kind of you to offer, but I really don’t think so.”
“Please,” little Sarah implored, her huge blue eyes filling with hope.
Ella groaned.
She recognizing the throbbing behind her right eyeball for what it was.
Obligation overload.
That all too familiar sense of having to put others’ needs before her own was so deeply ingrained from years of service that it had left worry lines permanently etched upon her forehead. Passed over for adoption herself time and time again, Ella was frequently farmed out to foster homes in need of a strong back and free baby-sitting services. Her friends had called her Sister Mac in jest, making fun of her devotion to other people’s children—and reminding her of the heartbreak she inevitably suffered every time those ties were severed.
Years of being used by the system had taught her the folly of putting herself second to others more fortunate.
“Pleeeeeease,” echoed Billy, dragging the word and her heart into several pieces.
“Do you mind my asking what you planned on making if you got that job in town you mentioned?” Hawk asked before the final decibel of his son’s pleading had died away.
The offended look on Ella’s face indicated that she did indeed mind. Nonetheless she rattled off a figure that included a fair margin for gratuities. She may not be the prettiest girl George Abrams would ever hire on at the Watering Hole, but she had a way with customers that unruffled feathers and transformed frowns into smiles. People found Ella’s genuine interest in them so refreshing that even the crustiest curmudgeons usually left a generous tip behind.
Hawk didn’t so much as blink at the sum she quoted. “I’ll double it. And include room and board as well as a generous up-front signing fee. How soon can you move in?”
“Move in?” Ella squeaked. “Why, I don’t even know your name!”
“William Fawson Hawk III,” he supplied in a formal tone, extending her a smile and his hand once again. “But you can just call me Hawk.”
Ella backed away from it as she would from a snake curled up in the grass. She wasn’t about to risk physical contact again with anyone who held such phenomenal power over her sensibilities.
“If you’re a decent cook, I’ll triple the amount. The kids can testify to the fact that I can even manage to screw up a basic peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and even their unnatural fondness for microwave macaroni and cheese has worn thin.”
“I can cook, and I can provide you with references, too,” Ella admitted grudgingly, feeling herself slipping into the vortex of the tornado which was gathering speed around her. Her head was spinning. Was this guy for real?
Looking around at the sophisticated decor, Ella knew she wasn’t dealing with just any crackpot. It appeared this man was an excellent businessman, just as smooth as the expensive bourbon she’d spied behind the wet bar. Did he realize that he was offering her an opportunity to make enough money over the course of a year to pay for the college education that had been eluding her since high school graduation? If she continued taking classes one at a time as she could afford them, Ella figured she’d be old enough to collect Social Security by the time she actually earned a degree.
Why she wasn’t jumping all over this man’s extraordinary offer was beyond her.
It certainly wasn’t because she minded doing an honest day’s work. She had been doing that for as long as she could remember. Nor did it have anything to do with not liking the two little imps who had wolfed down an entire sack of cookies at her rough-hewn table. They were utterly adorable. Not to mention that they could well prove to be the most valid audience to whom she could safely subject her stories. Even though a heartbreaking stint of trying to make it as a full-time writer/illustrator hadn’t yielded the slightest opportunity of being published, Ella wasn’t ready to part with her dream until she absolutely had to.
Perhaps it was because as an aspiring artist, she was reticent about giving up her solitude.
Perhaps it was simply that she had already wiped enough runny noses and bottoms to last her a lifetime.
Or perhaps it was because the impact of this man’s eyes was as powerful as his touch. A touch, she reminded herself nervously, that sent her tumbling over a chair like some cheap slapstick comedian.
“How soon can you start? Will you need help moving in?” Hawk pressed.
The lopsided smile he had passed on to his son deepened the dimple in his chin that Ella found so fascinating. Such charm ought to be bottled, she thought, dimly aware that she was being danced into a corner without so much as feeling her feet touch the ground.
“I can help,” Billy volunteered, throwing his little chest out in a manly fashion.
A woman would have to be made of marble to have resisted such chivalry.
Ella capitulated with a sigh that said she already regretted the decision. “Moving isn’t a problem. I don’t have much to bring over,” she explained simply, then added with an authority that belied her youth, “but if I’m going to work for you, we need to establish some ground rules.”
Hawk tried not to grin too broadly. He didn’t think he could keep a straight face if she started setting forth conditions to safeguard her chastity.
She didn’t. Instead Ella startled him with an admonition that had nothing whatsoever to do with protecting her lithe young body.
“I’ll agree to your terms as long as number one, I can have every Wednesday evening off to attend a college class I’ve already signed up for, and number two, you agree not to undermine my authority in any way. I want free reign to handle the children how I see fit. I have to warn you,” she added looking him squarely in the eye with all the earnestness of someone about to disclose a long, checkered criminal record. “My methods are less than conventional.”
“With hair such an outrageous color of red as yours, I’d expect no less,” Hawk proclaimed, filling the room with the warm resonance of a laugh that left Ella’s face flushed.
Two
The next day, as she snapped her suitcase shut, Ella was still fuming about Hawk’s parting remark. Scratched and scuffed from years of abuse, the old yellow luggage had indeed seen better days. But as it was one of the few things Ella had left to remind her of her mother, it was nonetheless an item she cherished. Setting the solitary bag out on the porch, Ella thought to herself that it was a good thing being a nanny didn’t require an extensive wardrobe. A couple of pairs of jeans, a few T-shirts, her favorite red sweater, and a pair of tennis shoes would have to serve her well.
As had the rustic cabin which she had called home for the past year and a half. The single room was large enough to house a bed, a rough-hewn table, a couple of chairs and an ancient but functional stove utilized both for cooking and heating purposes. An easel stood guard beside the front window. Colorful art supplies were neatly arranged in a box beside an unfinished work in progress. Log walls were decorated with vibrant paintings of castles and fairyland inhabitants, several wearing the latest in modern-day running shoes.
Others might turn up their royal noses at the thought of living as simply as Ella did, without such newfangled conveniences as running water and electricity. Disregarding their judgment as bourgeois, she laughingly referred to her home as a “studio.” Ella considered herself in good company with other artists who accepted hardship as a necessary encumbrance in maintaining the freedom of their unconventional lifestyles. Of course, there were times like yesterday when those two adorable urchins arrived on her doorstep that she would have given anything for a telephone to save her from the treacherous march from her place to the mansion next door. How much simpler her life would be now had she simply been able to make a call to the children’s workaholic daddy without ever having to look directly into his hypnotic gray eyes. The color defied the artist in her to capture it on canvas.
Never alone