Bringing Up Baby New Year & Frisky Business Read online

  But Darcie figured that what Mrs. Bart had created she could take away again. A carefully dropped hint at a Tannenbaum social event that things had gone missing in the Butterworth home after Darcie had been there, and her thriving business would collapse.

  That would be bad enough, but Mrs. Bart had an even bigger hammer to hold over Darcie. If she became really angry, she might find the means to take Gus away. She and Mr. Bart could give Gus all sorts of advantages, while Darcie was struggling to keep pennies in the sugar bowl.

  The court would probably side with Darcie unless Mr. and Mrs. Bart hired a fast-talking lawyer. Darcie wouldn’t put it past them if they had enough provocation, so she tried not to give them any trouble. Her sainted father had taught her the Golden Rule—those that have the gold make the rules. She’d temporarily forgotten it when dealing with Bart Junior, but now it was burned into her memory for all time.

  “I suppose peasants have their place,” Mrs. Bart said. “But I’d rather not have any in our family. In fact, I was thinking the other day it would be nice if you really were French, the way you market yourself. It has a certain cachet.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t speak the language.”

  “Well, that could be remedied. Our whole family speaks French. Which reminds me, I heard from Bart Junior last night,” Mrs. Bart said. “He—ouch! That hurts, Gus!”

  Only wanted to see if the hair was attached is all.

  “Watch how you do that, Gus,” Darcie said, holding back a smile. In the reflection of the polished table, she saw Gus give another yank on Mrs. Bart’s sleek hair before she was able to untangle his chubby fingers.

  “Bart Junior is not a bad boy,” Mrs. Bart said.

  “Of course not,” Darcie said. More like a bad man, she thought.

  “He’s just a dreamer and he had to follow his dream.”

  “Yes, he always did have his head up his…in the clouds,” Darcie quickly amended. “I’m so delighted he’s in the Amazon jungle.” She thought of him battling man-eating crocodiles there.

  “You have a generous heart, Darcie. I’m glad you understand that Bart Junior’s one of those free spirits who can’t be expected to abide by conventional standards.”

  Darcie smiled at her. “No. He’s set a whole new standard.”

  “I’m so glad you bear him no ill will. Because I feel sure when he’s ready he’ll return and assume his fatherly duties.”

  That thought scared the hell out of Darcie. She’d heard of fathers swaggering in years later and trying to lay claim to their children. If that nightmare should ever come true, she wanted to be ready.

  First of all, she wanted to be more stable financially, which was why she needed to go back to school. Second of all, if Bart Junior showed up again, she’d like to be married. Finding the right man would be tricky and couldn’t be rushed, but she’d like Gus to have a father, especially if Bart Junior suddenly decided to claim that right.

  “I wish you’d let us pay your tuition so you can finish up your studies in interior design,” Mrs. Bart continued. “It’s a shame you had to quit with only one semester to go.”

  Darcie knew she couldn’t accept. Once Mr. and Mrs. Bart paid for her tuition, they’d start winding ropes of dependency around her that she’d never be able to loosen, and in the end Gus would become theirs as surely as if she’d handed him over. But she had to be gracious in her refusal.

  “You’re very kind to offer, Mrs. Butterworth.”

  “Call me Trudy, dear. I’ve asked you to do that many times, but you persist with this Mrs. Butterworth nonsense.”

  “I worry about doing that because you’re also a client, and if I start calling you by your first name, I might slip and do it with the others. It’s a professional point with me that I don’t get too familiar with my clients.” She thought briefly of Joe Northwood, but those were only harmless notes. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Well, I suppose I do, Darcie. Your clients wouldn’t want to think you’d forgotten your position with them, I suppose.”

  Gus poked her in the eye.

  “Ooo! Gus, you are aggressive today!” Mrs. Bart wiped carefully at her eye so as not to disturb her makeup.

  Darcie leaned down to pick up the paste wax so that Mrs. Bart wouldn’t catch her grin. Gus was really on his game this afternoon.

  “So, how about the tuition?” Mrs. Bart asked. “I seem to remember you needed about two thousand or so. You might even be able to slip in a French class. I’ll be happy to write out a check today so you can start back in January.”

  Darcie thought fast. “I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Butterworth. I’m expecting word on an inheritance from my father’s estate. With a bit of luck, that should come through in time. If not, I’ll let you know. I’d like to keep your kind offer in reserve in case I need it, but I think I can manage on my own.” Her father hadn’t left her one thin dime, but he must have passed on the gift of blarney for her to make up such an outrageous story.

  “Well, if you’re expecting some money….”

  “Oh, it’s practically a sure thing.” Darcie wondered if she’d have to tackle a leprechaun and force him to lead her to his pot of gold. She couldn’t continue her present program much longer. As long as Gus wasn’t walking yet, she could continue to haul him around with her while she cleaned houses, but once he could climb out of his playpen, her cleaning days would become much more difficult. She needed to change horses and she was already way behind in her plan to do so.

  “Well, we’d all be relieved if you’d finish your degree and get into a profession,” Mrs. Bart said. “It’s somewhat of an embarrassment, you know.”

  Darcie tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “You could mention to your good friends that I’m a domestic supervisor.”

  “Oh, I do! But…” She paused and wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps you’d better take Gus. I think he’s done something disgusting in his pants.”

  “Ah, well. As sure as swallows fly and lambs bleat, babes poop.”

  Mrs. Bart gave her a weak smile as she handed Gus over. “I suppose that’s another of your father’s quaint sayings.”

  “No. I made that up myself.” Darcie took Gus.

  Mrs. Bart turned her gold bangle watchband so she could read the time. “I have to be going anyway. Madge Elderhorn is expecting me for coffee in ten minutes.”

  “Give Mrs. Elderhorn my best.”

  “I’ll do that. Don’t forget to lock up after yourself.” Mrs. Bart made a quick exit.

  Darcie hugged her baby close and planted a big kiss on his rosy cheek. “Well done, Gus.”

  Sure and I believe in the timely poop.

  JOE HELD DARCIE’S NOTE in one hand as he paced the kitchen, trying to decide what to do. He took a bite out of the chocolate. Mmm. Good chocolate. The woman had taste coming out of her ears.

  And she wanted him, which was sure good for the ego, considering what a classy woman she was. She wanted him bad. Why else would she leave him a rose one week and chocolate the next? He already had her phone number. DeWitt had given it to him along with the number for the yard service, the plumber, the electrician and the exterminator.

  He needed an excuse to call her, though. Maybe she flirted this way with all her customers, although he didn’t want to think so. He’d know the lay of the land if he talked to her on the phone. But what would he say he was calling about? Flowers. That’s it. He could come up with a flower request the way she’d suggested. A sexy flower. DeWitt had about every reference book in the world, so he’d look one up.

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

  At this very second she was probably up to her long, graceful neck in a bubble
bath, sipping a glass of French wine, with the roses from his bed floating in her perfumed bathwater. Frenchwomen knew how to take a bath like nobody else in the world. Maybe she was sudsing herself right now, her eyes closed….

  He snapped the book shut and hurried toward the kitchen, where Darcie’s number was posted above the telephone. Hot damn, he was about to make a French connection.

  2

  TRUDY BUTTERWORTH SAT on Madge Elderhorn’s burgundy flowered sofa, an empty cup and saucer on the coffee table in front of her. Through the large picture window she could see Edgar DeWitt’s house perfectly. Her dawdling until she’d nearly encroached on the cocktail hour had paid off. The house sitter had just come out to retrieve his evening paper.

  “He’s good-looking enough,” Trudy said once he’d gone back inside. “No wonder Darcie had that sparkle in her eye today.” She turned to Madge, a large-boned woman sitting at right angles to her on a matching love seat. “But you’ve never actually seen them together, right?”

  “Not actually, but you know something has to be going on, with him looking like he does and her looking like she does. It’s pheromones. They can smell each other.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it, but I want proof,” Trudy said. “If Bart Junior knows she’s involved with someone else, he might come home.”

  “If it’s proof you want, I can handle that.”

  Trudy smiled at her neighbor, who gave the term “Neighborhood Watch” a whole new meaning. Madge also had community leadership aspirations. “I knew I could count on you, Madge.” Trudy stood and smoothed her skirt. “You’re exactly the sort of person who knows how to keep an eye on things. That’s why your name has been mentioned as the possible chair of the Tannenbaum Christmas Festival and Good Cheer Committee.”

  Madge stood also, and her eyes gleamed. “Really?”

  “That’s what I hear. I’ll let you know if there’s more news on that. And in the meantime, I’d really appreciate it if you’d keep me posted on what goes on across the street.”

  “Consider it done.”

  DARCIE HAD DECIDED to experiment with having Gus feed himself. To that end, she’d steamed some sliced carrots until they were soft and put them in a plastic bowl. “There now, Gus.” She put the bowl on the tray of his high chair. “Try one.”

  Gus calmly reached in the bowl and picked up a piece of carrot. Hmm. Orange. Squashy. ’Tis a likely decorating item.

  “Good boy! I knew you were advanced for a wee sprout!” Darcie congratulated herself on knowing the exact moment to introduce this new activity to her son. She was indeed Supermom.

  She watched expectantly as Gus raised the piece of carrot to his mouth…and flung it on the floor. “Oh, Gus! We can’t waste food.” As she crouched down to pick up the carrot, he knocked the entire bowl on top of her head.

  Score one for the wee sprout!

  “Oh, Gus.” His aim was so good that she wore the bowl like a beanie, with squashed carrots and orange juice oozing down over her hair and onto her shirt.

  Gus crowed and banged on his high-chair tray. Fetching. Goes with your green eyes, it does.

  As she glared at him, the phone rang. “Murphy’s Law,” she muttered. In an attempt to contain the mess, she clamped the bowl more firmly onto her head as she got up to answer the phone. “You’d better hope that’s not somebody calling to ask for a donation, Gus, because at this minute I’m thinking I might donate you.” Wiping her free hand on her jeans, she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “I’d like to speak to Darcie, please, if she’s available.” The voice was male and very pleasant. A telemarketer.

  Considering she had no money to spare, she’d developed a strategy to deal with sales calls. “May I tell her who’s calling?”

  “It’s Joe. Joe Northwood.”

  Darcie almost dropped the phone. “Just…just a minute.” She brought the receiver down and held it against her chest, then moved it immediately to her stomach when she was afraid her pounding heart would boom right into Joe’s ear. Joe Northwood. His voice sounded so…masculine. She didn’t know how a man could let you know he had good pecs just by the way he said his name over the phone, but she was getting that message loud and clear from Joe Northwood.

  She thought quickly of the image she’d been trying to portray in the past few weeks. Sexy. And French.

  He would hardly expect her to be the Irish mother of a baby, let alone one with a blessed bowl of carrots clamped on her head.

  She took a deep breath and brought the phone back to her ear. “Alloˆ?”

  “Darcie? This is Joe. Joe Northwood. I guess that was your roommate who answered the phone.”

  The man had a damned sexy voice. She felt all warm and fluttery listening to it. “My roommate. Oui.”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Darcie did her best imitation of a French accent, which wasn’t particularly great. French-Irish, in a manner of speaking. “Not at all. I was, how you say it? Giving myself the facial.” Carrot juice ran down the side of her face and dripped onto the floor.

  “Ga-ba-ba!” Gus yelled.

  “What was that?” Joe asked.

  “Just zee teevee. I keep it on to improve my Eenglesh.”

  “Your English is fine with me, Darcie. Listen, you asked me to let you know if I had a certain type of flower I’d like you to put in the arrangements you leave every week.”

  She heard the song of the sea in his voice—deep and powerful. She was certain he had a position of authority at that store. And outstanding pecs, too. “But of course! Whatever you would like, Monsieur Northwood.” A drop of carrot juice dangled off the end of her nose. She caught it with the tip of her tongue.

  “Ga!” Gus said, and started banging on the tray of his high chair.

  “That TV show must have a baby in it,” Joe said.

  “Oui.” Darcie searched her memory, trying to recall some of her high school French. “A bambino.” She had a worrisome feeling that was Italian, not French. “As they say in my neighboring country,” she added. “What flower would you prefer, monsieur?”

  “I thought maybe tulips.”

  “Tulips?” Faith, but they cost the world this time of year. But if the man wanted tulips, the French Maid would provide them. She’d make it up by giving the Butterworths mostly carnations next week. “Oui. I shall provide the tulips, monsieur.”

  His voice deepened. “Red tulips, Darcie. Deep red. There’s something sexy about deep red tulips…the petals are soft, and the way the flower opens is so…inviting.”

  Darcie forgot to breathe.

  “Do you like tulips, Darcie?”

  She sighed into the phone. “Oh, yes. I mean, oui. When zey open up, zee—how you say that middle part?—zee pistils, they are so…erect.”

  His voice sounded a bit strangled. “I know what you mean. I’ve always been interested in the mechanics of…pollination.”

  She lost her grip on the carrot bowl and it clattered to the floor.

  “Darcie? Are you okay?”

  “Sí! I mean, oui!” Be still my heart. I’m cleaning house for a solid gold, dyed-in-the-wool love god. “I dropped my…bidet.”

  “Your what?”

  Dammit. It was the first French word she’d been able to come up with. What did he want from a woman who only managed to earn a C in the class…and was presently having a sexual encounter with him on the phone? “Pardonnez-moi. My bouquet. I was—how you say?—arranging flowers when you rang me up.”

  “I thought you were giving yourself a facial.”

  “Oui. A facial with flowers. We crush the flowers, yes? And pat them over the tender skin. Eet eez very…stimulating.” The carrots, freed from the bowl, were starting to ooze down over her forehead. She tilted her head back.

  He sucked in a breath and his voice deepened again. “Did you like the rose petals?”

  She lowered her voice to a throaty purr. “Oui, monsieur.” A piece of carrot plopped onto the front of her T-
shirt.

  “Good. Maybe, when the tulips wilt, we can…work something out.”

  Her heart hammered at the image he conjured up. If only…but it couldn’t happen. He believed in a fantasy, not the real thing. “I would like that, monsieur. Eef my shed-jule permits.”

  “I could work around—”

  Gus started banging again, louder.

  “I must go,” she murmured. “Zee jungle drums, zey beckon.”

  His voice grew hoarse. “Jungle drums? What are you doing with jungle drums?”

  “Never mind, chéri. Ciao.” She hung up and squeezed her eyes shut when she remembered that ciao was Italian. Oh, well. Maybe he’d think she was multilingual. Or multipersonality, more like it.

  She felt fragmented, having just given the world’s worst impersonation of a French temptress while covered with mashed carrots. She wondered if he’d believed any of it. And if he was as hot and bothered as she was.

  MADGE WHIPPED OFF her earphones. The listening device she’d ordered from a catalog hadn’t worked perfectly, but well enough. She opened the door to her sewing room a crack to see if Herman happened to be roaming around upstairs.

  The family-room TV blared as usual, so he was probably still down there. Good. He barely approved of binoculars, let alone listening devices. If he happened to notice the suction cups on the window, she planned to tell him they were for hanging sun-catchers.

  She closed the door again, picked up the phone and punched in Trudy Butterworth’s number. Trudy answered.

  “Can you talk?” Madge pitched her voice low in case Herman happened to walk by in the hall outside. He was too curious for his own good.

  “Madge? Are you sick?”