A Tempting Engagement. BRONWYN JAMESON

Then his sleeve brushed against hers again, although this time it wasn’t a casual shrug but a tightening of muscles. Everything inside her tensed in reaction. “He thought he saw you. The nanny called after him but he kept on running and she lost him in the crowd.”

      Not your fault, Emily Jane, not your problem, she told herself, but guilt swamped logic. Fingers pressed against her lips, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

      Sorry for Mitch’s despair, sorry for leaving and breaking Joshua’s heart. Sorry even for the hapless nanny.

      “And this is why you moved back here?” she asked quietly. “Why you want me to come back and work for you?”

      “I’ll do anything to stop that happening again. Anything.”

      The steel-capped purpose in his voice should have alarmed Emily, could have intimidated her. But all she heard was the sentiment behind the words, and when she placed a comforting hand on his forearm, she didn’t feel hard muscles and heat. She felt his vulnerability as a father, the fear and helplessness he must have suffered in those three hours.

      “It’s been a rough time for him,” she said quietly. A rough time for both of you. “Does he…talk about his mother?”

      In the hard plane of his cheek, a muscle jumped. “Not often. You know she wasn’t around much.”

      Yes, but the impact of her leaving, her death, must have scored painfully deep. Much deeper than her own departure. “She was his mother,” Emily said simply. Under her hand his arm twitched with tension and she increased the pressure in a gesture of comfort and support. A pittance, she knew, given the depth of his grief. “No matter where she was.”

      He opened his mouth to reply, closed it again. Emily’s heart stalled, waited, longed for him to share. Dangerous, her mind whispered. Remember the last time you offered comfort? Remember that heartache?

      Lost in the intensity of the moment, she didn’t hear Joshua until he was right at the fence, his small hand tugging at her sweater to attract her attention. “You’re right, Emmy. Digger is a smart dog. Watch this, Daddy.”

      He tossed a much-chewed tennis ball long and straight, a sportsman in the making, his father’s son. They applauded the retrieval part of the act, even though Digger absconded with the ball, circling the yard and refusing to give up his toy.

      “See, Daddy? He doesn’t give it back when he wants to play chasies.”

      Eventually Joshua gave up the chase, falling flat on his back at their feet. A small boy filled with exuberance, happy and exhausted from the simplest kind of play, not thinking about the mother who deserted him. Emily’s heart twisted with sympathy. Her own mother might still be alive, but she knew all about that kind of rejection.

      “After we take your stuff to Chantal’s,” the boy said, puffing from his supine position, “we’re going shopping. Can you come with us? We hate shopping.”

      “Why is that?”

      He rolled his eyes. “Last time, Mrs. Hertzy patted me on the head. I’m not a dog.”

      “You smell like one.”

      He laughed uproariously and Emily was doomed. This kid…how could she turn her back on him?

      “But we’ve got to shop,” he continued with breathless sincerity. “We’re sick of eating s’getti.”

      At which point Digger dropped the slobbery ball on his new friend’s chest, his eyes lambent with come-play pleading. Batteries recharged, Joshua leaped to his feet and took off again. As she watched him run, Emily felt her own peculiar sense of breathlessness. She shook her head.

      “What?” Mitch asked, and she turned to catch him watching her, his expression tricky.

      “‘We hate shopping. We’re sick of spaghetti.’ Have you been coaching him?” she asked.

      A corner of his very attractive mouth kicked up. “He has a point about the head patting.”

      “They do that to you, too?” she asked, tongue in cheek.

      He didn’t laugh. “I’d pay you triple just to avoid the supermarket.”

      Oh, yes, she saw it very clearly now. The pained looks of pity and tuttings of sympathy for “that poor Mitch Goodwin whose wife up and left.” How he must hate that. And, oh, how she ached to help. She felt herself wavering, the need churning and building and crying out for her to accept.

      “I’m no use to you as a shopper,” she said, striving for a light tone. “Unless you think I can wheel one of those trolleys all the way out to your place.”

      “You know I’ll provide a car.”

      “I don’t drive.” There, she’d said it. The truth. And she turned her gaze to Joshua climbing into the tree swing again.

      “You used to drive just fine,” Mitch said slowly. “What happened, did you have an accident and lose your nerve?”

      “Something like that.”

      “Then you just need to retrain.”

      She blew out a scoffing breath and shook her head. “You just need to force me behind the wheel of a car, first.”

      “I’ll get you driving again, Emily.”

      That confidence—he was a man who thrived on accomplishment—could have convinced most people. Except Emily knew how easily she froze, not every time but with certain combinations of stimuli. Darkness, city streets, a male passenger, the strident sound of an overrevved engine.

      She didn’t know what to say or how to explain her problem with driving. Remembering his vehemence when she’d told him about losing her job…no, she could not add this story to her growing inventory of victimhood. He would ask more questions, demand more answers, when all she wanted was to forget the whole episode. When all she wanted—just one blessed time—was to feel strong and in control.

      Agreeing to work for Mitch Goodwin did not seem like a wonderful step in that direction. She exhaled on a ragged sigh just as Joshua scampered back to unwittingly tighten the screws. “Can Digger come and live with us, too?” he asked.

      Oh, boy. Emily hunkered down to his level. “I’m not coming to live with you, sweetie.”

      “Why?”

      Why, indeed? “Because I’m moving in at your aunty Chantal’s and uncle Cameron’s.”

      Joshua stared at her hard. “D’you mean Uncle Quade?”

      Everyone called him by his surname, why not Joshua? “Yes, I mean your uncle Quade. It’s not far from your house if you want to come visit.”

      “Daddy said I’m not to go ’cross the paddocks.”

      “That’s because he’s worried that you might get lost.”

      Expression solemn, he seemed to consider her point. His eyes were deep, gray-green pools of hope. “Not if I had a smart dog like Digger. He wouldn’t get lost.”

      Emily struggled to suppress a grin. The dog might be smart, but Joshua Goodwin was a genius at twisting the conversation. He wanted a dog. Perhaps she didn’t have to let him down completely.

      “I think it’s time you guys got going,” she suggested, rising to her feet. “I have to finish packing.”

      “Is there much more?” Mitch asked.

      “Not really.” She shoved her hands in her jeans pockets, not wanting to think about the implications. Once she finished packing, there’d be nothing left to do but leave. She would be adrift again, homeless. “Just some clothes and personal things.”

      “I’ll call back in a few hours, then?”

      She nodded. Watched as Mitch let his son through the gate, then followed them around to the front of