Bringing Up Baby New Year & Frisky Business Read online

  VICKI LEWIS THOMPSON

  TRACY SOUTH

  Bringing Up Baby New Year & Frisky Business

  Dear Reader,

  At this festive time of year, we’d like to send you our very best wishes for the holiday season and the New Year. Between the parties and the presents, I hope you can steal away some time for yourself and enjoy some special treats from Harlequin Duets.

  In Harlequin Duets #15 we have two delightful Christmas tales; from award-winning Lori Copeland comes Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers, and from the equally talented Kimberly Raye comes Christmas, Texas Style. The true meaning of family—its responsibilities and joys—is the theme of both stories. Pour yourself a glass of eggnog, nibble on a ginger cookie and dive into these wonderful romances.

  Duets #16 celebrates the New Year with a bachelor and baby in Bringing Up Baby New Year by Vicki Lewis Thompson. Vicki’s books are always treasured by readers, and this sparkling comedy will entertain you and warm your heart. Then Tracy South mixes business with pleasure in Frisky Business, a hilarious office romance. You’ll never look at your co-workers in the same manner!

  Happy holidays. I hope you find a lot of romance novels in your Christmas stocking!

  Malle Vallik

  Senior Editor

  Contents

  Bringing Up Baby New Year

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Frisky Business

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  VICKI LEWIS THOMPSON

  Bringing Up Baby New Year

  Darcie had good taste coming out her ears.

  And she definitely wanted him badly. Why else would she leave him a rose on his pillow one week and chocolate the next?

  Joe had her phone number, but he needed an excuse to call her. Maybe his housekeeper flirted this way with all her clients. He’d know the lay of the land if he talked to her on the phone. Scratching his head, he thought for a moment. Then he knew—he could ask that she bring a different type of flower. A sexy flower.

  Moments later, he stood in the study thumbing through a botanical guide. Roses, nah. Been there, done that. Daisies were too virginal looking, and carnations reminded him of his senior prom. There it was—tulips. They even looked sort of European. Well, Dutch, but heck, at least they grew on the other side of the ocean. Two-lips. Perfect.

  What better way to let Darcie know whose lips he was really interested in?

  For more, click here

  Dear Reader,

  I love doing Christmas and I love doing it big. My idol is Clark Griswold from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, so when it comes to lights, I subscribe to the Clark Griswold school of thought. You can never have too many.

  However, the rumor that I’ve caused blackouts by turning on the Thompson Yuletide Extravaganza each year is completely false. The rumor that my husband routinely needs to be resuscitated after opening the December electric bill is, unfortunately, true.

  My neighbors can always tell when the holiday is upon us because I’ll be balanced high in the branches of one of our front-yard trees stringing so many lights that we’ve been mistaken for a casino. So if you happen to fly over Arizona this season and notice a glow radiating from the southern half of the state, that would be coming from my house.

  My hero and heroine in Bringing Up Baby New Year go to similar extremes. I hope you enjoy reading about their adventures in decorating!

  Happy holidays,

  A millennium New Year’s toast to every woman who’s ever taken on the duties of a mother, whether you gave birth to the little darlings or simply did what needed to be done in the absence of the biological mother. The world would not turn without you.

  1

  THE FRENCH MAID could sure hoover a room.

  Joe Northwood entered the Scottsdale home he was house-sitting for the winter and gawked at the wonders of a cleaning service. He’d never had one before and wouldn’t have one now, except that the owner, Edgar DeWitt, was paying for it.

  And he must be paying a bundle. The place had been cleaned within an inch of its life. Every surface gleamed, and there were three, count ’em, three vases of flowers that he could see—two in the living room and one on the dining room table. The house smelled of lemon and pine and pretty flowers. When Joe had answered DeWitt’s ad for a house sitter, he’d never imagined a perk this fabulous would come with the deal. He felt like rolling on the carpet.

  But he was curious enough to head upstairs to check out his bedroom first. More flowers! Damn, but he could learn to like this. His bed was made and the sheets turned back. Talk about your five-star treatment. He almost expected a mint on the pillow, but instead there was a little note with flowers decorating the border of the paper. When he picked it up, even the paper smelled good.

  Dear Mr. Northwood,

  As part of my services, I’ve laundered your linens with products designed for sensitive skin. Should you experience any irritation, however, please don’t hesitate to let me know. Also, if there are certain flowers you prefer, I would be delighted to provide them. Your satisfaction is my goal.

  Au revoir

  Darcie, the French Maid

  “Mmm, Darcie baby. Satisfaction is what I’m talking about.” Joe held the notepaper to his nose and took a deep sniff. Then he held it next to his temple as if he could get a telepathic image of the person who wrote it.

  “I see dark eyes,” he droned, “eyes the color of…a melted Hershey’s bar. Lashes thick as the fringe on a Persian carpet. Hair in ringlets to her shoulders, and a body to make a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader weep with envy.”

  He sighed with longing and took another whiff of the notepaper for inspiration. “She wears…cashmere and silk, and when she bothers with underwear, it’s a scrap of black lace. She speaks with a French accent and says oui a lot, but I can understand her perfectly, especially when she says with her lips kind of pursed, ‘I want you, chéri, you big, beautiful man you.”’

  Grinning to himself, he decided to write a note back to her for the hell of it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. After searching out a pen, he turned her stationery over and was about to start writing when he had a better idea.

  One of the guys at work loved making stationery for people on his home computer. Joe pictured a sheet of nice paper with only his initials at the top, maybe in navy blue. A classy woman like Darcie would probably go for that.

  “GUS, YOU LITTLE LEPRECHAUN! You’ve peed in your eye!” Darcie threw a clean diaper over the stream arcing from Gus’s stubby equipment and grabbed a damp washcloth. “Must you always demonstrate what a little man you are? We’re already running late.”

  Gus wailed pitifully as she wiped his face.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I’ll be glad when you’ve learned to control that little bobber of yours.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek and gave him a nuzzle, tickling him gently until he began to chuckle. “Are you making me late on purpose?”

  Gus cooed and blew bubbles at her. I do everything on purpose, lass. Sometimes my aim ’tis a wee bit off is all. Mea
nt to get it in my hair, I did, so I could have another bath.

  “Maybe you know what day it is. We’re cleaning for Joe Northwood again today, and you’re jealous—green as a shamrock in a wheelbarrow full of manure, as your Grandpa Angus was so fond of saying. He would have been fond of you, too.” She poked Gus’s round tummy gently and he giggled. “I have one of his baby pictures, and you’re the spitting image of him. Sometimes I swear I see his spirit shining out of your green eyes.”

  Gus crowed and kicked his legs. Could be, lass. Could be.

  “Hold still. You’re squirmy as a wee elf this morning. I swear you’re all O’Banyon, not a drop of Butterworth in you, which is good thing, considering your father closely resembles the backside of a mule.” Darcie winced. “There I go again, speaking ill of your da, which the baby experts say is very bad.” She smiled down at her red-haired son. “But I am so glad you look like me and your dear departed grandfather, and not that spawn of Satan who ran out on us. Now let’s change the subject.”

  Gus grinned at her, displaying his first two teeth, both bottom ones, gained with much fretting and fussing, but in at long last.

  She picked up a T-shirt from a pile of clean clothes. “So, Gus, do you suppose Joe Northwood could be Black Irish? I found a couple of black hairs in his comb. Wavy, too. His name sounds more Brit than Irish, but maybe he’s Irish on his mother’s side. I like that dark mysterious look in a man, don’t you?”

  Gus sucked his fist and gazed at her. Faith, I’d rather have them rich and slow on the uptake.

  “Present company excepted, of course. On you, red hair is the perfect color.” She pulled the T-shirt over Gus’s head. “I checked his shirt and pants size, and I think he’s close to six feet tall. His clothes aren’t starched and fussy, a choice I happen to like. I suspect he has a very nice body. I’ll reveal a deep, dark secret, Gus, but you mustn’t tell because he’s a client and this is confidential information. He sleeps naked. Told me so himself in a note. ‘The soap doesn’t irritate my skin,’ he said. ‘And that’s good for someone who doesn’t believe in pajamas.”’

  Darcie paused and fanned herself with her hand. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, as your grandpa would say, that sure sets the kettle to boiling.”

  Or the baby to puking. This bounder could be trouble.

  Darcie picked up a pair of overalls and started putting them on Gus. “Now, in my opinion, a man who sleeps naked is by definition a sensuous person and confident about his body, as I’m sure he has a right to be. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’s very intelligent. His handwriting surely looks intelligent.”

  She tied some little moccasins on Gus’s feet and picked him up. “He works at that big home improvement store in north Scottsdale—Home World—and he must be some executive there because his stationery is very elegant. A man who sleeps naked and has stationery with only his initials at the top—I’ll bet he runs the place, Gus.”

  “NORTHWOOD!”

  Joe tried to control his irritation as he excused himself from the customer he’d been advising about having an oak chair rail installed in her dining room. “Yes, Mr. Rucker?” The guy had a name you could do so much with in private. He was the sort of little twirp who gave short people a bad rep.

  Rucker thrust out his belly, like a frog puffing himself up to look bigger and more intimidating. “We need someone over in the gardening department right away. Some idiot ran a forklift into the bags of manure, and the place is covered with sh—” Rucker glanced at the customer. “Uh, covered with manure. Get on over there and clean it up.”

  Joe had perfected a technique to keep his blood pressure under control when he was around Rucker. He imagined Rucker’s belt snapping under the strain of his protruding gut. His pants would fall down around his skinny ankles, right in the middle of the store, preferably in front of a customer. A female customer. “I wonder if you’d be able to help this lady?” he asked, keeping his tone even. “She has some questions about oak molding.” Joe knew that Rucker didn’t know shinola about oak molding, but the little dweeb wouldn’t ever admit such a thing.

  “Uh, of course.” Rucker strutted over to the customer. “Now, oak, there’s a wood for you,” he said. “Look at that grain.”

  Look at that brain, Joe thought as he walked away. Totally empty, ear to ear.

  Shoveling spilled manure gave him some time to think, and mostly he thought about his cousin Derek’s phone call the night before. Derek was finally ready for the two of them to open their own cabinet shop in Denver after the first of the year. Joe had set some money aside for this contingency, but not enough.

  If he could come up with about three grand more to add to his share of the start-up cost, he could ditch this job and head for Denver. God, how he’d love that moment of handing his notice to Rucker, knowing there was a good chance he’d never have to work for anyone else again.

  Of course, he’d have to give Edgar DeWitt plenty of warning so he could find another house sitter. And he’d have to give up the French Maid.

  He smiled. She was definitely flirting with him. Her last note had mentioned that she’d evaluated all the sheets and determined which were the softest so that she could put those on his bed, considering that he didn’t wear pajamas.

  Apparently, the stationery and the information that he slept naked had captured her attention. Last Wednesday instead of the usual bouquet of flowers on the nightstand, she’d left a bud vase with a single red rose in it. Today before he’d gone to work he’d taken the wilted rose and scattered the petals over the unmade bed.

  In his fantasy, he imagined her reaction, considering that she was French and all. The French were very sensuous people, according to what he’d heard. Uninhibited, too. He visualized her taking off her clothes to roll around on the bed for a while, just to enjoy the feel of those rose petals against her skin.

  He pictured her with very pale skin to contrast with her dark hair. But as she rolled around among the rose petals, her skin might become flushed with excitement. In fact, she might get so turned on that she’d—

  “Northwood!”

  If Rucker hadn’t startled him in the middle of an outstanding daydream, he never would have lost control of the contents of his shovel like that. And if Rucker hadn’t hollered so loud and leaped unexpectedly to one side, the stuff would have gone into the wheelbarrow where Joe had intended to throw it, instead of all over the irritating little store manager. It really wasn’t Joe’s fault at all. Or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself.

  And he certainly should have been given more credit for not laughing. It had taken all his self-control, but he’d kept a straight face, knowing with absolute certainty that if he so much as cracked a smile, he’d be fired.

  ROSE PETALS IN THE BED. How lovely and romantic. Darcie wondered if he’d actually slept with the rose petals, but they weren’t wrinkled and smashed, so he must have tossed them on the sheets for her to see. If she didn’t have Gus hollering from his playpen downstairs, she’d have taken off her jeans and T-shirt and stretched out on those rose petals, just for a minute.

  Was he inviting her to do that? The thought gave her goose bumps. This flirtation couldn’t go anywhere, of course, but it was harmless fun. Goodness, she needed a romantic distraction in her life. She had no time for the real thing, so this charade was perfect. Scooping up the rose petals, she hurried downstairs to take care of Gus.

  Cleaning the large house claimed all her attention for the next hour, but before she left she hurried back upstairs with a note written on her scented paper.

  Dear Mr. Northwood,

  Tending to your bed was especially pleasurable today. If you don’t mind, I’m taking the rose petals home with me. They’re wonderful floating in a warm bath.

  Au revoir

  Darcie, the French Maid

  On top of the note she laid a single piece of expensive chocolate.

  She tucked the plastic bag full of the rose petals in with her cleaning supplies
to lift her spirits as she packed Gus into the car and drove to a much less pleasant task—her weekly cleaning appointment for Mr. and Mrs. Bart Butterworth.

  That was how she’d first met Bart Junior, the original hit-and-run-man. Now Mrs. Bart—her name was Trudy, but Darcie had never been able to call her that—used Darcie’s cleaning day as a time to play with her grandson, Gus. Darcie could hardly deny her the privilege, but Trudy with Gus made her nervous. The woman was entirely too possessive of Darcie’s baby.

  As Darcie waxed the dining-room table and thought about Joe and his rose petals, Trudy walked in carrying Gus. Tall, blond and tailored, she didn’t look entirely comfortable with the baby, which gave Darcie some satisfaction.

  “I can understand why you wanted to name him after your father,” Trudy said, “but you really should let him go by his middle name. Gus is a ridiculous name to hang on a little baby, don’t you think?”

  Gus chortled away. May you have warts on your bum for saying that, Granny.

  “I rather like it myself,” Darcie said as pleasantly as she could while her teeth were clenched. “My da used to say it falls on the ear like April rain on a thatched roof.”

  “Well, that’s charming and so very Irish, but the Irish are so blessed poor, Darcie. Gus sounds like, well, like a peasant.”

  Gus patted Mrs. Bart’s cheek. I was thinking how you’d look with a layer of paste wax on your face, Granny.

  “Nothing wrong with peasants.” Darcie polished harder and worked to hide the temper she’d inherited from her ancestors, peasants all. Not a CEO in the lot. But she couldn’t lose her temper with Mrs. Bart. The woman had been her first client and had mentioned Darcie to her friends in the upscale Scottsdale subdivision of Tannenbaum. Soon Darcie had signed up all the business she could handle in this one subdivision, which centralized her operation nicely.