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Operation Mommy
Caroline Cross
The Single DadThough Alex Morrison's three little sons had terrific taste in picking out a dream mom, he had no intention of marrying the woman they chose. The boys wanted a mother, but Alex wasn't getting hitched - ever. The Matchmaking Kids The minute the Morrison boys met Shay Spencer, they put "Operation Mom" into place. She could handle anything - missing gerbils, exploding ant farms… even their dad. And the plan was working - sort of. The Perfect MomAll "Operation Mom" did was make Shay fall madly in love with the most confirmed bachelor father in the West. Perhaps it was time for "Operation Husband"… .
Operation Mommy
Caroline Cross
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Jim, Jessica and Katy who gave up their summer plans so I could spend mine with Alex, Shay and Brady. And to Sandi and Melinda, who answered the phone—even when they knew it was me. I wouldn’t have made it without you.
Contents
Prologue (#u3d965c31-72df-589b-909f-65935450361a)
One (#ua10075f3-d36a-5c5f-a075-4bd5c9d2fcf6)
Two (#u4a0d14c2-224b-5abd-81a0-046df167924f)
Three (#u7930bb78-1490-5d9f-bf59-e1e125007911)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Dateline: July 1
To: Beau Morrison Correspondent, World News International
Magazine c/o Istanbul News Desk Micromini cassette tape No. 1
Hey, Uncle Beau! It’s me, your favorite nephew, Brady. And I bet you can’t guess, not in a million, kazillion years, how come I’m sending this tape to you.
The reason is—I found her! I finally found the most perfect, awesome mom in the world for me and Nick and Mikey! And I bet you’re gonna be real happy, ‘cuz it’s your friend, Shay, who you sent to stay at your cottage!
She’s so cool, Uncle Beau.
You won’t believe what happened the first time I met her. The Prune Face—that’s our new nanny—invited Shay to come swimming at the pool. And when Shay did, Leonardo, my lizard, crawled into her beach bag to take a little nap.
I’m telling you, Uncle Beau, me and Nick and Mikey waited a trillion years for her to stick her hand in there. And when she finally did, we waited another bazillion for her to scream and stuff.
Only she didn’t. She just took out her suntan lotion and leaned back in her chair and said, “Did I tell you boys about the time your uncle and I did a story on the Amazon? The natives there made the best lizard stew. Maybe you’d like to come by the cottage tonight and try some?”
Of course, Mikey started to cry. So then the Prune wanted to know what was going on. Only Shay didn’t tell. She just smiled and gave Mikey a hug and told him not to worry. And she told the Prune it was all a mistake and then waited until the Prune wasn’t looking to give Leo back.
That’s when I knew Shay was the one, Uncle Beau. But just to make sure—picking a new mom is a really important job, you know—I’ve been checking her out.
Guess what? She’s better than perfect.
She doesn’t faint at the sight of blood or get mad if her hair gets wet or her clothes get dirty. She likes dogs, cats, rats and gerbils, and she isn’t afraid of snakes or spiders. And she knows lots of mom stuff. Like how come your fingers get wrinkled in the bathtub, the difference between a T. rex and a pterodactyl, that chocolate chip cookies make owies feel better and even how to do the Heimlich maneuver! But best of all, she doesn’t talk to me or Nick or Mikey like we’re dumb little kids, even if sometimes Mikey is one.
I thought about what you said—about how Daddy might not want to get married again. But the thing is, Uncle Beau, he’s never home, so why should he care, anyway? Right now, he’s in dumb old Florida buying another resort, and even though we talk on the phone, it’s not the same as having him here. Sometimes I don’t think he remembers Nick and Mikey are still little kids. I mean, I’m almost nine so I can take care of myself, but they need somebody to watch out for them.
That’s why I made a plan. I call it Operation Mommy, and I just know it’s gonna work. As soon as Mrs. Rosencrantz, our housekeeper, leaves for her vacation, I’m gonna get rid of the Prune so me and Nick and Mikey will be all alone. Shay will have to take care of us then, and Daddy will be so worried he’ll come right home. When he gets here I’m gonna have candles and flowers and music, and Shay will have on a real pretty dress. Daddy will think she’s beautiful, and be so-o-o glad she took such good care of us, he’ll ask her to marry him. And of course she’ll say yes!
It’s gonna be perfect, only I hope they don’t kiss all the time and—
Oops, the Prune is yelling again. She says I need to come Right this minute. Maybe she found the green food coloring we put in her face lotion....
I love you, Uncle Beau, only don’t tell anybody I said so, ‘kay? I promise I’ll send another tape soon to tell you how everything goes.
This is me, Brady P. Morrison, signing off.
P.S. I think my birthday—it’s August 2, just in case you forgot—would be perfect for the wedding. How about you?
One
Port Sandy, Washington
July 5
“Hey, Shay!” Brady yelled into the clothes hamper. “Guess what?”
Shay Spenser, wedged tightly in the laundry chute several feet below floor level, winced as the boy’s cheerful voice echoed around her. “I don’t know,” she called back. “What?”
“Nick says he can see an ambulance and a ladder truck!”
Sure enough, now that Shay listened for it, she could hear the rise of two different approaching sirens.
“We never had a ladder truck before!” Brady declared in excitement, as unconcerned about the broader ramifications of her plight as only an eight-year-old could be. “Isn’t it cool?”
Unfortunately, Shay had twenty-two years on the boy and, at the moment, was feeling every one. “Oh, yeah. Cool.” Even as she uttered the words, a horrific vision of hoards of firemen descending on the deluxe, fully remodeled, turn-of-the-century house where she was stuck filled her head. The way her luck was running, her rescuers would probably rappel up the pristine white siding, break out a few leaded-glass windows and use fire axes to chop her free.
Shay stifled a groan. If Alex Morrison, the owner of the house and the boys’ father, ever decided to come home from his marathon Florida business trip, he’d probably have her arrested.
But then, it wasn’t solely her fault that the simple humanitarian act of trying to retrieve the boys’ runaway gerbil from the laundry hamper had landed her in this mess. After all, how could she possibly have known the hamper had a hinged bottom? Or that it opened onto a laundry chute big enough to swallow a person?
She couldn’t. Nor, for that matter, would she be in this fix if Alex Morrison were any sort of responsible father. Not only had he been gone on business for six weeks—an eternity in the lives of his three young sons—but two days ago, when the boys’ nanny had abruptly quit, he’d been too busy to return his own son’s phone call informing him of the fact!
While it was true the agency that supplied the nanny had called to apologize for the woman’s abrupt departure and to arrange for a temporary replacement until Mr. Morrison could be contacted, Shay was far from appeased. What sort of sorry excuse for a father treated his own kids so indifferently?
“Shay? Is it okay if I go look at the trucks?” Brady asked. “I’ll only go as far as the window. I promise.”
“Sure. Go for it.”
“All right!” The hamper door swished shut above her.
Shay shook her head. During her ten years as a journalist, first as an independent, and more recently for WNI magazine, she’d been pinned down by sniper fire in Beirut, had her Land Rover attacked by a bad-tempered rhino in Kitgum, and been held hostage briefly by guerrilla forces in El Salvador. This ought to rate as minor in comparison.
Yet right now it didn’t feel like it. Her shins smarted from where she’d scraped them when she’d slipped, her shoulders ached from being wedged against the metal shaft, and she was starting to get a headache from being upside down for too long.
Adding to her misery was the growing evidence that Brutus, the creature responsible for her predicament, seemed to be getting more agitated as time passed. Although she had a firm grip on the little creature, his pointy toenails were dug into her palm, and any second now she expected to feel the sting of his sharp little teeth, as well. After her years in the news business, Shay could just imagine the headline: “Award-winning journalist savaged by rodent in bizarre accident. Details page 5.”
Her friend Beau would probably laugh himself silly and say this was what happened to misguided journalists who thought they wanted out of the business. Furthermore, he’d probably claim that this was why he’d lent her his cottage on his brother’s Puget Sound estate in the first place—so she could discover for herself how ill-suited she was for “normal” life.
Well, maybe he was right, Shay thought wryly, as a noisy rush of footsteps sounded overhead. A second later Brady, Nick and Mikey began to shout, “Up here! We’re up here!”
She heard a distant cry of acknowledgement, followed by the din of booted feet thundering up the stairs and coming down the hall. She flinched as she pictured the black marks the firemen’s rubber-soled boots would leave on the pale wood floors and thick carpets...a half second before she reminded herself to be grateful for small favors.
At least they weren’t hacking their way through the walls.
Above her, the tromping stopped and a barrage of questions started.
“Did one of you kids call 911?”
“Where’s the injured party?”
“Is your mom or dad home?”
“This better not be a prank!”
“Are you boys here all alone?”
“What’s the problem?”
As Shay could’ve predicted, all three Morrisons tried to answer at once.
“We don’t got a mom,” Mikey volunteered.
“Brady called. He’s the oldest!” Nick declared.
“It’s Shay,” Brady said urgently. “She’s stuck in the laundry chute!”
“Hold on, son. She who?”
“Not she, Shay!” Brady corrected, sounding exasperated.
Shay sighed. “Hang in there, Brutus. From the sound of things, it’s going to be a while before we’re liberated.”
* * *
“Just make sure they’ve initialed those lease-reversion clauses when the contracts show up, Helen,” Alex Morrison said into the car phone, guiding his sleek silver Mercedes into the divided highway’s passing lane to get around a slow-moving tractor-trailer rig. “It’s taken six weeks to get them included—I don’t want any more delays or screw ups. Have the attorneys go over them, and if everything looks all right, messenger them to me at the house.”
“Yes, sir.” Helen O’Connell, Alex’s longtime secretary, sounded crisp and efficient as usual. “Anything else?”
Alex gave a tired sigh. “I hope not. After the past few weeks, I’m ready for some quiet time at home.”
Helen made a commiserating sound. “I trust everything is all right with the boys, then?”
Alex frowned. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Oh, it’s only that when Brady called—”
“Hold on. Brady called? When?”
“Why, day before yesterday.” The line crackled briefly as the road dipped. “Don’t tell me Whitset didn’t give you my message?”
“Whitset? Whitset’s wife went into labor two days ago. He fainted in the delivery room and knocked himself silly. When he came to, he barely remembered his name, much less to pass on any messages.”
“Oh, dear,” Helen said.
“Right,” Alex said grimly. “Did Brady mention why he was calling?”
There was a pause before Helen said apologetically, “Well, yes and no. He said there was something about Mrs. Kiltz he needed to tell you.”
For an instant Alex’s mind was blank and then he swore under his breath. Mrs. Kiltz was the nanny he’d hired right before he left. “Great. Did he say what?”
“No, sir. He just asked that you call.”
“You didn’t hear sirens or anyone screaming, did you?”
He was only half joking, and Helen knew it. “Not this time,” she quickly reassured him. “Actually, now that I think about it, he seemed extremely cheerful, so I’m sure it couldn’t have been anything too major. I asked if Mrs. Rosencrantz had left for her vacation on schedule, and he said yes. I asked if things were all right with the temp the agency sent to fill in for her, and he said yes. And when I asked how everything else was, why, he laughed and said it was perfect.”
“Terrific.” Alex’s apprehension shot up a notch. The last time Brady had claimed everything was “perfect” had been right before a Lawrence of Arabia play set, complete with a genuine Bedouin tent and a pair of very cranky camels, had been delivered to the house.
Purchased at great expense through one of the home shopping channels on Alex’s credit card, the play set had been touted as the ultimate educational experience. Heaven knew Alex had certainly learned a lot. He’d learned the true meaning of the phrase “all purchases final.” He’d learned that in Port Sandy County, camels were considered exotic pets and that you were hit with a whopping fine if you didn’t have the proper permit to keep them. He’d learned that when annoyed, the homely creatures spit. But most of all, he’d learned to be on guard when his eldest son started bandying about the word perfect.
“Is that all, sir?”
“Yes. Unless the house has burned down—” he tried to inject a light note into his voice and failed “—I should be in the office sometime next week before I leave for New Mexico. You know the drill—if anything comes up, call.”
