Dangerous Waters (24 page)

John shook his head impatiently. Who was he justifying his decision to, anyway? What was done was done. Helen wasn't here. They didn't have friends yet in this small Washington town.

Could he leave her with Isaiah? He just couldn't picture it. The huge, former offensive lineman was brilliant with the elegant Arabian horses out in the pasture, his big hands gentle and his rough voice a soft growl. Unfortunately, with people he rated closer to a zero. He talked to Emma, barely, but making dinner, washing her hair, holding her at night if she awakened crying...not Isaiah.

John's voice had become brusque by that sixth phone call. "I'd better ask right off the bat whether you'd consider taking my daughter overnight. I have to go out of town and our new housekeeper failed us."

"Well..." The woman on the other end hesitated and his hopes rose a notch. "I suppose I could consider it." Her voice suddenly became muffled. "Jesse, stay out of the bathroom! Toilet paper isn't to play with!" She came back on the line. "I'm sorry. How old did you say your daughter is?"

"I didn't say. She's five."

"And does she have any particular needs or problems?"

"No. Emma is always cooperative."

"Really." She sounded faintly disbelieving. "Well, normally, if I'll be taking a child on long- term, I like to schedule an interview alone with the parents first. But if this is just a temporary situation...?"

"It is," he assured her.

"Then why don't you bring Emma over this evening so we can get acquainted?" She mentioned her charges, which John thought were reasonable. Too reasonable, maybe. But he was desperate, and anyway, he had faith in his ability to judge people.

"About seven o'clock?" he asked, and she agreed. Only after hanging up did John realize that he had forgotten to ask her name.

At seven that evening he pulled up to the ramshackle white cottage that matched the address the woman had given him. Dusk had deepened the blue sky, and the air was crisp with early autumn. Apples ripened on a huge old gnarled tree that overhung the cottage, and a white-painted fence enclosed at least an acre. One of the smallest, plumpest ponies he'd ever seen gazed at them over the board fence. Emma gave a crow of delight and tugged at his hand.

"Can we pet the pony?"

"After we're done inside," he said firmly. "We'll ask if it's okay then."

The pony forgotten as they neared the front door, Emma clung to John's hand and hung slightly back. The spiky blue-and-yellow blooms of asters and chrysanthemums spilled over the low picket fence that edged a flower bed along the house. John looked down at his daughter's dark head and felt a pang of bittersweet love. He wanted to give her everything, and was reduced to this: abandoning her for days with a virtual stranger.

His knock produced an unexpected cacophony of noise. The deep bark of a large dog mixed with the higher yap of a smaller one and the squeals of more than one child. A zoo. John's hand tightened protectively on Emma's shoulder as the door swung open.

He was only peripherally aware of the toddlers peeking around the woman's legs, of the walking dust mop that sprang out onto the porch, of the deep woofs still coming from the background. For just an instant, the world narrowed so that all he saw was her.

She might have stepped out of an old picture of Russian nobility. Thick dark hair slid out of the loose bun at the nape of her long, slender neck, and eyes as dark as midnight stared back at him. Her cheekbones were stark, her forehead high, her nose slender and patrician, and her mouth soft and sensuous. She was pale, with the creamy complexion Victorian women had been known to kill themselves trying to achieve. Perhaps the contrast of hair and eyes and skin was what had made him think of her in black and white, like an old daguerrotype, but the faded jeans and loose cotton sweater were thoroughly modern.

His voice sounded strange to his own ears when he managed to summon his powers of speech. "Uh... I'm John McRae. I called earlier?"

And then she smiled, not at him but at Emma, and his heart lurched painfully in his chest. Perhaps the perfect woman didn't answer advertisements in the newspaper, but it appeared that she did place them.

"Hi. You're Emma? I'm Marian. And this," she glanced around, then lightly touched the head of a brown-haired boy who looked about two, "is Jesse and"—her hand moved on to the girl, obviously a twin—"his sister Anna. And I see you've already met Aja."

Emma nodded shyly, reaching down to pat the ball of fur that bounded around their feet.

"Come in." Marian stepped back. "For heaven's sake, hush!" She gave John an apologetic look. "Rhodo sounds much more ferocious than he is. You don't mind Emma being around dogs, do you?"

"Not at all." John held out one hand to be sniffed by the huge black German shepherd that wagged his tail. As he followed Marian and the toddlers that clung to her into the living room, John somehow wasn't surprised to notice two cats as well, one lounging on the back of the couch, the other draped over an end table.

Marian was suddenly conscious of the cats, too, not to mention the Duplo spread over ten square feet, and the puzzle pieces that had been cheerfully scattered, and the coloring books and markers, the picture books, boxes of juice, and a plate of cookie crumbles. Why hadn't she picked up before he came? But the house was clean, she told herself defensively. Just cluttered. With six children here all day, what would he expect?

She stole a glance, and found his expression inscrutable, although his gaze was taking it all in. She had the feeling he could see even the Cheerios that Jamie had been poking under the couch that morning. Marian wasn't usually so self-conscious. What was it about him?

He wasn't exactly handsome; his lean face was too rugged for that. It was also faintly familiar, and yet she didn't remember ever meeting him. It would have been hard to forget a man built like him, tall and broad-shouldered with narrow hips and long legs. And while his straight brown hair matched his daughter's, the level gray eyes that held Marian's sparked no recognition.

Her awareness of him made her stomach knot. The feeling wasn't wholly pleasant. For heaven's sake, the man was probably married. Anyway, it was the child she should be paying attention to, not the father. The little girl's gaze was still downcast, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.

"Would you like to color while your dad and I are talking?" Marian asked gently. She stopped herself from reaching out to brush the child's bangs back from her forehead. It was too soon.

After a pause, Emma whispered, "No."

"Okay. Why don't you sit down?" Marian wrinkled her nose. "If you can find a place. Sorry. I always pick up, but I haven't found the energy yet tonight. Six kids are like a tornado."

John looked at her quizzically. "Six is quite a few. Are you sure you can handle another?"

"I'm licensed for seven." Marian met his gaze, hating the nervous flutter in her chest. "Which I think is too many. But if I understood you, it's this weekend you want to leave Emma?" He agreed, and she continued. "The other children in my care come Monday through Friday, even the drop-ins. On weekends I have only my own."

He nodded, his expression noncommittal. There was something in his gray eyes, though, an answering awareness, that reminded her of that first odd moment when she had opened the door. She tried to tell herself that she had imagined the way he had looked at her, but failed.

Feeling the need to fuss, Marian collected a pile of books from the couch and carried them over to the bookcase, talking over her shoulder. "Jesse and Anna are two and a half, so they're a little young to be friends for you, Emma, but they'd be thrilled if you played with them! Did you notice that we have a pony?"

Still standing stiffly beside her father, Emma nodded again. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the two dark-haired, dark-eyed toddlers who stared silently at her.

"We have a goat, too, which saves me from having to mow. Goats are funny creatures. Esmerelda likes to nibble on noses and ears, so you have to watch her, but she's really a lot of fun. I save her hair when she sheds, and we dye it for crafts. For Mother's Day some of the kids took home cups decorated with purple goat hair."

"Emma and I are on our own," John said.

Marian wasn't sure how to take that—as a warning, perhaps? She met his eyes when she said, "Jesse and Anna and I are, too. We'd love to have your company, Emma, if you think you'd feel comfortable with us."

The man replied only indirectly. "Do you have an extra bed for Emma? Or would she need to bring a sleeping bag?"

"I have a bed," she said. "This place is three-bedroom, believe it or not. They're tiny, but—" She broke off. "Would you like to look around?"

He nodded and stood. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all. I'm afraid the dinner dishes are still piled up." Marian caught herself apologizing. She wasn't one of the world's great housekeepers and she wasn't about to pretend that she was, just because the girl's father intimidated her. If that was the right word, she thought, all too aware of his long, lazy stride as he followed her, of how big the hand was that hadn't left his daughter's shoulder.

As she led a silent tour from room to room, the shabbiness of the house made her self-conscious as well. The kitchen cabinets were old painted wood, the vinyl floor cracking, its finish long worn off. The hardwood floors needed refinishing, the bathroom could have used new fixtures. She hadn't been able to afford to do any of those projects. What she could afford she'd done. The wallpapers were bright and airy, the curtains gauzy splashes of color. She'd made slipcovers for some of the furniture, stripped and stained the wood pieces. There were books in every room, and colorful toys randomly stacked on shelves. It was home, she thought, trying to ignore a clutch of sadness. Maybe only for another few months, but while the house was still hers, she refused to feel defensive about it.

The small hallway ended at the three bedrooms. The door was open to hers, which lay straight ahead. Marian's instinctive reaction was hurriedly to pull the door shut, as though by doing so she could salvage some remnant of privacy. But that was ridiculous. He had seen a bed before. Hers would tell him nothing about her.

But Marian was wrong. Although he didn't allow his expression to change, John had guessed quite a lot about her from one leisurely glance. The quilt, in an unusual and striking mix of teal and orange, was clearly handmade. The room was untidy in a casual, homey way; books were piled haphazardly on the end table, a stuffed rabbit lay at the foot of the bed, and one slipper hadn't quite made it into the closet. A ball of bright red yarn had rolled out of a bag. The bedroom was emphatically hers, without any sign that a man had ever belonged there.

The two children's rooms duly inspected, John followed her back into the living room, Emma silent at his side. He should have been thinking only about his daughter, about her reaction, but instead he seized the opportunity to admire Marian's narrow hips and long legs, revealed by snug jeans. Above her slender back, her hair was like thick, dark silk, carelessly bundled. His fingers almost tingled as he imagined how that silky mane would feel, slipping through them. He had a vivid image of her naked, slowly turning to face him, her hair flowing to her waist, an impossibly sensual contrast with her porcelain skin.

John blinked, and realized he stood beside the couch staring at her. She had turned to face him, her gaze wary. Before he had thought of anything to say, she spoke abruptly.

"I keep thinking how familiar you look. Have we met before?"

"No." He wouldn't have forgotten her. "I'm, uh..."

"Daddy was a football player," Emma interjected proudly. "Everybody knows who he is."

"Well, not quite," John said wryly.

"I'm afraid I've never followed football." She didn't sound apologetic.

"Daddy has scars all over his knees," Emma added. "Big ugly ones."

Marian's dark gaze lowered to his jean-clad legs, and then she flushed slightly as she looked back at his face.

"Thank you, Emma," John said, then grinned ruefully at Marian, who was, if anything, more beautiful with her cheeks tinted pink. "I retired because of knee injuries," he explained.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding awkward.

He shrugged. "It's a rare football career that lasts over ten years. I couldn't ask for more than that."

Her small daughter tugged at her sweater, and Marian bent to pick her up. "This isn't a business trip, then?"

"I'm a color commentator for network television," John said. "Which means I'm on the road a lot for five or six months a year, and home the rest. We've had a housekeeper for the last couple of years who took care of Emma, but she left to get married and the woman I hired to replace her called today to let me know her father had a stroke and she wouldn't be able to come. Obviously, I'm going to be hunting for a new housekeeper. In the meantime..." He shrugged again.

As he talked, her expression changed, becoming shuttered as her brow crinkled and she studied him. Suddenly the warmth was gone from those velvet dark eyes. But, damn it, what had he said?

"Is something wrong?" John asked, taking a step toward her.

She held her ground, raking him with an unexpectedly cool gaze. "No. No, nothing." And then she turned away from him as though he didn't exist, carefully setting her own daughter down before crouching in front of his. He saw again her gentleness as she smiled at Emma. "I'll be delighted to have Emma this weekend if you'll feel comfortable leaving her here."