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‘All right, Eloise,’ he said. ‘You had your chance, and you blew it.’

‘I’m an actress, darling, not a baby-sitter. If I had known what was going to happen I never would have come. Some week in the country this is!’

‘And how was I to know that my sister would roar through here in a fit of frenzy and drop her brat on me, while she ran after that fancy-dan husband of hers! Well, the kid’s still crying, Miss—?’

‘Russel,’ Katie answered. ‘Katherine Russel.’

‘. . . so do something. Quick!’

‘Quickly,’ Katie muttered under her breath, but she could not help but jump as if he had snapped a bullwhip at her. She walked over towards the child. He struggled to his feet, still crying. Katie knelt down and held out her arms. ‘Come on, darling,’ she chanted softly. The little boy reduced his hoarse uproar to a whimper. She clicked her tongue at him a time or two, and he started to wobble in her direction. She swept him up, cuddling him against her breast, running her hands up and down his soft body. All the time she crooned to him, one of those little tunes she remembered her mother using on her five young nephews and nieces. The boy put his tired head, shrouded in blond curls, down in the shadow of her bronze curls, and stopped the noise. She jiggled him up and down a few times, soothingly. And there you go again, she lectured herself. You’ve always been a sucker for little boys!

‘See! I told you so! Any woman could do it!’ the man declared. He seemed to talk in exclamation marks, Katie noted. The idea brought a tiny giggle to her lips. The baby responded with one of his own.

‘If you’re blunderbussing at me,’ Eloise drawled, ‘you’re wasting your ammunition. I didn’t contract out to be a nursemaid. But I
am
happy you’ve got one. Can she cook? I’d like to get a decent meal in this mausoleum!’

‘The child is soaking wet,’ Katie interjected. ‘He needs a clean set of diapers.’

‘I would think you could at least get your own breakfast,’ he snorted. ‘There’s more to life than just looking beautiful.’

‘That’s not what you said Thursday night upstairs,’ Eloise snapped back at him. ‘Well, can she?’

‘Diapers,’ Katie repeated. ‘It’s very urgent.’

‘Diapers? How the hell would I know!’

His face had finally come into the light, so Katie could get a good look at him. He was definitely a good head taller than she. His face was triangular, broad at the forehead, coming down to an almost pointed chin. Blue eyes. Brilliant sky-blue, deepset, with a twinkle that belied the harshness of his words. A half-day growth of red beard matched the flame of his unruly hair. He was dressed in a crimson bathrobe, sloppy slippers, and apparently nothing else.

‘His mother left a bag?’ Katie probed.

‘A bag! Of course. Over there by the table.’

Katie left the two of them to their argument, and carried the child over to the side-table. She stretched the boy out and began to strip off his soaking pyjamas. Free of restraint, he kicked and crowed hoarsely. She held him down with a tickling hand on his stomach, while her other hand searched through the crowded tote bag. She was unable to find what she needed with only the one hand. ‘Would one of you come over here and help?’ she asked desperately.

‘Yes. What do I do?’ He was at her elbow so fast that she jumped in surprise. ‘Play with him,’ she instructed. ‘Don’t let him fall off the table.’ And watch out that he doesn’t squirt you, she added under her breath.

Her two-hand search quickly turned out diapers, wipes, anti-rash cream, pins, and plastic pants. She brushed him aside, and covered the child with practical ease.

‘For not being a nurse, you do that pretty skilfully,’ he commented.

‘Three nieces, two nephews,’ she returned through a mouthful of pins. ‘I’m a practising professional aunt. And if you had put some cream on his bottom last night he wouldn’t be sore this morning, and that’s why he was bellowing. Unless he’s starving. When did you last feed him?’

‘Last night at supper time.’

‘What?’

‘What did I feed him? Well, we all had hamburgers, and he—I really don’t remember.’

‘Charming,’ she snapped. ‘Very nutritional. You’d better show me where the kitchen is.’

‘Oh, you do cook! How lovely,’ Eloise chimed in.

‘Only for babies,’ Katie snarled, beginning to feel a little put-upon. ‘Babies, and little old ladies over sixty.’

‘That’s great,’ he said as he guided her back down the corridor to the kitchen. ‘My Aunt Grace is my housekeeper, but she’s laid up with a bad attack of arthritis. It’s the weather, you know. She qualifies.’

‘Qualifies for what?’ Katie asked, as her hands sorted through the refrigerator, her busy mind only half-listening to what he had to say. Another loony? Does his aunt qualify as an inmate, or is she sensibly hiding from this pair?

‘For your cooking,’ he said. ‘She’s sixty-two and likes scrambled eggs. Eggs and bacon. I don’t mind that myself. You don’t think ...?’

‘No. That’s my trouble,’ Katie snapped in an exasperated tone. ‘I don’t think often enough. Everybody tells me that. Now suppose you tell me who the devil you are, and then you can tell me why little Miss Eloise here can’t scramble an egg. Or maybe you could manage to burn a piece of toast all by yourself? Here, hold the baby.’ She thrust the child at him. He barely managed to catch the boy under the armpits. The child immediately began to cry. With an apologetic half-smile he gave the boy back to her.

‘My name is King. Harry King.’ He paused for effect, looking at her as if she should have recognised the name. When she gave no sign he continued, ‘The boy’s name is Jon. My sister Amanda is his mother. She’s gone to Charlotte for a few days. Aunt Grace is my housekeeper. Ordinarily everything would be running fine, but Aunt Grace is upstairs in bed. She had a sudden attack two days ago, just minutes after Eloise arrived. And of course Eloise is my . . . er. . . houseguest. You may have seen her on television. Eloise Norris?’

‘For heaven’s sakes, you don’t have to go around explaining me to the kitchen help,’ Eloise drawled. ‘Just let her get on with the cooking!’

‘Then maybe you’ll hold the baby?’ Katie asked sarcastically.

‘Me? Not on your life. Put him on the floor. Or back in his room. Or something!’

Which seemed to be the way of things with both of them, Katie thought. Exclamation mark conversations. Snappy repartee. And not a minute’s worth of help. No wonder his aunt took to her bed. She moved the child from her shoulder to her hip. There was something charming about the little fellow’s face. Charming—and familiar? It had to do with the lightness of his curls, the blue of his eyes, and the long curled eyelashes
—
all wasted on a boy! But first things first, she told herself.

Lord, how tired I am. Get the child fed and out of the way of this hapless pair, and then see about Aunt Grace, wherever she may be hiding. And then my car! Oh Lord, don’t forget my car!

She searched the shelves and storage compartments of the large old-fashioned kitchen, but could find nothing in the way of baby food. So something soft. Scrambled eggs for him, too? I wonder how many teeth he’s got? She slipped her finger into the baby’s mouth, and he promptly demonstrated that he was well equipped.

Katie managed to rescue the finger, shaking it in the air to relieve the pressure of those sharp little fangs. It took a bit of doing to hold back the tears. She walked over to the sink and stuck her finger under the cold water spout.

‘Bit you, did he?’ King enquired. He made it sound as if it were a common occurrence.

‘No. Of course not,’ she muttered. ‘Do you happen to have a highchair, or something?’

‘Highchair? Oh, for the boy. No. I’ll improvise something.’

‘And I’ll be in the living room,’ Eloise chimed in.

‘And I’m glad to see the backs of both of you,’ Katie muttered to herself. Riding the baby on her ample hip, she pillaged the refrigerator of eggs, cheese, milk, and butter. It was a difficult juggling act to break six eggs into a bowl without it all landing on the floor, but every time she started to set Jon down he howled. The boy was all eyes as he watched. One of her curls swung within his range as she bent over. His pudgy little hands seized on it and gave it a yank that brought tears to her eyes. She rummaged beneath the work surface until she found a steel mixing bowl and a large wooden spoon. She knelt down, sitting the baby at her feet, close to the table.

Two demonstration whacks with the spoon on the rim of the bowl produced a clang that grabbed the child’s interest. She watched for a moment while he demonstrated his enthusiasm, then stood up, massaging her right arm.

‘Heavy, is he?’ She glared at King as he came back into the room. ‘No highchairs,’ he announced, ‘but how about this?’
This
was an infant’s car seat, cleverly attached to a tall bar stool. It was high enough for adult comfort, and the straps looked heavy enough to hold the most active child.

‘That’s marvellous,’ Katie marvelled. ‘Very clever. I suppose you read about it somewhere or other?’

‘Read about it?’ he asked indignantly. ‘I don’t copy other people’s ideas. I’m an inventor.’

‘You mean you make your living inventing things?’

‘Exactly. That’s a fine tan you’ve got, Katherine. Have you been in the Caribbean on vacation?’

‘Hmm? You mean me?’ She was pouring the beaten egg mixture into the hot pan, and did not want to make a mistake about it. ‘I’ve been in Charlotte—oh, I see what you mean. Yes, it’s a tan, but I get it from sunlamps. I don’t have a lot of time for sunbathing. It gives a more uniform tan, you know. I look that way all over.’

‘Well!’ There were devil-glints in those blue eyes. ‘I’ll have to see that to believe it!’

Oh brother, Katie sighed to herself. One of those kind. Me and my big mouth. ‘You’ll just have to take my word for it,’ she assured him primly. ‘I don’t give shows or sell tickets.’

‘Too bad,’ he replied as he watched her hands gently stir the eggs in the pan. He was definitely laughing at her. She clenched her one free hand. As always, her first reaction was to hit out. And her second, too, for that matter. Instead, she began the cumbersome task of separating bacon strips from the package she had found in the back corner of the meat compartment.

When the bacon was done to her own taste, crisp and brown, finger-eatable, she sopped up some of the fat with a paper towel, and reheated the eggs in the same pan. In minutes the breakfast was ready.

She snatched up the little boy, strapped him into his improvised seat, and brought him a plastic bowl of eggs and a tiny plastic glass of milk. ‘Now you get to work,’ she told Harry. ‘At this age they like to try to feed themselves. You just have to see that more gets in his mouth than on the floor. And watch the milk. Kids are not too good at finding their mouth with a glass.’

‘Right, General,’ he replied.

Why, he’s still laughing at me, Katie told herself. Where have I ever met such a disgusting, arrogant man before?

‘And where will you be while I’m doing all this risky work?’

She had found a larger plate, stocked it with eggs, bacon, and toast, and loaded it on a tray. ‘You said your aunt was bedridden. I’m going to take her a breakfast tray. Only I can’t find the coffee pot.’

‘Oh that,’ he chuckled, but his face had turned an embarrassed red. ‘I used it for an experiment that blew up—and I’ve not had time to buy a new one. We’re using instant. You go ahead. I’ll fix a couple of cups and bring them up. It’s the first room to the right at the head of the stairs.’

Katie balanced the tray on one hand and started out into the hall.

‘Ah, breakfast,’ Eloise said from the living room chair where she was scanning a copy of
Cosmopolitan
magazine. ‘Just set it right there on the end table.’

‘This is for the invalid,’ Katie snapped, and stalked up the stairs. What in the world am I doing, she asked herself as her feet stumbled on the heavily carpeted stairs. All I have to do is to tell them it’s a big mistake. And then I can find a telephone to get my car repaired, and
voila,
out of this madhouse I go. Why don’t I?

At the head of the stairs she stopped long enough to look out of the window at the end of the corridor. The massive fog bank was still with them, covering everything.

‘Well, that’s
one
reason why I don’t,’ she muttered. But there was another reason niggling at her mind. It had to do with—the baby? Or its uncle? It’s almost like coming into a theatre in the middle of the movie. You hate to leave until you see how it all comes out! She brushed that idea away. She knew she was a sensible, pragmatic woman—even though all her friends called her an incurable romantic!

She knocked at the proper door, and heard a tired voice authorising entry. Katie backed in, pushing the door open with her hip, holding the tray in two hands. When she turned round she found herself in an overlarge bedroom, decorated in white and gold, with a huge four-poster bed directly opposite her, between two large windows. A tiny thimbleful of a woman was sitting up in the bed, her back comfortable against two large pillows, with sheets pulled high enough so that a lace collar was all that could be seen of her nightgown. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses were perched on her button nose, and a book lay open in her right hand. She looked at Katie over the tops of her glasses.

‘And just who might you be,’ the tired voice quavered. Katie winced. If there was anything that being raised in a large family taught, it was respect for one’s elders. Not just a respect for their needs, but for the sharp minds they hid behind benign faces.

‘I’m Katie Russel, ma’am,’ she responded. ‘I’ve brought your breakfast.’

‘Well, don’t just stand at the door, Katie. Bring it over here. My, you are a very—’

‘Large?’ Katie offered.

‘Yes. The very word. A very large girl, aren’t you? Put the tray down right there. You must have cooked it too. Is that woman gone?’ There was just a touch of despair in her voice as she spat out the question.