Flash. Then she looked back at him and said, with a hesitancy he found surprising, given her appearance, “You’re...Dante Mancuso?”
Possibilities raced through his mind. Was she some child services rep? He felt an unexpected jab of panic; was she here to take the girls? Some deep-down part of him suggested he should be relieved at that, but it was swamped immediately by the horrific thought of these two innocent babies winding up in the system.
Then he discarded the thought; this woman was too expensively dressed. Unless she was some wealthy do-gooder dabbling. But she knew his name.
And she was still staring at him.
“Who are you?” It came out a bit abrupt, but he was running on too little sleep and too much chaos.
“I’m...Gemma. Gemma Colton.”
Colton. Oh, great.
He could have guessed by her appearance, but he already knew which branch of the famous—and infamous—Colton family she had to be from. Because he knew she wasn’t from his colleague Brayden Colton’s sketchy side of the family tree, or Chief Finn Colton’s ranch-grown side. That left only one possibility: the überwealthy, often annoying Fenwick Colton. Personally he’d always found the loud, brassy man an irritant, although he often wondered how he’d turned out such decent kids as Patience, the K9 unit vet. And Blake, who had had the sense to get out from under his father’s thumb and make his own way—nothing like coming home a huge success and almost as rich as the old man.
Blake. A vague memory tickled his weary brain. The fund-raiser last year, when he and Flash had drawn the short straw and had to put in an appearance. Not onstage, thankfully, but just to mingle and be seen. The fund-raiser organized by Blake’s sister. That’s how he’d always categorized her, as Blake’s sister, and if he’d ever heard her full name, it hadn’t registered.
It registered now. He hadn’t seen the event organizer that night, but if he’d had to imagine her, he would have come pretty close to the woman before him, in her expensive outfit, including the spike heels and the perfect hair.
“What do you want?” He’d tried for a neutral tone, but he hadn’t quite made it.
He saw her gaze flick again to the babies. “I... Blake told me you needed a nanny.”
Blake? Dante’s fellow K9 unit officer Juliette must have told him. He wasn’t surprised; he was sure he was the talk—or the joke—of the department by now.
“You know someone?” he asked, daring to feel a spark of hope.
She nodded. Then, after a moment’s hesitation that surprised him—the rich Coltons were not generally known for a lack of confidence—she said, almost meekly, “Me.”
Dante stared at her elegance, the aura of wealth and the above-it-all air she projected, probably without even trying. And he couldn’t help himself. For an instant the panic, the worry, the grief vanished.
And he burst out laughing.
Gemma barely reacted to his laugh, although it was rare that she, Fenwick Colton’s daughter, was laughed at. But she knew that was because nobody wanted to get on her father’s bad side.
And she was self-aware enough to know how the idea of her as a nanny would appear on the surface. A nanny should be motherly looking, she thought, with some vague idea of ballet flats and one of those huge diaper bags slung over her shoulder.
She also knew she was staring, which was silly now that the lean, muscled abdomen that had struck her breathless was covered. But the image played back in her mind so vividly he might as well still be standing there, shirt rucked up around his arms, bare chest and that lovely six-pack open to her view.
She forced her gaze up to his face, wondering oddly if this was how a guy felt when he caught a glimpse of female flesh he normally wouldn’t have. If so, no wonder they stared.
He didn’t look much older than she was. The Italian heritage his name implied was obvious; he had the dark hair and eyes and the kind of face that made women with any heritage look twice. Not to mention the body...
Yes, whatever else Dante Mancuso was or wasn’t, he was certainly a lovely example of the male of the species. Even though she guessed he wasn’t at peak just now; the dark circles under his eyes spoke of a rough night.
And grief, she remembered suddenly, her brain seeming to finally shake off the shock of her first sight of him. He had inherited this problem—two problems, she amended—because his brother was dead.
“I’m sorry about your brother. Were you close?”
His expression went cool. “Thank you, no.”
It took her a moment to realize that was two answers, not one. Her gaze shifted to the babies again. Then why...?
“If you’ll excuse me, I have more calls to make.” He turned toward his desk.
“I told you, I’ll take the job.”
He stopped, turned back to her. Looked her up and down, assessingly, and not at all in the way she was used to. Not for her figure, her hair or her clothes, or anything else she was used to being assessed for.
“I don’t think so.”
He clearly found her lacking. That was also not something she was used to. And it was far too close to Dev’s assessment of her for her not to react. She drew herself up, and her chin rose. “You don’t think I can do it?”
“Do you know the first thing about handling one baby, let alone two?”
“Do you?” she countered.
“Not even the thing before the first thing,” he said, so easily it unexpectedly charmed her. “That’s why I need someone who does.”
“I—”
A piercing wail from below cut her off. Her head snapped around to look at the babies. It was the one on the left, clearly very unhappy. The big dog—a bloodhound, she remembered from seeing them at one of the charity functions—lifted his head and looked at the baby dolefully. The other baby, impossibly, continued to sleep. Perhaps she was used to her sister’s outbursts, Gemma thought.
Her gaze flicked back to Dante, who was wincing. Other heads in the office were turning, and from far across the room came, “Tone it down, will you, Mancuso? On the phone here.”
Moving on impulse, Gemma bent down and unstrapped the crying infant from the seat and picked her up. The wailing continued. She tried to rock her in her arms, but she only seemed to get louder. Prodded by vague memories of having seen it done, she lifted the baby—who was astonishingly solid and warm—to her shoulder. She felt the little legs kick, saw the tiny hands flail slightly and tightened her grip, pressing the tiny girl to her.
It felt strange. Different. Foreign. And yet...amazing. Something about that warmth, the weight, the shape of her. She cooed at the tiny child, not even caring if it helped or not, only feeling it was the thing to do. She patted the tiny back.
“Higher up,” came a call from behind her, and she glanced around to see the receptionist who had been grinning as she had let her past the desk.
She followed the instructions, and moments later the baby let out an outsize burp. With it came some milky liquid that flowed down the shoulder of her blouse. And she was stunned to realize she didn’t even care. Even if the $500 garment couldn’t be cleaned, she didn’t care. Because the baby in her arms felt so good, and, wonder of wonders, she had stopped crying and was looking at Gemma through bright, innocent eyes. And Gemma felt something stir deep inside her, something like awe, amazement and wonder all rolled into one blossoming explosion of warmth.
And then the tiny being closed her eyes and almost immediately dropped off to sleep. Trusting. Added