been bombed. Adam McAllister was tall and fit. More than fit. With his jet-black hair, olive skin and sharply defined angles of his face, he was probably one of the best-looking men Emma had ever seen.
Except that he was scowling. While his mother had surprised her by being so unexpectedly nice, the pendulum had swung in the opposite direction now. Adam McAllister looked uncompromising. Fierce. Angry even?
At her?
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, the words rushing out. ‘The train was … it was …’ Oh, help. He was looking at her as if he knew. Had he somehow managed to access her medical records or something?
‘The train’s always late.’ Catherine was pulling out a chair. She smiled down at the children. ‘What’s happened here? Has Poppy broken her leg again, Ollie?’
‘Aye. I’m fixing her.’ But the small boy’s attention was diverted now. ‘Who are you?’ he asked Emma. ‘And what’s that?’
‘I’m Emma. And this is my guitar case.’
‘I want to see.’
‘Maybe later.’ Adam McAllister’s offer did not sound promising. ‘Your gran’s going to take you to see the tree going up in a minute. And then you’re going home for your supper.’
‘After some proper introductions,’ Catherine said firmly. ‘Emma—this is Oliver and this is Poppy. Ollie and Poppy—this is Emma … Sinclair?’
‘Miss Sinclair,’ Adam corrected.
‘Emma’s fine,’ said Emma. ‘Hello, Poppy and Ollie. You’re twins, aren’t you?’
They stared at her. They had brown eyes like their father but their hair was much lighter. Poppy still had golden streaks in her long braids. She also had something clutched in her hand.
‘Is that Barbie?’
Poppy nodded. ‘She’s got a pony,’ she offered. ‘At home.’
‘Lucky Barbie. I love ponies.’
‘I’ve got a pony, too.’
‘Jemima’s not a pony,’ Oliver said. ‘She’s a donkey.’
Emma blinked. Catherine laughed. ‘Adam probably didn’t say much on the phone,’ she said, ‘but there are a few pets at home. Do you like animals?’
‘Yes. I had a job in a pet shop once. We had lots of puppies and kittens and rabbits. Oh, and hamsters and mice and rats, too.’
Poppy’s eyes were round. ‘I love puppies. And kittens.’
‘I love rats,’ Oliver said. ‘Can I have a rat, Daddy?’
‘We’ve probably got some out in the barn.’
‘I want one for a pet. Inside.’
‘No.’ The word was almost a sigh. ‘You can’t have a rat, Ollie.’
‘But why not?’ With a bandage unfurling in his hand to roll across the floor, Oliver scrambled to his feet. ‘You said I could tell you what I wanted most for Christmas. And I want a rat.’
‘They smell bad.’ Emma had been the cause of what was becoming a family disagreement. She needed to do something. ‘And they’ve got long tails that are all bald and pink and … icky.’
‘Icky?’ Adam was looking at her as if she was suddenly speaking Swahili.
‘Icky,’ Poppy repeated. She giggled. ‘Icky, icky, icky.’
‘You’re icky,’ Oliver told her.
‘No. You are.’
‘Time to go,’ Catherine decreed. ‘You’ve met Emma and she’s met you. Now it’s time for her to talk to Daddy.’
In the flurry of putting on coats and hats and gathering schoolbags, Catherine found time to squeeze Emma’s hand.
‘I do hope you’ll still be here when I get back,’ she said softly. ‘I’d like the chance to get to know you better.’
She managed to say something to Adam as well, just before she ushered the children out of the room. Emma couldn’t hear what she said but, as she sank into the chair as the door closed behind Catherine, he was still scowling at her.
Strength. That was what he needed.
This was his one shot at finding the help he needed so that his mother would not cancel her trip to Canada and this young woman was clearly … He closed his eyes for as long as it took to draw in a new breath. A complete flake?
She looked like a refugee from the sixties or something, carrying a guitar and a backpack. So pale he could almost count the freckles scattered over her nose and she was thin enough to have a waif-like air that probably made her look a lot younger than she was. And what was it with those oversized clothes? It reminded him of when Poppy clopped around the house with her feet in a pair of her grandmother’s high-heeled shoes and a dress that was trailing around her ankles.
She was so obviously unsuitable that it was deeply disappointing. He’d have to go through the motions of an interview, though—if only to have ammunition for the argument he’d have to have with his mother later. Her whispered impression had been very succinct.
She’s lovely. Give her the job, Adam.
How had this musically inclined waif managed to impress Catherine so much in such a short time?
‘So …’ He did his best to summon a smile. ‘You’re fond of animals, then?’
‘Mmm.’ She was smiling back at him. She had blue eyes, he noted. And brown curls that had a reddish glint where the light caught them. ‘I am.’
‘And children?’
She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I like children, too.’
‘Do you have any experience with them?’
‘I’ve taught music classes. And … and I had a job working with children over a Christmas period a while back. I loved it.’
Because she’d never quite grown up herself? How many adults would use a word like ‘icky’ with such relish?
‘But you’ve never been a nanny?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any younger brothers or sisters? Friends who have small children?’
‘N-no.’ The smile was fading now.
‘Do you have a full driver’s licence?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a motorbike licence, too.’
The image of this child-woman
