Undercover Nanny. Wendy Warren

shook his head. “Don’t start. Free Willy was a whale.”

      James’s eyes grew wide. “I’m not eatin’ whale!”

      While Max’s body vibrated with the effort to maintain his patience, D.J.’s shook with the attempt to suppress laughter. The poor guy looked exhausted, which, for D.J.’s purposes wasn’t such a bad thing.

      Issuing his next directive as a not-to-be-flouted command, Max said, “Tuna is not a whale. It comes out of a can. Frank went to the trouble of making you lunch, so don’t insult him. And FYI, I don’t advise climbing under tables if you want to meet girls.” His gaze returned to D.J. “They hardly ever hang out there.”

      James giggled. “She’s not a girl.”

      While Max returned his attention to the boy, D.J. shivered for a reason most unprofessional. The man had eyes like a winter ocean: stormy and moody, beckoning with mystery and secret. His expression today was far less open than it had been yesterday, but when he held her gaze it seemed he was daring her to look away. As an investigator, D.J. felt enjoyably challenged. As a woman, she felt…ensnared.

      That wasn’t good.

      “Lunch,” Max told the boys again in a flat tone that brooked no refusal. “Ice cream later if you finish everything.”

      The boys looked at each other with huge, eager eyes. They raced off, leaving D.J. alone in the vacant restaurant with Max.

      Her subject had dressed casually in worn jeans, a red cotton shirt with the tail out and his boots. He was in the mood for work, not play, a fact his next words confirmed.

      “It’s a busy day around here. What can I do for you?”

      There’s the door, what’s your hurry, eh? Determined not to take offense, D.J. reminded herself she was also here for work.

      Years of faking confidence until she’d actually acquired some made her back straight and her shoulders square. She smiled. “You can let me make your life simpler.”

      He reared back ever so slightly, but that hint of surprise told D.J. she’d just taken the upper hand.

      “How,” Max said, “do you propose to do that?”

      “By working for you.” D.J. tossed her head, flicking her dark hair behind her. “You probably don’t remember me,” she demurred, realizing full well that he did. “I stopped by your bar last night. I see you’re opening a restaurant and you’re going to need a staff. I’ve been involved in the restaurant business for years.” D.J. looked him straight in the eye and refrained from adding, but only if you consider how often I eat in them. “I can do whatever. Wait tables, be a hostess.” She glanced around. “Hammer a few nails.” She didn’t mention the children yet, or his need for child care. All in good time.

      Max eyed her up and down, his scrutiny so blatant she didn’t know whether to pose or cross her arms over her chest.

      “You’re not from around here.”

      “I was passing through town yesterday evening,” she told him, using the simple story she’d concocted to explain her appearance in a small-town bar, dressed to the hilt, and her subsequent desire to look for work here. “I was on my way home from a friend’s wedding. It was quite a bash. Naturally, I don’t dress like that for job interviews.”

      “Where’s home and where was the party?”

      “Ashland.” D.J. named a city south of Gold Hill. “That’s where the wedding was. And I’m from Portland.”

      “Portland. Aren’t there any waitress jobs in Portland?”

      “Sure.” Taking a deep breath, she put a sad little wriggle into the exhale. “But so are my fiancé and his new girlfriend.”

      As a little girl, D.J. had heard a story about an angel who wrote down everything a person said or did, recording the entries in a big book for God to read when He was deciding who got into Heaven and who didn’t. There was a page for good acts and one for sins. If the angel existed and was listening to half of what she’d said so far today, she was in deep doo-doo.

      The frown marring Max’s handsome brow dropped lower. His lips pursed as he digested the information she was feeding him. She didn’t want him to work at it too long.

      “I really want to relocate to someplace peaceful, and I’m going to need a job right away. If you already have a full staff, maybe you know of another restaurant job in the area? I don’t mind the dirty work. Even dishwashing is fine.” She curled her polished fingers into her palm, hoping he had a nice big dishwasher in his kitchen. “Oh, and by the way,” she said as if the thought had just occurred to her, “I baby-sit, too. I mean, if you and your wife or someone you know ever needs anyone.”

      Smooth, Daisy. Oh, smooth. Make him think it’s not all about him. “I know this is a small town, and there may not be much work, so I’m willing to be flexible. And cheap for the first month trial period.” And if that don’t grab you, Mr. Lotorto, I can’t imagine what will.

      Maxwell’s brow arched perceptibly with each fib she told. He was definitely mulling it over. “How flexible are you willing to be?”

      Daisy shrugged. “Make me an offer.”

      Max wanted to bite the hook; she could tell. “How do you feel about full-time work with kids?” he asked.

      She plastered an enthusiastic smile over her natural trepidation. “I love kids. Your boys are great.”

      “How do you feel about them 24/7?”

      “So, just to get this straight. You want a babysitter? Someone to watch your children while you’re working?” So far this was playing out the way she’d intended it to. D.J.’s maternal instincts were nil, but hanging out at the restaurant or at Max’s home, watching the kids would give her a chance to observe Max up close and personal, and a few hours of playing cops and robbers under the tables wouldn’t kill her.

      Max frowned over her question. “No.” He gave a quick, sharp shake of his head. “I don’t want a babysitter. I need a nanny.”

      Good Lord. A nanny? Nannies were responsible for discipline. Nannies were responsible for feeding. Nannies…

      Lived in.

      “I could be a nanny,” D.J. blurted before she let herself think twice. The investigator in her could no more turn down the opportunity to spend legitimate time in Maxwell Lotorto’s home than her inner clothes hog would say no to free Jimmy Choo shoes.

      “Do you have experience with kids?” Max’s narrowed eyes suggested he might already be reconsidering his hasty overture.

      “Do I have experience!” D.J. decided to lay it on thick. “I have thirteen brothers and sisters.”

      Max’s astonishment was gratifying. “Thirteen?”

      Give or take. A baker’s dozen was probably a conservative estimate of the boys and girls with whom she’d spent her early, early years. The fact was they were all foster siblings, some of whom D.J. had known a month on the outside, and she hadn’t seen any of them since she was twelve. She had never actually taken care of children, but growing up around them had to count for something.

      Max ran a hand over his ink-dark hair and shook his head. “And I thought four was a handful.”

      “Are you on your own with your children?”

      “Yeah. Our housekeeper…retired recently.”

      “Oh.” Retired, huh? If that scene on his front lawn had been a “retirement,” she’d machine wash all her hand-knit sweaters on Hot.

      “Yeah. She was a great gal. The kids loved her. They’re very loving kids.”

      “I’m sure they are.” Poor Max. His page in the recording angel’s book wasn’t going to look any better than hers. “That must have been