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Back at the house, she checked on Mickey while Trace and Russ unloaded everything from the SUV. After Russ took off, she asked Trace, “How did the other nannies make do without this gear?”
He shrugged. “They weren’t around long.”
“It was the rules, right? You probably scared them away with all your rules,” she teased. But she was serious, too. “I prefer to work in an environment with open communication, more give and take.”
“Give and take?” He said the words as if he’d never put them together in the same sentence before.
“Yes. You’re the employer and I’m the employee, but we discuss things and come to a consensus of what’s best for the baby.”
“A consensus?” It wasn’t a question but a low voiced challenge.
“Right. You’ve made it clear you’d prefer to let the baby sleep in the morning while you escape to the sheriff’s station. That’s your side, and of course we could do that. But then there’s my side.”
“You have a side?”
“I do. I’m so glad you’re getting into the spirit of things,” she said through a smile, her tone carefully soft and easy; it was an attitude she maintained as she continued. “My side is I feel so strongly about your spending time with Carmichael that it’s a deal-breaker for me. Either keep to the schedule we agreed on and have breakfast with him in the mornings, or you can find yourself another nanny.”
The silence that followed screamed through the living room. Nikki dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms to keep from squirming under his ferocious stare.
“I don’t react well to threats, Ms. Rhodes.”
“You know, I’m not really surprised to hear that.” No understatement there. She lifted her chin and informed him, “I feel the same way about being blown off.”
“Ms. Rhodes—” Ice encrusted her name.
“Mr. Oliver?” She gave chill as good as she got. He needed to know she was serious about this. “Think of it as the terms of my employment. And it’s non-negotiable.”
“It’s a bluff. You said yourself you care about Carmichael.”
“Which is why this is so important. I won’t stand by and watch him decline further for lack of a steady influence in his life.”
“You—”
“Stop.” She held up a hand, palm out. “We’ve already established I won’t be here for more than a few months. He needs the person who is going to be here that first day of school, when he learns to drive, and the day he turns eighteen. That, Mr. Oliver, is you.”
Unable to dispute the truth, he stood silently glowering.
“Morning sessions with your son are the perfect opportunity to get to know each other better. Show him some attention and he’ll love you unconditionally. It’s pretty hard to mess that up.”
“But what if I do? Mess it up?” he asked, with a concern that revealed a raw vulnerability his gruff attitude had concealed.
Her heart was wrung at the evidence of his fear of failing his son. She could think of no other reason why such a strong willed and private man would open himself to her. More than ever she renewed her vow to help father and son connect.
“I’ll help you.”
“The first thing you need to do is take off your shirt.” Nikki opened a jar of baby food, poured the peaches into a bowl and set it on the table next to where Mickey sat sleepyeyed in his highchair at the end of the table.
Out of near identical green eyes, Trace sent her a candid stare. “Must we go over the rules again, Ms. Rhodes?”
“Please. You have a one-track mind. I was thinking of your cleaning bill, not your manly form. You can take it off now or change it later. First lesson in feeding your child: babies are not neat.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Trace stripped off his khaki shirt and draped it over the back of the couch.
“Hey, I’m here to help.” Nikki admired the snug fit of pristine white cotton stretched over wide shoulders when he returned to the dining area. She shook her head silently mourning the T-shirt’s pending desecration. Oh, well, neat and tidy was an ongoing battle when you had kids.
“You take that side—” she waved Trace to a seat close to the highchair “—and I’ll sit over here.” They settled across from each other at the table on either side of Mickey.
“Okay, go ahead and give him a bite. Second lesson is never leave the baby unattended with the food, or you’ll be cleaning the whole kitchen.”
Trace took the bowl of puréed peaches, dipped the baby spoon in it and held it out to Mickey.
Mickey looked from the spoon to Trace, to her. He did not open his mouth.
“Move it closer,” she encouraged Trace. “That’s good,” she said, when the spoon reached within an inch of Mickey’s little mouth. “Sometimes you really have to shovel it in, but I’d rather he came to the food this first time between you.”
Instead of going for the bite of peaches, the boy pushed away, leaning his head on the back of the highchair.
Huh? Nikki glanced over at Trace, to find him watching her with a “what now?” expression.
“Maybe he doesn’t like peaches?” he offered.
“No. A lot of baby food is orange. Carrots, sweet potatoes, apricots—they make a whole guessing game of it at baby showers. I suppose if he didn’t like one of those your mother-in-law may have catered to him and not fed him any orange foods. Did they leave a list of his preferences?”
“No. She wasn’t in any shape to put anything like that together, and my father-in-law was too overwhelmed to think beyond dropping the baby off.”
“Of course. That’s understandable.”
“There was nothing but formula and cereal in his diaper bag. There may have been some food in the refrigerator at my in-laws I could have picked up when I got his stuff last weekend, but I didn’t think to look.”
“She was still feeding him formula?”
“Yeah.” He angled his head to the right. “There are several cans in the cupboard.”
“If she still had him on formula maybe she hadn’t even started him on baby food yet. Basic rule of thumb is formula for the first year, adding baby cereal at three or four months, and moving to baby food and other solids around seven to nine months.”
Trace’s jaw clenched and his eyebrows lowered in a grim scowl. Anger and shame flashed in his eyes, and she knew he blamed himself at this further evidence of his mother-in-law’s smothering influence.
“Listen, those are just parameters. Like my sister says, there are as many theories as there are doctors. Mickey isn’t suffering from malnutrition.”
To distract him further, she scooted the empty bottle of peaches toward him. “There’s baby food in the cupboard. Someone must have tried to feed him something more than cereal.”
“That would be nanny number two. I arrived home one night at dinnertime. There was puke-green food all over him, all over her, all over the dining room. He was crying, she was screaming, and trying to force the spoon down his throat. I fired her on the spot.”
Nikki chewed her bottom lip as she studied his stern expression. He’d obviously been appalled by the scene he’d walked in on. “That sounds very unpleasant.”
“It was out of control.”
Ah. The worst of all sins.
“Yes, well. I don’t condone force-feeding, but you best prepare yourself. Feeding babies can be a chaotic experience. Most kids are naturally suspicious of any change in their diets. Some will easily try new things, but some need to have the food presented to them several times, and occasionally in different forms, before they take to it.”
He frowned, as if it hurt to think about it, then he squared those truly impressive shoulders. “As I don’t plan on lowering myself to Carmichael’s level, I’m sure we’ll manage just fine.”
Oh, how the mighty would fall.
“A positive attitude is exactly the ticket,” she assured him, figuring some things just needed to be experienced. “A smile helps, too. You know what they say—never let them see you sweat.”
Trace lifted one dark brow. “We’re talking about a baby here.”
“Right.” She looked down at her own white blouse and slid back in her chair. “Just remember they sense fear.”
Trace grunted a nonverbal reply. Getting a good dollop on the end of the spoon, he presented the bite to Mickey once again. The boy wanted no part of it. He turned his head to the left, and when his father followed with the spoon he whipped his head to the right.
“Ack!” With a squawk of frustration, Mickey pushed Trace’s hand away. A splatter of peaches flew through the air to land smack in the middle of Trace’s chest. He glumly surveyed his formerly crisp white T-shirt.
“Good thing you took off your uniform shirt,” she pointed out, hoping to direct him to the positive view. She got a grunt for her efforts.
His focus on the boy, Trace persevered, and finally got a good portion of the peaches into Mickey’s mouth.
A tiny red tongue immediately pushed the food back out, then the baby blew a raspberry, spraying Trace with bright orange polka dots.
Nikki bit back a grin as father and son faced off, with identical frowns of stubborn resolve.
“You’re the bigger man here,” she reminded Trace, then giggled when they both turned those frowns her way. “You’re not going to give up, are you?” she challenged.
“No.” He narrowed his eyes at her, but she saw reluctant humor in the green depths before he turned his attention back to Mickey. “Okay, kid, no more spitting. Peaches are good, so open wide.”
Before digging in for another bite, Trace licked a smear of peaches from where it had landed on his right thumb.
Mickey’s eyes brightened, then he mimicked his father by licking his fist where he’d wiped the fruit from his mouth.
“Mmm, mmm.” Nikki hummed yummy sounds and smiled encouragingly.
“Mmm,” the boy repeated, and swiped his tongue over his hand again.
“Look.” She grabbed Trace’s arm and shook it in excitement. “Mickey’s copying you. He likes it. Give him another bite.”
Trace glanced up from where her hand rested on his arm. The heated stare he turned on her made her catch her breath. “No touching.”
She snatched her hand away. “Seriously? You’re in the middle of feeding your son!”
His gaze rolled over her, sensual as a caress, and so intense her skin tingled as if from actual contact.
He turned back to Mickey, feeding him another bite of fruit. “So? You’ve heard the statistics. The average man thinks about sex every so many seconds. If we aren’t actually having sex, we’re thinking about it.”
Stunned nearly speechless, she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “You dawg. And yet I’m the one who has to follow all the rules?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he came at her from a completely different direction.
“And, Ms. Rhodes? His name is Carmichael.” He turned a reproachful stare on her, and she knew she’d slipped up more than once.
She grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
She bit her lip, then decided to come clean. Truthfully, deception never came easily to her. Too often her mouth worked before her brain, and honesty just made life simpler.
“I just can’t call him Carmichael. I promise it’s not meant to be disrespectful, or a control issue. Sure, Carmichael is a fine, distinguished name. But to me it’s also cold and hard. And with all the changes in his life Mickey needs warmth and love and acceptance more than anything else. I’d constantly feel like I was scolding him.”
Nikki got a first-hand lesson in Trace’s interrogation technique as he sat back and ran a laser-sharp gaze over her. His intense regard seemed to see straight to her soul. He assessed, categorized and made conclusions—all without saying a word. Or changing expression. She was ready to spill her deepest, darkest secrets, and she had no idea what he was thinking at all.
He finally broke the connection to focus on mopping up his son’s face.
Free to breathe again, she anxiously waited for his response. She hoped they could settle the issue amicably between them, because she really couldn’t promise to call the baby Carmichael. In all honesty it probably wasn’t harmful to the boy at this stage, but he’d responded to Mickey when he hadn’t to the more formal name. That spoke volumes to her.
“Leslie Trace.”
“What?” Nikki stared at her employer’s stoic profile. Of everything he could have said, that made no sense to her. And when he turned to face her and flashed that dimple-popping grin she completely forgot what they were talking about.
“The name my mom used when I was in trouble.” Humor and understanding had replaced the censure. Evidently she’d hit the right mark, tapping into the universal connection of childhood memories.
“Leslie, huh? That had to hurt.”
The humor disappeared. “Throw in extra for being a military brat. When my mom had gone, I told my dad I wanted to be Trace. He had no problem with that.”
“Rough. How old were you when your mom died?”
“I didn’t say she died. But she might as well have. I was ten when she left my dad and me.”
“Extra rough. You and your dad must be close?”
“He died before I married Donna. But we weren’t really close. Dad wasn’t what you’d call demonstrative.”
“That must be where you got it.” As soon as the words escaped her mouth she knew she’d blown the moment.
Raw emotion flashed in his eyes before he shut down all signs of feeling. He rose to his feet and pushed in his chair in two short, controlled motions.
“Yeah, that’s where I get it from.” He glanced at Mickey before turning away. “I need to change.”
“Trace.” She jumped to her feet, but he was already gone. Slowly sinking into the seat, she met Mickey’s confused frown. “Yeah, I know. I blew it.”
Chapter Five
TRACE stared at the report on his desk as he waited on hold for the receptionist to make his appointment with the pediatrician. Finding out he didn’t know the slightest thing about his son’s health had struck Trace hard this morning. He’d depended on Fran to take care of Mickey and actually felt righteous about the decision. Fran and Owen had just lost their only daughter; they needed something—someone—to fill the void in their hearts and lives. Who better than their infant grandson?
How easy to convince himself the couple had been better suited to handle the newborn than an overworked homicide cop, with uncertain hours and no experience with living, breathing kids.
Sure, he’d made the effort to visit and provided monetary support. And, yeah, he’d made the move to Paradise Pines with the intent to take custody. But what it all boiled down to was he’d abandoned his son to a woman sick at heart over the loss of her own child.
He had no doubt Mickey had been loved and coddled. To within an inch of his life.
