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Authors: Judith Arnold

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BOOK: 'Tis the Season
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“When can you start?”

She shrugged. “Whenever you need me.”

“I needed you last week. Is tomorrow too soon?”

“No—but maybe you ought to talk to the children first. They might not like me.”

“Oh, sure.” He snorted. “I could see that right away. They really hate you. Sticking them with you will be part of their punishment for running away last night.”

“I'm not kidding, Evan—”

“You'll start tomorrow. If they've got a problem with the arrangement, we'll deal with it.” He shoved away from the table. “I'll need your phone number. And I'll need to write a letter you can present to Molly Saunders-Russo—she's the director of Gracie's preschool—and
Maryanne Becker, the director of Billy's after-school program. They'll want something in writing stating you have my permission to pick up my kids. And you'll have to have photo ID with you, a driver's license or something, so they'll know you're who you say you are.” He rose from the table and crossed to a small desk built into one of the counters. When he returned to the table, he held a pad and pen. “If you could write your address and phone number, I'll go run up some letters on my computer. And I'll get you information on the kids' pediatrician, and written permission to take them to see her if there's a problem….” He was thinking out loud, apparently composing his letters in his mind as he set the pen and pad down before Filomena. She was impressed by his conscientiousness, and equally impressed by his graceful way of moving, his economical gestures, his lithe motions. She was impressed by the way his shirt stretched smooth over his shoulders, the way his slacks emphasized the length of his legs.

Fortunately, he wouldn't be around when she was watching his children. Because, loath though she was to admit it, she would rather be watching him.

 

H
E EMERGED
from his study ten minutes later, carrying several letters, a printout of emergency information—his office phone number, the pediatrician's phone number, health-insurance policy numbers, Scott's mother's number—and a check for twenty-four dollars to cover payment for Thursday and Friday. The kitchen was empty, but he heard her voice mingling with Billy's and Gracie's in the family room.

He halted by the table and stared at the dishes, the leftovers, the two empty wine goblets. He wondered
whether the wine had actually been as delicious as he'd thought, or had just tasted that good because he'd been drinking it with her.

Even though she was going to be working for him, he couldn't shake the understanding that she had the upper hand in their dealings. Not because she was bossy or domineering, but because…

Because looking at her turned him on. Hearing her velvet-rich voice turned him on. Gazing at the long, thick tumble of her hair and imagining his fingers buried in it, imagining her eyes closing and her mouth opening for his kiss…

He had to be insane, hiring her to watch his kids. The phrase
asking for trouble
whispered through his brain.

But
not
hiring her would be asking for trouble, too. The streets of Arlington were not exactly teeming with baby-sitters who liked his children and wanted to spend a little time with them every day. If he didn't hire Filomena—a woman who seemed to have patience, a good sense of humor and a particular expertise in children's literature, of all things—who else was there? It might take him weeks to find someone else, and by then the holiday shopping season would be over.

If he put some serious effort into it, he could probably convince himself he was hiring Filomena with the noblest of motives. It would be best for his children. Molly at the Children's Garden would get off his back, and so would Heather—who'd been absolutely right when she'd said picking up Gracie wasn't a part of her job. With Filomena to bridge the gap between the end of the kids' programs and Evan's arrival home in the evening, he wouldn't have to keep asking favors of people, feeling indebted to them.

Really, hiring her was the right thing to do, and her hair and her lips and her large, dark eyes had nothing to do with anything.

Even so, he couldn't deny that he was glad she'd worn slacks tonight. Not that they revealed more than her long skirt had yesterday, but at least he could get a sense of her proportions. Her hips were trimmer than he'd thought, her bosom fuller. And he was some kind of jerk for thinking about her bosom.

He followed the cheerful sound of competing voices into the family room, where the TV was off and Filomena was seated on the floor, a deck of cards spread before her. Billy sat facing her, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his palms as he observed her hands moving over the cards. “She's reading Billy's fortune, Daddy!” Gracie announced, jumping to her feet and then settling back on the floor next to Filomena.

Filomena sent him a hopeful look. “You don't mind, do you?”

“Only if you tell him he's doomed to a life of pain and misery,” Evan said, moving toward the couch uncertainly. Was he supposed to eavesdrop? Did he want to? Did he want Filomena brainwashing his kids with New Age mumbo jumbo?

“Don't worry,” Filomena said, turning from him. She studied the cards. “His future looks very promising.”

“Am I gonna play for the Giants or the Patriots?” Billy asked her.

Recalling that she'd never heard of Tank Moody, Evan enlightened her. “Those are football teams.”

“I know,” she said, a smile flickering about her mouth. “Billy, the cards can't tell anything as specific as that. The question is, do you have the discipline and the
focus to make your dreams come true? That's what we're searching for here.”

“I've got lots of discipline,” Billy said. “Daddy disciplines me all the time.”

Evan rolled his eyes. Filomena laughed.

He settled onto the couch and watched as she worked her magic with the children. Whether or not the magic was in the cards he didn't know, and after a while he didn't care. What
was
magic, as far as he was concerned, was that she'd gotten them so interested in what she was doing that they'd turned off the television, and she had them both sitting quietly and calmly with her, listening to everything she said, answering her quiet questions earnestly. When she pointed out to Billy that a certain card combination indicated that he could be impetuous and he needed to develop the habit of thinking before he acted, Evan grinned. He'd bet the cards indicated no such thing. She was just playing a little head game with Billy, giving him useful advice while pretending everything she said was actually coming from the cards.

His smile deepened. She was good. She wasn't just beautiful, she wasn't just intelligent, she wasn't just the right person at the right time. Cards or no, she was magic. A witch, a ghost, a spirit. A woman.

She was magic.

CHAPTER SIX

“E
VAN
, I'
D LIKE YOU
to meet Tank Moody,” Heather announced as she led a giant hulk of a man into Evan's office. Evan stood six feet tall in his socks, but Tank dwarfed him by at least six inches and outweighed him by at least eighty pounds of granite-hard muscle. As he rose to shake hands with the linebacker—whose beefy grip swallowed Evan's hand the way Evan's swallowed Gracie's—he realized that if Tank was this intimidating in a stylishly tailored suit, he'd be even more daunting in his uniform, with all those pads adding bulk to his massive frame.

His size might have been scary, but his face wasn't. A boyish grin displayed even white teeth—a nice advertisement for the effectiveness of mouth guards, Evan thought—and his cheeks were prepubescent smooth. He was, in fact, only a few years younger than Evan. Obviously, running around a football field and ramming into colossal opponents didn't age a man as much as running a business and butting heads with a couple of kids did.

Then again, maybe getting paid a few million dollars a year plus bonuses was what kept Tank youthful.

“It's a pleasure,” Evan said, managing not to wince as Tank's fingers pulverized his. In truth, having the bones in his hand mangled was arguably the highlight of his day so far.

When he'd dropped Gracie off at the Children's Garden that morning, he'd spent several minutes at the front desk with Molly, explaining his new child-care arrangements. He'd thought she would praise him for his initiative, for having acted responsibly and gotten the help he needed—and for having the foresight to prepare written documentation identifying Filomena as the person who would be picking Gracie up each day.

But rather than praise him, Molly had surprised him by saying, “I think you would benefit from some Daddy School classes.”

“What?” He'd had no idea what Daddy School classes were, but the suggestion had insulted him.

“Daddy School. You seem a little overwhelmed these days, Evan, and—”

“I'm not overwhelmed. I hired this woman, Filomena Albright—” he jabbed a finger at the letter he'd written for the school's files “—to pick up Gracie at five.” If he
was
overwhelmed, it would have been Filomena, not his children, who overwhelmed him. All night long, after she'd read both Billy's and Gracie's cards and then taken her leave, he'd been overwhelmed by thoughts of her long hair, her fortune-telling, her educational pursuits—a Ph.D. in talking animals?—her wide mouth and arching cheekbones and her dark, dark eyes. Having Filomena in his life for the next few weeks was going to tax him in all sorts of ways. The least he'd expected was Molly's approval of what he'd done for his children.

Instead, Molly had told him he needed to take lessons in how to be a father. “I'm not teaching a session this fall—with the new baby, it's a bit too much for me,” she'd explained, gesturing lovingly at her infant asleep in a stroller in one corner of her office. “But my col
league Allison Winslow is teaching a class. I think you'd find it useful.”

“I don't need classes in fathering,” he'd said indignantly.

“Everyone can improve at anything with a few classes. You might pick up some pointers.”

“I don't need pointers.”

“Yesterday, Gracie shared with all of us how she and her brother climbed out a second-floor window of your house and snuck through the woods at night. Now, I know you're doing a good job, Evan, but…” Molly had peered up at him, her smile so warm and sympathetic he'd wanted to kick something. “Everyone could use a few pointers sometimes.”

“I don't need classes,” he'd argued stubbornly.

“Talk to Dennis Murphy. You play poker with him, don't you?”

One of those small-world things. Arlington was a city, but it was close-knit and intimate, filled with intersecting circles. About a year after Murphy, the lawyer who took care of Champion Sports's and Evan's legal business, had invited Evan to join his regular poker game, Evan had learned that Murphy was also the brother-in-law of the director of Gracie's preschool. “What should I talk to Murphy about?” Evan had asked.

“The Daddy School. He's taken a few classes.”

“He has?”
His children are wilder than mine
, Evan had wanted to add.
He couldn't have learned that much
.

“You'll find it fun. And useful. And now that you've got some child care lined up, you could sneak out for an hour on Monday evenings. That's when Allison's teaching them—Mondays at seven-thirty, at the YMCA.”

“Thanks,” he'd muttered. He'd left Molly with the
letter about Filomena and departed from the school, grumbling. He didn't need parental training. He was a great father. Outstanding. Top of the class—if he were in a class, which he wasn't.

Anything he needed to learn about child care that he didn't already know, he'd learn from Filomena. He was paying her sixty bucks a week, wasn't he? And she was a regular Dr. Doolittle when it came to children's literature. He didn't need any Daddy School classes.

Heather's voice dragged him back to the present, to his office, to the towering football player facing him across his desk. “So he's scheduled to appear at the New Haven store from eleven to one,” she was saying. “You should be leaving here by ten to give yourselves plenty of time to get a bite to eat and all.”

“Mmm,” Tank said, eyeing Heather up and down. “I wouldn't mind biting into something tasty right about now.”

Evan gritted his teeth and prepared to defend Heather's honor. Heather ignored Tank's insinuation, however, and continued addressing Evan about his day. “Jennifer won't be able to meet you there. She's teleconferencing with the Rhode Island stores about carrying Pep Insoles.”

“I told her we weren't going to deal with Pep Insoles until the new year.”

“She's gotten inquiries from the athletic departments at a couple of the colleges in Providence. She wants our stores to have the product in stock.”

“Fine.” Evan didn't want to quarrel with Jennifer about insoles. He didn't even want to think about them. He had all of ten minutes to clear his desk of messages before he was going to have to escort Tank Moody to New Haven.

If he'd been in a saner state of mind, he would have arranged for someone else to drive Tank to the New Haven store. But the whole promotion had him on edge because of what had happened last time. It wouldn't happen again—it couldn't—but he wanted to stay on top of it, to monitor every detail, to make sure there were no surprises, no mistakes, no oversights, nothing that could trip him up and leave him bruised.

Tank was still beaming at him, as if waiting to be entertained. Evan considered warning the guy that his mood resembled a cross between a Mobius strip and a cross-hitch knot—twisted and tangled and generally unfathomable. But he thought better of it.
Get through the promotion
, he lectured himself.
Forget about that Daddy School nonsense. And for God's sake, forget about how magnificent Filomena Albright is
.

He asked Heather to take Tank around the offices and introduce him to everyone. As soon as they were gone, he tackled the pile of notes demanding his attention. Heather would bring Tank back when they had to leave for New Haven. She was better at keeping track of time than he was. And meanwhile, her beauty would probably so dazzle Tank that he'd be half gaga and easy to manage once they got back to Evan's office.

He paced himself well, and was hanging up the phone from the last call he had to make just as Heather returned with Tank. Donning his jacket and straightening his tie, he sent Tank the warmest smile he could manage, then pocketed his keys and nodded toward the door. “Ready to hit the road?”

“Sure,” Tank drawled. “I've got my driver downstairs.”

“Your driver?” Why hadn't he been told about this?

“Is that a problem?”

“No. Not at all.” At least, Evan hoped it wasn't a problem. If Tank's driver was some brawny sidekick, a hanger-on or bodyguard of some sort, well, Evan supposed professional athletes were entitled to spend their millions however they wanted. He only hoped the fellow knew how to drive.

They took the elevator downstairs, Evan wedging himself into one corner to make the majority of the space available to Tank, who needed it. He searched his mind for small talk—if he wasn't going to be driving, he'd probably be expected to engage Tank in friendly chitchat during the forty-minute drive down to New Haven. What could they talk about? The current football season? Tank's team didn't have a spectacular record this year, so that might not be a good subject. The sights? Once they left Arlington, there wouldn't be much to comment on, just small towns and stretches of forest lining the roads.

The holidays. That would be a safe topic. Evan would ask Tank how he planned to spend Christmas, what he hoped Santa would bring him, that kind of thing. They could talk a bit about Champion Sports, too. He could find out what kind of equipment professional athletes respected most, which brands of cleats they preferred when they weren't being paid to endorse one particular brand, which pads protected them best. Evan was pretty sure he'd survive the trip with Tank.

His certainty flagged slightly when they emerged from the building. There, waiting at the curb in front of the store's main entry, was a shiny black stretch limo. “That's yours?” Evan asked.

“I'm a big man,” Tank pointed out unnecessarily. “I like my comfort.”

“Okay.” Evan had been in a stretch limo only once before—on his wedding day. Not what he wanted to think about while cruising through Connecticut with Tank.

The driver, in a dapper black suit that, combined with the limo, made Evan think of funerals, emerged from behind the wheel to open the door for them. Tank climbed in first, limber despite his bulk, and Evan followed him into the spacious passenger area. It featured wall-to-wall red carpeting, paneled walls, a small TV and a cooler chest filled with sports drinks. Evan was relieved that it wasn't stocked with liquor.

He took the backward-facing seat, leaving the forward-facing one for Tank to sprawl out on. The driver closed the door with an expensive-sounding click, then returned to the driver's seat and started the engine. It hummed, a murmur as quiet and gentle as Gracie's breath when she was asleep.

“It's nice traveling in style,” Evan commented.

“It's nice being so effin' rich,” Tank responded.

Well, yes, there was that. “I assume you won't be using that kind of language around the customers at the store,” Evan said hopefully.

Tank laughed. “Relax, Evan. I'm cool.”

“Okay.” He gazed at the splendor surrounding him—the chrome fittings, the elaborate console that controlled the stereo and television. “The driver knows where we're going?”

“He knows everything.”

“He must be handy to have around.”

“So what all do you expect is going to go wrong?” Tank asked, his dark eyes zeroing in on Evan.

“Nothing,” Evan insisted, sitting straighter. “Nothing at all. Why do you think I think something is going to go wrong?”

“You're wrapped tighter than an Ace bandage on a sprain. Seems to me you've got something on your mind.”

Evan sighed. He wasn't going to tell Tank about the last time he'd done a promotion with a pro athlete—a baseball player that time. He wasn't going to discuss how Debbie had insisted on meeting the guy, inviting him to their house, attending his appearances at the stores and then running off with him, leaving behind a note explaining that she wanted glamour and excitement and a life in the major leagues. When she and Evan had dated in college, he'd played varsity soccer and baseball, but he'd never planned to play sports professionally. He played because he was good, the games were fun and the college was giving him much-needed scholarship money. He'd enjoyed Debbie's enthusiasm for his games, her groupie devotion to his teams, but he'd been clear with her from the start that the life of a professional athlete didn't interest him. He didn't want all the traveling, all the stress, all the worry about how long his body would hold up. He'd been good enough to play at the college level, but he never would have been a big success as a pro, and he'd had no regrets about putting his jock days behind him and growing up.

Debbie had said she'd understood—and maybe she'd even meant it at the time. They'd been young, infatuated with each other. They'd laughed at the same jokes, en
joyed the same movies, had phenomenal sex. Evan had truly believed he'd found his life partner.

But she'd grown restless in their marriage. He'd assumed that was because Billy had arrived in their lives less than two years after they'd tied the knot. Evan had tried his best to shoulder his share of the parenting chores. He'd changed diapers, taken Billy for walks, sung lullabies off-key, but Billy hadn't complained. Evan had loved being a father, and he would have gladly spent even more time with Billy if he could have. But he'd been putting in long hours trying to build Champion Sports into the regional powerhouse it now was.

BOOK: 'Tis the Season
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