Sheriff Needs a Nanny (7 page)

“Nice job.” Trace easily lifted Mickey from the water and Nikki wrapped him in a towel. “Thanks for the help.”

“No problem.” She shrugged easily. “We adults have to stick together.”

“I thought you had a birthing class with your sister tonight. What are you doing here?”

“I do, but it’s later—not until eight. I came to pick up some things I left hanging in the laundry room.”

“In appreciation for the assistance, you’re welcome to join us for dinner. It’s only hot dogs and beans, but I’m firing up the grill.”

“Thanks, but I can’t. Amanda is stir-crazy, and since she has permission from her doctor for the classes, she’s sneaking dinner in first and calling it all one trip. But it’s a tempting offer.”

More tempting than it should be. Plain food in the company of the baby she spent all day watching. Like Amanda, Nikki should be thrilled at an outing away from the house. Instead, she felt curiously deflated as she turned away from daddy and son.

“Okay,” he said easily. “Thanks for the help.”

“Good night.” She grabbed her things from the dryer and let herself out the backdoor. Was it her imagination, or had he sounded a little disappointed?

“T
HE
Mayor’s office called.” Lydia popped her head inside the door to his office. “He’s asked the city council to meet at Sampson Hall twenty minutes before the community meeting.”

Trace nodded, glanced at the clock on the wall, saw he had over an hour and went back to his report. He’d found it hard to concentrate today, his thoughts constantly traveling back to the scene a couple of nights ago. He’d come close to getting extremely unprofessional with his nanny.

He so couldn’t go there.

Mickey needed her. Beyond that she was a complication Trace couldn’t afford.

The door to the station opened and in walked the subject of his thoughts. She pushed Mickey in his stroller, with a long, shallow basket perched on the hood over the boy’s head.

Everything in Trace came to attention, his body reacting to the long stretch of her legs in skinny black
jeans, the teasing pop of a pink tank at the hem and the cleavage under her fitted white shirt even as his mind raced with questions and concern at her appearance.

What was she doing here?

He rose and rounded his desk, watching her chat and laugh with Lydia. Her easy manner eliminated his worry, but not his disquiet.

He shrugged at the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t want her here. This place belonged to him—well, and the citizens of Paradise Pines. The point was he needed someplace safe as a retreat from her intoxicating presence. But, no, interfering woman that she was, she had to invade his workspace.

Oh, yeah, he was in serious trouble.

As soon as he stepped out of his office he got hit with the savory scent of fried chicken, which reminded him of the potluck dinner at tonight’s community meeting. He had an order of fried chicken himself, to pick up from the diner. The scent grew stronger as he approached the front counter, but he was quickly distracted by the tail-end of Nikki’s introductions.

“It’s so nice to put a face with a name. It’s always good to know when Trace is going to be late. Have you met Trace’s son, Mickey?”

Lydia had her elbows on the high counter to help her see down to Mickey’s level. The little boy looked up at her with solemn eyes. He switched his gaze to Trace, frowned, and then twisted in his seat, obviously seeking out Nikki’s reassuring presence.

She casually moved to the side of the stroller, giving
him a clear view of her, and Mickey settled back into his seat. At the same time she moved the cloth-covered basket to the counter.

“Hey,” she greeted Trace, her dimple flashing as she smiled.

“Trace, your nanny just introduced me to your son. I never heard you had a child. All this time I’ve chattered away about my grandkids and you never mentioned you had a little boy.” Lydia’s teasing reprimand held more than a hint of hurt. “He’s so precious.”

Damn, moments like this were exactly why he liked to keep his private life separate from his public service. Personal exchanges required too many complex twists of emotional discourse. So what if he suffered occasional bouts of loneliness? He preferred things simple.

“Thanks. He’s only been with me a short time. His grandmother has been caring for him while I got settled.” Trace hated to explain himself, to expose his personal life, but it was that or subject himself and Mickey to the gossip mill for civic entertainment. That he couldn’t tolerate.

“Well and fine. I bet you’ve missed him every day.” Lydia gave a sympathetic nod.

“It’s been hard,” Trace acknowledged, “but we’re together now.” He focused his attention on his wayward nanny. “Ms. Rhodes, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“They called from the diner to say your order was ready.” She lifted the red gingham napkin, revealing two dozen pieces of fried chicken. “Mickey and I were looking for something to do, so we decided to save you a trip and pick it up.”

It looked as good as it smelled. Her homey touch adding to the presentation. Who knew he even owned a gingham napkin?

“You didn’t need to do that,” he informed her.

“I know.” She glanced at Lydia and shrugged. “He’s the perfect boss. He never wants me to go out of my way for him.”

“You’re a nanny, not a housekeeper.” Again with the explanations. How much easier if she’d stayed at home.

Not once had Donna come to visit him at work, and he never remembered his mom dropping in on his dad. Of course if she’d ever shown more interest in what the old man did, got him talking about it, maybe he would have found it easier to express himself at other times. And if his dad had been better at communication maybe his son would be, too.

“Don’t worry, there’s no extra charge.” Nikki waved off his clarification. Instead she grinned and gave an exaggerated look around. “All it’s going to cost you is a tour of the place. I’ve never been in a sheriff’s station before. Do you have cells here?”

“We have a couple of holding cells.” Now, there was a thought. Maybe one of those could hold her long enough to give him a few minutes’ peace. He took control of the stroller and started toward the back hall. “Grab the chicken. We’ll begin with my office.”

“Don’t forget your meeting with the Mayor and the city council before the community meeting starts,” Lydia called after them. He waved an acknowledgment.

For someone who always seemed to move at a slow
glide, Nikki easily kept pace. “I really do want a tour, but if you don’t have time I understand. I know the meeting starts in an hour. We can do this another time if you like.”

What he’d like was her pressed up against his office wall, with the door shut and the blinds closed…

He almost tripped over his own feet as the scene played out in his head.

“Are you okay?” she asked when he came to a dead stop.

“Yeah, fine.” Holy heck, where had that come from? “On second thought—” he made a U-turn away from his office “—let’s put the chicken in the kitchen.”

The illicit vision was wrong on so many levels, yet so vivid he practically tasted her on his lips.

He was the Sheriff, this was his office, she was his employee. And those were only the obvious objections. He had a son to worry about—a son who needed her more than Trace needed his libido ignited.

If none of that existed he
still
wouldn’t act on the crazy desire. She was all about love and commitment, and he’d already proved he knew next to nothing about those commodities.

“Have you always wanted to be a cop?” Nikki asked Trace as they neared the end of the impromptu tour. Pride in what he did showed in every word he said as he took her through the small station. She’d been booked, fingerprinted and was about to be processed.

“I was military first. Marine, like my dad. But I de
cided I liked having more control over my life, so I only did four years. Law enforcement seemed a natural choice from there.”

“Structure and discipline on your own terms?”

He watched her out of the corner of his eyes, obviously bothered at being pegged so accurately in a casual observation. Actually, he’d surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to be so at ease, so funny. This was where he felt at home.

“As a teacher of twenty to thirty five-year-olds, I’d think
you’d
be a fan of a controlled environment,” he challenged her.

She laughed. “What I know, as the teacher of thirty kindergarteners, is that control is an illusion.”

“Come on, you give me a schedule for Mickey every day. You have routine down to a science.”

“Oh, I’m all about structure and routine,” she readily agreed—those were a teacher’s biggest tools. But his version and hers were polar opposites. “But in the classroom my day moves from one chaotic moment to the next. When you work with kids you have to be flexible. You never know what’s going to happen, so you have to be prepared for anything. I imagine your days are much the same.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re comparing a kindergarten class with criminals?”

“Of course not,” she assured him. “But keeping the peace, monitoring behavior, dealing with cultural differences. It’s all part of our day.”

“I never really thought of it that way.”

“Most people don’t, but a classroom is a microcosm of the community. Oh!” She spotted a stack of thick books full of photos. “Are these mugshots? Can I look?”

“Yeah, they’re older versions, hard copies. Most mugshots are online now. Technology is great. It helps to narrow down by characteristics—height, weight, coloring, etcetera. But sorry.” Trace walked to the counter holding the books and flipped the covers closed. “The pictures are for case purposes only.” He shrugged. “Every one gets their privacy protected these days. Even known felons.”

“Actually, I can understand that.” Nikki fingered the edge of one of the books. “I check the public Web site for sex offenders on a fairly regular basis. And I can tell some people are only there because of indiscretions gone public.”

“Let me guess.” He stood hands on hips, every inch the hardcore cop. “You think it’s unfair for a dumb college prank like mooning someone in a passing car to classify someone as a sex offender?”

“No,” she disagreed—surprising him, no doubt. She drew in a calming breath and tried very hard not to think beyond the conversation. “It’s a hard line, but if someone is stupid enough to expose themselves in public then it could be a precursor of future deviant acts. When it comes to the safety of kids, I don’t think the line can be too hard.”

Needing the distraction, and a reminder of all things innocent and good in life, she checked on Mickey. He slept peacefully in his stroller, his thick lashes a dark
shadow on baby-soft skin. His sweetness helped settle the ghosts of harsh memories.

When she stood up straight, Trace was too close.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently.

“What?”

“You’ve dealt with a victim of sexual abuse?”

She swallowed hard. Obviously she hadn’t been as good at hiding her feelings as she’d hoped. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to stomach in my life. The helplessness was overwhelming.”

“Nikki.” He cupped her cheek, his thumb a soft caress as he swept away a tear. “You have to know you helped.”

“Too little, too late.” For just a moment she rested her head on his shoulder, absorbed his strength and his warmth. “She was so small, so quiet, how could anyone want to hurt her?”

His fingers laced through her hair as he hugged her to him, his touch tender where his body was all hard muscle. And his low voice whispered to her. “There’s no sense to be found in these cases. You help where you can and live with what you can’t change.”

She shook as memories bombarded her. “I’ve never known such hate. I can’t think about it or I lose myself in the rage.”

“No,” he agreed, “you can’t dwell on the bad.” He lifted her chin so she looked into his intense green gaze, so close she could see the scars on his soul, and she knew he knew. “You have to focus on the good you did. You can’t let the hate win or she won’t be the only victim.”

“That’s what the counselor said. And most of the
time I can deal with it. Monitoring the public Web site gives me a sense of being proactive. Being responsible for young kids is huge, and I want to be able to protect them when they’re in my care. If I can recognize a predator before he harms a child, it’s worth the effort.”

“I think you’re brilliant. Now, what can we do to put a smile back on your face?” He eased away, but his hand warmed the small of her back, holding her steady. “Do you want to see how my handcuffs work?”

“No,” she mumbled, as she took the tissue he handed her. As she mopped her face and his heat retreated, she realized what an emotional mess she’d become. How mortifying. Trace must want to be anywhere but here right now. But as she peeked at him around the tissue he looked anything but terrorized.

“Nikki,” he said. Her name. Nothing more. But the softness of it, the intimacy of it, broke down the distance his persistent formality upheld between them.

Even as her mind shouted
bad idea
, Trace stepped close again, lowered his head, and claimed her mouth. On a catch of breath, she opened to him, and he deepened the kiss. A hard arm around her waist swept her closer to him, so they touched from shoulder to thighs, his strength and confidence an intoxicating combination as she melted in his arms.

Ignoring the warnings clamoring through her head, she surrendered to the passion, meeting his tongue with hers in a sliding dance of desire.

It felt so good to be held, to lean—just for a moment—on someone strong and giving.

She drew back at the thought, recognizing despite her passion-drenched senses the fallacy of her conception. She had no right to lean on Trace. This was a moment out of time for her. For him.

She had no doubts he’d be as appalled as she once they regained their equilibrium. Stepping back, she cleared her throat, seeking a less-dangerous distraction.

He’d been wonderful, actually. It had really helped to talk to someone who understood. But time to let him off the hook.

She lowered the tissue and batted her eyes at him. “I don’t think I’m ready for handcuffs, but you can let me shoot your gun.”

His gaze blazed a molten emerald heat. It took him a moment to move from hot and bothered to cool, calm lawman. Blinking, he cleared his eyes and propped his hands on his gun belt. He narrowed his eyes at her. “You want to shoot my gun?”

“Yes, please.”

He shifted his gaze from her to the sleeping baby then back. “Now you’re just pushing my buttons. This isn’t the time or place for target practice.”

“Okay, yeah, a little.” She cleared the thickness from her throat and tossed the tissue into a nearby trashcan. “But maybe we could go to the range sometime.”

“Guns aren’t toys, you know.” He looked so torn—all macho cop, but still wanting to distract her from her emotional meltdown. How sweet was that?

“Actually, I do know. My dad was a navy chief. He taught me to shoot. We used to go to the range together.”

“Really?” Clearly surprised, he swept his emerald gaze over her with a new level of interest that had her breath catching in the back of her throat.

“Well, then, it’s a date.”