Home Field Advantage (2 page)

John's voice had become
brusque by that sixth phone call. "I'd better ask right off the bat
whether you'd consider taking my daughter overnight. I have to go out of town
and our new housekeeper failed us."

"Well..." The woman
on the other end hesitated and his hopes rose a notch. "I suppose I could
consider it." Her voice suddenly became muffled. "Jesse, stay out of
the bathroom! Toilet paper isn't to play with!" She came back on the line.
"I'm sorry. How old did you say your daughter is?"

"I didn't say. She's
five."

"And does she have any
particular needs or problems?"

"No. Emma is always
cooperative."

"Really." She
sounded faintly disbelieving. "Well, normally, if I'll be taking a child
on long- term, I like to schedule an interview alone with the parents first.
But if this is just a temporary situation...?"

"It is," he assured
her.

"Then why don't you bring
Emma over this evening so we can get acquainted?" She mentioned her
charges, which John thought were reasonable. Too reasonable, maybe. But he was
desperate, and anyway, he had faith in his ability to judge people.

"About seven
o'clock?" he asked, and she agreed. Only after hanging up did John realize
that he had forgotten to ask her name.

At seven that evening he
pulled up to the ramshackle white cottage that matched the address the woman
had given him. Dusk had deepened the blue sky, and the air was crisp with early
autumn. Apples ripened on a huge old gnarled tree that overhung the cottage,
and a white-painted fence enclosed at least an acre. One of the smallest,
plumpest ponies he'd ever seen gazed at them over the board fence. Emma gave a
crow of delight and tugged at his hand.

"Can we pet the
pony?"

"After we're done
inside," he said firmly. "We'll ask if it's okay then."

The pony forgotten as they
neared the front door, Emma clung to John's hand and hung slightly back. The
spiky blue-and-yellow blooms of asters and chrysanthemums spilled over the low
picket fence that edged a flower bed along the house. John looked down at his
daughter's dark head and felt a pang of bittersweet love. He wanted to give her
everything, and was reduced to this: abandoning her for days with a virtual
stranger.

His knock produced an
unexpected cacophony of noise. The deep bark of a large dog mixed with the
higher yap of a smaller one and the squeals of more than one child. A zoo.
John's hand tightened protectively on Emma's shoulder as the door swung open.

He was only peripherally
aware of the toddlers peeking around the woman's legs, of the walking dust mop
that sprang out onto the porch, of the deep woofs still coming from the
background. For just an instant, the world narrowed so that all he saw was her.

She might have stepped out of
an old picture of Russian nobility. Thick dark hair slid out of the loose bun
at the nape of her long, slender neck, and eyes as dark as midnight stared back
at him. Her cheekbones were stark, her forehead high, her nose slender and
patrician, and her mouth soft and sensuous. She was pale, with the creamy
complexion Victorian women had been known to kill themselves trying to achieve.
Perhaps the contrast of hair and eyes and skin was what had made him think of
her in black and white, like an old daguerrotype, but the faded jeans and loose
cotton sweater were thoroughly modern.

His voice sounded strange to
his own ears when he managed to summon his powers of speech. "Uh... I'm
John McRae. I called earlier?"

And then she smiled, not at
him but at Emma, and his heart lurched painfully in his chest. Perhaps the
perfect woman didn't answer advertisements in the newspaper, but it appeared
that she did place them.

"Hi. You're Emma? I'm
Marian. And this," she glanced around, then lightly touched the head of a
brown-haired boy who looked about two, "is Jesse and"—her hand moved
on to the girl, obviously a twin—"his sister Anna. And I see you've
already met Aja."

Emma nodded shyly, reaching
down to pat the ball of fur that bounded around their feet.

"Come in." Marian
stepped back. "For heaven's sake, hush!" She gave John an apologetic
look. "Rhodo sounds much more ferocious than he is. You don't mind Emma
being around dogs, do you?"

"Not at all." John
held out one hand to be sniffed by the huge black German shepherd that wagged
his tail. As he followed Marian and the toddlers that clung to her into the
living room, John somehow wasn't surprised to notice two cats as well, one
lounging on the back of the couch, the other draped over an end table.

Marian was suddenly conscious
of the cats, too, not to mention the Duplo spread over ten square feet, and the
puzzle pieces that had been cheerfully scattered, and the coloring books and
markers, the picture books, boxes of juice, and a plate of cookie crumbles.
Why hadn't she picked up before he came? But the house was clean, she told
herself defensively. Just cluttered. With six children here all day, what would
he expect?

She stole a glance, and found
his expression inscrutable, although his gaze was taking it all in. She had the
feeling he could see even the Cheerios that Jamie had been poking under the
couch that morning. Marian wasn't usually so self-conscious. What was it about
him?

He wasn't exactly handsome;
his lean face was too rugged for that. It was also faintly familiar, and yet
she didn't remember ever meeting him. It would have been hard to forget a man
built like him, tall and broad-shouldered with narrow hips and long legs. And
while his straight brown hair matched his daughter's, the level gray eyes that
held Marian's sparked no recognition.

Her awareness of him made her
stomach knot. The feeling wasn't wholly pleasant. For heaven's sake, the man
was probably married. Anyway, it was the child she should be paying attention
to, not the father. The little girl's gaze was still downcast, her teeth
worrying at her lower lip.

"Would you like to color
while your dad and I are talking?" Marian asked gently. She stopped herself
from reaching out to brush the child's bangs back from her forehead. It was too
soon.

After a pause, Emma
whispered, "No."

"Okay. Why don't you sit
down?" Marian wrinkled her nose. "If you can find a place. Sorry. I always
pick up, but I haven't found the energy yet tonight. Six kids are like a
tornado."

John looked at her
quizzically. "Six is quite a few. Are you sure you can handle
another?"

"I'm licensed for
seven." Marian met his gaze, hating the nervous flutter in her chest.
"Which I think is too many. But if I understood you, it's this weekend you
want to leave Emma?" He agreed, and she continued. "The other
children in my care come Monday through Friday, even the drop-ins. On weekends
I have only my own."

He nodded, his expression
noncommittal. There was something in his gray eyes, though, an answering
awareness, that reminded her of that first odd moment when she had opened the
door. She tried to tell herself that she had imagined the way he had looked at
her, but failed.

Feeling the need to fuss,
Marian collected a pile of books from the couch and carried them over to the
bookcase, talking over her shoulder. "Jesse and Anna are two and a half,
so they're a little young to be friends for you, Emma, but they'd be thrilled
if you played with them! Did you notice that we have a pony?"

Still standing stiffly beside
her father, Emma nodded again. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the
two dark-haired, dark-eyed toddlers who stared silently at her.

"We have a goat, too,
which saves me from having to mow. Goats are funny creatures. Esmerelda likes
to nibble on noses and ears, so you have to watch her, but she's really a lot
of fun. I save her hair when she sheds, and we dye it for crafts. For Mother's
Day some of the kids took home cups decorated with purple goat hair."

"Emma and I are on our
own," John said.

Marian wasn't sure how to
take that—as a warning, perhaps? She met his eyes when she said, "Jesse
and Anna and I are, too. We'd love to have your company, Emma, if you think
you'd feel comfortable with us."

The man replied only
indirectly. "Do you have an extra bed for Emma? Or would she need to bring
a sleeping bag?"

"I have a bed," she
said. "This place is three-bedroom, believe it or not. They're tiny,
but—" She broke off. "Would you like to look around?"

He nodded and stood. "If
you don't mind."

"Not at all. I'm afraid
the dinner dishes are still piled up." Marian caught herself apologizing.
She wasn't one of the world's great housekeepers and she wasn't about to
pretend that she was, just because the girl's father intimidated her. If that
was the right word, she thought, all too aware of his long, lazy stride as he
followed her, of how big the hand was that hadn't left his daughter's shoulder.

As she led a silent tour from
room to room, the shabbiness of the house made her self-conscious as well. The
kitchen cabinets were old painted wood, the vinyl floor cracking, its finish
long worn off. The hardwood floors needed refinishing, the bathroom could have
used new fixtures. She hadn't been able to afford to do any of those projects.
What she could afford she'd done. The wallpapers were bright and airy, the
curtains gauzy splashes of color. She'd made slipcovers for some of the
furniture, stripped and stained the wood pieces. There were books in every
room, and colorful toys randomly stacked on shelves. It was home, she thought,
trying to ignore a clutch of sadness. Maybe only for another few months, but
while the house was still hers, she refused to feel defensive about it.

The small hallway ended at
the three bedrooms. The door was open to hers, which lay straight ahead.
Marian's instinctive reaction was hurriedly to pull the door shut, as though by
doing so she could salvage some remnant of privacy. But that was ridiculous. He
had seen a bed before. Hers would tell him nothing about her.

But Marian was wrong.
Although he didn't allow his expression to change, John had guessed quite a lot
about her from one leisurely glance. The quilt, in an unusual and striking mix
of teal and orange, was clearly handmade. The room was untidy in a casual,
homey way; books were piled haphazardly on the end table, a stuffed rabbit lay
at the foot of the bed, and one slipper hadn't quite made it into the closet. A
ball of bright red yarn had rolled out of a bag. The bedroom was emphatically
hers, without any sign that a man had ever belonged there.

The two children's rooms duly
inspected, John followed her back into the living room, Emma silent at his
side. He should have been thinking only about his daughter, about her reaction,
but instead he seized the opportunity to admire Marian's narrow hips and long
legs, revealed by snug jeans. Above her slender back, her hair was like thick,
dark silk, carelessly bundled. His fingers almost tingled as he imagined how
that silky mane would feel, slipping through them. He had a vivid image of her
naked, slowly turning to face him, her hair flowing to her waist, an impossibly
sensual contrast with her porcelain skin.

John blinked, and realized he
stood beside the couch staring at her. She had turned to face him, her gaze
wary. Before he had thought of anything to say, she spoke abruptly.

"I keep thinking how
familiar you look. Have we met before?"

"No." He wouldn't
have forgotten her. "I'm, uh..."

"Daddy was a football
player," Emma interjected proudly. "Everybody knows who he is."

"Well, not quite,"
John said wryly.

"I'm afraid I've never
followed football." She didn't sound apologetic.

"Daddy has scars all
over his knees," Emma added. "Big ugly ones."

Marian's dark gaze lowered to
his jean-clad legs, and then she flushed slightly as she looked back at his
face.

"Thank you, Emma,"
John said, then grinned ruefully at Marian, who was, if anything, more beautiful
with her cheeks tinted pink. "I retired because of knee injuries," he
explained.

"I'm sorry," she
said, sounding awkward.

He shrugged. "It's a
rare football career that lasts over ten years. I couldn't ask for more than
that."

Her small daughter tugged at
her sweater, and Marian bent to pick her up. "This isn't a business trip,
then?"

"I'm a color commentator
for network television," John said. "Which means I'm on the road a
lot for five or six months a year, and home the rest. We've had a housekeeper
for the last couple of years who took care of Emma, but she left to get married
and the woman I hired to replace her called today to let me know her father had
a stroke and she wouldn't be able to come. Obviously, I'm going to be hunting for
a new housekeeper. In the meantime..." He shrugged again.

As he talked, her expression
changed, becoming shuttered as her brow crinkled and she studied him. Suddenly
the warmth was gone from those velvet dark eyes. But, damn it, what had he
said?

"Is something
wrong?" John asked, taking a step toward her.

She held her ground, raking
him with an unexpectedly cool gaze. "No. No, nothing." And then she
turned away from him as though he didn't exist, carefully setting her own
daughter down before crouching in front of his. He saw again her gentleness as
she smiled at Emma. "I'll be delighted to have Emma this weekend if you'll
feel comfortable leaving her here."