Be My Baby (2 page)

At first his face registered surprise, but it quickly hardened into something else. He dumped the box he was carrying in the boot of the car and strode towards her.

‘What do you want?'

He barked the question out and her heart started to gallop inside her chest. She'd never been very good at confrontation and he seemed ready for a fight. As she struggled to make her lips form her own name, he looked her up and down. And if looks were anything to go by, she knew she'd been fired even before the interview.

‘Mr Armstrong?' she stammered.

‘You know full well who I am.'

Well, of course she did! She was hoping to be his new nanny.

‘I'm sure you know what brand of toothpaste I use, so don't turn up here looking all innocent and pretend you've lost your way. I've heard that one before.'

She certainly
didn't
know what toothpaste he used! What was he trying to imply? A sudden rush of heat behind her eyes told her she was more ready for confrontation than she'd suspected. ‘Mr Armstrong, I assure you—'

‘I wouldn't believe a word that came out of your lying mouth.' The fury in his eyes stopped any retort she might have had to hand. His face twisted as he shook his head, then he just turned and walked back towards the house. Gaby was so shocked that it didn't even occur to her to move.

Just before he disappeared from view, he turned to look over his shoulder. ‘You'll just have to tell your editor you blew it,' he yelled. And then he was gone.

Editor? He'd said editor, she was sure of it.

Oh…

Now she got it. He thought she was a journalist. She looked down and tried to see what it was about her appearance that had set him down that path. Slightly ageing fleece, go-with-anything black trousers and a pair of comfy driving shoes under a layer of mud. Didn't look much like a journalist to her. But then, she didn't look much like a top-notch nanny either.

She let out a long breath and her anger turned tide. No wonder he'd reacted the way he had. The tabloids had given him a really rough ride before, during and after his trial. She'd followed the story in the papers and it hadn't been pretty.

Luke Armstrong had been charged with his wife's murder after she'd been found dead in a hotel room in Kent. Each gory detail had been received more thirstily than the last.

‘DOCTOR KILLS WIFE IN CRIME OF PASSION!'
the headline had screamed.

The prosecution had argued that he'd followed her, leaving his young daughter in the care of a neighbour, and found his wife enjoying the luxuries of a country house hotel with another man. In a fit of rage he'd struck out. Mrs Armstrong had fallen and hit her head. And, while she lay bleeding all over the Chinese rug, he'd fled and hadn't returned home for hours.

Of course, he'd denied it. And he'd been so convincing in court the jury would probably have acquitted him if it hadn't been for the forensic evidence. When he'd stood in the witness stand, he'd sworn he'd only got as far as the hotel lobby, where he'd seen his wife and her lover lace fingers and climb the stairs together. He said he'd driven off on to the North Downs and sat in his car, trying to work out what to do next.

But DNA evidence had made his words into a fairy tale. He'd been in the hotel room the night his wife had died.

Then, five years later, when the public had forgotten all about the doctor in his prison cell, there had been another headline:

‘DOCTOR CLEARED OF WIFE'S MURDER!'

She remembered something about cross-contamination of samples at the lab.

Of course, now the nation was truly sorry. Never had believed it anyway. He'd always looked like such a nice man…

But he didn't look so nice any more, thought Gaby, as she remembered the way he'd towered over her only seconds before.

It was strange. After reading all the newspaper reports, even though they'd never been introduced, had never chatted, she felt as if she knew this man. Not the stupid details, like his favourite colour or how he liked his coffee. But she knew he was honest and caring and fiercely loyal to those he loved. She knew the things that mattered.

And it was for this reason, and this reason alone, she was going to make him listen to her, rather than walk back down the lane and head home.

W
ELL
, if she was going to face him, she couldn't just stand here getting muddier by the second. But, as much as she wanted to help, she didn't relish facing the snarling man who'd just stomped into the house, either. It was that look in his eyes, the look that said she was worthless, stupid and way out of her league.

Of course, the look really wasn't for her. It was for the phantom journalist he'd taken her for. But she'd seen the same look in David's eyes many a time, and it made something inside her wither. When her ex-husband had looked at her like that, he'd known exactly who he was talking to.

Gaby smoothed her hair back with her hands and walked up to the front door. Her heart pounded in time with the three sharp raps she gave with the knocker. She waited, ears straining for a sound, but there was nothing. Just as she was about to knock again, she heard a door slam somewhere inside, and she thought better of it.

He knew she was out here; he was just ignoring her.

She sighed and rubbed her face with her hands. She'd driven for over seven hours to get here. She was cold and her feet were soggy, and she wasn't going to just turn round and go home again because Luke Armstrong was in a strop.

She followed his footprints round to the back of the house, where she found the back door slightly ajar. He'd probably been too fired up to make sure it had clicked shut behind him.

It gave a creak as she nudged it with her fingertips. ‘Mr Armstrong?'

She peered inside and found a small room, with an even smaller window, full of sturdy boots and sensible-looking coats on hooks.

‘Mr—' She swallowed the rest of her sentence as the door leading into the rest of the house crashed open.

‘You people never give up, do you?'

Gaby gulped and fumbled to get her bag off her shoulder. In this tiny space he seemed much more menacing, like a caged animal.

‘Get out before I call the police!'

He took a step towards her and she backed away, glancing down at the bag as she rummaged inside it. When she looked up at him again, his jaw was set like steel. Now would be a really good time to do exactly as he'd suggested and run out through the door and down the lane without looking back.

She held her breath as the air fizzled with his barely harnessed anger. And then her fingers felt the corner of the business card she'd been searching for and she pulled it out of her bag, surprised by the deftness of her own movements.

He looked slightly taken aback and she used the split-second opportunity to wave the card within his line of vision. ‘Bright Sparks Agency, Mr Armstrong.'

He stared at the card, then stared at her, then stared at the card some more.

‘I'm here for the interview.'

He looked at her once again, clearly astonished.

‘For the nanny's position,' she offered.

The penny finally dropped. She saw a small change in his features as he marshalled his thoughts. He was still giving her a hard stare, but it lacked the zinging fury of the last one. This one felt like a defensive position rather than an attack.

‘You're late.'

‘I know, I'm sorry. I got a bit—'

‘You'd better come inside, then.' He turned and went through the small door leading into the house and disappeared down a corridor. Gaby was about to follow him when she remembered the state of her shoes. Now her future employer—fingers crossed—had calmed to simmering point, she didn't want to do anything to raise his temperature again.

She sat down on a low bench and tried to work out how to take her shoes off while keeping her hands mud-free. Eventually she succeeded and placed them side by side under the bench. Then she hung her fleece on a hook.

Come on, Gaby! Nothing to be frightened of. He should be apologising to you, really. But she stood motionless, her feet feeling the cold of the tiled floor. Somehow, the prospect of being interviewed in her socks made her feel at a disadvantage.

Luke's face reappeared through the open door and she flinched.

‘It's this way.'

He pointed down a small corridor. The only thing she could do was scurry through the house after him until they reached the kitchen.

‘Coffee?'

He didn't wait for her answer, but turned to fill the kettle.

How bizarre! It was as if the whole scene outside had never happened. She'd bet there was only a slim chance of getting an apology too. But that was okay. It was so long since she'd heard anything like that pass a man's lips, she was starting to think they were genetically incapable. At least she knew what she was getting if he acted like that. Seven years of marriage to David had given her plenty of practice.

She leaned over the kitchen counter slightly to look out of the window. The river was as smooth as glass. Off in the distance she could see the jetty in the village, but no smudge of red fleece was visible.

Slowly, she became aware that he was watching her. She turned and straightened, feeling instantly as if she'd been summoned to stand in front of the headmaster. He didn't smile, but he didn't look fierce either. He just seemed to be taking her in. Assessing her.

‘They said they'd try to send someone, but I thought our luck had run out.'

‘Pardon?'

He frowned. ‘The agency. Mrs Pullman said she'd try a long shot, but she wasn't hopeful. When you were late, I assumed the long shot hadn't paid off.'

‘Well, here I am—at last.' Far too bright and chirpy. She was overcompensating. ‘Don't worry about…earlier. I totally understand.'

Old habits died hard. She was apologising for being in the right, yet again.

‘So, as you know, I'm Luke Armstrong. Mrs Pullman didn't get around to telling me your name.'

‘Gabrielle—well, Gaby, really. Michaels. Gaby Michaels.'

‘Like the angels.'

‘The what?'

‘The archangels—in the Bible. Gabriel and Michael.'

She creased her forehead and looked at him hard. Was he making fun of her? His face was blank. In fact, he looked as if he'd forgotten how to laugh. Definitely not a joke, then.

‘I'd never thought of my name that way.'

He nodded.

Boy, this guy was cryptic! She had no more idea of what he was thinking than she had of when high tide was. They were never going to get through the interview if they carried on like this.

She took a deep breath. ‘How old is your daughter, then?'

‘I thought I was supposed to be interviewing
you
.'

She shrugged. ‘Interview away. But there are a few things I need to know before I decide if I'm…what you need.' She had been going to say
staying,
but something had stopped her. Maybe it was the fact that she suspected he hadn't always been like this, that he needed a second chance. Heaven knew she was an expert at that. Her ex had used up second, third and three-hundredth chances.

He plonked a mug of coffee in front of her and she saw his eyes glaze slightly as he slipped into autopilot. This definitely wasn't the first time he'd done this. He asked her the usual stuff at first, but then he put down his mug and looked at her.

‘If you don't mind my saying, you're not what I expected. Most of the nannies I've seen have been younger and—er—dressed a little differently.'

She didn't think for a minute it would matter if she did mind, and decided she might as well be equally straightforward.

‘Well, Mr Armstrong, just because I don't look like Mary Poppins, it doesn't mean I'm not competent at my job. Some children find meeting new people a little unsettling, especially if they look all starched and pressed. I find it helps if I'm more casually dressed.'

It was one of her strong points—the fact she could still remember that situations adults took for granted could be very uncomfortable for a child. It was why the agency had liked to send her off to deal with some of the ‘problem' cases when she'd been working full time as a nanny. And why Mrs Pullman had phoned her up out of the blue when every available nanny on her books had baulked at taking this job. She'd jumped at the chance. It had to beat her temporary job at the riotous soft-play centre in Croydon.

‘As for my age, well, I'm returning to work after a few years' break.'

‘Oh?' He looked suspicious.

‘When I got married, my husband preferred I didn't work.'

‘And he doesn't mind now?'

‘It's none of his business. We've been divorced for nearly a year.' She didn't add that her husband had got the seven year itch and had scratched it enthusiastically.

‘And now you're back on the market? Job-wise, I mean,' he added hastily.

‘I am.' She gave a little smile, a real one. ‘Actually, I'm really looking forward to being a nanny again.'

‘Well, I'm glad you decided to come out of retirement for us. Heather definitely needs an experienced hand. How soon can you start? We could do with you right now.'

She'd been planning to visit one of her old school-friends who lived in Exeter after the interview. She hadn't seen Caroline for years and was looking forward to a week of coffee and gossiping.

‘Oh. I'm not sure I…Don't you want some time to think? To check references?'

His mouth pulled down at the corners and he shook his head. ‘If you're good enough for the Bright Sparks Agency, you're good enough for me. And besides, I'm desperate.'

Her chair scraped on the slate floor as she stood, but before she'd even managed to say she needed time to think, the back door slammed open. She was facing the oposite direction but, from the grim look on Luke Armstrong's face, she had no doubt that his experienced-hand-needing daughter had just made her entrance.

‘Heather, this is—'

A red fleece swept past the kitchen table and out into the living room. Moments later heavy feet pounded the stairs in a distant part of the house.

Luke shot to his feet, his eyes blazing.

‘I'm sorry about that. She's having a difficult time adjusting at the moment. I—I'll explain later.'

With that, he forged out of the room. More heavy footsteps. Must be genetic. She couldn't have made that much noise if she were wearing lead boots. Muffled shouting. A door slammed. Then footsteps in tandem.

Luke nudged Heather into the room. Her eyes were on the floor and her bottom lip stuck out like a toddler's. ‘Luke says I've got to say hello.'

‘Heather!' The rising volume of his voice had Gaby shaking, but it seemed to flow off the girl. Her chin jutted more decidedly into her chest.

‘Heather, I would like you to say hello to Gaby. She's going to be looking after you when I start work.'

Gaby spluttered. ‘Actually, I—'

At the sound of Gaby's voice, Heather lifted her head just enough to peer out from under her fringe. ‘Oh, it's you. The crab lady.'

Luke looked between the pair in astonishment.

Gaby waggled a hand in the air while she waited for the words to come. ‘We met…earlier…on the jetty.'

If it were possible, his face got even more thunderous. ‘Heather! I've told you never to—'

‘God! Take a chill pill, Luke. I was only crabbing!' Then she spun on her heel and stomped off again. Luke looked as if he'd been slapped in the face. Gaby swallowed.

He slumped down on a chair and rubbed his face. The start of his next sentence was muffled by his hands. ‘I don't know how much Mrs Pullman told you, but we're facing a rather difficult set of circumstances with Heather.' He looked up at her, his eyes pleading. ‘Please, don't let that little outburst put you off. She's a good kid underneath it all. But she's had a lot to deal with in the last few years.'

Gaby smiled gently at him. ‘It's okay. I know about the trial and…everything.'

Luke let out a long breath. He seemed very relieved not to have to run through the details. ‘Good. If that hasn't put you off, I don't know what will.'

‘Oh, I—'

He didn't seem to hear her.

‘She took her mother's death very hard. And then she had to deal with me being…away. We've only been living together again for a couple of months, so we're still getting to know each other again, really.' He looked down at the table, as if he hadn't meant to say all of that in front of her.

The silence stretched. If only there were something to say, something she could do to make it all go away. This was the point at which her alarm bells should be ringing. That little tug at her heartstrings always meant trouble. She'd promised herself she wouldn't fall completely in love with her charge again this time.

If getting inside a child's mind was her strength, the fact she let them too far into her heart was her weakness. Too many times she'd been left heartbroken when a family moved overseas or didn't need her any more.