Mistletoe Seductions. Nicola Marsh

Mum.’

      He propped him up against his shoulder and jostled him soothingly, and the contrast between the big man and the tiny child brought a lump to Liv’s throat. His large hand cupped the back of the baby’s head tenderly, cradling it next to his newly shaven cheek, and he crooned softly.

      ‘Hush, my precious,’ he murmured, and Liv wondered sadly why Ben was so good with him and Kit’s own father had been so bitter and indifferent.

      Certainly he’d never called him precious.

      ‘Is he OK?’ she asked guiltily. ‘I didn’t even hear him cry—I’m sorry.’

      ‘That’s all right, I was up anyway. He’s fine. Just hungry, I think, and a bit uncertain about my nappy-changing skills. Missy’s still sleeping.’

      She reached out and took the baby from him, and without thinking pulled up the T-shirt he’d lent her and settled Kit’s mouth over her nipple.

      There was instant, blissful silence, and she looked up with a smile on her face to see Ben staring down at her breast, an unreadable expression in his sapphire eyes. After a stunned second he cleared his throat and turned away, and she closed her eyes and sighed. Damn. She hadn’t meant to offend him. She just hadn’t thought.

      ‘Sorry—’ she began, but he cut her off.

      ‘Don’t apologise, you haven’t done anything,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll leave you in peace. Do you want a drink? My sisters always demand tea when they’re breastfeeding—they say they get thirsty.’

      ‘Please—if it’s not a nuisance.’

      He hovered in the doorway, his eyes fixed firmly on her face. ‘What about a bottle? Want me to make one up, or do you want to give it a chance?’

      She looked down at her breasts, soft and pale, not blue-veined and taut as they had been when they were full of milk, and sighed. ‘I don’t know. I want to feed him if I can, but I don’t want him hungry.’

      ‘Why don’t I make up a small bottle just in case, and I’ll ring the doctor and ask if the midwife can come and talk to you?’

      ‘It’s the health visitor,’ she corrected. ‘The midwife only looks after you for the first ten days—and anyway, we’ll be all right.’

      ‘Nevertheless, perhaps she can give you some advice. I’ll ring.’

      And he left her alone with the baby. He suckled well, but he wasn’t satisfied, she could tell. He fussed and whinged, and she had to use the bottle Ben had made up to settle him in the end.

      And then the health visitor came, as if by magic, and was wonderful, giving her all sorts of sane advice which she desperately needed, because she’d bottle-fed Missy at Oscar’s insistence and wasn’t really confident in her ability to feed Kit.

      ‘You’ll be fine,’ the woman assured her cheerfully. ‘Drink lots, plug him in whenever he seems hungry, top him up with the bottle only if it’s absolutely necessary so you can get some sleep, and you’ll soon find you’ve got more milk than you know what to do with. And now I need a quick cuddle with him before I have to go.’

      She took Kit from Liv, and made all sorts of admiring noises that Kit found fascinating while Liv sat there and wondered how long they could go on imposing on Ben and relying on his good nature. Missy was curled up next to her on the big wide chair, watching the health visitor and sucking her thumb, and every now and then her eyelids drooped.

      Good. If she needed a nap, and the baby would go down for a while, she could have a serious talk with Ben about this housekeeping job. Not that she knew the first thing about housekeeping! She’d left home at nineteen, lived in a dreadful shared house on yoghurt and tomatoes until she’d met Oscar, and then moved in with him into a serviced flat where the most she’d had to do was rustle up the odd meal at the weekend, if they weren’t out and felt too pinched to order in.

      Apart from that all she could manage were salads—models didn’t tend to concentrate very much on food. It was a bit like a eunuch planning a seductive evening with a beautiful woman, she supposed—too frustrating to consider.

      So, not the best training ground, but she’d manage. She’d learn.

      She’d have to.

      Ben leant back in the chair in his study and listened to Liv singing softly to the children overhead. It was a curiously comforting sound, something sweet and gentle that touched some fundamental part of him and made him feel the world was a better place.

      Then the singing stopped, drifting away, and was replaced by soft footfalls coming down the stairs. They hesitated outside his study, and he stood up and went to the door, pulling it open.

      Liv was standing there, hand raised to knock, and he smiled at her, still warmed by her lullaby.

      ‘Hi. Fancy a cup of tea?’ he asked.

      ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

      He nodded. ‘Can we do it over tea? I was just going to make a cup.’

      ‘I’ll make it.’

      She turned on her heel and strode briskly down to the kitchen, filled the kettle and put it on, her actions busy and purposeful. Ben waited, settling himself in the comfy chair by the French window, looking out over the back garden. She’d get round to it when she was ready. You couldn’t hurry Liv. She did things her way, he’d learned that over the years.

      While he waited he looked at the garden, tidied up for the winter, a few odd leaves blowing defiantly across the lawn. He loved the kitchen, facing both ways as it did and spanning the house. It was the only room apart from his bedroom that did that, and it was his favourite room in the house. In the summer he could sit here with the doors open, or take his coffee outside to enjoy the sound of birds and the distant bustle of traffic. In the winter, it was warm and snug and cosy.

      In truth he hardly used the other rooms unless he was entertaining, and recently he’d done less and less of that. He was sick of the soulless merry-go-round of social chit-chat and gossip-mongering, and now he entertained for business reasons alone, and then usually in a hotel or restaurant, in the absence of a decent cook.

      Anything rather than have his private space invaded by strangers.

      ‘About the job.’

      He looked up with a start, and frowned at Liv. ‘Job?’

      ‘The housekeeper’s job—you rang me a couple of weeks ago to congratulate me on having Kit, and mentioned that you were looking for someone.’

      He thought of Mrs Greer who had been with him for years. For all her sterling qualities she couldn’t cook, and he’d wanted to find someone to fill that slot without losing her as his cleaning lady. Still, with Liv and the babies there, she’d be much more stretched on the cleaning front, and if Liv needed the ‘job’ as a sop to her pride, so be it.

      She’d have to cook for herself and the children, anyway, so cooking for him as well wouldn’t add a great deal to the burden and would make her feel useful. Besides, it would make sure she stayed for a while, so he could keep an eye on her and look after her and the children so they didn’t all end up in a worse mess.

      And he’d have company.

      He settled back against the chair and steepled his fingers. ‘Tell me about your qualifications,’ he said deadpan, and to his amazement she took him seriously. She coloured and straightened up, her mouth a determined line, and her eyes locked with his, the resolve in them terrifying.

      ‘I don’t have any,’ she told him bluntly. ‘But I’ll learn. I’ll read books and practise and try new things, and I won’t kill you with salmonella or anything like that. I won’t let you down, Ben.’

      He sat up and leant towards her, a smile teasing at his lips. ‘I’m convinced. You can start now. Where’s that tea?’

      She looked down into