frowned at the sunny yard. “It's going to be hell keeping the buffet placements warm for three hours.” He ran his hand through long brown hair that stuck out in spiky clumps. “Will we have enough electrical outlets on the grass?”

“Ms. O'Connor asked me to work on it. I think I can guarantee you about six.”

The young chef shoved up his sleeves and cracked his knuckles. “Not enough, but I guess I can come up with something. Chafing dishes,” he muttered, lifting a box of Roma tomatoes and heading for the kitchen. “I can probably squeeze two hours out of a good candle. Back at the CIA, they told me there'd be days like this.”

Summer watched him charge into the garage with the tomatoes cradled at his chest. “CIA?”

“Culinary Institute of America. He was their star grad five years ago.” Along with the potatoes, Gabe picked up what appeared to be three boxes of white asparagus.

“I can help you with those.”

“No need.” His voice fell. “I'll be done here in five minutes. Then we can get to work.”

As he spoke, a staple broke free on the asparagus box and white stalks flew in every direction. Cursing, Gabe grabbed for the broken end of the box, slamming against Summer's right arm, in the process.

She went pale, her whole body tense.

“Damn. Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Her voice was low. “Forget it.”

Gabe dropped the produce on the grass and reached for Summer's arm. “You may need ice on that. Let me have a look.”