Sheriff Needs a Nanny (5 page)

“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.”

T
RACE
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.

In retrospect he saw it so clearly. Fran had always had the baby in her arms or seated right next to her. Always insisted on feeding Mickey his bottle because it disturbed him to have anyone else do it.

She’d smothered his son with love to the point she’d stunted his development.

The return of the receptionist pulled his distracted attention from the report and his sorry history as a father. He quickly confirmed the appointment for Thursday at two and disconnected. Right. A microcosm of tension eased from the weight on his shoulders. He couldn’t undo the past, but he could make sure they started out fresh, started out right.

He made a note to tell Nikki about the appointment.

Talk about fresh starts.

Trace was in serious trouble there. He didn’t know whether he’d made the best decision of his life or a very dangerous mistake. Nikki Rhodes threatened everything he stood for: order, discipline and consistency.

Why, oh, why did she have to be exactly what his son needed most right now?

Trace kicked back in his office chair and stared unseeing out at the reception/dispatch area of the small sheriff’s station. Instead of Lydia, his no-nonsense office manager, with a heart as soft as a marshmallow, he envisioned the soft golden beauty of his own personal Attila the Hun.

How had he lost control of his home so fast? His
home? Hell, his life. Mornings would never be the same again. Though he admitted to a proud moment when Mickey had taken his first bite of peaches from the spoon. What a sense of accomplishment. They’d grinned at each other, as euphoric as if they’d scored a winning touchdown and then—he cringed to remember this—they’d both turned to Nikki, as if seeking approval of a job well done.

She’d lavished them with praise.
Lord
.

Where was his self-discipline? Where was his pride?

He’d totally lost control. To a five-foot-five bit of fluff in a tight skirt and ruffles.

Okay, she’d thrown him off with her ultimatum, demanding his participation in feeding Mickey; he just needed to regroup and replan, set a new schedule. He admitted he’d been hesitant about spending time with the boy. But this morning’s impromptu breakfast session proved he had nothing to fear. He could handle his son.

With a little tuition he’d become quite efficient. Then he’d send the distracting Ms. Rhodes on her way. They’d both be happier when she was teaching again.

For all her lack of structure, the woman had kept her promise to help. What had she said? “The benefit of open communication is you don’t have to do everything alone.” He had to admit he’d appreciated her assistance at breakfast. Sure he could handle it, but having someone there—it had been nice.

Another one of her precious gems of advice came to mind. “The good news is once you engage Mickey’s af
fections it’ll be almost impossible to lose it. Unconditional love is a powerful thing.”

It sounded good. Too good to be true for a man who didn’t know the first thing about love.

Nikki sat in one of her least-favorite places in the whole world: the doctor’s office. One of the unsung joys of being a military brat was the military health service. Every new visit to the doctor brought a new face, and a new person to poke and prod you.

After the breakfast session the other day, she hadn’t been surprised when Trace had insisted on a full check-up for Mickey. The idea that his son might have been suffering in any way drove Trace nuts.

She glanced at the little boy, quietly playing with blocks in his stroller. He was slight, but not noticeably undernourished. He might not have had a varied diet, but he’d had plenty. Still, the checkup couldn’t hurt, and if it put Trace’s mind at ease it might be worth this interminable torture.

“I’m only here for you.” She leaned over Mickey. “And let’s get one thing clear up front. I don’t do needles—uh-uh,
nada
, no way. If there are shots involved, your daddy is on his own. In fact—” she flipped a block with her finger “—this is the perfect opportunity for father and son to go it alone. Yep, the two of you can bond over tongue depressors.”

Mickey picked up the block to hand to her, but dropped it instead. He gave a small mew and shifted to look over the side of the stroller, then shifted his hopeful
gaze to her. He looked so angelic, with his little bow mouth, baby-soft skin and windblown curls.

She handed him the fallen block and earned a smile. She sighed. “Okay, for you I can probably hang tough. But only if your dad asks for help. Otherwise I’m staying put.”

“Daddy.” He grinned.

“That’s right. You and your dad are a team.”

He went back to his blocks, and she returned to flipping leisurely through an entertainment magazine. She and three other women sat in navy short backed chairs. The walls and carpeting were beige on beige. An overflowing toy chest in the corner provided the only splash of brightness in the bland room.

The outside door opened and, like every other woman in the room with a sick child, looking for a distraction, Nikki glanced up. And, like every other woman in the room, her heart quickened at the sight of Trace. His broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame neatly filled the opening. His air of authority and control—elements he wore as easily as he did the crisp khaki uniform and gun belt—preceded him into the room. And shot up the temperature of every woman within viewing distance.

How unfair was it that the best-looking man in a fifty-mile radius had to be her boss? Not only did that put him both professionally and contractually off-limits, but the man was as disconnected from commitment as it was possible to be.

She sighed, and resigned herself to being his friend.
At least he was finally here, and they could get this appointment over with.

The clock over the receptionist’s head read two-fifteen exactly. The perky blonde hopped to her feet, her bright smile aimed at Trace. “Sheriff Oliver? The doctor is ready to see Carmichael.”

Wasn’t that convenient? Nikki met Trace’s gaze and slowly stood. The flash of panic, so unlike him, revealed a vulnerability she couldn’t ignore. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

“Yes, please.” He took control of the stroller and followed the nurse to an examination room.

Trace quickly expressed his concerns to Dr. Wilcox, sparing himself not at all.

An older man, with a ring of graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, the doctor listened intently, nodding occasionally.

“Well, let’s see what the real damage is.” Dr. Wilcox smiled at Mickey, who scowled back at the man. With good reason. The doctor asked Nikki to strip the baby, and the poking and prodding began.

For a usually docile child, Mickey certainly made his displeasure known, twisting and turning so Nikki almost lost her grip on the boy.

“Here, let me have him.” Trace stepped forward to trade places with her. He easily held the boy in place, but Mickey’s distress only increased. He lifted his little arms toward Trace. “Daddy.”

Trace’s jaw clenched, but he stayed tough.

Thankfully, the doctor soon ended the exam. “Okay,
you can dress him.” He picked up his chart. “Do you know what inoculations he’s had?”

Nikki stepped forward to dress Mickey.

Trace reached in his pocket. “I went by my in-laws’ place this morning and found a few things. This is a list of the immunizations he’s had. I also called his pediatrician there, and asked for a copy of his file to be sent to you.”

“Thanks. That’ll be helpful.” Dr. Wilcox looked over his glasses to scan the list Trace handed him. “And this looks current.” He sat back and folded his arms over a barrel-size chest. “You can calm your concerns. Mickey is in good shape. The muscles in his legs are underdeveloped, which is consistent with your theory that he’s been held a lot, but his bones are strong and there are no signs of malnutrition.”

Nikki met Trace’s gaze, and in that moment felt a sense of connection in their relief and gratitude at the doctor’s news. Bouncing Mickey in her arms, she shot Trace a reassuring smile and let the tension drain away.

“Continue feeding him solids, and encourage him to use his muscles. I’ll do the blood work and read through his records when they come in, then I’ll give you a call. Basically, I don’t expect I’ll need to see him before his eighteen-month check-up.”

“Thanks, Dr. Wilcox, that’s good news.”

“He’s a precious gift, Sheriff,” the doctor said seriously. “Treasure him accordingly.”

Trace’s cool gaze ran over Mickey, once again strapped in his stroller. “Right.”

Nikki watched the exchange with little satisfaction. She’d so hoped something good would finally come from a visit to the doctor’s office.

After a week of make do trips to the corner mini-market, Nikki finally dragged Trace to the grocery store on Saturday afternoon.

Pushing Mickey in one of the store carts, Nikki rolled over the threshold, and they both sighed at the rush of cold air.

“That’s much better, isn’t it?” She tweaked the boy’s nose.

“Neeki.” He grinned and made a grab for her nose, missing by a good eight inches.

She leaned closer and wiggled her nose. “Not going to get me,” she challenged, and quickly pulled back when he tried again.

Mickey giggled, but next to her Trace frowned. “You’re taunting a one-year-old?”

She simply smiled. “Oh, we’ve played this game before. He’ll get me a couple of times before we’re through.”

Trace grunted. He looked at the aisles surrounding them, the people wandering nearby. “Let’s get this done. I suggest we split up and meet at the register in twenty minutes.”

Nikki sized him up. Cool and confident in jeans and a blue knit shirt, he clearly didn’t want to be here. But it was more than the chore that had him off-stride. The man defined the term
loner
. In the week she’d been at
the house she hadn’t taken a single message for him. She knew he’d kept Mickey’s existence to himself. Other than the doctor’s appointment, this was his first public appearance with his son in the community.

Well, he needed to suck it up—because, in the way of small towns everywhere, everyone would soon know his business.

“You’re out of almost everything, so we won’t be out of here in twenty minutes.
And
you ducked out of breakfast yesterday, so you have Mickey-time to make up and this is the perfect opportunity. If we split up, he goes with you.”

Trace shrugged. “Fine.”

His easy compliance didn’t fool Nikki. He was never comfortable handling Mickey alone. No one would know it, watching the two together. Though always gentle, always patient, Trace’s need for control kept him from letting his feelings show, or he’d have already earned Mickey’s love.

“Okay, then. He’s going to want things he can’t have, and touch everything within reach, so be firm and keep to the middle of the aisle.”

“Really, Ms. Rhodes, I think I can handle a one-year-old in a store.”

She lifted a skeptical brow. “That’s what you said about feeding him the first time.”

He planted his hands on his hips and met her stare for stare. “My point exactly.”

Nikki cocked her head and considered him. Peach-stained T-shirt aside, she allowed that he’d persevered
until Mickey ate the whole bowl. Since then he’d mastered the art of feeding the child without wearing half the food.

“You’re right.” But before Nikki stepped back and let him have the cart she needed to issue another warning. “There’s one more thing—”

“Ms. Rhodes.” He cut her off. “I can take it from here.”

“But you should know—”

“We’ll be fine.” He took the list she held in her hand and tore it in two. “Meet you at the registers in twenty minutes.”

Nikki shook her head and walked over to snag a new cart. Oh, well. She’d only meant to warn him that a man alone with a child in a grocery store was a total chick magnet. Actually, that was true anytime, anywhere, but in a grocery store it rose to the level of speed-dating. Or so a single dad had once told her.

But then maybe that was what Trace needed. To meet a few eligible ladies. He’d been a widower for nearly fourteen months. And he had Mickey to think about.

He was a smart man. He probably knew exactly what trolling the store with Mickey would bring.

The two of them deserved some happiness after the past year of hardship. She turned down the juice aisle. So why did the thought of another woman in their lives sting Nikki in the heart?

Five minutes later she saw Trace and Mickey start to roll past her row, but when Trace spied her he made a quick turn. He stopped next to her and without a word
transferred the items in her cart to his, before stepping aside and waving her into the driver’s seat.

She moved into position in front of Mickey, and assessed Trace out of the corner of her eye.

He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “That was just mean.”

“What?” She tried not to laugh at his disgruntled expression.

“Don’t play innocent. It doesn’t become you.”

She grinned. “I did try to warn you.”

“Yeah, well, next time I’m likely to be eaten alive by piranhas, make me listen.”