A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire Read online

  He sounded like a lawyer, all stiff and formal. Like everything else he did, it only made him hotter. The man put the S-E-X in sexy.

  “Thanks.” She hip-checked the dishwasher closed. “I think.”

  “That came out wrong.” He raked a hand through his hair, mussing his usually impeccably styled do. “What I meant to say was you have a right to a personal life outside of work. I’m sure we can manage for a few hours without you.”

  “Thanks,” she said again. This time, it came out like a croak. It was getting harder to form words with him so near. She needed to get out of there before she did something monumentally stupid. Like beg him to bend her over the kitchen counter and have his way with her. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Take whatever time you need.” He drained his cup and snaked an arm behind her to deposit it in the sink. His scent—sea and sun mixed with hints of his citrusy cologne —washed over her. “I don’t have anything pressing tomorrow. If necessary, I can help Mrs. Flannigan with Oliver. Maybe take him bodysurfing.”

  “Bodysurfing during business hours?” Mallory kept her tone light, but underneath she was gloating a teeny-tiny bit. “Where’s the real Rhys Dalton, and what have you done with him?”

  “For a long time, he was sleepwalking through life,” he admitted with a heavy sigh that stirred the hair above her ear. “But he’s awake now. Thanks to you.”

  Heat rose in her cheeks. She grabbed a dish towel off the drying rack and busied herself with wiping her hands. “You just needed a little push in the right direction.”

  “More than a little push.” He chuckled, the low, husky sound rumbling through her like distant thunder on a hot Florida afternoon.

  “Okay, then a shove.” She folded the dish towel, put it back on the rack, and leaned against the counter, subtly shifting away from Rhys to create some space between them. “But I didn’t force you to do anything you wouldn’t have done on your own eventually.”

  “Maybe.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If ‘eventually’ wasn’t too late.”

  “It’s never too late.”

  “I wish that were true.”

  His eyes clouded over and grew distant, making it painfully obvious he was thinking of his wife. Or his mother. Or both. He clenched his jaw and let his gaze drop to his feet, his grief so raw it was palpable.

  She shouldn’t touch him. She should keep a safe distance between them. Say something banal but reassuring, like “they’ll always be with you” or “you’ll find love again,” then follow her initial instincts and run far and fast.

  Instead, she made the mistake of looking at him again, and words seemed totally inadequate to ease his suffering.

  Against her better judgment, she reached out and put a hand on his forearm. She ignored the unfamiliar tingle that zinged up her arm and settled in her chest. “You’re still here. So is Oliver. You have to move forward.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “I know.” Almost of its own volition, her hand slid down to his wrist, her fingers twined with his, and she squeezed. “Survivor’s guilt sucks.”

  His hooded eyes drifted to their joined hands, and he couldn’t hide the surprise there. For a second, she thought he was going to cast her off, but while he didn’t exactly reciprocate the gesture he let her hand stay where it was, with his limply in her grip. “Who says I feel guilty?”

  “Don’t you? I do.”

  The minute the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to yank them back. Since that was impossible, she settled for releasing his hand, picking up a sponge, and wiping down the perfectly clean counter.

  Fortunately, he didn’t press her. “I guess that explains it.”

  She stopped wiping to shoot him a puzzled look over her shoulder. “Explains what?”

  “Why Oliver took to you so quickly. You understand what he’s been through because you’ve been through it, too.”

  “So have you,” she pointed out, turning to face him.

  “It’s not the same.” His entire body tensed as if he’d been struck by lightning. “Oliver’s a child. He’s innocent. I’m…not.”

  She wanted to ask what he meant, but before she could speak he smacked a palm down on the counter, making her jump. “It’s late. You should get some sleep.”

  “Right.” She tossed her sponge in the sink.

  He moved toward the door without a backward glance, his gait rigid, his arms stiff at his sides. She trailed after him, catching up to him in the hallway, and they walked together in silence to the bottom of the stairs.

  “I guess this is where we say good night.” Her bedroom, and all the others save the master suite, were on the second floor. The Flannigans lived in the caretaker’s cottage, and Collins had a room above the boathouse. Which meant at night the only occupants of the main house were her, Rhys, and a four-year-old who slept so soundly a hurricane wouldn’t wake him. Something she tried not to think too much about. She shuffled from one bare foot to the other. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Mallory.”

  His voice stopped her before she could reach the second step. She spun around to find his posture had softened but his face looked more solemn than ever, if that was possible.

  “Thanks for dinner.”

  His soulful whiskey eyes and smoky nighttime voice turned her legs to gelatin. She grabbed the banister for support. The last thing she wanted was to fall in a lust-addled heap at his feet. The man was still grieving for his wife, not looking to hook up with his nanny. “It was no big deal.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  He stepped toward her, the toes of his Top-Siders bumping the base of the stairs. His sunny, salty, citrusy scent surrounded her, and she tightened her grip on the banister. Even one step below her, he towered over her, and she could almost count the unfairly long dark lashes framing his eyes.

  “You’re welcome.” The words came out in a whisper.

  Without warning, his head bent, and his lips brushed hers. So soft, so gentle, so fleeting she thought she’d imagined it or entered an alternate universe where smoking-hot billionaire single dads kissed their nannies good night. But then any hint of tentativeness disappeared, and there was no way of denying Rhys Dalton was kissing her like she’d never been kissed before.

  Her limited experience with the country club set hadn’t prepared her for this. For the sweet slide of his mouth against hers. The flick of his tongue, coaxing her to open for him. The pressure of his fingers gripping her hips, inching her closer.

  Heat flared in her belly and spread like melted butter through her veins as he devoured her with a hunger and tenderness that were entirely foreign to her. He made her feel delicious. Desirable.

  Daring.

  It was all she could do to remain upright. Her hands drifted upward and clutched his hair, his neck, the soft cotton of his shirt—anything to keep from collapsing.

  Damn, the man could kiss. He tasted like coffee and Gruyère. She lost all sense of time or place or propriety. Just as she started to relax into him and allow herself to respond, he pulled away. He took one step back, then two, letting his arms fall limp at his sides.

  “That was…”

  Amazing? Mind-blowing? Life-changing?

  “A mistake,” he finished. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Good night.”

  He’s right, she thought, her glassy, lust-blurred eyes following his retreating form until it disappeared. You know he’s right. It’s not like this can go anywhere. The billionaire and the babysitter. It’s doomed from the start.

  But knowing that didn’t make his words any less painful.

  Chapter Eight

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mallory handed Collins the cordless drill. “Shouldn’t we be evacuating or something?”

  Collins looked down from the ladder, where he was putting up the last of the hurricane shutters. “You don’t get many tropical storms up north, do you? If we evacuated every time Mother Nature got huffy, we migh
t as well pack our bags and move.”

  “What about the Flannigans?” She put a screw in his outstretched palm. “They left this morning.”

  “Preplanned family visit.” He loaded the screw into the drill and lined it up with the hole. “It’s their granddaughter’s first birthday.”

  “Lucky them.” She winced as the drill whined. “Are we almost done?”

  “I can finish with this last shutter. Why don’t you see if Rhy—Mr. Dalton and Oliver need help with the deck furniture?”

  Great. She’d rather eat undercooked pork. But she couldn’t admit that to Collins without confessing why. Which would involve telling him about THE KISS. She’d come to think of it like that, in all caps, as if she were shouting internally. A personal, silent scream.

  “I thought when we were done here we were going to run into town for supplies.”

  “I can handle that myself. No need for both of us to be off island.” He reloaded the drill, and the whining started up again.

  So much for that brilliant plan. She was hoping to sneak over to the lab and see if her test results were in yet. They weren’t due for a few days, and Dr. Decker had sworn he’d call as soon as he heard anything. But all that stuff about white blood cells and platelets had her on edge. She wanted to know now so life could either continue as it was, or she’d go back to being Mallory Worthington, poor, sick little rich girl.

  The latter was almost too terrible to contemplate. She’d come so far since setting foot on Flamingo Key, and she wasn’t talking about the distance she’d traveled from New York. She’d become stronger, more confident, more assertive. She was making her own decisions, living on her own terms. The last thing she wanted was to take a step backward. And that’s exactly what would happen if the results showed her cancer had returned. She’d be in another battle for her life, physically and emotionally.

  She forced a smile and headed around the back of the house to the deck. There wasn’t time to dwell on her health now, not with the more immediate threat of the storm bearing down on them.

  “Mallory.” Oliver’s gleeful shout burst her dream bubble. What was it about a potential natural disaster that got kids so excited? “Come look. We’re tying up the chairs, so they don’t blow away in the hurricane.”

  “Hardly a hurricane.” Rhys rose like Poseidon from behind a lounge chair, a length of rope in one hand and a pair of kitchen shears in the other. “The forecasters don’t think it will be more than a category one by the time it hits land. If that.”

  Oliver’s tiny forehead creased. “Then why are we tying stuff up?”

  “Because it’s better to be safe than sorry.” Mallory dragged herself up the stairs to the deck, each reluctant step bringing her nearer to the man she’d been dancing around for the past week.

  “I thought you were helping Collins with the storm shutters.” Rhys’s eyes were hidden behind his Ray-Bans, his expression unreadable. Her body wanted to close the gap between them and feel his lips on hers again, but her brain cast the deciding when-the-Gulf-of-Mexico-freezes-over vote. Was he as uncomfortable with this whole situation as she was?

  Mallory gave herself a mental shake. They had water to freeze and flashlights to find and batteries to check. “He’s wrapping things up. He thought you could use an extra pair of hands.”

  “We’re almost done here, too, right, pal?” Rhys gathered up the cushions from one of the chairs and motioned for Oliver to do the same.

  “Right.” Oliver struggled to collect the bulky cushions. Once he’d managed to corral them, they dwarfed him, his eyes barely visible above the cabana-stripe fabric. Mallory reached out to take one, but he shook his head, his blond bangs flopping wildly. “I got it. Dad says I’m a real good helper.”

  “The best.” Rhys’s face was still a mask, but she detected a hint of a smile in his voice that had her insides doing somersaults. Whatever was happening—or not happening—between her and her enigmatic employer, it was obvious Rhys had been making a real effort to repair his relationship with his son, and his effort was paying off.

  She grabbed another set of cushions and followed them into the house.

  “When we’re all ready for the hurricane, can we go watch the waves?” Oliver asked. “The man on TV said they’re going to get really big.”

  “That’s what you get for letting him watch the Weather Channel.” Mallory hip-checked the door closed, pausing to make sure it clicked securely shut.

  “I thought it would be educational,” Rhys said, dropping his cushions in one corner of the kitchen.

  Mallory bit back a smirk. “Maybe a little too educational.”

  “Can I?” Oliver asked again.

  “Absolutely not.” Rhys took the cushions from his son and stacked them with his. “The wind should be picking up soon.”

  “What about Collins?” Mallory added her cushions to the pile. “He’s taking the launch to town for some last-minute supplies.”

  “He’ll be fine.” Rhys shrugged off his windbreaker and tossed it over the back of the couch. “If it gets too rough, he’ll bunk with one of his bowling buddies.”

  “If he can go on the boat, why can’t I go to Mommy’s beach and see the waves?” Oliver whined, throwing in a foot stomp at the last second for extra emphasis.

  “Because he’s a grown man who knows what he’s doing, and you’re a four-year-old boy who’s not allowed outside without supervision.” Rhys unzipped his son’s jacket and peeled it off.

  “I’m almost five. And you said I was a big boy. So did she.” Oliver pointed at Mallory.

  If they hadn’t been in crisis prep mode, she would have laughed at the standoff. Two peas in a pod. The wide stance. The crossed arms. The stubborn chin.

  “I gave you my answer, and my answer is no.” The bigger of the two peas narrowed his eyes, not giving an inch. “I don’t want you anywhere near that storm surge.”

  “Your father’s right.” Mallory jumped in. “We’re safest indoors. How about I make some of that white chocolate confetti popcorn you like and we watch a movie on DVD?”

  Oliver cocked his head to one side and scrunched up his nose, weighing her offer with a gravity more fitting for a politician than a preschooler. “Can I pick the movie?”

  She smiled. “Sure.”

  “Any one I want?”

  “As long as it’s rated G.”

  “Nemo,” Oliver announced as authoritatively as his four-year-old voice would allow, practically daring her to disagree.

  “Again?” They’d seen it at least ten times. She wondered if that had anything to do with the fact that, like him, the title character had no mother and a father who didn’t want him to stray too far from home.

  He nodded.

  “Then Nemo it is.”

  Oliver gave an exaggerated, melodramatic sigh worthy of an Academy Award. “I guess that would be okay.”

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and pick up your room while I make the popcorn? I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  “All right.” He started out of the room, then stopped and turned. “But watching Nemo won’t be as much fun as watching the waves. Even with confetti popcorn.”

  He clomped out of sight, leaving Mallory to chuckle at his retreating back. “So much for the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Rhys’s throaty baritone sent shivers of desire dancing up and down her spine, reminding her he was still there. And that they were alone for the first time since THE KISS. “I’m pretty sure your fried chicken could stop ships and start wars.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever want to stop a ship or start a war.” She took a covered saucepan from one of the cabinets. No air-popped, cardboard crap for her.

  “Thanks for stepping in with Oliver.” Rhys pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat. She didn’t know whether to cheer or curse. Didn’t he have something more important to do than watch her pop popcorn?

  “The tag team approa
ch. Highly effective.” She assembled her ingredients and placed them on the counter next to the commercial stove that was as good as—if not better than—the one she’d cooked on at the Worthington. Peanut oil. Popcorn kernels. Almond bark. Candy sprinkles. “Is there anything else I can do before the storm hits? Make some meals while we’ve still got power?”

  That should keep her mind—and her hands—busy.

  “What we’ve done already is probably overkill.” Rhys removed his Ray-Bans and set them down on the table in front of him, revealing those melancholy dark eyes that had the capacity to reduce her to mush. “And the generator will kick in if the power goes out.”

  “I should have known you’d have thought of everything.” The oil crackled in the pan, and she threw in the kernels. “I’ll bet you were a Boy Scout.”

  “Guilty as charged. Got my Eagle in tenth grade.”

  “That’s early, isn’t it?” She covered the pan and shook it over the gas flame, the somersaults in her stomach starting to subside. Maybe things between them didn’t have to be awkward. Pithy banter she could handle. “Not that I’m surprised. I’ll bet you were always an overachiever.”

  “In some ways,” he remarked wryly over the intermittent pop-pop-pop of the popcorn. “Not so much in others.”

  “I can’t imagine you being anything other than remarkably adept at everything you attempted.”

  One dark brow arched toward his hairline. “What about the other night?”

  If that wasn’t adept, she’d hate to see what was. It would probably leave her in a panting, boneless mound.

  The somersaults returned in full force. It was like she had the entire Cirque du Soleil in there. She turned off the burner, letting the popcorn continue to pop, and moved on to melting the almond bark. “If you’re fishing for compliments, I thought you did pretty well.”

  Until he left her hot and bothered.

  “I wasn’t, but thanks. And the feeling’s mutual.” For a split second, hope swelled her heart, but his next words sent her crashing back to earth. “But it can’t happen again.”