A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire Read online

  In short, he was the grovel-ee, not the fucking groveler. And there was only one force on earth strong enough to reverse that.

  His love for his son.

  He took a deep breath and steeled himself to knock a third time. Before his knuckles could strike the door, it swung open and Mallory stood before him, her hair free from its usual ponytail, falling in soft, wild waves around her face and shoulders.

  Predictably, his thoughts drifted into X-rated territory. Not an uncommon occurrence since their encounter on the beach. Mallory, wet, breathless, and nearly naked, had become the star of his late-night erotic fantasies. And a few dirty daydreams, too.

  Rhys did his best to ignore his reaction to her—something he had a feeling he’d be doing a whole hell of a lot if their conversation went as planned—and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “No, not really.” Mallory’s cheeks flushed an appealing shade of pink. There was something irresistible about a woman who embarrassed so easily. It made him wonder if she blushed all over. “I was on the phone with my sister.”

  Way to win her over. Cut her off from her family. He took a step back and held his hands up, palms out. “I’m sorry. If you want to call her back, we can do this later.”

  “Do what?”

  She blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence, and his hyperactive imagination went into overdrive, picturing all the things he’d like to do to her. Places he’d like to touch her, taste her…

  “Mr. Dalton? Are you all right?”

  Fuck no, he wasn’t all right. He was all wrong. This was all wrong.

  He had to stop thinking with his dick and remember why he was there. His son. “I wanted to talk to you about Oliver.”

  “Is something wrong?” The color drained from Mallory’s face, and the hand still holding the doorknob tightened its grip. “He was fine when I put him to bed.”

  “Fast asleep. I just checked on him.”

  “Thank goodness.” Some of the pink returned to Mallory’s cheeks. “You scared me for a second.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her obvious concern for his son made his chest tighten and gave him the courage to forge ahead, doubts—and desires—be damned. “Can I come in?”

  She opened the door wider and waved him inside. He was surprised to find in her short time there she’d managed to put her own personal stamp on the room. A scented candle burning on the nightstand. E-reader on the desk. Framed photos on the dresser.

  “Sit down.” She gestured to the bed.

  On the sheets where she slept wearing what he imagined was damn near next to nothing, the Egyptian cotton caressing her bare flesh as she shifted in slumber?

  No. Fucking. Way.

  He wasn’t a damn masochist. He opted for the desk chair instead. Hard and unforgiving and not in the least bit likely to stir up sexual fantasies.

  “Whatever you want to talk about, it must be important for you to make a personal appearance,” she continued, taking the spot she’d indicated for him. “Or was Collins busy?”

  Rhys wanted to protest, but she had a point. Yes, he’d been avoiding her. And yes, he’d considered sending his assistant in his place. But some things a man had to do for himself.

  Like admitting he’d royally screwed up.

  “I want you to stay,” he began, opting for the direct approach.

  “Really?” She crossed one smooth, tanned leg over the other and leaned back on her palms. “Why the change of heart?”

  “Oliver seems to like you.”

  And so do I. The words popped into his head uninvited, but once there they took hold. He did like her. Okay, so he’d barely taken the time to get to know her. But what he knew, he liked. And not just her body. He liked her ready smile. Her easygoing, playful nature with Oliver. The care and attention she lavished on everyone and everything from his son to the meals she prepared to the rest of the household staff.

  Which was going to make staying the hell away from her that much harder.

  Mallory swung one leg absently, unaware of battle raging inside him. “He’s a great kid. I’m sure he’ll get along fine with whoever you hire to replace me.”

  “He’s had a hard time bonding with people since…” Rhys paused, never sure what to call the senseless act that robbed him of his wife and Oliver of a mother. He settled on the most benign word he could think of, not wanting to stir up any more sympathy than absolutely necessary. A useless emotion, if you asked him. No amount of tired platitudes and half-hearted condolences were going to bring Beth back. “Since the accident.”

  And…there it was. Sympathy in spades. Mallory’s face morphed from polite interest to abject pity, complete with puppy-dog eyes and downturned lips. Rhys shifted in his seat and braced himself for the inevitable clichés.

  I know what you’re going through.

  Time heals all wounds.

  She’s in a better place.

  That last one always made him want to punch a wall. What did it even mean? What better place was there for a young mother than with her husband and son?

  The puppy-dog eyes met his. “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  Huh. Interesting. None of the usual bullshit. Still, the last thing he wanted to talk about with this unfortunately attractive, unavoidably single female in the intimacy of her bedroom was Beth. What they’d had together. What they’d lost. He was there for one reason and one reason only. Once that mission was accomplished, he was hauling ass to safer ground as fast as his Top-Siders would take him.

  He cleared his throat and pressed on. “Yes, well, Oliver’s had a tough time connecting with women. We’ve gone through three nannies in the past six months. But he took to you right away.”

  She shrugged. “I think we’re kindred spirits.”

  “How so?” Rhys crossed an ankle over his knee.

  “It sounds trite, but I really do know how he feels. I’ve lost people close to me. And I’ve worked with kids who dealt with death every day.”

  He frowned, confused. Dealing with death every day? Who was this woman? “Your résumé says you’re an executive chef.”

  “Is that why you fired me?” she shot back, uncrossing her legs and sitting straighter. “Because you didn’t think I had enough experience with children?”

  “Partly,” he lied.

  She was fully upright now, sitting ramrod straight and wagging a finger at him like some sexy schoolteacher. “I’m fully capable of handling a four-year-old. And you get the added benefit of my culinary skills. How many nannies can whip up a nutritious, kid-friendly, five-star meal without breaking a sweat?”

  “You don’t have to convince me of the error of my ways.” This groveling thing was definitely not in his wheelhouse. He crossed his fingers he wasn’t fucking it up too badly. “I asked you to stay.”

  “You did.” Mallory’s posture relaxed, and her expression softened. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m used to being on the defensive.”

  He wondered briefly what a striking, smart, seemingly sane woman would need to defend herself against but brushed it aside and focused on his immediate goal. “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

  She tilted her head and studied him thoughtfully. “On two conditions.”

  “This should be interesting.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “First.” She held up a finger. “You have to have dinner with Oliver at least three—no, four times a week.”

  “Dinner?” Not quite what he’d expected. He thought she’d be angling for a raise. Extra days off. Matching contributions to her 401(k).

  “Yes, you know. The meal that comes after lunch and before breakfast.”

  “I’m familiar with the concept.”

  “Are you familiar with the studies that show families who eat together feel less stressed, and children are more likely to try new foods, eat more fruits and vegetables, and have better grades?”

  “Yes.” At least, he dimly recalled reading so
mething to that effect in one of the huge stacks of parenting books he and Beth had pored over in the joyous but nerve-racking months leading up to Oliver’s birth. The memory made his eyes sting and his throat constrict.

  He scrubbed a hand across his face to hide the tidal wave of conflicting emotions that always consumed him when thoughts of his wife surfaced. “But Oliver has to have dinner before six in order to be bathed and in bed by eight. My schedule makes it difficult for me wrap things up that early on a regular basis.”

  “Fine.” She waved a hand dismissively, as if his concern were nothing more than a fly she could easily brush away. “You pick the meals. Any four.”

  “Breakfast included?” He was an early riser, and so was his son. He should be able to make that work.

  She nodded. “Breakfast included.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Worthington.” He tented his fingers. “What’s number two?”

  She crossed her legs, one flip-flop dangling from her brightly painted toes. What was that, the third or fourth color since she’d arrived? How often did she paint them? And why was he paying so much attention to her damn toenails?

  “Call me Mallory.”

  …

  In Mallory’s experience, people had a harder time keeping promises than making them. Like the countless nurses, hovering over her with their needles and assurances that “it won’t hurt a bit.” Or her parents, who swore she’d be able to live a “normal” teenage life, free from the stares and pointing and behind-the-back whispering.

  Rhys Dalton was no exception.

  He’d done okay with calling her by her first name. And made an effort to share meals with his son. But more often than not, his busy schedule meant he was called away after a few hurried bites.

  In her book, that didn’t count for squat.

  The situation called for desperate, below-the-belt, borderline-illegal measures. Rhys might be her boss, but her first obligation was to his son. It was time for someone to make him man up and face his parental responsibilities.

  It looked like that someone was going to have to be her.

  “Ready?” she asked her pint-sized, towheaded accomplice.

  Oliver nodded, his expression solemn, like some sort of mini special agent gearing up for a top-secret mission. All he needed to complete the look was a dark suit and a pair of Ray-Bans. “Ready.”

  “Remember. Your saddest face. It has to be pitiful.”

  “Pit-ful?” He scrunched up his nose. “What’s that mean?”

  “Pitiful. It means super sad. A hundred times more than regular sad.” She knelt down in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Can you do it?”

  “You bet.” He nodded again.

  “Show me.”

  He lowered his eyelids and stuck out his lips in an exaggerated pout. Mallory could have sworn he even blinked back the beginnings of a tear. Kid was a regular Macaulay Culkin.

  “Good. If that doesn’t get your father to go with us, nothing will.” She gave him a high five and stood. “Let’s roll.”

  She grabbed the wicker basket she’d spent the greater part of the morning preparing and shepherded Oliver down the hall to his father’s office. They were almost at the door when it swung open and Collins came out.

  “Perfect timing.” He winked at Mallory and fist-bumped Oliver. She smiled at the not-too-distant memory of how aloof he’d been with her when she first arrived. One taste of her signature version of lemon meringue pie, made with light, flaky sheets of sugared phyllo dough, homemade lemon curd, and a brown sugar meringue, was all it took to break down that barrier. “He’s finishing up a video conference.”

  “You’ve cleared his schedule for the rest of the day?” she asked, hitching the basket up on her arm.

  “All set. Once this teleconference is done, he’s free and clear.” Collins’s eyes darted up and down the hall, and he lowered his voice. “I held up my end of the bargain. What about…?”

  “The pie?” she finished for him, not needing to hear the rest of his question. “It’s in the refrigerator, cooling for tonight.”

  Collins smacked his lips, and she jabbed a finger at his chest. “I swear, if so much as a sliver is missing when I come back, that’s the last one I’ll bake.”

  “You wouldn’t.” He stared her down, the slight upward tilt of his lips undercutting his serious tone.

  She stared right back, an equally saucy smile spreading across her face. “I would.”

  “I’d believe her if I were you,” Oliver piped up in solidarity. “She’s nice, but strict. She wouldn’t let me play video games last night until I brushed my teeth.”

  “I won’t touch it until after dinner. Scout’s honor.” Collins held up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute and set off to do whatever was next on his undoubtedly long list of daily duties, calling over his shoulder as he went, “Good luck.”

  The hallway grew eerily silent in his wake. Mallory raised her free hand, poised to knock on the now-closed door.

  “Are you okay?” Oliver asked in a stage whisper after a long, awkward moment.

  “I’m fine.” With both hands occupied, she had to settle for mentally crossing her fingers at the lie. She took a deep breath, willed herself to adopt her sister’s no-holds-barred, leap-without-a-net philosophy, and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Rhys’s clipped tone brought her back to their first meeting. Not a memory she particularly wanted to revisit. No one looked fondly back on being fired, even if it was by the first man to make her hormones sit up and take notice since—well, ever. She thought briefly about cutting and running. But he’d heard her knock. It was too late to turn back now.

  A tug on her arm made her look down.

  “It’s okay.” Oliver’s wide eyes, the same rich shade of brandy brown as his father’s, held a wistful, knowing look no almost-five-year-old should possess. “Daddy’s not mad. He sounds mad a lot since Mommy died. But he doesn’t mean it. He’s just sad.”

  It hadn’t taken her long to fall for this sweet, sensitive, lonely little boy who reminded her so much of herself as a child. Both isolated from the world around them, him by an overprotective father, her courtesy of the big C. Her heart swelled, pressing against her ribs until she was sure it would explode.

  “How did you get so smart?”

  “I dunno.” Oliver lifted a bony shoulder. “Mrs. Flannigan says it’s because I’m only allowed to watch half an hour of TV a day.”

  Mallory suppressed a smile. “That must be it.”

  She reached for the doorknob, her confidence buoyed by Oliver’s words—it was true what they said about wisdom coming from of the mouths of babes—but before she could grab it the door swung open and Rhys stood framed in the entryway. She was relieved to see his serious scowl soften the slightest bit at the sight of his son.

  “Is something wrong?” His concerned eyes raked Oliver, then her, as if checking for blood or bandages or other obvious signs of distress.

  She held up the hamper. “We thought you might like to join us for a picnic.”

  Okay, so that was a major overstatement. More like she didn’t have to be a fortune-teller to predict he’d brush off their invitation, and she had every intention of using every low-down trick in the book to change his mind, up to and including kidnapping.

  She gave Oliver a discreet nudge, and his face fell into an expression so forlorn it would have melted even the hardest of hearts.

  “Please, Dad? Mallory made your favorite. Fried chicken and potato salad. And I helped peel the potatoes.”

  Rhys’s gaze shifted from his son to her and his scowl reappeared, creasing his forehead. “Is that safe?”

  “Under supervision. Oliver’s a big help in the kitchen.” She laid a hand on her pint-sized sous chef’s shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

  Oliver looked up at her, a crooked grin splitting his face and revealing the gap where he’d lost a tooth that morning. “You bet.”

  “You los
t a tooth,” Rhys observed.

  “Yep.” Oliver proudly poked his tongue through the empty space. “My first one. Mallory says the tooth fairy’s going to come tonight, and if I put my tooth under my pillow she’ll leave me twenty dollars. We made a special box out of a dollar bill to help her find it.”

  “Right,” Mallory added, jumping on the lost-tooth bandwagon. The kid was a freaking genius. Why hadn’t she thought of this angle before? “And we’re having a picnic. To celebrate.”

  “Twenty dollars, huh?” Rhys leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. Mallory tried to ignore the way the sleeves of his polo stretched over his well-formed biceps. “Pretty steep.”

  She shrugged. “Inflation.”

  “Well, a lost tooth does sound like cause for celebration,” Rhys conceded, looking down at Oliver. His normally steely eyes flashed soft with obvious affection. “Especially your first one.”

  Mallory’s insides did that little flippy thing that seemed to happen whenever Rhys did something to remind her that whatever his failings, he was a man who loved his son. He just needed someone to snap him out of his stupor and remind him that Oliver needed him. Not his money or what it could provide, but him.

  Oh. My. God. Her sister was right. Rhys was Captain von Trapp. Cold. Impersonal. Emotionally unavailable. And she was his Fräulein Maria, the sweet, innocent maiden sent to help heal his wounds and make his family whole again.

  Except the Straits of Florida would freeze over before he gave her a second glance, never mind fell in love with her. And no matter what her hula-dancing hormones said, there was no way she was letting herself get involved with him.

  No. Way.

  “Then you’ll come with us?” Oliver’s plea snapped her back to reality.

  “I’d like to.” Rhys averted his eyes, staring down at his loafer-clad feet. Mallory braced herself for the inevitable “but.” She didn’t have to wait long. “But I have a lot of work to catch up on. Maybe we could celebrate after dinner.”

  Oliver’s lower lip jutted out for real this time, no theatrics required, strengthening Mallory’s resolve. “Collins said your schedule’s clear for the rest of the afternoon.”