Nanny 911 (17 page)

It was hard to fight an enemy you couldn’t see or identify, and Quinn knew the situation would be even more impossible if his security chief wasn’t on the payroll. “I appreciate you coming in to take charge of watching over the house tonight. I know it’s not your primary responsibility, but—”

“
You
are my responsibility, sir. Without you, GSS falls apart.” His big shoulders lifted with a shrug and a grin. “I’m thinking I’d be out of a job if something happened to you.”

Quinn managed half a laugh at the wry humor. He motioned David to stay seated when he stood, then reached over to shake his hand. “Thanks. I’m turning in. If you need anything…”

“I won’t. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, David.”

Quinn climbed the stairs to the main floor, taking note of every locked window and hallway camera in the silent house. Even though David had done the same an hour ago, Quinn checked the front door, the garage exit and mud room door before dragging his feet up the next set of carpeted stairs to the living quarters there.

More than the promise of his own bed and a few hours of sleep, the dim light shining into the hallway from Fiona’s room drew him like a guiding beacon.

He paused in the doorway, leaned his head against the jamb and smiled at the scene inside. He wasn’t the only one exhausted by the day.

Fiona sat in Miranda’s lap in the rocking chair. Her cheek was smushed against Miranda’s red pajama top, her bow-shaped mouth was slightly parted and her eyes were closed in sleep.

But what caught his heart and made him smile was the beautiful contrast of Miranda’s golden hair hanging straight and loose and tangling with Fiona’s dark curls. The book they’d been reading had fallen to the floor. Miranda’s undamaged cheek rested against the crown of Fiona’s hair and she was softly snoring right along with her.

Michael had charged him with taking care of both of these girls, but it was a task nobody had to ask of him. Feeling oddly energized and renewed by the endearing sight, despite the fatigue screaming from every cell of his body, Quinn tiptoed into the room. He picked up the book and set it aside, then slid his arms beneath Miranda’s knees and around her back.

Miranda startled awake at his touch. “I should go…”

“Shh.” Quinn whispered a reassurance and lifted them both from the chair. “Let me. Got her?”

Nodding, she tightened her arms around Fiona, who never stirred. With Miranda’s help, he pulled back the covers and laid them both on the bed.

“She’s content with you holding her.” Quinn pulled the sheet and comforter up over them both and tucked them in. He caressed Fiona’s hair, then bent to give her a kiss. “I don’t want to wake her.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Miranda promised, gently stroking Fiona’s dark hair off her rosy cheeks.

He stayed where he was, hovering over the bed. He mimicked the same tender gesture, brushing Miranda’s hair, still damp from her shower, away from her bruised cheek. Her green eyes were hooded, drowsy, fixed on his as he leaned in to kiss her temple, as well. “Good night, Miranda.”

But her hand snaked out from beneath the covers to capture his jaw and guide his mouth down to hers instead. He gladly obliged the bold request, covering her lips with his, parting them. He slipped his tongue inside for a taste of her heat. He welcomed the answering pull of her lips beneath his, braced his hand against the headboard and leaned over farther to angle his mouth more completely over hers. A slow, liquid warmth ignited in his chest and seeped into his blood, giving life to his tired body, reminding him he was a strong, healthy man. But the hour was late, and with his daughter here there was little he could do about the aching needs this woman kindled inside him.

So with a deep breath and a troubled heart, he pulled away. But as long as those beautiful eyes were on him, he couldn’t completely retreat. He’d wanted Miranda to bond with his daughter, and she had. But he was forming a bond with her, too. Her fingers brushed across his jaw; her thumb stroked his lips. She blinked her eyes and smiled. “Good night, Quinn.”

When her eyes blinked shut with fatigue and didn’t open again, he finally moved away. He set the story-book back in its place on the bookshelf, turned off the lamp and headed for the door. But he couldn’t leave.

Everything he loved—everything he wanted—everything that truly mattered was sleeping in that bed behind him.

Even with guards and cameras and the holstered gun on top of the bookshelf, he couldn’t be sure they were safe. His bedroom at the end of the hall was too far away. With Fiona and Miranda out of his sight, he wouldn’t be able to relax.

So he kicked off his shoes and settled into the rocking chair beside the bed to watch them sleep. He wasn’t leaving Miranda and Fiona tonight, not even for a moment.

But after half an hour of dozing fits and starts, Quinn woke again. Even this chair was too far away to assuage his loneliness and his need to protect this makeshift family. In his mind, there was only one logical thing he could do.

He got up and circled the double bed, pulling off his belt and untucking his shirt. And then he climbed into bed with them, stretching out on top of the covers behind Miranda.

Her back and bottom fit perfectly against his chest and groin. When she nestled against him in her sleep, he buried his nose in Miranda’s thick, damp hair, filling his head up with the smells of sweet coconut and tangy citrus. She was warmth and health and life and every good thing he wanted in this world.

Quinn wrapped his arms around both of them and finally drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Eleven

2 Days until Midnight, New Year’s Eve

Miranda wiped Fiona’s sticky fingers and held the chair while the little girl climbed down and hurried to the end of the table to get Petra down from her seat.

After popping the last uneaten bite of Fiona’s peanut-butter sandwich into her mouth, Miranda carried her cup and plate to the sink, where she rinsed them and stacked them in the dishwasher. Two successful meals under her belt now without trashing the kitchen. She sincerely hoped Quinn didn’t mind ordering take-out pizza for dinner because the cook wasn’t scheduled to be back until after the New Year, and she’d already discovered a dearth of anything microwaveable in this house except for popcorn.

She wondered if the Marines would mind if she called her brother again to get a recipe for dinner. Thinking of John and how amused he’d be at her quandary made her smile. “Probably not.”

It was amazing how a little success in the nannying department, a fresh bandage for the cut on her forearm and a good night’s sleep could refresh her energy and boost her confidence in her responsibilities here. Miranda had never considered herself a domestic-bliss kind of woman before, but waking up with an aroused man hugged tightly to her backside and a little girl sprawled with innocent abandon on the pillow next to hers gave her ideas about wanting to give the cooking and cleaning and “welcome home, honey” routine a try.

This morning, for the first time in months, she hadn’t felt alone when she woke up. And it wasn’t just the physical closeness of having an extra body in the bed. There was something incredibly sensuous and equally tender about waking with Quinn’s hand splayed possessively on the flat of her stomach, then feeling his lips nuzzle the sensitive skin at her nape before he whispered, “Good morning.”

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

The sandpapery stubble of his beard was like the caress of a cat’s tongue when he nodded against her neck and answered, “Best sleep I’ve had in years.” His hold around her tightened like a hug and she knew he was looking beyond her to the child sleeping several inches away. “They’re perfect angels when they’re asleep, aren’t they?”

Miranda had laced her fingers with Quinn’s and marveled at how well their hands fit together, how well their bodies fit, how well their thoughts meshed. She was warm, contented. She had the idea that this was where she belonged,
this
was where she finally fit in. And if she was only dreaming it, she didn’t want to wake up. It had been easy to agree on Fiona’s beauty and so much more. “Perfect.”

“Petwa and I help.”

And then there was reality and the bright sunlight of a cold winter’s day.

Miranda heard the scratch of a step stool sliding across the tile floor and felt the tug at the sleeve of her insulated henley shirt. Quinn had sequestered himself in his home office right after breakfast and she hadn’t seen him since. And, once again, she had a dark-haired girl at her elbow. As had quickly become a habit with nearly every task, Fiona joined her at the sink, wanting to help with the grown-up’s job.

“Okay. Set Petra down so she doesn’t get wet.” The doll dropped to the floor immediately and Fiona reached for the glass Miranda had used. In a deft move she hoped the girl was still too young to notice, she pulled her plastic cup back out of the dishwasher and switched it with the breakable glass.

They were both wet to their elbows and kneeling in front of the open dishwasher door to load the cube of dishwasher soap when the kitchen door swung open and Quinn strode inside. “Hello?”

“Over here.” Miranda popped up from behind the counter.

Fiona batted her hand away when Miranda automatically reached back to start the machine. “I push the button,” she insisted.

“This one here,” Miranda pointed out. Fiona pushed the button and smiled from pigtail to pigtail when the wash cycle started right up.

“Look what I did, Daddy.” Fiona hugged her father’s leg and tilted her face all the way back to look up at him. “I did the dishes. And Wandy helped.”

Miranda grinned at the mention. The five-minute task had taken fifteen, but she’d stayed busy and Fiona had been entertained. Quinn cupped her head and congratulated her before sending her off to play on her own for a few minutes. “Good job, sweetie. Why don’t you go up to your room and help Petra try on some of the new outfits she got for Christmas? I need to talk to Miranda, okay?”

“Okay.”

Quinn turned to watch her push through the swinging door and listen for the light rhythm of footsteps going up the stairs, giving Miranda the chance to notice the scuffs of dust on the sleeve of his navy blue sweater and the knees of his corduroy slacks. When he faced her again, she plucked a cobweb from his hair and took the liberty of smoothing that stray lock on his forehead back into place. “Where have you been?”

He adjusted his glasses in that adorably nerdy habit of his. “Up in the attic, going through some boxes of Val’s things.”

Oh. The late wife. Nothing like the mention of the woman he’d loved and married and started a family with to put a crimp in that silly dream of belonging here. She was the nanny. The bodyguard. Not the future Mrs. Gallagher. Miranda brushed away the cobweb and the feel of his silky hair against her fingers on the leg of her jeans.

“Looking for something in particular?” she asked, matching her posture to the businesslike tone of his voice.

He spread a piece of paper with a computer-generated picture on top of the center island. “This is the police artist’s rendering of the guy in the backseat of that black BMW that Michael faxed over from KCPD this morning.” He set an old black-and-white photograph on the counter beside it and tapped at the faded image. “Is this the man you saw in the car that tried to run you down?”

Miranda picked up the photograph. She didn’t need to see the drawing because those pale eyes and gaunt features shouting some kind of warning to the men in the front seat of the car bearing down on her were embedded clearly in her memory.

She studied the image of a young man in his late twenties. His hair was curly, dark. The swim trunks he wore revealed a muscular upper body. But the eyes looking straight into the camera were the same.

“Gray up his hair, put some wrinkles on him and shave off about fifty pounds, and yes, that’s the man I saw.” She set the picture back on the counter and frowned. “Who is it?”

“Vasily Gordeeva. My father-in-law.”

The silence that filled the kitchen following that announcement left Miranda fidgeting inside her skin. Quinn could stand there and bore holes into the photograph with those laser-blue eyes for as long as he wanted to process whatever thoughts were going on inside his head. But she needed to move.

Spying the coffeemaker, and inhaling a whiff of the fragrant roasted liquid, she went to the cabinet above it and pulled down a mug to pour herself a cup. She held up the pot toward Quinn and he looked up long enough to nod.

Some of the tension in him had eased by the time she rejoined him at the island and handed him his drink. “Thanks.”

Miranda cradled her mug between her hands to warm her fingers. “Do you and your wife’s family not get along?”

“I’ve never met the man.” Another cryptic statement, punctuated with a swallow of coffee. “Val left Lukinburg when she was six or seven. Neither she nor her mother ever had contact with him again.”

Now she was getting an idea of where his thoughts had been. “So why would your father-in-law be spying on you?”

“And why would he want to hurt the grandchild he’s never even met?”

More to the point, “How could he? I thought he was in prison.”

“So did I.”

Miranda set down her mug and lined up the two images side by side on the counter. “You know, there’s a big difference between this strapping young man and the elderly gentleman I saw.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t plant bombs or take potshots at you.”

“Technically, he wasn’t the one doing the shooting.”

“Small comfort.”

Miranda appreciated the sarcasm on her behalf. But there had to be an explanation somewhere. “What if he’s ill? He wouldn’t be the first long-term prisoner to be released near the end of his sentence because of health issues.”

Quinn shot his fingers through his hair, destroying the tidying up she’d done earlier. “And his first wish as a free man is to come after me? He doesn’t need the money. I’m guessing he had to pay a hefty fee to somebody to leave the country, maybe even to get out of prison. He’s rented multiple luxury cars here.”