In From the Cold Read online

  “Are we there yet?”

  “No, baby. Why?”

  “I don’t feel so good.” Suzie’s eyes were wide, her face pale, her forehead beaded with sweat. Her little body tensed as I reached for the barf bag.

  “Wait, wait…” Oh Christ.

  I carried Suzie across the small airfield into the Jackson terminal. My pants were still wet where I’d tried to clean up after her disaster, and she was damp under her little red parka. She was irritable, tired, miserable and…whew, smelly. I knew just how she felt.

  A driver held up a sign with my name on it and when he pointed to a limo, I carried Suzie over and slid her onto the seat. Her eyes were already half-closed, and she’d probably fall asleep in the car. Maybe the driver could leave right away. I’d tip him extra just to get out of these clothes sooner.

  But the driver still stood at the gate, holding another sign. Iverson. I didn’t know any other guests by that name, and I’d had my PA, Irene, check out the guest list beforehand. Who could it—?

  Shit no.

  I should have known.

  Miss Stranger was smiling at the driver and shaking his hand.

  Chapter Three

  Claire

  The look on Suzie’s dad’s face was priceless when he saw me. My heart sank when I realized we’d be sharing a driver, but that might not mean anything. Maybe he was a guest? Or a relative? Whoever he was, it was none of my business.

  He sat in the backseat of the limo, Suzie propped on his lap. She was sucking her fingers, her face pale and worn, her eyes closed.

  Then I noticed the smell. Rich leather and wool and…puke?

  “We meet again,” he said quietly. He glanced down at Suzie with that age-old don’t wake her look.

  I arched a brow, answering with my how stupid do you think I am? look.

  He grinned, and I felt my heart seize. He needed a sign hung on his face: Warning: Lethal Weapon Grin. Even though the temperature on the airport display read ten degrees, I unsnapped my parka.

  “Did she get sick on the plane?” I whispered and tapped my nose.

  He nodded. “I’m afraid we’re both a mess. Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m used to it.” I slid a little farther away on the seat though.

  He rubbed his hand absentmindedly on Suzie’s head. “Used to it? What are you, a nurse?” His hand looked like a pianist’s—long-fingered, sensitive. I watched him stroke Suzie’s hair, his worried eyes intent upon her.

  What would that feel like? To be stroked like that? Studied like that?

  “No, I’m just used to kids. I take care of my niece and nephew.”

  “Do they get sick often?” He let his gaze drift toward me. The driver climbed into his seat and started the car.

  I shrugged. “No more than most kids, I guess.” I nodded toward Suzie, slack-mouthed and snuggled against her daddy’s chest. “Did she eat something bad, or is it just motion sickness?”

  “I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “She’s only had juice and pretzels for the last few hours.”

  “Probably motion sickness then. That’s normal at her age, and airplanes make lots of people sick.” I used my professional nanny tone. “Clean her up, give her some ginger ale and saltines, and she’ll be good as new.”

  “Thanks.” He gazed back down at her. She was sound asleep, and he brushed his knuckle down her cheek. How…sweet.

  How dangerous. Suddenly, I yearned for him to graze that finger down my cheek, to cuddle me on his lap and stroke my hair. The thought made me warm and shivery, dry-mouthed.

  Or maybe I was coming down with the flu.

  I squirmed in my seat and forced myself to look out the window, away from the scene of father and daughter making me go all gooey.

  Too soon, my gaze drifted back again, and I caught myself watching his mouth. His lips were full, with an appealing little quirk on the right side. And those eyelashes…

  I needed to stop.

  Now.

  “You called her ‘Birdie’. Is that a nickname?”

  He nodded and ran his hand over her hair again. “She sings all the time, so I started calling her ‘Birdie’.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “No.” His dimple appeared again. “Just visiting. You?”

  “No, I’m kind of on a working vacation.”

  He jostled Suzie into a more comfortable position on his lap. “Me too.”

  I wondered what kind of work he did, but from his clothes—blue jeans, a charcoal-gray Aran sweater, a down parka—it could be anything. He filled them well, though—too well. He made me uncomfortable and I resented it.

  We were soon heading into Jackson proper. Dusk was beginning to drop, and lights shone on piles of snow. We passed several boutiques, a bakery, a bookstore, a movie theater, and then came to the square, each corner with a gateway made of antlers covered with twinkle lights. I nodded at the still-sleeping Suzie.

  “You’ll have to bring her back later to see these antler gates,” I said.

  He frowned. “Why would I do that?”

  I gaped at him. “What do you mean—why? She’s a kid. Kids love the Wild West. Ergo, she’ll love antler gates and all this western dude stuff.” I waved toward the scene out the window. “Seriously, why did you come here again?”

  “To visit.” He clipped the words.

  “To visit what?” I snapped back.

  “Not what—who. We came to visit people, to work—not sightsee.” His jaw jutted defensively, and I stifled my urge to swing my fist at it.

  “So you brought Suzie to work?”

  “Of course not. She’ll play while I work.”

  “And you expect to keep Suzie here, in what, a hotel room for weeks, while you visit people?”

  “Not a hotel room. A guesthouse.” As if that made all the difference.

  I couldn’t help it. I snorted. “With all this snow? And cowboys? And elk? And skiing? At Christmas?” I chuckled and slumped back against my seat. “Good luck with that.”

  “For your information, Miss Stranger, I intend to be working, while Suzie is entertained elsewhere. It’s been taken care of.”

  An ugly vision of Suzie’s life over the next few weeks flashed in my head. Entertained by strangers, but not by her father or mother or likely even other children. It sounded awful.

  “Elsewhere. I see. So how much of this visiting will include Suzie? Or is she just unnecessary baggage you were forced to bring along?”

  Even as I said it, I knew I’d gone too far.

  “Of all the… Who the hell do you think you are?” He whispered, but it sounded like a yell. And I deserved it.

  There he sat, smelling of vomit and dirty airplane, holding his sick little girl, lines of weariness etched around his mouth and eyes, and I was judging him. I sighed and lightly touched his knee, but he jerked away, still glaring at me. I lifted my hands, palms outward in surrender.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right. That was way out of line. I’ll just…shut up now.” It was a cheap shot, even for me, and I felt lower than the gritty carpet under our feet. Maybe it was too soon for me to be unleashed on the world again. Clearly, I’d forgotten how to interact with adults.

  I closed my eyes and slid back into my seat, trying to dig a hole for myself in the upholstery, then avoided further conversation by staring into the darkness. Soon, we turned into a gated area, and the driver murmured to the gatekeeper, who immediately let us through. We pulled up to a three-story stucco townhouse, cheek by jowl to similar ones. Between the darkness and the snow, it was hard to see much, but the lines were elegant, the streetlights opulent.

  “Where are we?” I asked the driver when he opened the door.

  “One of Mr. Fritz’s guest residences. He thought you might prefer this with the child.” />
  “Oh, we’re not together.” I laughed nervously.

  “Excuse me?” The driver’s gaze darted between us.

  “We’re not together,” I repeated. “I was hired to take care of the guests’ children.”

  He wiggled two fingers at father and daughter, then spoke carefully, his British accent snarky, as if he needed to speak in small words for the idiot before him. “Guests.” He pointed one finger at Suzie. “Child.” Then he pointed at me. “Nanny.”

  Suzie’s dad stared at me. “You’re the nanny?”

  I shut my eyes and nodded. How could I be so dense? I would be Suzie’s keeper.

  The silence grew around us, Suzie’s light breathing against her father’s shoulder the only sound in the night. I forced myself to look at Suzie’s dad.

  His eyes were shut, his head collapsed against the headrest in defeat, like a swimmer finally reaching shore only to find it inhabited by cannibals. Something melted in me, and I sighed. Enough already.

  “Is there a problem?” The driver eyed us both.

  “No,” I said firmly. “No problem.”

  The driver grinned, relieved. “I’ll get your bags then.” He started toward the trunk.

  I climbed out and turned to Suzie’s father, then held out my arms.

  “Let me have her, Mr.…?”

  He opened his eyes and blinked at me.

  “Driscoll. Drake Driscoll.”

  I wiggled my fingers. “Give her to me. You’re exhausted.” He tensed, looking down at her and then back at me, debating. I wiggled my fingers again. “I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”

  As if in a daze, he released her to me. She sighed and settled into my shoulder, while my hand soothed her back. I turned to enter the house, but felt a hand at my elbow.

  “Wait.”

  I turned to him.

  “What’s your name? Your real name?”

  “Claire. Claire Iverson.”

  He nodded and slowly climbed out of the car. I hefted Suzie more firmly in my arms, then followed the driver into the house, hoping for a meal, a shower, a bed—and a break from Drake Driscoll.

  Chapter Four

  Drake

  The driver, who introduced himself as James, showed Claire to Suzie’s bedroom, indicated her attached room, and then pointed me to mine down the hall. My bedroom was huge, with a vaulted ceiling and a king-sized bed that faced a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. I guessed the view tomorrow would be spectacular. Not that I really cared. Too tired to think, I found it hard to appreciate anything right now.

  A shower. My kingdom for a shower. I stumbled into the granite bathroom and stripped as I walked, eager to get the stench of sick child off me. I turned the water to painfully hot, then painfully cold, and finally to soothingly warm. My spirits revived a little. What a day. But we’d made it. One day down, fourteen to go. And with help after today from Claire Iverson.

  What was I going to do about her? If I refused her help, I’d be insulting the Fritzes, the last thing I needed to do on this trip. I needed time and some mental space to work this Fritz deal, and I couldn’t do that and play nursemaid to Suzie. She liked Suzie, she knew kids…

  And she thought I sucked as a dad. Probably as a human being.

  So what? I should give her a shot at doing better. I might not like the bitchy Claire Iverson, but Suzie did and it was convenient and…aw hell.

  The woman had me tied in knots already. Suzie liked her, and yes, damn it, I liked her too. She’d been snitty and high-handed, but I’d been rude and unfair and ungrateful, for which I’d never apologized. Whereas when she’d stepped over the line, she had, and backed off too. No. I liked her.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her ass in that doorway, her breasts in that heather-blue sweater in the car, her expression when she took Suzie, her touch on my knee—all were direct hits to my groin. I grew hard at the mere thought of her look and touch. None of it had been a “come on” or even a subtle “come hither” either. Just human. Genuine.

  I’d been starved for something genuine for too long, and I craved it—too much, truth be told. I was scared of it, and her.

  And I had to live with her for two weeks under the same roof, working with her closely, intimately, with Suzie the glue. I closed my eyes and sighed. I’d have to deal with it, that’s all. I was in Jackson, Wyoming, for the holidays, with a beautiful nanny, a nanny my kid really liked.

  How bad could it be?

  I stepped out of my room, shaved and dressed, then padded down the hallway to the kitchen. The hall opened into a vaulted great room, a huge stone fireplace on one side with three sand-colored leather sofas opposite, a Navajo rug and a glass coffee table with antler legs in the middle. The kitchen was off to one side and a quick survey revealed basics like coffee, tea, cold cuts, bread and snacks, with a nice wine and beer selection too. I poured myself a glass of wine and made a huge sandwich of pastrami, Swiss cheese, tomato and lettuce. Then I remembered Suzie and Claire hadn’t eaten either.

  I walked down the hall and softly knocked on Suzie’s door. Claire opened it, backlit by a dim lamp on the bedside table. Her hair was wet and water drops sprinkled her neck like a necklace. She was in a blue seersucker bathrobe—nothing exotic—yet I felt something stir.

  “I was making a sandwich. Would you like one?”

  Her eyes lit up, and she licked her lips. Another jolt to my groin.

  “That sounds heavenly. I’m starved.”

  “What would you like?”

  “I don’t care, I’m not picky.”

  “Great. What about Suzie?”

  She opened the door a little wider, and I could see Suzie snuggled in the bed, two fingers in her mouth, fast asleep. Claire smiled.

  “I think we’d best leave her. She’s down for the count.”

  She looked down at her robe and drew it closer. “Let me get some clothes on and I’ll be right there.”

  Clothes would be good. Very good.

  I hurried back to the kitchen.

  In a few minutes, a fire roared in the fireplace, and I had wine poured and sandwiches piled on plates. I propped my feet on the coffee table and laid my head back. I must have nodded off, because when I looked up, Claire was reaching for the wineglass in my hand, which tilted at a dangerous angle.

  “Sorry.” I straightened the glass. Her face was close to mine—I could smell her shampoo—and as she leaned over me, I could see down her flannel shirt. She had beautiful breasts—hefty and round—and my palms ached to cup them.

  Maybe she saw me looking, or noticed the sudden tension straining the front of my jeans, but she blushed and scooted away. I discreetly adjusted myself and pointed to the food.

  “Help yourself. I hope you like ‘Reubenish’ sandwiches. The wine is a New Mexican champagne and very good.”

  She picked up her glass, sipped, and I swear she purred.

  “Delicious.”

  With that one word, the wall between us felt breached. We relaxed, and I didn’t feel quite so tired anymore.

  We dug into the sandwiches and drank our wine, and soon, the platter sat empty. I took it back to the kitchen, and brought back the champagne bottle and a package of cookies. I topped up our glasses.

  “And now, mademoiselle, la pièce de résistance—Double Stuf Oreos.”

  “Mais oui, monsieur. C’est parfaitement!”

  She laughed, a silvery sound, and my body tensed again. Either I needed to give in to this roller coaster of jolting sensations or figure out another way to deal. Something about her pulled me, and it was all I could do not to reach out and grab her.

  I moved away. I sank down on the floor, my back against the sofa, my legs stretched toward the fire. I felt mellow and full, the wine relaxing my hepped-up nerves. She hummed a jingle to herself, one I faintly remembered.

&
nbsp; “Oh, a kid’ll eat the middle/Of an Oreo first/And leave the chocolate cookie outside/For last.”

  I watched, fascinated, as she twisted her Oreo, and scraped the creamy center off in little nips with her teeth. Then she crunched the crisp cookie, and I watched as her tongue flicked the crumbs on the edge of her lips. I was mesmerized. I couldn’t help thinking what that tongue would feel like on my mouth, my chest, my loins, my…

  I grabbed two cookies from the bag and finished the wine off between our glasses.

  “This wine is wonderful. Why have I never heard of it before?” she asked, swirling her tongue along the edge. I was dying, my cock so hard my knees felt weak. Good thing I was already sitting down.

  “Have you been to New Mexico? Santa Fe? They love Gruët there, serve it everywhere.”

  “Really? I’ll have to move to New Mexico.” A cloud shadowed her face.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, what?”

  She sighed and sipped her wine. “Nothing, really.” She wiggled her shoulders, twirling her neck as if to release tension. She threw me a little half-smile.

  “What?” I asked, smiling encouragement.

  “It’s just…well, you’ve probably been everywhere, while I…” She shrugged and studied her glass. “This is my first trip really, and there’s so much I want to see. Sometimes, I’m scared I’ll never get the chance.”

  I took another sip of wine, savoring the moment. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sat and had a simple conversation like this with a woman, not without some ulterior motive.

  “You know,” she said, “it’s like that Dr. Seuss story Oh the Places You’ll Go. I’m stuck in that damn ‘waiting place’.” She tried to laugh, then frowned and placed her wineglass on the coffee table. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Must be the wine.”

  “Don’t they say good things come to those who wait?”

  She rolled her eyes, but I could see something sad, wistful, in the back of her eyes.

  “That’s what I hear, but I don’t really believe it.” She turned to me and her eyes narrowed. “Seriously, what have you ever waited for?”