Chapter 5: Dell
Jesus Christ. Did this curvy little spitfire really say she didn’t trust me?
I can feel the anger rising up. This is why I don’t keep cute little playthings around. They get not-so-cute really fast.
I tower over her and the baby in the armchair. “I’m entrusted with billions of dollars in capital and the viability of at least one hundred start-ups, so I think I can handle an infant.”
Arianna stands up at that. Her nose doesn’t even reach my chest, but her spine is as stiff as a board. Her palm pushes at my shoulder.
“Oh, really?” she says. “Then handle THIS.”
She presses the baby against my belly and I have to fumble to figure out how to fit her in my arms. The child’s eyes fly open and a terrible retching cry escapes her mouth.
When Arianna is sure I have a good grip, she backs away. “Let’s see how you do.”
I try to put the squirmy bundle up on my shoulder the way I saw her do before, but this only makes the baby cry louder.
My knees bend, and I straighten, down and up, trying to jiggle her enough to stop her noise. This works for a moment, so I do it more, and faster, trying to stay ahead of her breath. I feel like an idiot, a puppet tugged by a string, up-down-up-down, and spot Arianna hiding a laugh.
Then it inexplicably quits working, and the infant howls directly in my ear.
“How do you make it stop?” I ask Arianna.
She shrugs. “You could try the mouth plug again.” She holds up the brightly colored plastic knob. I can’t for the life of me remember what they are called.
I take it from her, shifting the baby into a lying position in my arms, like we did downstairs. Still, she howls.
The rubbery nub of the mouthpiece goes in and for a moment, the baby sucks contentedly on it. Her watery eyes look up at me.
“See, not so hard,” I tell her.
Then the thing falls out of her mouth, slides over my arm, and hits the floor.
Arianna bends over to retrieve it. I want to admire the healthy cleavage I spot on her way down, but this blasted infant won’t stop the noise.
“I’ll just go wash this,” she says saucily and disappears toward the kitchen.
Great. Just great.
I plunk down on the sofa. This joggles the infant and she starts crying again. “What is it?” I ask her red face. It’s most unattractive, nothing like the smiling babies on billboards.
She pauses a moment to take in a breath. In a fit of brilliance, I get the idea to place her own fist near her lips. This interests her, and she chews her gummy mouth against her own thumb. The silence is blissful.
“All right, then,” I say. “Now we can talk like rational people.” Her fist pops away, and I set it back before the howling can start up again.
“I don’t smell anything, and the fact that you want something in your mouth seems to indicate you are hungry.” I give her my best disapproving stare. “You just took a bottle before the nap on the way up. Are you going to eat me out of house and home?”
Arianna has been gone too long. Is she sterilizing the … damn. What IS that thing called?
It’s driving me mad, and the infant is calm, so I pull out my phone with my free hand and type in “baby mouth plug.” I get an alarming set of links of children who were electrocuted. I switch to images and see many content babies with these plastic bits in their mouths, like horses.
But I get names. Binky. Pacifier. Yes. I let a long breath escape. I hate not knowing things.
The child’s eyes are drooping again. She sure does sleep a lot. I hope she isn’t ill.
I want to leap up with the realization. Of course. That’s why some errant ex deposited the child with me. It’s dying.
I examine her legs and arms. All seems normal. Ten fingers. She’s in a frilly dress that doesn’t seem all too practical or comfortable. Dainty socks with frills at the ankle cover her feet.
I glance around to ensure the room is still empty, and pull them off. Ten toes.
I don’t know how to tell if an infant isn’t well. I do hope this employee of Arianna’s comes up with a list of doctors. Perhaps I should phone my own physician.
The click of shoes can only be Arianna, as Bernard is silent as a mouse. She leans over the back of the sofa and hands me the pacifier. “She seems all right now,” she says.
“The young cannibal feasted on her own fist and drifted off to sleep again,” I say.
Arianna laughs, a low throaty sound I could definitely get used to. She comes around the sofa and sits beside me.
“Taylor has a work-in appointment with a pediatrician about six blocks down for this afternoon as well as three nanny prospects arriving this evening.”
My body sinks into the sofa a little more. “Thank you.”
“I’m not sure you have enough formula and diapers to last until tomorrow. I highly recommend someone on your staff picking up more.”
My blood chills. “You’re leaving?”
“I showed Bernard how to mix the formula. He said you would have the diaper duties, but I’m sure you can figure out what goes where.”
She stands up.
I pop up next to her. “You can’t go. I haven’t the least experience.”
“I have a business to run,” she says.
“I have many! And I’m here!”
The baby stirs, and I snatch the binky from where I left it on the sofa. This time, the baby takes it, thank God. I hold a finger on the handle to help keep it in place.
Arianna gives me a sympathetic smile. “See, you’re figuring it out. I stand corrected.” She takes a step for the door.
“I’m begging you,” I say, then bite my own tongue. I don’t beg. Not for anything.
But this gets her attention.
“Dell Brant is … begging?” A smile flirts on the edges of her lips.
I’ve never seen a single vision more critical to me than her. She’s beautiful. She’s luscious. And most importantly, she can save my ass right now.
“Think of the children,” I say, holding the baby out for a second. Baby Grace takes that very moment to make a very unsavory noise from her frilly little bottom.
Then, the stench.
“Ah, that’s why she was fussy,” Arianna says. “Gassy belly. She’ll need lots of burping after every meal. If it continues, you can try Mylicon drops.”
I want to pass her away, but I’m afraid to take my finger away from the binky in her mouth.
“I have no clue how to change a diaper,” I say.
Arianna continues to the door, and I follow her like a puppy.
“Surely you can spare a day,” I insist. “Just until we have a nanny.”
She turns around at that and looks me up and down. Her gaze takes in everything. My tie, scrunched under the baby, my shirt, totally wrinkled, my hand on the binky. Then she looks around the room.
She lets out a long sigh. “All right,” she says. “But only until you get a nanny in place.” She leans in to touch Grace on her fuzzy head.
“Great,” I say quickly. “I’m sure you can manage while I make a quick stop by my office.”
“Oh no,” she says. “I’m not your employee or your token female. If I stay, you stay. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”
Damn.
“All right,” I say. “Can you at least take her while I call? I had two huge meetings today and I’ll have to deal with the fallout of missing them.”
Her eyes narrow. She takes out her phone and sets a timer for five minutes. “You have exactly this much time before I leave here if you’re still conducting business.”
She’s bluffing, I can tell. But I nod and hand her the baby.
“Let’s get you changed again,” she says to Grace. She holds her differently than I do, more turned in. I make a mental note to adjust my positioning next time and quickly stride to my home office to make the call.
This will be a hard one to explain.