Tempestuous/Restless Heart (21 page)

“Still, I wasna counting on this atall,” he said, making another pained face and checking to see that she’d caught it this time.

Danielle pleated the plaid bedspread with her fingers and frowned. “Divide and conquer. That’s their strategy. But I don’t want you to worry about it. You lie here and rest. I’ll manage.”

“See there, lass, I told you you could handle this,” Butler said with pride. He started to sit up, thought better of it, and leaned gingerly back against the pillows, wincing. “I knew if you but put your fears behind you—”

“I’ve hired a nanny,” Danielle said, as much to stem the flow of Butler’s pep talk as to impart the good news. She hadn’t put her fears behind her. She didn’t think she could stand having him praise her for rising above her past when she doubted she would ever be able to do that. The memory of what she’d done would always be too fresh in her mind, the pain too deep in her heart.

Butler’s keen blue eyes widened a fraction. His voice lost all trace of weary suffering. He looked a bit peeved. “You’ve done what?”

“I’ve done what every good rich girl does in the face of adversity—I’ve hired help.” She rose and straightened her fresh melon-colored tank top, then double-checked the baby monitor hanging from her belt to make sure it was working. “He seems perfectly competent, if a bit unconventional—”

“He?”

“Remy Doucet. He’ll be moving in tonight. I’m sure he’ll do fine. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’d better go check on the baby now,” she said, fussing with the monitor. “Have you got everything you need?”

“Aye,” he said absently.

Danielle glanced around the room. It wasn’t as large as the one she had commandeered upstairs, but it was certainly comfortable. Besides the carved mahogany double bed there was the marble-topped nightstand, a matching dresser, and a tall armoire that housed a television with a VCR and a stereo. Butler’s quarters had all the comforts of home and the added benefit of being off-limits to the Beauvais children. Danielle would gladly have traded places with him—bad back and all.

“Get some rest,” she said, moving toward the door.

“Aye, you too now, lass,” he mumbled.

If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with her own thoughts, Danielle might have noticed that he sounded just a little bit guilty. But she was too tired and too flustered and too determined to do her duty until her replacement arrived. She slipped out the door of Butler’s room and headed up the servant’s staircase. All she had to do was hang in there until Remy arrived, then she would steer clear of him and the Beauvais darlings. They could keep each other occupied for the next three weeks and Suzannah could take her idea of family influence and choke on it.

Butler held his breath as he listened to Danielle’s footsteps fade away. The poor lass. She looked like death warmed over. He’d been so sure she would rise to the occasion, but the purple crescents under her eyes told a different tale. Now she’d gone and hired a nanny. Things were not going according to plan.

Shaking his head, he tossed the covers back and pushed himself out of bed. He put the two pills he had palmed back in their bottle, sure that Danielle was in too dazed a state to notice the supply wasn’t dwindling. He stretched both hands toward the high ceiling, then bent and touched his toes. When he had all the kinks out, he reached for the phone on the night-stand and punched out a number.

“It’s me,” he said in a low voice. “We’ve got a wee bit of a problem.”

four

“WHAT’S THAT, AUNTIE DAN-L?” AMBROSE
asked as he peered through his Lone Ranger mask at the casserole.

“Macaroni surprise.”

“What’s the surprise?”

Jeremy gave a derisive snort as he poked at the noodles with a long-handled spoon. “If we eat it and live, she’ll be surprised.”

“Not to mention disappointed,” Danielle muttered under her breath, leveling a glare at Jeremy.

The children had caught on rather quickly to the fact that she was not a cook. She knew she was not a cook; the news came as no surprise to her. The sense of hurt did, however. She had gone to the effort to make the kids a home-cooked meal, hoping that would in some way make them look at her as a kind of mother figure.

Face it, Danielle
, she told herself, swallowing down the bitter taste of defeat,
you can’t bond successfully through macaroni. You can’t bond successfully, period. Who are you trying to fool?

She had known for some time that she wasn’t cut out for this. So why was the idea choking her up now, she wondered, as she stared morosely at the unappetizing casserole. She liked her life the way it was. She was free to travel wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted. If she got the itch to snap a few pictures of the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza, all she had to do was pack up her cameras and go. If she wanted to spend the entire night working on printing techniques in her darkroom, there was no one to complain to her about being neglected.

Her life was unencumbered by people who needed to know where she was every waking minute or wanted to make demands on her time. Her relationships with men never lasted, so there was minimal distraction there. She was basically free to pour herself completely into her art and that was the way she wanted it.

She would always be an artist first. And as an artist she required a spare, focused life. The muse was a selfish mistress, demanding all the artist’s attention, a shameless wanton who pushed away all others vying for the artist’s time. It was because of her muse Danielle didn’t know how to cook anything more edible than limp macaroni. But an artist was all she had ever wanted to be.

She’d spent less than a week with the Beauvais kids and already she’d had a stomach full of the family scene. The constant tension, the constant distractions were overwhelming her. Danielle Hamilton didn’t need a family. No sirree. What she needed right now was a ticket out of this funhouse. She missed her peace and quiet… sort of.

“Do we have to eat this?” Tinks asked, staring at the steaming lump of gook on her plate. “It’s gross.”

Danielle scowled at her and swore to herself that her feelings weren’t hurt. Her shoulders slumped as she stared down at the disgusting mess on her plate. They were right. It was gross.

“It looks like cooked brains,” Jeremy said with malicious delight as he reached his fork onto Dahlia’s plate and stirred her dinner around. “Gooey, slimy cooked possum brains.”

Dahlia looked up in horror, her freckles standing out in sharp relief against her white face. “Make him stop it! Make him stop, Aunt Danielle! I’m gonna gag!”

Jeremy chortled maniacally, his pleasure in grossing out his sister such that he could barely keep himself on his chair. “Gooey gator brains! Slippery, slimy snake innards!”

“I’m gonna throw up!” Dahlia cried.

Danielle gave her nephew her sternest look. It didn’t faze him. “Jeremy, stop it or you won’t get any supper.”

He rolled his eyes.
“That’s
a threat? Ha!”

“Look, guys,” Danielle said, diplomatically taking another tack. “This stuff is good for you. It’s loaded with protein.”

“So are cockroaches,” Jeremy muttered. “We don’t eat them.”

“It could be arranged.” There was just enough menace in Danielle’s voice to give credence to her words. Four red-haired heads bent over their plates. Forks clicked against china.

Danielle ignored her own plate on the excuse that she had to feed Eudora, who sat beside her in her yellow high chair. Knowing nothing about baby diets, she had decided it would be potluck night. She had chosen three jars of strained and mushed stuff on the basis of a pleasing color combination. Eudora didn’t seem to mind. She ate every other spoonful with the relish of a gourmand and spat alternating helpings at Danielle.

Unaffected, Danielle went on feeding the baby. Getting spat on was nothing. She’d been spat on by a cobra in Africa and still had gotten the shot she wanted. It was one of her most famous wildlife photos and had graced the cover of the
National Geographic.
She could handle getting spat on. It was the least of the abuse she’d taken so far from Suzannah’s little ghouls.

Eudora grabbed a handful of peach cobbler and flung it into Danielle’s face with an exuberant cry of “Whee!”

Danielle gritted her teeth, wondering how long it was going to take for her to grind the enamel right off them. Lord, she couldn’t wait for Remy to relieve her.

Relief? Was that what she called getting kissed until her ears rang? Her toes tingled at the memory. Brother, that man knew how to kiss! But that was irrelevant, she told herself sternly, spooning up another glob of pureed peas on the baby’s rubber-covered spoon. Remy’s kiss might have been a doozie, but it was in the past, over, finished. From this moment on she was going to endeavor to behave like the mature woman she was. No more losing her head over young, brawny, devastatingly sexy Cajun men. No more sizzler kisses. No more clinches in the nursery. No more fantasizing about his fabulous fanny.

She stared up at a spot of pulverized peas dotting the kitchen wall, fanning her flushed face with her free hand. Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to fantasize a teensy bit. After all, at her age, fantasizing about a younger man was probably
all
she was ever going to do. And if she were to pick a man’s fanny to fantasize about, Remy Doucet’s was it. The man had a real power tush.

But no touching, she told herself, frowning. Absolutely, positively
no
touching.

Lord, she groaned, her fingers were itching to touch him! She’d probably go crazy and grope him the minute they were alone in the same room. What lousy timing. She’d never met a man she wanted to grope more than Remy Doucet and he was off-limits. Even if she hadn’t just hired him as a nanny, there was the little matter of the fact that he hadn’t even been a twinkle in Papa Doucet’s eye when she was discovering the wonders of grammar school.

“My luck,” she muttered, her arm swinging back and forth as she tried to zero in on Eudora’s dodging mouth.

Well, she would just have to leash her lust before he arrived.

“Hey, Danielle,” a melodic male voice called cheerfully from the kitchen doorway. “Where you at?”

As all her insides turned into curlicues at the sight of Remy in snug jeans and a black polo shirt, Danielle forced her mind to ponder his typical New Orleans greeting. Why didn’t he ask
how
she was? He knew
where
she was. She was sitting right there in front of him with mushed gook all over her. Decidedly unromantic, she thought, glancing down at the front of her blouse, which had been tie-dyed with Gerber’s finest.

A little tingle of panic shot through her. She didn’t want romantic, couldn’t have romantic. Nothing about this arrangement was romantic. He was the kids’ nanny. She had to think of him as Mary Poppins with five o’clock shadow.

“Hello, Mr. Doucet,” she said, offering him a businesslike smile. “Kids, say hello to Mr. Doucet.”

When no sound issued forth except Eudora’s happy beet-juicy gurgle, Danielle glanced around the table. The kids had jumped ship. She had been so immersed in her thoughts about Remy’s masculine attributes, she hadn’t even noticed them leave. Yet another example of what a fine mother she would make.

“They’re in watchin’ TV,” he said, setting down a maroon nylon carryall. He settled his big hands at his waist and grimaced at the congealing lump of macaroni on an abandoned dinner plate, the corners of his mustache tugging down around his mouth.

“Go ahead. Say it,” Danielle snapped defensively. “I can take it. It’s written all over your face. I’m a lousy cook.”

“You’re a lousy cook.” Cautiously he poked at the mess with a fork, as if he expected it to come to life and attack him. “What is it?”

“Macaroni surprise.”

“Did they eat it?”

“No.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He was a little disappointed, though. He would never have admitted it, but he was a chauvinist through and through. Where he came from, women knew how to cook—actually, most everybody knew how to cook. They also knew how to raise children. Danielle didn’t appear to be adept at either of those womanly arts.

She sure was pretty, though. That made up for a lot, he thought, taking in her perfect patrician features as she glared up at him defiantly. Her translucent gray eyes glittered like sterling. Her chin jutted forward aggressively. How she managed to look so dignified while covered with baby food was beyond him. He decided it was the mark of a true lady.

“You see this finger?” she asked, raising her left fist with the forefinger extended. “This is my cooking finger.”

“Your cooking finger?”

“This finger can dial the number of every major take-out place in every city in the world. I ask you, what more do I need?”

Remy picked a striped dish towel off the corner of the table and swiped a speck of peach cobbler off the tip of her nose. “A shower.”

Danielle blinked. Even through terry cloth his touch was electric. Prince Abdul Rifal of Dakjir had once taken a fingertip tour of her face through a silken veil and it hadn’t affected her nearly as profoundly. Forcing the thought away, she looked down at the front of her T-shirt. Sunburst patterns in green, ruby, and peach were splashed across her chest in lumpy, liquidy glory. The same colors dotted her arms like three-dimensional freckles.

“Yuk.”

Remy clicked his tongue and shook his dark head. “You’re a mess, you are,
chère.
Mebbe we oughta just take you out back and hose you down.”

“No thanks. I like the idea of a hot shower much better.”

“Me too,” he said in that intimate, velvety tone of voice that just reeked of sin. He bent over her, one hand on the table, one on the back of her chair. His eyes captured hers like hot black magnets capturing steel. He waggled his brows. “You need any help with that,
chère
?”

The mere thought made Danielle’s insides go as soft as the overcooked macaroni on her plate. The picture of the two of them in the shower stall together, steam rising, soap bubbles sliding over slick skin, darn near made her faint.

“No!” she said suddenly, leaning back in her chair, trying to escape his male aura. “I can manage.”

“You sure?” Remy murmured, forgetting what little sense of propriety he had as he stared at Danielle’s breasts as they thrust up toward him. They were small but firm and round and unfettered by the bonds of a bra. “I’m real good with my hands.”

Danielle’s breath soughed through her parted lips. She could imagine the feel of those big hands stroking her, caressing her, cupping her breast and guiding it to his mouth as the shower pounded down on them. Her gaze fastened helplessly on Remy’s mouth, so close, so tempting. He leaned a little nearer.

“What happened to your pledge of good behavior?” she asked breathlessly, clinging to the last ragged threads of her sanity.

His eyes sparkled as he gave her his slow piratelike smile. His smoky voice stroked over her like a caress. “This is as good as it gets.”

“Oh, my…”

Eudora gave a sudden squeal of delight and mushed a handful of peas into Remy’s face. “Eii-up, da da da da!” she chortled merrily, clapping her hands together and splashing vegetable matter in all directions, effectively breaking the mood, much to Danielle’s relief—or was it dismay?

“Looks like I’m gonna have to join you in that shower now, yes?” Remy said to Danielle with a grin as he scraped the bilious green goo off his face with the dish towel.

“No, I don’t think so.” Danielle ducked under his arm and rose to her full height, eliminating his advantage. She composed herself admirably just long enough to tell him where to put his things, then she dashed for the door, chanting “no touching, no touching” under her breath like an incantation against evil spirits.

Remy straightened and watched her flee, guilt poking at him as he thought of his promise to his sister.

Eudora squealed and reached her arms up, begging to be taken out of her high chair. She looked like she’d been to a body-painting salon. Her little fingers were dripping baby food. The front of her romper was covered. Peach cobbler had been run through her duck fuzz hair like gel, spiking it up in a punk fashion. Her face was coated with pureed peas. She looked enormously happy, though, in spite of, or maybe because of, her slovenly state.

“Happy as a pig in pink mud, aren’t you?” Remy said with a chuckle. Heedless of his shirt, he scooped her up in his arms and headed for the door. “Come
on, pichouette
, looks like you’re the only lady I get to bathe tonight.”