Undercover Nanny. Wendy Warren

      Max had stayed home from work, but instead of giving her the day off to make her decision, he expected her to accompany them all on an “adventure day.”

      Apparently, he’d promised the kids a day of fun, which, to accommodate their juvenile tastes, meant the aforementioned bike ride, a picnic and the activity they were currently pursuing—shopping for a bathing suit so Daisy, too, could partake of the community swimming pool.

      Oh, joy.

      Max had asked her to take the day to decide whether she’d stay or go. There was no decision to make. She wasn’t a nanny. She wasn’t even a waitress. She was a private investigator, and she was starting to dislike this job.

      Max needed to look for real child care; he didn’t need to be lulled into a false sense of security, thinking D.J. might actually accept the job permanently. On the other hand, if she told him she wasn’t staying, he might find someone else and fire her before she’d collected all the information Loretta wanted.

      Pulling her cell phone out of her fanny pack, D.J. dialed Loretta’s number then checked her watch—2:00 p.m. They’d already gone on their bike ride and picnic. Max had bought them all sandwiches at a market deli, where the lady behind the counter clearly knew him and his charges and was blatantly curious about D.J. Max was saved an introduction when Sean or James—D.J. was still having trouble deciding who was who—informed everyone within earshot at the small, locally owned market that “This girl’s our new nanny. She’s prob’ly better than the old ones. We dunno yet.”

      During the picnic, which took place in a park next to a fire station, Max spread out a blanket while D.J. awkwardly handed out sandwiches. Awkwardly, because it failed to occur to her that the sandwiches needed to be unwrapped for Livie and the boys. Or that stupid, idiotic juice cartons spewed like damned geysers if you didn’t hold them properly when you stuck the little straw in.

      The boys had guffawed, Anabel had sighed in her too-grownup way, which was going to doom her to perennial geekdom in junior high if she wasn’t careful, and Liv had looked as if she was going to cry when she realized most of her juice was watering the park lawn.

      Well, pardon me. I drink out of cups! Daisy had wanted to shout, but Max had come to her rescue by claiming it happened to him all the time, too. Then he shared his lemonade with Liv, whispering in the girl’s ear that he would never, ever share his drink with anyone but his best girl.

      D.J. pressed Loretta’s number into her cell phone. She was ready to give Loretta the information she currently had, and as far as D.J. was concerned that ought to be enough. Loretta had wanted to know her grandson’s personal habits, whether he was in a relationship and, if so, what kind of woman he was with—someone who might go after his money should their relationship falter, or a woman who was financially independent? She wanted to know if Max had a good work history. She’d asked D.J. to secure his TRW report and, if possible, copies of his tax returns for the past five years. None of those requests was out of the ordinary, but now D.J. realized that all Loretta would glean from that kind of information was a pile of facts.

      Loretta needed to watch her grandson express amazement over the boys’ discovery of a cricket and to observe his interest as Anabel painstakingly explained the difference between dry ice and the kind they had in the picnic hamper. She needed to be present when Max made Liv feel like the most important little girl in the world. Then Mrs. Mallory would know what D.J. had already discovered: Max was wonderful.

      D.J. didn’t want to be in his house under false pretenses anymore. She didn’t want to lie to him eight sentences out of ten—even if it was for a pretty good cause. Max had integrity. D.J. had only known him two days, yet she admired him already. For the first time, she felt embarrassed to be investigating someone. She longed to talk the situation over with Bill, but he’d been away on another of his excursions when she’d left Portland. She didn’t know where he was exactly. So D.J. lectured herself: Max’s opinion of you is irrelevant. This is a job; it’s not personal.

      Punching the send button, she waited for the phone to ring.

      Shifting to stand by the drinking fountain at Wal-Mart as three women and their children pressed past her on their way to the ladies’ room, D.J. willed Loretta to pick up.

      On the fourth ring, the housekeeper answered. When D.J. asked for Loretta, she was told that Mrs. Mallory was “out of town for the next two weeks.”

      “What? I wasn’t told she was going out of town,” D.J. protested. “Where can she be reached?”

      “She can’t, miss,” the housekeeper answered shortly. “Mrs. Mallory left strict instructions that she is on vacation and does not wish to be disturbed.”

      D.J. scowled into the phone. “Excuse me? She and I are working together. She can’t be out of touch that long.”

      The housekeeper insisted that Mrs. Mallory could do what she liked, whereupon D.J. copped an attitude at least as snooty as the housekeeper’s and said, “Tell Mrs. Mallory that if she wants information about her grandson, she needs to get in touch with D.J. Holden ASAP.” Then she left her cell phone number and rang off, feeling exasperated with Loretta and with herself. She should have asked Loretta many more questions the first time they met. How had she become estranged from her daughter, for instance, and why hadn’t she tried to get in touch with Max before now?

      It occurred to D.J. that at this point she knew more about Max than she did about her real employer.

      Checking her watch, she saw that she’d been away from Maxwell and the crew for fifteen minutes. Hoping she could safely borrow five minutes more, she dialed Bill’s cell phone. He had no idea what she was up to.

      His phone rang three times before voice mail picked up. “Hi. You’ve reached Bill. I’m gone fishing. It’d be a crime against nature to leave my cell phone on when I’m exploring God’s country, but you can leave a message. If the fish aren’t biting, I’ll call you back.” Beep.

      What? Now he wasn’t answering his phone? “Bill, it’s Daisy.” She hurried to speak after the tone, using her given name because neither Bill nor Eileen had liked it when she called herself D.J. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going fishing? You don’t even like fish!” Taking a breath, she tried not to sound as frantic as she felt. It simply wasn’t like Bill to disconnect completely. “Listen, where are you exactly? Call me on my cell, okay, as soon as you get this. I’m in southern Oregon, by the way. I took a job down here. It’s a good one. I’ll be home soon.” She paused, wondering what else she should tell him: I’m trying to save our business? She didn’t want to sound nagging or judgmental or paranoid, but she wished he’d acknowledge the financial trouble they were in. “Okay. Well. Call me.”

      Snapping her phone shut, D.J. slumped against the wall. Bill had always been such a rock. Now he wasn’t even trying to save the agency he’d spent thirty-some years building, and she couldn’t predict his actions at all.

      Bill simply hadn’t recovered from the loss of Eileen; that had to be the problem, and it was up to D.J. to help. Like her, he had no one else. Bucking up her resolve, she knew she wouldn’t let Bill or the business down.

      “Hey, there you are.” Max rounded the corner with one twin hanging on his leg, another hanging upside down in his arms. Anabel and Liv brought up the rear. “The boys need to use the john. Will you watch the girls?” Anabel’s wary expression said she wasn’t at all certain D.J. was up to this task.

      “I got a bathing suit,” Livie announced gaily. “It’s brand-new, and it gots beautiful flowers. I’ll show you.”

      D.J. smiled. It was nearly impossible to hang on to tension when the winsome four-year-old blinked those blue eyes up at her. She wondered if Terry had been a devoted mother. The kids’ basic happy natures and Max’s love for his late cousin suggested that she’d done a good job with the kids.

      “Did you get a bathing suit, too, Anabel?” D.J. asked the preteen, hoping to receive at least a brief answering smile.

      The girl pushed