credentials?"
Credentials? Was she going to be interviewed for a few hours' worth of work?
"What kind of education do you have?"
Cara fought the urge to offer a pithy reply. "I have a master's degree in philosophy and economics."
"I didn't think a person could actually get a job with a master's in philosophy."
Of all the nerve.
Her nerves stretched tight. "I find it immensely helpful when spending the evening with toddlers. You'd be amazed how many of them are well-versed in Descartes."
Although she'd tried to keep her tone light, there was enough of a bite to it that Ross must have realized she didn't appreciate being grilled.
His lips twitched in a self-deprecating grimace. "I hope you'll bear with me. My children can be a...challenge. I merely wanted to make sure they would be in good hands."
His shoulders shifted as if his jacket had grown too tight, and Cara wondered how many sitters had refused to help him before he'd come to the Mom Squad.
"I should have known your agency would send someone equal to the task," he said, ushering her in with a wave of his hand. "Melba is a jewel. I was sorry to hear she was rushed to the hospital. How is she?"
"In surgery now, but I'll be getting calls updating her progress throughout the evening."
Ross nodded, absorbing the information with the intensity of a man being given stock-market
quotes. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me posted. The twins and I are very fond of Melba."
'Til do that."
Without another word Ross turned, making his way toward a wide, sweeping staircase. "Sorry for the rush, but I've got less than an hour to get to a benefit dinner."
"No problem."
She followed him up the lushly carpeted staircase, trying her best not to look as if she were gawking. The staircase was a sweeping expanse of rich wood carved with wild animals, flowers and vines. The pale carpet underfoot looked too rich to be anything but wool.
Ross Gifford's house was immense, with high-pitched ceilings, stark white walls and pale ice-white carpets. Except for occasional splashes of color from jewel-toned pillows and the rich woodwork, everything seemed pale and colorless....
And sterile.
Again she was reminded of the fact that this man was a widower. There had been no feminine touches added to the house, no knickknacks, no family photographs, no scattered toys. If not for her job assignment, there would have been no clues that children lived here. No clues that anyone lived here at all.
Again she was filled with the sensation of hav-
ing entered a showplace for the Parade of Homes design competition and the thought filled her with sadness. The house had so much promise. So much effort had been expended to make it look beautiful, but no one as yet had taken the time to make it feel like a home.
Only once did she get a hint that a family lived here. Midway down the corridor she saw a portrait of a woman with bright-red hair and piercing blue eyes.
Was this Ross's late wife?
Cara felt a twinge of sadness. How long had Ross Gifford's wife been gone? Months? Years? Were the occupants of this house still mourning her passing?
"There's a small kitchenette in the children's wing."
Wing? His children had a wing to themselves?
"The play area is located in the south turret, and their rooms are on either side. I've left my pager number, my cell number and a list of emergency contacts taped on the refrigerator. The twins have already eaten, but they may want a small snack before bedtime. Stibbs has left some fruit, milk and wheat-germ cookies."
Wheat-germ cookies? No doubt they were healthy but they sounded less than appealing.
"The children need to be in bed promptly at
8:00 p.m. Their pajamas are waiting on the counter in the bathroom. They'll need to be bathed first."
"Of course." Ross's tone was so clipped Cara had the sensation of being briefed for battle.
"Other than that, the twins can be a handful once they realize I've left them for the evening, but they are usually
Credentials? Was she going to be interviewed for a few hours' worth of work?
"What kind of education do you have?"
Cara fought the urge to offer a pithy reply. "I have a master's degree in philosophy and economics."
"I didn't think a person could actually get a job with a master's in philosophy."
Of all the nerve.
Her nerves stretched tight. "I find it immensely helpful when spending the evening with toddlers. You'd be amazed how many of them are well-versed in Descartes."
Although she'd tried to keep her tone light, there was enough of a bite to it that Ross must have realized she didn't appreciate being grilled.
His lips twitched in a self-deprecating grimace. "I hope you'll bear with me. My children can be a...challenge. I merely wanted to make sure they would be in good hands."
His shoulders shifted as if his jacket had grown too tight, and Cara wondered how many sitters had refused to help him before he'd come to the Mom Squad.
"I should have known your agency would send someone equal to the task," he said, ushering her in with a wave of his hand. "Melba is a jewel. I was sorry to hear she was rushed to the hospital. How is she?"
"In surgery now, but I'll be getting calls updating her progress throughout the evening."
Ross nodded, absorbing the information with the intensity of a man being given stock-market
quotes. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me posted. The twins and I are very fond of Melba."
'Til do that."
Without another word Ross turned, making his way toward a wide, sweeping staircase. "Sorry for the rush, but I've got less than an hour to get to a benefit dinner."
"No problem."
She followed him up the lushly carpeted staircase, trying her best not to look as if she were gawking. The staircase was a sweeping expanse of rich wood carved with wild animals, flowers and vines. The pale carpet underfoot looked too rich to be anything but wool.
Ross Gifford's house was immense, with high-pitched ceilings, stark white walls and pale ice-white carpets. Except for occasional splashes of color from jewel-toned pillows and the rich woodwork, everything seemed pale and colorless....
And sterile.
Again she was reminded of the fact that this man was a widower. There had been no feminine touches added to the house, no knickknacks, no family photographs, no scattered toys. If not for her job assignment, there would have been no clues that children lived here. No clues that anyone lived here at all.
Again she was filled with the sensation of hav-
ing entered a showplace for the Parade of Homes design competition and the thought filled her with sadness. The house had so much promise. So much effort had been expended to make it look beautiful, but no one as yet had taken the time to make it feel like a home.
Only once did she get a hint that a family lived here. Midway down the corridor she saw a portrait of a woman with bright-red hair and piercing blue eyes.
Was this Ross's late wife?
Cara felt a twinge of sadness. How long had Ross Gifford's wife been gone? Months? Years? Were the occupants of this house still mourning her passing?
"There's a small kitchenette in the children's wing."
Wing? His children had a wing to themselves?
"The play area is located in the south turret, and their rooms are on either side. I've left my pager number, my cell number and a list of emergency contacts taped on the refrigerator. The twins have already eaten, but they may want a small snack before bedtime. Stibbs has left some fruit, milk and wheat-germ cookies."
Wheat-germ cookies? No doubt they were healthy but they sounded less than appealing.
"The children need to be in bed promptly at
8:00 p.m. Their pajamas are waiting on the counter in the bathroom. They'll need to be bathed first."
"Of course." Ross's tone was so clipped Cara had the sensation of being briefed for battle.
"Other than that, the twins can be a handful once they realize I've left them for the evening, but they are usually
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