A Baby In His In-Tray

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‘Look, I’m not saying that’s what I think is going to happen in our situation.’

She stared at his fists, her eyes going wide and worried. He unclenched his hands immediately. ‘Of course not. I never thought for a moment that’s what you were suggesting. I was just thinking of what I’d like to do to the man who hurt you.’

‘Oh.’

She shot him a smile—so sweet and lovely, it melted through him like treacle melting into the honeycomb of a hot crumpet, softening all of the stony places inside of him.

It took all of his concentration to keep his breathing even. He had to be careful around this woman. Once you opened yourself up to a baby, other walls were in danger of coming down. He had to keep them standing firm—for all their sakes. He was better than his parents, and he had no intention of blurring the line between business and pleasure himself.

‘I think we can both agree,’ he started carefully, ‘that this current surprising situation that we find ourselves in is not exactly a professional one.’

‘No, not precisely professional,’ she agreed.

Her eyes remained trained on him, waiting.

‘But this,’ he gestured to the baby, ‘is only a temporary interruption from our usual professional routine. When we get Jemima’s situation resolved things will go back to how they were.’

She pursed her lips and then pointed to herself. ‘Ms Gilmour.’ And then pointed to him. ‘Mr Tyrell.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But in the meantime you’re suggesting...?’

‘That perhaps, while we’re not in the office, we can unbend enough to call each other by our first names.’

Her nose wrinkled.

Someone had really done a number on her, hadn’t they?

But as he continued to survey her, it occurred to him that it wasn’t him she didn’t trust, it was herself. Something primal tried to claw its way to the fore—something that wanted to force the issue, force her to see him as a man rather than her boss, force her to take a risk.

He stiffened and beat it back down. He and his office manager were not going to dance that particular dance, regardless of how attractive or surprisingly intriguing he found her.

He was not opening himself up to betrayal again. Ever.

He’d keep his focus professional and his libido under wraps. He’d learned an important lesson with Rhoda, and it was one he had no intention of ever forgetting. He fought a sudden exhaustion. He didn’t have the heart—the energy—to venture down that path again. The part of him that had once welcomed the idea of love and family had been destroyed.

His office manager might be the complete opposite to Rhoda. But if she wasn’t she’d be no good for him. If she were, he’d be no good for her. Either way someone would get hurt. He shook his head. Not going to happen.

Her need for distance and reserve should comfort him, but the thought of calling her Ms Gilmour in these circumstances rankled. ‘You’re not my office manager in this situation, you’re...’

He watched the bob of her throat as she swallowed. ‘I’m...?’

‘Jemima’s advocate, her friend...her Auntie Liz.’

She frowned and crossed her arms. ‘You are not calling me Auntie Liz.’

She looked so suddenly schoolmarmish he had to choke back a laugh. ‘How about I just call you Eliza?’

She huffed out a long breath, her lips pursed. She glanced away, finally giving a shrug before meeting his gaze once again, her expression strangely resigned. ‘Fine. And I’ll call you Seb.’

No one had ever shortened his name—not even at school. He liked it. At least...he liked it coming from her lips.

His collar tightened about his throat and he had to resist the urge to run his finger beneath it. He couldn’t let this become too cosy. First names didn’t mean they had to become too familiar with each other. It wouldn’t do. He and Eliza were not going to cross any other boundaries.

She pointed a finger at him. ‘But this is only temporary. When we’re back in our respective offices we’re reverting to Mr Tyrell and Ms Gilmour...and all of this will feel as if it happened to somebody else.’

‘Absolutely.’ This was only a momentary loosening of clearly defined roles that would be assumed again as soon as this adventure was over. But would it be as easy to slip back into their old roles of Ms Gilmour and Mr Tyrell—boss and secretary—as they hoped it would be?

He shoved his shoulders back. He had to make sure it was. End of story.

* * *

‘You did this for three nights on your own?’ Sebastian looked at his office manager with a new-found respect. Before tonight he hadn’t known that a baby’s crying could grind you down to your soul so quickly. He hadn’t known that once it started it refused to release you.

He hadn’t known it could be so relentless!

‘Don’t look at me as if I’m some kind of hero.’ She didn’t even look up from rocking the baby. ‘It was a case of needs must and nothing more.’

From ten o’clock last night through to now—almost two-thirty in the morning—Jemima had slept in odd twenty-to thirty-minute increments, only to wake again screaming. It seemed he couldn’t do any damn thing right, at least not according to Jemima. He’d bounced, dandled, crooned, rocked, played teddy bears and choo-choo trains. He’d changed her and tried giving her a bottle—none of it had worked. She’d continue to cry through all his efforts, making him feel like a low-down loser. The only thing that made her stop crying was being in her new acting nanny’s arms.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t give me a harder time when I rocked up on your doorstep yesterday.’

She turned that amber gaze on him and raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought I did give you a hard time.’

That made him laugh. She was a rank amateur compared to his parents. Compared to Rhoda.

All mirth fled at that thought.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t shove her at me and push us both out of the door.’

‘Do you hear what the big, bad man is saying?’ she crooned down at Jemima. He wondered where she found the energy for that smile. ‘As if I’d do that.’

The baby stared up at her intently, working noisily on her dummy.

‘You know, Seb, you ought to go to bed. There’s no point in the both of us losing a good night’s sleep.’

Not a chance. He wasn’t leaving her to deal with this on her own again. Woman and child were ensconced on the sofa in the baby’s room. He sat on the floor, resting back against it. He was hoping Eliza and the baby would drop off to sleep and then he’d watch over them—make sure the baby didn’t roll off her lap or anything like that. At least then he’d feel as if he was pulling his weight.

He rubbed his nape. ‘Do you think she’s teething?’

‘Babies don’t usually start teething until they’re six months. Her cheeks aren’t pink and she’s not rubbing at her mouth or pulling on her ears.’

‘Then why...?’ If he could find out what it was that was making Jemima cry, he’d set about fixing it. ‘Should I call a doctor?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s anything physical—especially when she’s so cheerful during the day. I mean, she’s not hungry. Her nappy doesn’t need changing. She doesn’t have a temperature. And she stops crying whenever I pick her up.’