A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire Read online

  He returned before she could figure it out.

  “Going somewhere?”

  She shook her head, her sex-mussed hair swirling around her face and almost obscuring her view. “Not unless you want me to.”

  “I don’t.” He slipped onto the bed behind her, spooning his chest to her back. He threw a leg over her hips, and she could feel his hardening length nudging the cleft between her butt cheeks.

  “Are you…?”

  “Yep,” he said proudly, nipping her neck.

  “Already?”

  “What can I say?” One hand came around her waist and curled upward to cup her breast. “You’re good for my powers of restoration.”

  “So…” She hissed when his thumb brushed her nipple. Even that slight contact was enough to make it pebble. Apparently, her restorative powers were strong, too. “Does that mean you’re good to go again?”

  “I’ve created a monster.” His laughter ruffled the hair behind her ear. “What am I going to do with you?”

  She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, letting herself revel in his touch. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

  Chapter Ten

  The house was strangely quiet when Rhys woke the next morning.

  And that wasn’t the only thing that was strange.

  When he tried to move, a soft, warm weight held him down. A weight that smelled of summer rain and freshly washed sheets and coconut shampoo.

  He stared at the ceiling and waited for the guilt to come crashing down on him like a ten-ton truck. But instead he felt…right. At peace.

  Should he feel guilty for not feeling guilty? Rhys turned his head to study the woman sleeping beside him, her fucked-all-night blond curls splayed out across her pillow and a satisfied smile gracing her beautiful face. Six orgasms would do that to a girl. Or was it seven? He’d lost track. After they’d used up their meager supply of condoms, he’d had to resort to more creative tactics to get her off.

  He craned his neck to check the digital clock on the nightstand. It was six. Oliver wouldn’t be awake for another hour, at least. Maybe two after the ordeal he’d been through yesterday. Plenty of time for another go-round with the warm, willing woman next to him.

  He ran a hand down Mallory’s spine, his fingertips grazing her skin. She moaned and stirred.

  “Good morning.” He rolled over and pressed his chest to her back, kissing the nape of her neck.

  She groaned louder and buried her face in her pillow.

  “Not a morning person, huh?” He reached around to stroke her stomach. “I’ll bet I can change that.”

  “I love mornings. Usually.” She arched into him, letting her head fall back on his shoulder. “But someone kept me up all night.”

  “I didn’t hear any complaints.” His hand wandered lower, to her already-wet sex. He loved how responsive she was for him. There was nothing deceptive about this woman. She was too open, too transparent to hide what she was feeling.

  “Point taken.” Her body tensed, and she put a hand over his stopping him. “What time is it? Oliver…”

  “Won’t be up for at least another hour. Which gives us plenty of time for round four. Or is it five?”

  “What if Collins comes back?”

  “We’ll hear the boat.” Rhys bent his head and sucked her earlobe into his mouth. “Any other objections?”

  “I can’t think of any.” She removed her hand.

  “Then be quiet and let me touch you.” He slipped a finger inside her. Her muscles clenched around him, and he smothered a groan in her neck.

  “Be quiet?” Her legs opened wider, and he added a second finger as he continued to work her over, his pace fast enough to tease but not to take the edge off.

  “Strike that. I love the noises you make. Be as loud as you want.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be as loud as I want, too.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You’re taking care of me. What about you? Don’t you want to—”

  She bit her lip and frowned, searching for the right word.

  “Are you trying to ask how I’m going to reach the big O?”

  “Well, we’re out of condoms.”

  “Something I’ll have to fix soon.” How, he didn’t have a fucking clue. He didn’t go into town all that often. And it wasn’t like he was going to ask Collins to get them. Or have Mrs. Flannigan add them to her grocery list. “But that didn’t stop us last night, did it?”

  Mallory burrowed into her pillow again, shielding her face, but not before he caught a glimpse of the rosy flush creeping up her neck.

  “I have an idea.” He eased his fingers out of her, eliciting a frustrated groan from her pouty lips. “Turn around and straddle me.”

  “Why?”

  “For once, trust me and follow instructions.”

  She did, and he gripped her hips, helping to position her over his mouth.

  “You’re not going to—?”

  “Oh yes, I am.” He proved his point by curling his hands around her ass and lifting his head to give her a quick, teasing swipe. “And so are you.”

  He lowered her to him, and for the next ten minutes—okay, maybe it was more like twenty—they explored each other thoroughly, completely, with lips and teeth and tongues, bringing each other to the brink and back, again and again. It was all he could do to hold off until she tensed above him, calling out his name.

  When she stopped trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm, he rolled her off him. “I’m almost there.”

  She curled her fingers around his length, bringing him back to her mouth. “Then be quiet and let me finish.”

  “Be quiet?” he teased.

  “Never mind. Make as much noise as you want.”

  He did, not holding anything back, letting her know with each gasp and moan how much he liked what she was doing to him until he let loose. He didn’t know what was more satisfying, his own release or the way she came apart on top of him. He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, and reversed positions so they were face-to-face, gathering her sweat-dampened, deliciously naked body to his side. She sighed and twined a leg around one of his, sliding the arch of her foot up his calf. A flash of fluorescent orange caught his eye, and he smiled.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “After what we just did?” She snaked a hand up between them to caress his chest, her nails lightly scraping over his nipple and making him jerk. “How can I say no?”

  Her foot slid higher, and he reached down to grab her ankle. “What’s with the nail polish?”

  She glanced up at him with wide, confused eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m no expert, but it seems like you wear a different color every other day. Do all woman do that?”

  “I don’t know about all women, just me. Pedicures are my guilty pleasure. Like PEZ is for you. I match the names to my mood.”

  He stroked her instep with his thumb. “What’s this one called?”

  She looked away, her wild, après-sex hair shielding her face. “I don’t remember.”

  “Liar.” He rolled them over so he was on top of her and hooked a finger under her chin, tilting it up and forcing her to look at him again. “Come on. You can tell me.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “I thought you said there was nothing I couldn’t ask.” He brushed a lock of hair off her cheek and kissed her.

  “I didn’t say I’d answer.”

  “I’ll torture you into submission.” His mouth moved lower, tracing a wet trail to the valley between her breasts.

  She moaned. “I’m not sure this counts as torture. Isn’t it supposed to be cruel and inhuman?”

  “It will be when I stop.”

  “Okay, okay. I give in.” She clutched his head to her chest. “It’s called A Roll in the Hague.”

  “Interesting.” He laughed against her skin. “So, either you’re looking to get laid or you’re planning a
trip to the Netherlands.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to the tulip festival, but that’s in the spring.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to settle for this.”

  He drew one nipple into his mouth and flicked it with his tongue, gearing up for another round, when the patter of little feet came racing down the hall.

  “Daddy? Are you up? I can’t find Mallory.”

  “Shit.” She pushed him off her and scrambled to sit, clutching the sheet around her gorgeous breasts.

  “Relax.” He gave her a quick kiss, jumped out of bed faster than his exhausted body should have been able to, and yanked on a pair of board shorts. “I’ve got this. I’ll get him some breakfast and take him outside to survey whatever damage there is from the storm. That should give you time to shower and get dressed.”

  “Thanks.” She relaxed her grip on the sheet, and it slipped down a fraction of an inch, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of one creamy mound.

  He commanded his libido, which had a mind of its own, to calm the fuck down and went for the door. He and Mallory had a lot to figure out.

  But first he had to head off the impressionable four-year-old only seconds away from discovering them.

  …

  “Are you all right? I knew it was a bad idea for you to go down there.”

  Her mother’s voice dripped with disapproval, and Mallory instantly regretted calling her. The hurricane-that-almost-was-but-wasn’t had been all over the news for days, and her guilty conscience wouldn’t let her rest until she let her parents know she was safe. But a quick text would have done the trick. And she could have deleted her mother’s snarky responses without reading them.

  She tightened the belt on her robe and grabbed a brush to run through her freshly showered hair. “I’m fine, Mom. The storm turned out to be nothing.”

  “Hurricanes and alligators—who needs that?” Mallory could almost hear her mother shudder over the phone line. “When are you coming home?”

  “This is my home.” Mallory answered reflexively, but for the first time in a long time the words didn’t feel like a lie. Had she landed where she truly belonged? Found her place? Her purpose?

  Her person?

  She gave herself a mental shake. No. Her feeling of belonging wasn’t because she and Rhys were doing…whatever it was they were doing. It was Oliver, Collins, the Flannigans, all of them. In the short time she’d spent on Flamingo Key, they’d become like family to her.

  “You know what I mean.” Pamela Sinclair Worthington was formidable when she was angry, and it was clear from her tone she was well on her way to royally pissed off. “You belong here, in New York, with us. Living in the guesthouse. Working at the Worthington. Not cooking, cleaning, and caring for some troglodyte and his spoiled son.”

  Troglodyte? Who talked like that? The next time Mallory called her mother—if there was a next time—she’d be sure to have a dictionary handy.

  “I don’t clean.” Mallory sat at her vanity and ran the brush aimlessly through her hair. “We have a housekeeper for that. And Oliver’s not spoiled. He’s a nice, normal four-year-old boy.” Who’d been through a lot for a little kid, something Mallory could relate to. But she wasn’t getting into that with her mother. The last thing she needed was a reminder of her daughter’s medical history.

  She sighed and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Bee-stung lips. Tender breasts, her still-sensitive nipples clearly visible through the silk of her robe. She looked like a woman who’d been well and thoroughly shagged. Was it that obvious? Would Collins take one look at her when he got back and know what she and Rhys had done the night before? And that morning?

  What about Oliver? He was young but perceptive. Would he figure out something was different?

  “Are you still there?” Even traveling via radio waves from hundreds of miles away, her mother’s shrill tone could pierce Mallory’s ears. And her heart. “You’re deliberately avoiding the question.”

  Mallory stuck the brush under her arm and switched the phone to her other ear. “What was that again?”

  “You know perfectly well what I said.” Her mother practically spat out the words. Mallory swore she could feel spittle fly through the airwaves. “When are you going to give up this ridiculous charade and come home?”

  With more calm than she felt, Mallory grabbed the brush and began tackling the hair on the other side of her head. She’d been spared her parents’ disapproval growing up thanks to her cancer and later because she’d played the dutiful daughter, going along with their plans for her without objection. Was this what Brooke had been dealing with all these years? How did she do it without resorting to physical violence? Mallory had new respect for her as-of-yet-non-homicidal sister.

  “I know Dad doesn’t get it, but I thought you understood why I had to leave. I need to be on my own for a change, without you and Dad always there to catch me when I fall.”

  “That was before your life was in danger in that swamp you’re calling home. I almost lost you once. I’m not going through that again. I can’t.”

  Her mother’s voice broke on the last word, making Mallory feel like crap. But like her therapist said, as difficult as it had been for her parents to see her in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and monitors, it was wrong for them to use her illness to hold her hostage.

  Not that she needed her parents to make her feel like a prisoner of her disease when she had reminders like the test results she was waiting on, hanging over her head like a guillotine.

  She laid down the brush and stood. “I know my being sick was hard on you and Dad. But you can’t keep me in a bubble forever.”

  “Why not?” Her mother sniffled. “It worked for John Travolta in that TV movie.”

  Mallory went into the bedroom and flopped down on the bed. Why did talking with her mother have to be so exhausting? “Actually, it didn’t. In the end, he fell in love and left the bubble, deciding to take his chances in the outside world.”

  “That’s right. I always hated that movie.”

  Mallory punched her pillow in frustration. “I’m a grown woman. You have to let me live my life.”

  “I’m trying,” her mother said, sounding sincere. “But it’s hard adjusting to this new you. My sweet, docile Mallory has become stubborn and headstrong. You’re acting like…”

  “Like Brooke?” Mallory offered.

  “Yes, if you must know.” Her mother huffed. “Is this your sister’s influence? Did she put you up to this?”

  “No, she didn’t. This is about me, Mom. Not Brooke.”

  “I was hoping the storm made you reconsider your decision to move.”

  “New York has weather, too. Blizzards. Nor’easters.”

  The line went silent for what seemed like forever but was probably less than a minute. Mallory was starting to think her mother had hung up on her when the older woman finally spoke. “Well, I expect you home for your sister’s reception next month. She might have eloped, but that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate with a few hundred of our closest friends.”

  As if her mother cared about celebrating. The whole thing was a thinly veiled vehicle for her to show off Brooke’s Fortune 500 bridegroom to all her high-society friends. The fact that Brooke would be miserable for the entire event was an added bonus, punishment for her daughter’s decision to run off and get married without her.

  But that was Brooke’s problem, not Mallory’s. She closed her eyes and relaxed into her pulverized pillow. It looked like her mother had given up the come-home-where-we-can-control-you battle. For now. Mallory had no illusions the war was over. “Of course. I’ve already asked for the time off and booked my flight.”

  “That’s a small consolation, I suppose.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help with the arrangements.”

  “From all the way down there? Doubtful.” Ah, the disdain was back in full force. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  On that
not-so-high note, Mallory bade her mother a quick goodbye and clicked off. Her next call to Brooke was a completely different minefield. She’d always had a hard time hiding anything from her sister. One little slip, and Brooke would know every detail of Mallory’s recently rediscovered sex life.

  She steeled her voice to remain as neutral as humanly possible. Her sister picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Brooke. How’s things in the big city?”

  “It’s about time you called and let me know you’re okay.” Her sister sounded only moderately less annoyed than her mother. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

  “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. And everyone’s fine here.”

  “Everyone, huh?” Brooke’s raised eyebrow was almost audible. “Does that include Captain von Dreamy?”

  Mallory bristled. “I wish you’d stop calling him that.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Brooke squealed. Actually squealed. Mallory didn’t think she’d ever heard that particularly nauseating sound come out of her normally sarcastic sister. “You went all Fräulein Maria on his sexy ass, didn’t you?”

  “I did what?” Mallory bolted upright.

  “You slept with him, you dirty girl. I’m so proud of you.”

  What the actual fudge? Was her sister psychic or something? Mallory had no idea what she’d said to give Brooke the admittedly correct notion she and Rhys had sex, but she wasn’t about to give her any more ammunition. “I don’t remember that in the movie.”

  “It’s implied.” The distinctive crinkle of a candy wrapper told Mallory her sister had broken into her ever-present stash of junk food. “And you didn’t deny it. So how was it? Is he as good in the sack as he looks?”

  Mallory gritted her teeth. “I’m not discussing this with you.”

  “That’s funny,” Brooke mumbled through a mouthful of what Mallory assumed was her sister’s chocolate of choice, a Milky Way. “I remember you grilling me about Eli.”

  “And I remember you refusing to answer.”