A Nanny for Keeps Read online

  This wasn’t a nursery, but the master bedroom.

  Jacqui turned, her intention to immediately withdraw. And found herself face-to-face with Harry Talbot, standing in front of a chest of drawers, apparently looking for underwear.

  Bad enough that she’d walked into his room without even knocking, but then there was the small fact that he’d just stepped out of the shower and was naked but for a towel slung carelessly about his hips.

  As he spun to face her it lost its battle with gravity.

  He made no move to retrieve it and, despite opening her mouth with every intention of apologizing for having blundered into his room, she found herself quite unable to speak.

  He was beautiful. Lean to the bone, hard, sculptured, his was the kind of body artists loved for their life classes.

  Which made the scars lacerating his back, scars which he hadn’t moved quickly enough to hide from her, all the more terrible.

  Without thinking, she reached out as if to touch him, take the pain into her own body.

  Just like having a heart-to-heart with your best friend, these stories will take you from laughter to tears and back again!

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  So heartwarming and emotional you’ll want to have some tissues handy!

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  A NANNY FOR KEEPS

  Liz Fielding

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  JACQUI MOORE peered through the low, swirling cloud, intent on keeping her precious car on the lane snaking between dry-stone walls that were much too close for comfort, and wished, not for the first time that day, that she was better at saying no.

  ‘It’s just a flying nanny job, Jacqui. A piece of cake for someone as experienced as you.’

  ‘I’m not a nanny, flying or otherwise. Not any more.’

  ‘A couple of hours, max,’ Vickie Campbell continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I wouldn’t ask but this is an emergency and Selina Talbot is a very special client.’

  ‘Selina Talbot?’

  ‘Now I have your attention,’ Vickie said, with satisfaction. ‘You know she adopted an orphaned refugee child?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen her photograph in Celebrity…’

  ‘We supply all her staff.’

  ‘Do you?’ Jacqui jerked herself back from the brink of temptation. ‘So why doesn’t she have one of your wonderful nannies to take care of her little girl?’

  ‘She does. At least she will have. I’ve got someone lined up, but she’s on holiday—’

  ‘Holiday! Now, there’s a coincidence. You do recall that you asked me to drop by on my way to the airport…’ she laid heavy emphasis on the word airport ‘…since I was passing the door anyway. You had something for me, you said,’ she prompted.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Vickie opened her desk drawer and handed her a padded envelope. ‘The Gilchrists sent it.’

  Jacqui took the envelope with its Hong Kong postmark and, heart beating like a drum as she tore it open, tipped out the contents. The supple silver links of the bracelet curled into her palm. A card fluttered to the ground.

  With a feeling of dread she picked it up, turned it over and read the message.

  ‘Jacqui?’

  She shook her head, blinking furiously as she bent over her bag, pushing it out of sight. Unable for a moment to speak.

  ‘What is it? Did the Gilchrists send you a keepsake?’

  Unable to tell her exactly what the Gilchrists had done, she said, ‘Something like that.’

  Vickie took it from her. ‘Oh, it’s a charm bracelet and they’ve started your collection with a little heart. How sweet.’ Then, ‘It seems to be engraved,’ she said, holding it closer to the light and squinting to read the tiny words. ‘I really must get my eyes tested, but I think it says…“…forget and smile…”.’ She frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s a quotation from Christina Rossetti,’ Jacqui said, numbly. “‘Better by far you should forget and smile, Than that you should remember and be sad.’”

  ‘Oh. Yes… Well. I see.’ Then, gently, ‘Maybe that’s good advice.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘I know how much it hurt to lose her, Jacqui. She’ll never forget you. Everything you did for her.’

  Jacqui knew exactly what she’d done. That was why she could never take the risk again.

  ‘Do you want me to fasten it for you?’

  And because it would have looked odd if she’d stuffed it away out of sight with the card that had come with it, she allowed Vickie to fasten the chain about her wrist. Then, because she had to get out of there, she cleared her throat and said, ‘Right, well, if that’s all, I’d better be getting on my way.’

  ‘Don’t rush off. Your plane doesn’t leave for hours.’ Vickie smiled. One of those full-blooded, come on, I understand that you were upset, but it’s time to move on, smiles. ‘And, since you’re flying by a no-frills airline from some airport in the back of beyond, you undoubtedly need the money. You haven’t worked for months.’

  ‘I haven’t worked for you for months,’ she corrected. ‘Which was quite intentional. But I have been working as a temp in a jolly nice office. Regular hours, no weekends and the money isn’t bad, either.’

  Vickie rolled her eyes in a give-me-strength look, not fooled for a minute.

  OK, ‘jolly’ probably overstated it.

  ‘They’ve asked me to stay on,’ she said. ‘Permanently.’

  ‘It’s not even as if you’ll have to put yourself out,’ Vickie continued, treating this statement with the contempt it probably deserved and completely ignoring it.

  Jacqui had done a very good job for her temporary employers, doing all the dull, repetitive jobs that no one else wanted and doing them well. She’d hated every minute of it, but it was her penance and for six months she’d punished herself. But it hadn’t helped. She was going to have to try something different and maybe her family were right, a couple of weeks on her own, with no pressures, would give her time to decide what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

  ‘You practically pass the house,’ Vickie persisted, crashing into her thoughts and forcing her to concentrate on the immediate problem. But then she hadn’t attracted all those crème-de-la-crème clients by allowing herself to be put off at the first obstacle.

  ‘Is that so? The motorway runs right through Little Hinton, does it?’

  ‘Not exactly through it,’ she admitted, ‘but it’s a very minor diversion. The village is no more than five miles from the nearest exit.’

  ‘Five? Would that be as the crow flies?’

  ‘Six at the most. I can show you on the map.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll be totally honest with you—’

  ‘That would make a nice change.’

  ‘I’m counting on you.’ Oh, help… ‘Selina Talbot will be arriving at any moment and it could be hours before I can find someone else to do this for me.’

  ‘If you go in for Machiavellian subterfuge, Vickie, you should always have a back-up plan.’

  ‘Please. It’s only a little job and you wouldn’t want to leave a small child here, in my office, bored to tears, would you?’

  She pressed her hand over the chain on her wrist until it du
g in painfully. ‘I could live with it,’ she said. ‘Whether you could is another matter.’

  ‘Please, Jacqui. I’ve got meetings, interviews—’

  ‘And an office full of your own staff—’

  ‘Who are all fully occupied on vital work. Just drop Maisie off at her grandmother’s house and then you can head for the sun and spend the next two weeks without a thought for the rest of us slaving away in the cold and rain.’

  ‘You think you can make me feel guilty?’ she enquired, with every appearance of carelessness.

  The holiday hadn’t been her idea. It was her family who kept insisting that she needed a break. Not that she needed telling. She had to face herself in the mirror every morning. Vickie, she suspected, thought she knew better and had manufactured this ‘crisis’ purely for her benefit. It was about as blatant a piece of in-at-the-deep-end amateur psychology as she’d ever witnessed and it would serve her right if she walked out and left her lumbered with a spoilt brat causing chaos in her well-run office.

  ‘I’ll pay you double—’

  ‘That is desperate.’

  ‘—and when you come back,’ Vickie continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘we can have a little chat about your future.’

  ‘I don’t have a future,’ she declared forcefully, cutting her off before this whole thing got completely out of hand.

  She’d only agreed to come into the office on her way to the airport because it gave her the perfect chance to tell Vickie face-to-face that she must remove her from her books once and for all. Finally. Irrevocably. Put a stop to the tempting little job offers that she kept leaving on her answering machine.

  At least in Spain she’d be safe from these sneaky little raids on her determination.

  ‘Not as a nanny,’ she said as she headed for the door. ‘I’ll send you a postcard—’

  Vickie leapt to her feet but before she could fling herself between Jacqui and freedom, Selina Talbot swept in; tall, golden and clearly worth every cent of the millions of dollars she earned as a supermodel. The fortune she was paid as the face of a famous cosmetic company.

  Maisie, her six-year-old adopted daughter—familiar from endless full-colour ‘happy family’ spreads in lifestyle magazines and the object of Vickie’s unsubtle strategic planning—was at her side.

  The little girl was not wearing the wash-and-wear clothes any sensible nanny would have dressed her in for travelling. Instead she was togged out in the full fairy-princess kit: a white, full-skirted voile dress with a mauve satin sash, opaque white tights and satin Mary Janes, the perfect foil for her beautiful chocolate-dark skin. A sparkly tiara perched on top of her jet curls completed the picture. Only the wings were missing.

  One of her hands was in fingertip contact with her mother. From the other dangled a small white linen tote bag on which the words ‘Maisie’s Stuff’ had been appliquéd in the same mauve satin as her sash.

  The designer’s logo embroidered in the same colour suggested that the outfit was a one-off creation for his favourite model’s little girl.

  Most small girls of her acquaintance—and she’d known enough to be certain of this—would have been crumpled and grubby within five minutes of being dressed in such an outfit.

  Not Maisie Talbot. She looked like an exquisite doll. One of those collector’s editions that was kept in a glass case so it wouldn’t get spoiled by sticky fingers.

  Most children faced with the prospect of being left in the care of complete strangers—and once again Jacqui had plenty of experience as a flying nanny to back up her theory—would have been clinging tearfully to their mother at this point.

  Maisie remained still, silent and composed as Selina Talbot air-kissed her daughter from about three feet above her head and—having acknowledged Vickie’s introduction to ‘Jacqui Moore, the very experienced nanny I told you about’ by the simple expedient of handing over the matching white holdall that contained her daughter’s belongings—departed with an unnerving lack of maternal fuss.

  A tug of something very like compassion for this doll-child slipped beneath Jacqui’s defences; a dangerous urge to pick her up and give her a cuddle. The impulse was stillborn as Maisie’s dark eyes met hers and, with all the poised hauteur of her mother on a Paris catwalk, warned her not to think of doing any such thing.

  Then, having firmly established a cordon sanitaire about her person, Maisie said, ‘I’d like to go now, Jacqui.’ And headed for the door, where she waited for someone to open it for her.

  Vickie Campbell mouthed the words ‘please’ as Maisie tapped her foot impatiently and Jacqui was sorely tempted to walk away, leaving Vickie to deal with the fallout. It wasn’t Vickie’s mute appeal that made the difference. She just couldn’t bring herself to reject a child who, despite her cool, in-charge exterior, seemed very much alone.

  And she was practically passing the door.

  ‘You owe me, Vickie,’ she said, surrendering, helpless in the face of this two-pronged attack.

  ‘Big time,’ Vickie replied, with a grin that had better be of relief. ‘Come and see me when you get back and I’ll have the kind of job waiting for you that will make you drool.’

  Aaah… She’d nearly fallen into the carefully set trap. Once money had exchanged hands…

  ‘On second thoughts, have this one on me,’ she replied. Then, giving her full attention to her unexpected charge, she said, ‘OK, Maisie, let’s go before my car gets clamped.’

  ‘Is this it?’ the child demanded, unimpressed, as they reached the street and she was confronted by a much cherished, but admittedly past its best, VW Beetle.

  ‘This is my car,’ Jacqui agreed, opening the door.

  ‘I never travel in anything but a Mercedes.’

  At which point she began to understand Vickie’s anxiety not to be left alone with Miss Maisie Talbot for any length of time.

  ‘This is a Mercedes,’ she said, briskly.

  ‘It doesn’t look like one.’

  ‘No? Well, it’s a dress-down-at-work day.’

  Maisie’s little forehead wrinkled as she considered this outrageous statement. Then she asked, ‘What’s a dress-down-at-work day?’

  It was too late to wish she’d kept her mouth shut. Something to bear in mind, though, next time she thought of being smart with a six-year-old.

  ‘It’s a day when you’re allowed to go into work wearing jeans instead of a suit,’ she explained.

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘For fun?’ she offered. Then, because Maisie’s idea of fun was dressing up, not down, ‘OK, well, sometimes, to raise money for charity, grown-ups pay for the pleasure of wearing whatever they want to work. Wouldn’t you like to wear your princess outfit to school instead of your uniform and raise some money for a good cause at the same time?’

  ‘I don’t go to school.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I have a home tutor.’ Then, ‘Is that why you’re not wearing a proper uniform? Because you’re dressing down for charity?’

  Jacqui, who had never worn a uniform, proper or otherwise, pretended she hadn’t heard as she busied herself brushing down the back seat, retrieving a couple of toffee papers from the floor before she tossed in the white linen holdall next to her own bag and said, ‘OK, Maisie, hop in and I’ll buckle you up.’

  Maisie stepped aboard, like a princess boarding a Rolls-Royce, and spread her skirts carefully across the seat. Only when she was satisfied with the result did she permit Jacqui to fasten her seat belt.

  ‘So,’ she said, in an effort to move the conversation along a little, make a connection. ‘Are you planning to be a model when you grow up? Like Mummy?’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Maisie said, giving her a look that would have withered nettles. ‘I’ve already done that and it’s sooo boring.’

  ‘I’d heard that,’ Jacqui said, getting behind the wheel and starting the car.

  ‘When I grow up, I’m going to be a doctor just like…’

&n
bsp; ‘Like?’ she prompted, checking the road and pulling out. But Maisie didn’t answer, she had already got out her personal CD player from the bag containing her ‘Stuff’ and clamped the headphones to her ears, plainly indicating that she had no further interest in conversation.

  It was fine, Jacqui told herself. She’d got used to journeys without endless kindergarten chatter. Eventually. You could get tired of making up new verses for ‘The Wheels on the Bus’.

  ‘We’re nearly there, Maisie,’ she said, as she took the exit from the roundabout marked Little Hinton.

  ‘No, we’re not,’ Maisie replied, without bothering to look up. It certainly made a change from the more usual, ‘Are we there yet…? Are we there yet…? Are we there yet…?’

  But then there was nothing ‘usual’ about Maisie.

  Unfortunately the child knew what she was talking about.

  The village itself was nearer ten miles than six from the motorway, but it was easy enough to find and it certainly lived up to its name. There was a village shop with a post office, a pub, a garage and a small school, where a group of children were playing a skipping game in the playground, and a scattering of houses huddled around an untidy patch of grass masquerading as a village green. It took all of five minutes to check them all out, but it didn’t come as a complete surprise to discover that High Tops was not among them.

  The clue, of course, was in the name.

  The village nestled in a small valley. Behind it rose a range of hills that were mostly obscured by low cloud. It didn’t take a genius to work out where a house called High Tops was likely to be.

  ‘So much for the “minor” in diversion,’ she muttered, pulling up outside the village shop. ‘You can forget the postcard, Vickie Campbell,’ she muttered to herself.

  ‘I told you we weren’t nearly there,’ Maisie said.

  ‘So you did.’

  ‘It’s miles and miles and miles. Up there,’ she added, pointing in the direction of the mist-covered hills.