The Coltons of Red Ridge
“Thanks,” Dante said shortly. If the guy was really Dominic’s lawyer, he probably already knew he and his brother weren’t close. And he didn’t have time to waste on words he didn’t want to hear anyway. “What did you need?”
“It’s more what you need.” Dante nearly smiled at that. He’d lived most of his life in a determined effort never to need a lawyer. So far he’d succeeded. “I have your brother’s will.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know if he told you—”
“He didn’t.” Whatever it was, Dominic hadn’t told him. Because he never did. And Dante was happier with it that way, because it let him hang on to the tiny bit of brotherly feeling he still had.
“Well. Then. Everything is left to his wife, or if she is also deceased, to his daughters.”
“Of course,” Dante said, although he couldn’t help wondering how the girls would feel if they ever realized how said property had been obtained, with the proceeds from a career of criminal activity.
“You understand, then?” the man said, sounding relieved.
“Understand?” Dante asked, puzzled about what could be confusing about this. Then it hit him. He almost laughed. “Wait, you think I expected my brother to leave me something? No way in—”
He cut it off with another glance at the twins, who were being rather cooperative, both having apparently gone back to sleep.
Why not, after all? They were awake most of the night...
“Well, he did, in a way.”
Dante frowned again. “In what way?”
“The children.”
“What?”
“I’d say making you their legal guardian is leaving you something, wouldn’t you?”
Dante sank down into his desk chair. He had no choice—his knees had suddenly gone weak. “What?” he repeated numbly.
There was a long, silent pause. “He never told you?”
Dante searched for words and finally said, very carefully, “My brother made me the twins’ guardian?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” It came out as bewildered as he was feeling. “We weren’t... We didn’t...”
“He told me you were the only one he would trust. Because, he said, you were the only one who would see to them properly.”
What the hell did that mean? “Look, Mr. Fisk, I can’t—”
“I understand things are a bit...chaotic at the moment. I’ll send you a copy of the relevant portions of the will, but there are some other papers to sign and be filed. So if you could manage to come in to my office, or I can meet you somewhere, if that’s impossible.”
This is all impossible.
“Give me your number,” he said, almost automatically. He scrawled it down and hung up without saying anything other than goodbye. Stared at it for a moment. Then looked at the sleeping girls, the picture of innocence now, nothing like the twin demons who had kept him running all night.
What the hell did he know about babies? Nothing. He knew nothing about little kids, either. And half the time—more than half, in fact—he was convinced he understood absolutely nothing about the female of the species at all, so how was he supposed to raise two of them?
A flood of images rushed through his mind, of toddlers wreaking mayhem, emotional teenagers doing the same. Girls. Clustered in packs, whispering. God, that time of the month. Warning them about that kind of boy.
Teaching them how to put that boy on his knees? Now that might be something I could contribute.
But the rest? No. No way.
Why, Dominic? Why me?
He couldn’t do this.
He had to.
...the only one who would see to them properly.
What the hell did that even mean?
It was too much. Panic filled him. He couldn’t be responsible for this. He could deal with thieves, armed robbers, murderers, the scum of the earth. But he couldn’t be responsible for seeing that these two helpless babies had a good life.
Zita opened her eyes again. Smiled again. He pictured handing her over to some stranger to raise. Or worse, refusing the task and handing her over to the system. He knew too well, better than a civilian, that no matter how well meaning, there were too many gaps, too many holes in that system. Holes big enough for these two to fall right through.
“They kinda look like you.”
Dante jerked out of his swirling thoughts to stare at Gage. “What?” Seemed like the only word he could manage lately.
“When they’re frowning, anyway,” Gage gibed at him.
He started to make an insulting hand gesture, a reflex among cops who had worked together awhile. But he stopped before it formed. That, too, would have to stop.
He remembered at Mrs. Nelson’s, looking down at...he wasn’t sure which one it had been, now, Zita or Lucia, who had opened her eyes and looked at him, but he remembered thinking how her life had changed forever and she didn’t even know it.
But now he knew something else.
So had his.
* * *
“Maternal instinct,” Gemma said rather huffily as she stared down at the artistic pattern worked into the surface of her latte.
“What?”
She raised her gaze to her brother’s face. And she couldn’t help but smile. She’d been terrified Blake was going to die just two months ago, after that horrible incident at the train station. And she’d already missed him while he’d been off building his fortune, but she completely understood his need to prove something to their father.
But now he was almost recovered, and much, much happier as he, Juliette and their daughter were building a life together. She envied but didn’t begrudge him, because she loved him. She’d even come to like the bright, clever little girl who was his daughter. She didn’t mind children at that age, where they were beginning to talk and you could communicate with them.
An ounce of maternal instinct...
Devlin’s words came back to her. Her jaw tightened. Just because she didn’t want children yet didn’t mean she had no instincts. And there had to be a way to convince Dev of that. That she could be what he wanted.
“Gemma, what’s wrong?”
She blinked. Blake had gone out of his way to meet her for coffee—the least she could do was pay attention. They were still finding their way in their own relationship, after his five-year absence.
“Sorry. Just...distracted. How are Juliette and Pandora?” That would do it, she thought. And the smile that warmed Blake’s face, that lit his green eyes, proved her right.
“Besides wonderful?” he asked.
“Already knew that,” Gemma said with a wave and a grin. “How about Sasha?” Juliette’s K9 partner, a clever beagle, had been instrumental in the case that had brought them all together.
“She’s a character,” Blake said. “I think she’s glad to be back to work, though.”
“Toddler getting to her?”
“No, they get along great, but Juliette says it’s a learning curve.” Blake let out a compressed breath, as if he’d thought of something sad. “Not as much as one of the other K9 guys, though. Juliette told me he just inherited his twin nieces, six months old.”
Gemma blinked. “Inherited?”
Blake nodded. “His brother and sister-in-law were killed in a traffic accident yesterday.”
“That’s awful!”
“Yeah. Juliette says Dante’s going crazy, trying to deal. He says he knows nothing about kids and less about babies.”
“No paternal instincts?” The words were out before she could stop them. It irritated her that Dev had gotten to her so deeply that she couldn’t seem to shrug it off.
“Not on five minutes’ notice, no,” Blake said, looking at her in apparent puzzlement at her sharp tone. “Anyway, he’s in a panic, looking for a nanny.”
Gemma stared at her brother, beyond startled at the idea that flashed into her head the moment he’d finished the sentence.
“A nanny,” she said.
Blake nodded. “No way he can do it alone, and he knows it. And he’s a cop—never knows when he might be late, or get called in after hours.”
“So he’ll need someone with...strong maternal instincts.”
“Yeah.” Blake lifted a brow at her. “What is with you today? All this parental instinct talk? If you’re worried about me and Pandora, we’re okay. I’ve already fallen for her like the proverbial ton of bricks.”
“I know. It’s not that. It’s me.” She gave him a wry smile. “You know, it’s always about me.”
Her brother studied her for a moment. “Some might believe that. But you’ve got a heart of gold, Gemma. You’re always willing to give away what you’ve got or raise money for good causes.”
“Maybe I need to get more hands-on.”
“Like?”
She knew it was crazy. Completely. Yet she couldn’t think of a better way to prove Devlin utterly, totally wrong.
“That cop who needs a nanny,” she said, slowly, as her common sense tried to rein in the insane idea. “Who is he?”
“Dante Mancuso,” Blake said, lifting his coffee cup. “Word from Juliette is he’s a good guy. Pulled himself up from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks and made something good of his life.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” he asked, taking a sip.
“Be nanny to those babies.”
Chapter 5
Blake made a strange sound, as if the coffee had suddenly gone bad. Or as if he’d choked on that last swallow.
“You...what?”
“I’ll take the job,” Gemma said.
He stared at her. She stared back, her mind set now that she’d voiced it. He started to speak. Stopped. Started again. Stopped again. Then, in a tone she could tell was purposely level, he said reasonably, “If they tracked people who know even less than he does, you’d be on the list.”
“I can learn,” she said stubbornly.
“You’re smart, and you’ve got drive,” he agreed. “Nobody raises money for charity like you do without it. But that’s a lot different than dealing with babies.”
“Nobody’s born knowing,” she pointed out.
“No. But they usually have time to learn before it’s in their lap, so to speak.”
“So I’ll learn fast.”
“Why would you want to do this?”
“Maybe I don’t like not knowing anything about...the whole baby thing.”
Her brother studied her for a long, silent moment before saying softly, “Does this have anything to do with Dev Harrington?”
She stiffened. “Why would you ask that?”
“Look, I don’t know the guy, but—”
“Exactly.”
“I just don’t like to see you hurting.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not hurting. I’m mad.”
“Uh-oh. Mad like when you painted my shoes red, or mad like when you broke that window in Dad’s car?”
“Mad like when Anna Witton called me a useless socialite,” she muttered.
Blake smiled at that. “And look what you turned that into,” he said softly. And she knew he meant that was when she’d begun her philanthropic efforts, determined to prove the former mayor wrong. Well, and to show her father she was good at something. And she had found, to her surprise, that not only was she good at it, she loved it. It gave her a sense of fulfillment that nothing else in her life ever had.
Even Dev.
She brushed away that traitorous thought as she made her way back to her car after Blake had to leave for an appointment. And for a few minutes she sat tapping a finger restlessly on the steering wheel of her racy little red coupe.
You can’t be serious about hiring that useless little socialite.
Mayor Witton’s words echoed in her mind. She’d proven her wrong—more than wrong.
And now, she thought determinedly, she would prove Dev wrong, too. So wrong he’d have to admit she’d be the perfect wife—and eventually mother. She’d just postpone the mother thing as long as she could.
She started the car and left the parking lot with a bark of tires.
* * *
It was noon before Dante had a chance to check and verify that yes, he had pulled his T-shirt on backward this morning. Which explained the irritating rub of the collar against his neck all morning. A morning spent doing everything but work. A dozen phone calls and he was no closer to finding the help he needed. All the nanny agencies he’d tried were more than ready to send people out for interviews. Tomorrow, or the next day. He didn’t think he’d live that long.
The girls had finally gone to sleep, but only after he’d brought Flash in and the big dog had settled down beside them. He’d noticed very late last night, when it seemed the wailing would never stop and he’d expected the neighbors in his condo building would be pounding on the door any second, that they quieted when the bloodhound wearily lumbered over and sat in front of them as if he were staring them down with those mournful eyes. And as long as he stayed, they kept quiet. Dante had spent the rest of the night dozing on the floor beside his partner; what little sleep he’d gotten he owed to the animal. Who had featured in the snippets of wild dreams he remembered, born of some children’s tale where a dog had served as a nanny.
“If only,” he muttered now as he looked at the odd trio.
He caught himself tugging at the neck of his shirt again. He glanced around the office; there was nobody else here at the moment. He quickly tugged the shirt out of his jeans, pulled it up to where he could slip his arms out of the long sleeves, and turned it around the right way. Like everything else since yesterday, it got tangled, and by the time he’d gotten his arms back through and reached to pull the shirt back down, he was no longer alone.
For an instant he thought he’d somehow dozed off. Because the woman standing across the office gaping at him was something out of a particular type of male dream. Tall, willowy and dark eyed, long hair in loose waves with streaks of golden brown that framed her face... And that face. Damn.
He shook his head sharply, half expecting her to vanish. She did not. Instead she just stood there as if as stunned as he. She wasn’t quite as tall as he’d thought, because a good three inches of it was the heel on the shoes that matched the soft, silky gold shirt she wore with tan slacks.
She matched her hair, he thought numbly.
And then he realized he had frozen in the midst of reaching for the hem of his shirt. And she was staring at his bare torso.
His abs contracted involuntarily. Hastily he tugged his shirt down, forgoing tucking it in for the moment. He felt another—lower—involuntary response, but quashed it rapidly. This woman, whoever she was, was way, way out of his league. He could tell that from the designer clothes and expensive jewelry.
She’s probably just stunned—and offended—to walk in and find a guy with his shirt half off. She looks the type.
Which brought him to the question of how she’d gotten in here. Normally civilians didn’t just walk in. They had to get past Lorelei Wong first, and the woman was a very efficient guardian of the gate, as it were. Usually.
“Can I help you?” he asked with businesslike politeness.
“I...” She swallowed, as if she were as rattled as he was. But damned if he was going to apologize for his appearance when she was the one who was in a usually restricted area. He waited silently.
Her gaze flicked to the corner where the two baby carriers sat, guarded by the lugubrious-looking Flash. Then she looked back at him and said, with a hesitancy he found surprising, given her appearance, “You’re...Dante Mancuso?”
Possibilities raced through his mind. Was she some child services rep? He felt an unexpected jab of panic; was she here to take the girls? Some deep-down part of him suggested he should be relieved at that, but it was swamped immediately by the horrific thought of these two innocent babies winding up in the system.
Then he discarded the thought; this woman was too expensively dressed. Unless she was some wealthy do-gooder dabbling. But she knew his name.
And she was still staring at him.
“Who are you?” It came out a bit abrupt, but he was running on too little sleep and too much chaos.
“I’m...Gemma. Gemma Colton.”
Colton. Oh, great.
He could have guessed by her appearance, but he already knew which branch of the famous—and infamous—Colton family she had to be from. Because he knew she wasn’t from his colleague Brayden Colton’s sketchy side of the family tree, or Chief Finn Colton’s ranch-grown side. That left only one possibility: the überwealthy, often annoying Fenwick Colton. Personally he’d always found the loud, brassy man an irritant, although he often wondered how he’d turned out such decent kids as Patience, the K9 unit vet. And Blake, who had had the sense to get out from under his father’s thumb and make his own way—nothing like coming home a huge success and almost as rich as the old man.
Blake. A vague memory tickled his weary brain. The fund-raiser last year, when he and Flash had drawn the short straw and had to put in an appearance. Not onstage, thankfully, but just to mingle and be seen. The fund-raiser organized by Blake’s sister. That’s how he’d always categorized her, as Blake’s sister, and if he’d ever heard her full name, it hadn’t registered.
It registered now. He hadn’t seen the event organizer that night, but if he’d had to imagine her, he would have come pretty close to the woman before him, in her expensive outfit, including the spike heels and the perfect hair.
“What do you want?” He’d tried for a neutral tone, but he hadn’t quite made it.
He saw her gaze flick again to the babies. “I... Blake told me you needed a nanny.”
Blake? Dante’s fellow K9 unit officer Juliette must have told him. He wasn’t surprised; he was sure he was the talk—or the joke—of the department by now.
“You know someone?” he asked, daring to feel a spark of hope.
She nodded. Then, after a moment’s hesitation that surprised him—the rich Coltons were not generally known for a lack of confidence—she said, almost meekly, “Me.”
Dante stared at her elegance, the aura of wealth and the above-it-all air she projected, probably without even trying. And he couldn’t help himself. For an instant the panic, the worry, the grief vanished.
And he burst out laughing.
Chapter 6
Gemma barely reacted to his laugh, although it was rare that she, Fenwick Colton’s daughter, was laughed at. But she knew that was because nobody wanted to get on her father’s bad side.
And she was self-aware enough to know how the idea of her as a nanny would appear on the surface. A nanny should be motherly looking, she thought, with some vague idea of ballet flats and one of those huge diaper bags slung over her shoulder.
She also knew she was staring, which was silly now that the lean, muscled abdomen that had struck her breathless was covered. But the image played back in her mind so vividly he might as well still be standing there, shirt rucked up around his arms, bare chest and that lovely six-pack open to her view.
She forced her gaze up to his face, wondering oddly if this was how a guy felt when he caught a glimpse of female flesh he normally wouldn’t have. If so, no wonder they stared.
He didn’t look much older than she was. The Italian heritage his name implied was obvious; he had the dark hair and eyes and the kind of face that made women with any heritage look twice. Not to mention the body...
Yes, whatever else Dante Mancuso was or wasn’t, he was certainly a lovely example of the male of the species. Even though she guessed he wasn’t at peak just now; the dark circles under his eyes spoke of a rough night.
And grief, she remembered suddenly, her brain seeming to finally shake off the shock of her first sight of him. He had inherited this problem—two problems, she amended—because his brother was dead.
“I’m sorry about your brother. Were you close?”
His expression went cool. “Thank you, no.”
It took her a moment to realize that was two answers, not one. Her gaze shifted to the babies again. Then why...?
“If you’ll excuse me, I have more calls to make.” He turned toward his desk.
“I told you, I’ll take the job.”
He stopped, turned back to her. Looked her up and down, assessingly, and not at all in the way she was used to. Not for her figure, her hair or her clothes, or anything else she was used to being assessed for.
“I don’t think so.”
He clearly found her lacking. That was also not something she was used to. And it was far too close to Dev’s assessment of her for her not to react. She drew herself up, and her chin rose. “You don’t think I can do it?”
“Do you know the first thing about handling one baby, let alone two?”
“Do you?” she countered.
“Not even the thing before the first thing,” he said, so easily it unexpectedly charmed her. “That’s why I need someone who does.”
“I—”
A piercing wail from below cut her off. Her head snapped around to look at the babies. It was the one on the left, clearly very unhappy. The big dog—a bloodhound, she remembered from seeing them at one of the charity functions—lifted his head and looked at the baby dolefully. The other baby, impossibly, continued to sleep. Perhaps she was used to her sister’s outbursts, Gemma thought.
Her gaze flicked back to Dante, who was wincing. Other heads in the office were turning, and from far across the room came, “Tone it down, will you, Mancuso? On the phone here.”
Moving on impulse, Gemma bent down and unstrapped the crying infant from the seat and picked her up. The wailing continued. She tried to rock her in her arms, but she only seemed to get louder. Prodded by vague memories of having seen it done, she lifted the baby—who was astonishingly solid and warm—to her shoulder. She felt the little legs kick, saw the tiny hands flail slightly and tightened her grip, pressing the tiny girl to her.
It felt strange. Different. Foreign. And yet...amazing. Something about that warmth, the weight, the shape of her. She cooed at the tiny child, not even caring if it helped or not, only feeling it was the thing to do. She patted the tiny back.
“Higher up,” came a call from behind her, and she glanced around to see the receptionist who had been grinning as she had let her past the desk.
She followed the instructions, and moments later the baby let out an outsize burp. With it came some milky liquid that flowed down the shoulder of her blouse. And she was stunned to realize she didn’t even care. Even if the $500 garment couldn’t be cleaned, she didn’t care. Because the baby in her arms felt so good, and, wonder of wonders, she had stopped crying and was looking at Gemma through bright, innocent eyes. And Gemma felt something stir deep inside her, something like awe, amazement and wonder all rolled into one blossoming explosion of warmth.
And then the tiny being closed her eyes and almost immediately dropped off to sleep. Trusting. Added to what she was already feeling, it was almost overwhelming.
She looked up met Dante Mancuso’s dark eyes, which seemed almost amused now. Or surprised, perhaps. “Please,” she said softly. “Let me do this.”
He hesitated. Looked at her for one more moment, at the way she was cradling the tiny girl in her arms. But it was the cop who spoke. “You’re Fenwick Colton’s daughter. You have no experience with this, no references, and as far as I know, this—” he nodded at the tiny child in her arms, that sweet, warm weight “—is as close as you’ve ever been to taking care of a baby. And I’m just supposed to just say, ‘Sure, move on in,’ and turn my nieces over to you?”
Move on in.
She hadn’t thought of that. But it only made sense he’d need a live-in nanny. She almost frowned; Dev wouldn’t like that.
Devlin Harrington, she told herself fiercely, dumped you. And this is the fix for that. He can hardly say you wouldn’t be a hands-on mother if you show you can handle twins!
“You know Blake. Call him, ask him.”
“He may be a billionaire whose word is golden, but he’s also your brother,” Dante pointed out.