A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire Page 4

  “Oliver seems to like her,” Collins continued, not waiting for Rhys to come up with an answer. “I haven’t seen him this happy since…”

  He ran a finger under his collar before finishing his sentence. “In a long time.”

  Rhys shifted in his seat. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Collins had a point. It had only been a few days since her arrival, and already Oliver and Mallory were almost inseparable. But that didn’t mean his son couldn’t form as strong a bond with someone else.

  Did it?

  He steepled his fingers under his chin and bent forward. “Shouldn’t you be screening new nannies? I haven’t seen one candidate.”

  “I guess that answers my question.” Collins gathered up the papers Rhys signed and stuffed them into a folder. “And technically, Mallory’s not a nanny. She’s a personal chef who has a lot of experience with children.”

  Rhys picked up a pen and tapped it against his desk blotter. “It’s Mallory now, is it?”

  “I’ll have a list for you tomorrow morning,” Collins said, ignoring the barb. “With résumés. And photos. But for the record…”

  “I know, I know.” Rhys traded the pen for one of his ever-present PEZ dispensers—Kermit the Frog this time—then leaned back and propped his feet up on the desk, absently flicking Kermit’s head. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. The rhythm was soothing, almost Zen. To him, at least. From experience, he knew it annoyed the shit out of Collins. Which, given their current conversation, he considered an added bonus. “You think I’m making a mistake.”

  Trouble was, part of Rhys was starting to think so, too.

  “Got it in one.” Collins tucked the folder under his arm and stood. “Is there anything else you need before I clock out? It’s my bowling night on the mainland.”

  “You can go.” Rhys popped a purple PEZ in his mouth. It had its usual calming effect, same as it had since childhood. PEZ and physics, two things he could always count on. “Just be sure I have those résumés and pictures first thing tomorrow.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.” He had to. For his own sanity.

  He spent another half hour in the wake of Collins’s departure trying to answer emails and check on the progress of Argos’s newest venture. Trying, but not succeeding thanks to the continued laughter and splashing from the pool, only feet from his open window.

  Was he making the right decision sending her away? Beth would want their son to be happy. And Collins was right. Mallory certainly seemed to make Oliver happy. But that didn’t change the fact that it felt wrong living with a woman he was attracted to. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t deny the pull she had on him.

  The question was, could he fight it for his son’s sake?

  He pushed his chair away from his desk and stood. His productivity was shot to shit. Time to blow off some steam. Maybe lift some weights in his home gym or…

  A shrill, childlike scream he immediately recognized as his son’s changed his path. Within seconds, he was poolside where Mallory sat on one of the cushioned lounge chairs with Oliver in her lap, examining his foot.

  “What happened?” he barked, the words coming out more harshly than he intended. He took a steadying breath and made a conscious effort to soften his tone. “Is he hurt?”

  “Bee sting,” she explained, not looking up from the wound. “It’s a little red and swollen. Has he been stung before?”

  “No.” Rhys gave his head a slight shake. There was that time in Central Park. The three of them had gone to the zoo. Beth brought a picnic lunch, and they spread out a blanket on the Great Lawn. Their meal had been cut short when Oliver got some sort of bugbite, but Rhys was pretty sure a spider was the culprit. “I don’t think so.”

  “Which is it?” Mallory raised her head to look at him, and the disapproval in her eyes made him wish she hadn’t.

  “No,” he said with a bit more confidence. “He hasn’t.”

  “It hurts,” Oliver wailed, tears streaking down his tanned face. “I hate bees. Bees suck.”

  “Don’t say suck.” Mallory smoothed a damp blond curl off his cheek. “And you don’t hate bees. Without bees, we wouldn’t have flowers.”

  Oliver stuck out his chin. “I hate flowers, too.”

  “No.” She chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of his son’s head. “You don’t.”

  Rhys took a step toward them, then stopped. It was almost painful watching them. Like they were in their own world, an insulated bubble where only the two of them existed. He was a mere observer. No, worse. An interloper. His stomach clenched at the realization.

  “You’ll be fine, I promise.” Mallory laid Oliver on the chaise next to her and stood, oblivious to Rhys’s inner torment. “Your dad can take care of you while I go inside and find something to make the pain go away.”

  Any sliver of relief Rhys felt at her suggestion was immediately snuffed out by his son’s response.

  “No.” Oliver bolted upright and grabbed her forearm, his little-boy fingers barely reaching around her slim wrist. The desperation in his voice reminded Rhys of his own when the NYPD had shown up at his office that Norman Rockwell–perfect fall day three years ago, changing his life and his son’s forever. “Don’t leave me. Make him go.”

  With his free hand, Oliver stabbed a stubby finger at Rhys.

  “You don’t mean that.” Mallory at least had the decency to blush.

  “It’s okay.” If having your heart ripped out by your four-year-old progeny was okay. But his son’s well-being was more important than his injured ego. “What do you need?”

  Mallory hesitated as if she was going to argue with him, then glanced from Oliver’s tearstained face to the white-knuckled hand still clutching her wrist and apparently thought the better of it. “He might have a mild allergy. Do you have any baking soda to neutralize the venom? Apple cider vinegar works, too.”

  “In the kitchen.” He hoped. He might have to ransack the place to find them. The only thing he ever touched in there was the Keurig. Mrs. Flannigan had it memorized down to the last tablespoon, but he’d given her and her husband the night off, so they could hitch a ride on the launch with Collins and catch a movie in Key West. “I’ll be right back.”

  He spun on his heel and in two loping strides was at the sliding glass doors separating the pool area from the house when a plaintive wail stopped him.

  “Daddy.”

  He turned and met the wide, watery eyes of his son. Mallory sat next to Oliver on the chaise, stroking his back the same way Beth used to do when he was cranky or tired or injured, like a knife to Rhys’s already-shredded heart.

  “Hurry. Please. It hurts real bad.”

  Rhys resisted the urge to gather him up in his arms. Mallory had the sympathy thing covered. What Oliver needed from him was strength. “I know it does. You’re very brave.”

  Oliver puffed out his chest and let out something that sounded like a cross between a hiccup and a sob. “That’s right. I am. Like you.”

  Now it was Rhys’s chest that swelled. His relationship with Oliver had been strained since Beth’s death. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his son. More like he loved him too much, so damn much he’d unconsciously—or consciously—shut down, afraid of losing someone else close to him. Like keeping his son at arm’s length emotionally would lessen the pain.

  Idiot.

  But maybe it wasn’t a lost cause. Oliver was young. There was time for Rhys to change course.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’ll be back as fast as I can. Until then, take care of Miss Worthington.”

  Oliver’s forehead wrinkled. “Who’s Miss Worthington?”

  “He means me,” Mallory explained, grinning.

  “I’ll take care of you,” Oliver said with all the seriousness of a priest hearing confession. “I’m a good taker-carer.”

  Rhys shared a smile with his son before disappearing into the house. It might not be much, but it was a start. One he wanted to bu
ild on.

  If he only knew how.

  …

  “How goes it, Fräulein Maria? Has the handsome head of the household fallen victim to your charms yet?”

  Mallory freed her hair from its utilitarian, kid-friendly ponytail, shook it out, and sank down onto her eyelet comforter. After the beesting drama of that afternoon, all she wanted was a warm shower, a cold drink, and a good book. Instead, she’d made the mistake of dialing her sister, thinking four missed calls from Brooke meant some sort of emergency back in New York.

  Sucker. She should have realized it was a fishing expedition. The only question was whether Brooke was casting for information on her own or whether their mother had put her up to it.

  Either way, Mallory didn’t have much to spill where her short-term boss was concerned. “Fräulein Maria?”

  “You know, from The Sound of Music. Like her, you traveled to parts unknown to care for a widower and his motherless offspring.”

  “Except I’m not a nun, I can’t sing, and Rhys Dalton has one child, not seven.”

  Mallory could picture her sister waving a dismissive hand. “Unimportant details.”

  “How was Seattle?” she asked, crossing her fingers that Brooke would bite at the obvious attempt to change the subject. “Was Eli surprised when you showed up at his hotel?”

  Her sister let out a long, melodramatic sigh, no doubt thinking of her husband, who’d been out west scouting opportunities for his real estate development firm. Mallory fought back her inner green monster. She was happy for her sister. Really, she was. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t also be a tad bit jealous Brooke had found her Prince Charming while Mallory was stuck kissing frogs.

  Case in point: her last boyfriend. Sure, Hunter had looked great on paper. A doctor. From a good family. Knew all the right people, took her to all the right places. And Lord knows her parents adored him. But on paper was one thing. In person was another.

  “Seattle was gray,” Brooke answered. “And wet. And Eli was suitably shocked. Now I want to hear about you and Captain von Dreamy.”

  “I’m not Julie Andrews. And trust me, Rhys Dalton might be hot enough to bake cookies on, but he’s no Christopher Plummer.” Even the captain had let Maria stick around longer than a couple of weeks.

  “Aha.” Brooke’s finger snap carried clearly across the phone line. “I was right. He is hot.”

  Crap. Good thing Mallory stayed on the right side of the law. She’d fold faster than a lawn chair if the cops ever interrogated her. “The point isn’t that he’s hot. The point is he’s not falling for me, he’s firing me.”

  “He’s what?” Brooke’s indignation was palpable, even over a thousand miles away.

  Maybe Mallory shouldn’t have said anything to her sister, but she needed to unload on someone. She hadn’t counted on how lonely she’d be so far from her only sibling.

  She shook off the momentary melancholy and toed off her sandals, wiggling her freshly painted toes. She’d wound up going with a melon-peach with subtle pink undertones called You Got Nata On Me. A shot of adrenaline for her shaky self-confidence. Maybe later she’d do her fingernails to match for an extra boost, something she almost never did working in a commercial kitchen.

  “I’m history as soon as he hires someone to take my place.”

  Or I convince him otherwise. That afternoon she’d felt her first flicker of hope. He’d have to be blind not to see how much Oliver was growing to care for her.

  And the feeling was mutual. Not even a week, and already the little boy had wormed his way into her heart. He was funny and sweet and as lonely as she was. Two lost souls, swimming in a fishbowl.

  She hated to admit it, but the father had started to grow on her, too. She’d seen glimpses of his softer side with Oliver. The tiny displays of affection. How he rushed to his son when he heard him scream after being stung by the bee. If only he let her stay long enough to…

  “He can’t do that,” Brooke fumed, snapping Mallory out of her inspired reverie. She imagined her sister pacing the living room of her Brooklyn loft. “He can’t fire you. I’ll…”

  “Yes, he can, and no, whatever crazy scheme you’re dreaming up, you won’t.” Mallory glanced longingly at the bottle of chardonnay on the nightstand, begging for her to pop the cork. “It’s called at-will employment. He can fire me for any reason he wants, or no reason at all.”

  At least that was what the agency told her when she called them with the news. Mallory was afraid they’d dump her as fast as Rhys Dalton, but according to Alison, her placement counselor, getting fired on first sight was more common than you’d think.

  “Well, I’m sure the staffing agency will find you another job in no time.” Brooke’s confidence was almost contagious. “And you can stay with me and Eli until they ship you off again to who knows where. We’ve got two extra bedrooms. Take your pick.”

  Mallory chuckled and fell back onto the bed, her head cushioned by the hypoallergenic goose down pillows, covered in 500-thread-count Egyptian cotton. Okay, so she’d checked the tags. Sue her. They felt so darn good, she had to see what she was sleeping on. “What are you, a mind reader or something?”

  “Just someone who understands needing a little—or a lot—of space from Mom and Dad.”

  Amen to that. Mallory had never understood her sister’s rebellious streak before. She liked things to be predictable. Safe. Well-ordered. Pretty typical of cancer survivors, she’d learned thanks to myriad self-help books and weekly sessions with her therapist. They tended to fall into two camps: risk-averse and adventurous. The first did everything they could to stay healthy; the second viewed each day post-cancer as a gift, determined to live life to its fullest.

  “You still there?” Brooke asked.

  “Yeah.” Mallory huffed a strand of hair out of her eyes and sighed. She really, really needed that wine. Stat. “Sorry. Got lost there for a minute. I was…”

  Three sharp raps on the door had whatever excuse she’d been about to spout stuck in her throat. “Ma—Miss Worthington? Can I speak to you?”

  Mallory froze.

  “Ohmigod,” she whispered into the phone. “It’s him.”

  “Who, him?”

  “Captain von Dreamy.”

  “You sound surprised.” A wrapper crinkled, and Mallory pictured her sister opening a package of Ho Hos. Or a Slim Jim. No telling with Brooke’s addiction to all things junk food. “He’s your boss until further notice. Don’t you talk?”

  “No. Not usually.” Unless he thinks his son is in mortal peril. “I mostly deal with Mrs. Flannigan, the housekeeper, or Collins, the…”

  What was Collins exactly, anyway?

  “Collins,” she finished lamely.

  “What’s his deal?” Brooke asked through a mouthful of her chosen snack. “Von Dreamy, I mean.”

  “I don’t know. It’s like he goes out of his way to avoid me. On the rare occasions when he’s forced to speak to me, he won’t even use my first name.”

  “What does he call you?”

  “Miss Worthington.”

  “Kinky.”

  Three more raps. “Miss Worthington?”

  A tremor ran through her body. Why had she never noticed how her name sounded on his lips? Simultaneously formal and dirty, conjuring images of sweat-slicked bodies, satin sheets, and sleepless nights.

  Damn her sister and her warped mind.

  “Be right there,” she called, moving the phone away from her mouth. “Just, uh, finishing something up.”

  Rhys shuffled his feet on the other side of the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need to talk.”

  “Hang up and answer the damn door,” Brooke hissed. “But call me back the second he’s gone. I want deets. And remember, if you get nervous, think WWJD.”

  Mallory frowned. “What would Jesus do?”

  “No.” If a smug smile had a sound, Brooke’s voice, dripping over the airwaves like hot fudge on an ice cream sundae, was it. “What would
Julie do?”

  The line went dead. Mallory tossed her cell onto the bed beside her and sat up, stashing the sadly untouched bottle of chardonnay on the floor behind the nightstand. She didn’t see any harm in having a glass of wine after hours. But there was no use poking the bear, even if he was about to give her walking papers.

  “I’m coming.” She winced at the unintended double meaning. She had sex on the brain, courtesy of her big sister. “I mean, I’ll be right there.”

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, smoothing down her peasant blouse and khaki shorts. A quick glance in the full-length mirror on the back of her bathroom door told her she might as well not have bothered. She was a wrinkled, rumpled mess. And her hair—gah! She looked like she’d wrestled an alligator, gotten caught in a windstorm, and run a marathon, not necessarily in that order.

  Presentable was out of the question. The best she could hope for was somewhere between mildly embarrassing and totally humiliating.

  Not exactly how she wanted to face off with her hotter-than-the-sun employer, who most likely was about to inform her that her replacement was en route and her services were no longer necessary. But since she didn’t have much—strike that, any—choice in the matter, she pulled on her metaphorical big-girl panties, adopted what she hoped was a neutral expression, and crossed to the door.

  Like a condemned man walking to the gallows.

  Chapter Five

  What the hell was taking her so damn long?

  Rhys resisted the urge to bang on the door again, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame to lessen the temptation. Every second that ticked by on his Patek Philippe further convinced him coming to Mallory like this, with his ego in shreds—and his head up his ass—was a mistake of epic proportions.

  He wasn’t a guy who was used to groveling. He was a mover. A shaker. A dealmaker. A hard-nosed negotiator who inspired awe—and a healthy dose of fear—in the hearts of all those lucky—or unlucky—enough to do business with him.