Page 28 of Kiss of Wrath

She did not advocate physical punishment, but when she noticed all three boys straighten to attention, she curbed the admonition that was on the tip of her tongue. For now, anyway.

“Hey, folks! Remember me. Lady locked in bathroom,” Darla yelled down to them, still waving the toilet brush.

“There’s another key in the top drawer of my desk. Go get it, Mags.” Turning to the boys, she said, “Don’t any of you dare go near the house until I’m done hosing you off. And, no, you are not hosing each other off. You’ll have the house turned into a houseboat before you’re done.”

Turning, she addressed the stranger then. “Who are you?”

“Mordr Sigurdsson. And you?”

“Miranda Hart.” She folded her arms over her chest, then wished she hadn’t when those incredibly blue, sad eyes latched on her, there. Ignoring his intense scrutiny, she tilted her chin so she could address him directly. “What are you doing here?”

“I was sent.”

“By the employment agency?” she asked incredulously, trying in vain to recall if she’d ever told them she only wanted females.

“No. A different . . . agency.”

Just then, a feminine voice called out, “Yoo-hoo!” from the side yard where a gate was being opened, immediately followed by the ringing of an alarm bell. It was part of the security system that Miranda had paid tons of money to install and which apparently hadn’t stopped a person from opening the gate, only breaking the eardrum of everyone within a half mile. Quickly, Miranda went over to the box on the wall near the patio door and punched in several numbers. Immediately, the ringing stopped.

Still standing there, inside the gate, stunned, was a big Amazon of a middle-aged woman with graying hair and a supermarket carry bag. Despite her big shoulders and military bearing, she looked like what a nanny was supposed to look like in a perfect world. Clearly the candidate Blue Star Employment Agency had sent for the job. Not a piercing or tattoo in sight. (Miranda had seen more than a few of those on the candidates she’d interviewed so far.) She probably had an apron in her bag for making marvelous home-cooked meals and from-scratch apple pies. (One of the candidates had looked as if she did double duty nights wearing an apron and nothing else. Still another had mentioned her specialty being brownies with a special ingredient. Wink, wink.). This woman had a good-size lap and an ample bosom, perfect for cuddling a crying youngster. (One of the women Miranda had interviewed had big breasts, all right. The kind that cost about ten thou each and were mostly for show, which she’d done a lot of in a braless tank top. Ben and Sam’s eyes had about popped out.) Most of all, she looked as if she could handle a bunch of unruly kids.

“Sorry I’m late, but there was a pile-up on the Interstate that had traffic backed up for . . .” The perfect nanny’s words trailed off as her jaw dropped, taking in the scene before her. The homemade swimming pool. The mud-covered boys. A giant of a glowering man and a cowering girl once more attached to his thigh. Not to mention a screaming female above wielding a toilet brush. Ruff, who had just noticed the newcomer (some watchdog he was!), began to gallop toward her, barking wildly, tongue lolling, drool flying, about to plant a big wet one on her.

But the woman turned on her heels, letting the gate slam after her, and began to fast-walk, calling over her shoulder with the lame excuse, “Sorry, but I don’t do dogs.”

The man looked at Miranda. She looked at him. Miranda burst out laughing, and the man pressed his lips together to avoid smiling. For some reason, probably the hopeless despair in his pale blue eyes, she knew . . . she just knew . . . that this was a man who rarely laughed, and she felt an inordinate pleasure in having a small part in lightening his spirits, even if only momentarily.

Suddenly he turned somber again. “Go inside with the girls. Rescue your friend and clean up that mess in the kitchen. I will hose off these bratlings. And then we will talk.”

“We can hose ourselves off,” Ben said with consternation, his eight-year-old pride wounded.

“Yeah,” Larry said, already contemplating more slipping and sliding, Miranda could tell.

“Betcha a dollar we could hang the hose from Ruff’s collar an’ we could chase after him to get clean.” This bright idea from Sam, the gambler.

“Here’s an idea,” the Viking said. “You three stand still as statues and I hose the skin off you. This is a man’s job.” Then he had the nerve to turn to her. “Go. There is much woman’s work to do inside.”

“Woman’s work?” she sputtered. Who did this bozo think he was? Giving her orders? Delegating her to woman’s work? “What century are you living in?”

“You asked me that afore. Repetition is a sign of dotage. Mayhap you are older than you look.”

“I beg your bleeping pardon! And what’s with the mayhap?”

“Maybe, mayhap, same thing.”

“Can I stay with you?” Linda asked the man, whom she was clinging to once again.

“No, little one, you must go with the ladies,” he said.

“But, Daddy . . .” Linda whined.

Okay, this had gone far enough. “Linda, this is not your father. You have to stop—”

“Yes, he is,” Linda insisted, holding even tighter onto the man’s thigh. “He called today and said he is coming pretty soon, and then he came, and . . .” Linda began to sob.

Red flags unfurled in Miranda’s brain. “Linda, honey, did you pick up the telephone today? You know that we have a rule about answering the land phone when it rings. That’s why we have a cell phone.”

Linda stopped crying and said, “Oops!” But then she raised her little chin. “But it was Daddy! It was!”