A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

by Regina Kyle

  “Is that a problem?” she asked sharply. She was twenty-seven, not seventeen. More than mature enough to handle a preschooler. Heck, she’d run a commercial kitchen, managed almost a hundred employees from sixteen to sixty, some of them no better behaved than your average four-year-old. Hadn’t he read her résumé?

  “I’m afraid so.” He jabbed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Mrs. Flannigan, we’re ready for you now.”

  Mallory shook her head, plastering several damp strands against her cheek and no doubt making her look even younger. Not helping her cause one bit. She pushed the sticky strands off her face and straightened, maximizing every inch of her five-foot frame. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing.” He crossed to the door, his powerful strides eating up the short distance, and opened it. “I’ll see you get the earliest possible flight home, and you’ll be compensated for your time and trouble.”

  Chapter Two

  Rhys let out a relieved sigh as the door swung shut behind the shapely ass of his would-be nanny, his relief almost immediately replaced by annoyance at his right-hand man. What was Collins thinking? Weren’t nannies supposed to be kindly gray-haired ladies, like Mrs. Doubtfire? Without the penis, naturally.

  He slumped down at his desk and scrubbed a hand through his hair. As much as he wanted to blame his assistant, it was his fault, too. Collins might have screened the résumés the agency had sent over, but if Rhys had paid closer attention, taken time to have more than a five-minute phone conversation with the woman his assistant had picked as the best of the bunch, he would have realized she was all wrong for the position.

  Beth had been gone three years, but sharing a house—even an eight-bedroom mansion with a large terrace, private pool, and four-car garage—with an attractive, single woman under the age of forty still felt disloyal to her. Especially since it was his fault she was dead.

  He pushed away the guilt he’d fought like a demon every damn day for the last one thousand–plus days and pressed the intercom. Before he could speak, the door cracked open and Collins stuck his head in.

  “It’s customary to knock.” Rhys released the button. No need for an intercom when the man you were looking for was standing right in front of you.

  “It’s also customary not to fire the new nanny before she starts,” Collins shot back, entering the room fully and closing the door behind him.

  “News travels fast. Book Miss Worthington on the first flight back to New York and line up some more experienced candidates for me to interview.” Translation: kind, matronly women in their fifties or sixties who smell like fresh-baked cookies and read Green Eggs and Ham on demand. Rhys flipped open the file for his conference call in­­—he checked his Patek Philippe Nautilus—five minutes, hoping Collins would take the hint and consider the subject closed.

  Instead of following his marching orders, Collins took a seat in one of the guest chairs. So much for taking the hint. “Can I speak freely?”

  Rhys reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a Darth Vader PEZ dispenser. Unlike some collectors, he didn’t believe in hiding his treasures on a shelf or behind glass, with the exception of a few especially valuable pieces. A robot PEZ dispenser from the 1950s. A pre-1989 Batman PEZ in its original packaging. And his prize possession, a rare Mickey Mouse soft head prototype worth over seven thousand dollars.

  He pulled back Darth’s head, and a yellow tablet popped out. Lemon. Beth’s favorite. She’d laughed at his obsession with the iconic candy, but eventually she’d come to appreciate the kitschy containers. Hell, she’d bought a good portion of them for him, including the one he held in his hand. He ran a thumb over Darth’s helmet as he stuck the tablet in his mouth and sucked on it. “If I said no, would that stop you?”

  “Probably not.” Collins smirked. It was a good thing he’d made himself virtually indispensable, or Rhys would have canned his ass, too.

  He consulted his watch again. “You’ve got four minutes.”

  “You’re making a mistake sending Miss Worthington away.”

  “You don’t say?” Rhys leaned back in his chair and crossed an ankle over his knee. “What makes you think that?”

  Collins hesitated, then shrugged. “Call it a gut feeling.”

  Rhys had a gut feeling, too, but it was telling him the more distance between him and Mallory Worthington, the better. He dropped another candy into his mouth and tossed the dispenser onto his desk. “Forgive me if I don’t trust your gut.”

  “It’s not like you to dismiss someone without good cause.”

  Rhys arched a brow. “Who says I don’t have good cause?”

  “You just met the woman,” Collins said pointedly. “What could she have done in the minutes you spent with her to justify letting her go?”

  Rhys stood and crossed to the rolling bar cart in the corner. He needed alcohol to get through this conversation. He poured himself two fingers of eighteen-year-old Macallan into a tumbler, added an extra splash for good measure, then turned back to his assistant.

  He could have told Collins to fuck off. That he was the boss, and his reasons for sending Mallory Worthington packing were none of his assistant’s goddamn business.

  But shutting himself away from the rest of the world meant there weren’t a lot of options when he needed a sounding board. In the seven years Collins had worked for him—especially in the three since Beth’s death—he’d become more than an employee. He’d become a trusted confidant, the one person Rhys could rely on to tell him the whole ugly, unvarnished truth.

  The one person Rhys could come close to calling a friend.

  Rhys sat back down at his desk and sipped his scotch. “We both know why having her here isn’t a good idea.”

  “You mean because she’s young, attractive, and available, and so are you?”

  Rhys wanted to wipe the persistent smirk off his assistant’s face. “How do you know she’s available?”

  “She took this job and moved almost fifteen hundred miles from the city she called home at the drop of a hat.” Collins leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’d say she wasn’t worried about leaving anyone behind.”

  “All the more reason why she can’t stay.” Rhys downed another gulp of scotch, relishing the burn as it streamed down his throat.

  “Stop me if I’m overstepping my bounds…”

  “Stop.”

  “…but it’s been three years since the accident.”

  “Beth’s death was no accident.” Rhys slammed his glass down on the desk. Scotch sloshed over his hand and onto the blotter, splashing the PEZ dispenser. “It was murder.”

  And he was the one responsible.

  “She wouldn’t want you living this way,” Collins persisted. “If you can call cutting yourself off from civilization living.”

  Damn stubborn man, made all the more annoying by the fact that deep down, Rhys knew he was right. Beth would hate what he’d become. Not that he was admitting it to Collins.

  “Look around. This place is practically a palace, not a one-room shack in the middle of the woods. And I’m not cut off from civilization. That’s what I’ve got you for.”

  Collins narrowed his eyes. “What about Oliver? Is this what she’d want for him?”

  “She’d want him alive.” Rhys tossed back the rest of his scotch, stood, and crossed to the bar cart for a refill. “I’m doing what I have to in order to keep him safe.”

  He might not have been able to protect Beth, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake with his son. Even if it meant making him a virtual prisoner for the time being. Rhys didn’t want to think about the inevitable changes as his son grew older. High school. College. He couldn’t keep Oliver to himself forever.

  But he could for now, and as long as possible.

  Collins let out a long, loud sigh. “I understand your motivation, even if I don’t necessarily agree with your methods.”

  “Does that mean the Spanish I
nquisition is over?”

  “No. But I’ll grant you a temporary reprieve.”

  “I’ll take it.” Rhys poured another generous two fingers of scotch into his glass, swirled, sipped, and stared down his assistant. “Don’t you have a plane reservation to make?”

  Not one to back down, at least when they were mano a mano, Collins met his gaze. “You’re still determined to send her away?”

  Rhys continued to swirl, sip, and stare.

  “All right.” Collins stood a little more abruptly than necessary and straightened his tie. No matter how many times Rhys told him to lose the formal attire in the Florida heat, the man insisted on dressing like an undertaker when he was on duty, his only concession to the weather the deck shoes he wore on the launch. “Have it your way.”

  “I always do. That’s the benefit of being the boss.”

  “Would you consider a small compromise?”

  “How small?”

  “Let her stay until we get a replacement. Mrs. Flannigan’s got enough on her plate with the housekeeping, and she’s not getting any younger. It’s not fair for her to do double duty.”

  Rhys tipped his head back and looked skyward. Or more accurately, ceiling-ward. When Collins was right, he was right. The older woman had signed on to do light housework, laundry, and the occasional meal, not keep up with an overactive preschooler. It wasn’t fair of him to put his hang-ups before her job satisfaction and his son’s well-being. He brought his gaze back down and gave Collins the slightest, almost imperceptible nod. “Fine. But I want someone here by the end of the week. Two, tops.”

  Fourteen days, for the good of his housekeeper and his son. That didn’t dishonor Beth’s memory, did it?

  “Done.” Collins brushed his hands together triumphantly, as if to emphasize that the matter was settled, and he had, at least in part, emerged the victor. “And let the record show I still think you’re making a mistake not giving Miss Worthington a chance.”

  “Duly noted.” Rhys raised his glass in a mock salute.

  With a salute of his own, Collins spun on his heel, crossed the room, and disappeared out the door, leaving Rhys the way he found him. The way he spent most of his days, with the exception of the all-too-rare moments he had with his son.

  Alone.

  …

  “Here you are, Miss Worthington.” Mrs. Flannigan led Mallory into a room more fit for a VIP than a nanny. “I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”

  Mallory bit her lip to stop herself from asking the gray-haired housekeeper to call her by her first name. What did it matter? And what did it matter if Mallory approved of the accommodations or not? She wouldn’t be staying long.

  Her gut twisted at the thought, and she let out an involuntary sob.

  “Everything all right, dear?” Mrs. Flannigan asked, staring at Mallory expectantly. The woman must think she was a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

  “Yes.” Mallory gave the housekeeper a smile she hoped read reassuring and not psycho ax murderer waiting to strike. “Thank you.”

  “Collins brought up your bag.” Mrs. Flannigan gestured to the corner, where her overnight tote sat on an overstuffed chair. “Ring if there’s anything else you need. The intercom is on the wall next to the bed.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Mallory spotted the boxes she’d sent at the foot of the enormous four-poster bed. No use unpacking. She’d slap new labels on them and call the shipping company to pick them up. Or maybe she could dig out her nail polishes. She had the sudden urge to repaint her toenails. Something to match her mood, like Here Today Aragon Tomorrow or Got Myself Into a Jam-balaya. She deserved a little pampering after uprooting her entire life and traveling hundreds of miles just to be summarily dismissed by a condescending, arrogant, self-righteous…

  “Breakfast is at eight.” Mrs. Flannigan’s light, lilting voice interrupted Mallory’s rapidly escalating internal tirade. There weren’t enough adjectives in the English language for her to express her extreme dislike—she reserved the word “hate” for things like tabloid journalism and undercooked seafood and the cancer that stole her childhood and almost her life—of Rhys Dalton. She supposed she should be grateful he was feeding her before shipping her out.

  “Thanks,” she said again, forcing a smile so the kindly older woman wouldn’t spot her inner turmoil. “What time will Collins be taking me to the airport?”

  “Airport?” Mrs. Flannigan’s brows drew together in confusion.

  Great. Now Mallory had the added embarrassment of having to explain the whole humiliating situation. Out loud. To a virtual stranger. Making it seem that much more real and five times more mortifying. She cleared her throat. “I guess you haven’t heard. I won’t be staying.”

  Mrs. Flannigan clucked her tongue. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but my instructions were very clear. You’ll be here at least a week, maybe more. Mr. Dalton wants you to meet Oliver in the morning and help out until the new nanny gets here.”

  Mallory went from confused to majorly pissed off in a nanosecond. Who did this guy think he was, ordering her to hang around and wait for her replacement to show up? As if she weren’t humiliated enough already. She was a highly skilled, sought-after culinary artist, not some lackey content to do his bidding.

  “Where is he?” She clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides. “I want to talk to him. Now.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  No, she didn’t. But for maybe the first time in her life she was going to stand up for herself. Wasn’t that what this whole stunt—her father’s word—was all about? Taking charge of her life, making her own decisions, not letting anyone else determine the course of her future? “Just take me to him. Please.”

  “Well.” The older woman leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, even though there was no one else in hearing distance. “If I were you, I’d let him sleep on it. Tomorrow’s a brand-new day. Play your cards right, and you might change his mind.”

  “And convince him to put me on the next plane home?”

  “No.” Mrs. Flannigan’s silvery gray eyes twinkled. “And convince him to let you stay. Permanently. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Was it? When she left New York, Mallory was so sure she was doing the right thing. But now? Was this where she was supposed to be, or had she been in such a hurry to escape, to go somewhere —anywhere—she could start with a clean slate, one that didn’t have “cancer survivor” written all over it, that she’d run to the wrong place?

  She shook her head. “What I want doesn’t matter. Mr. Dalton made it clear I’m not his idea of good nanny material.”

  “So show him you are.” Mrs. Flannigan moved to the bed and started to turn down the sheets.

  Show him you are. Could it be that simple?

  “I’ll leave you to think it over.” The housekeeper finished off the bed with a pat and headed toward the door. “Things always look different in the light of day.”

  Mallory watched her leave, then scanned the pile of boxes for the one marked Toiletries. A new pedicure was definitely in order. But she had a different color in mind. Something along the lines of Tanacious Spirit or No Stopping Me Now. Because if she was going to change Rhys Dalton’s mind about firing her, she’d need all the help she could get.

  Chapter Three

  There was nothing like an early-morning run on the beach as the sun turned the sky pink. The rumble and hiss of the surf underscoring the pounding of his sneakers on the wet sand, his only company the gulls and pipers foraging in the washed-up kelp. A chance to reflect on the day before. To plan the day ahead.

  And, if Rhys was honest, to excise thoughts of a certain striking blonde who had invaded his home and his brain.

  He pushed himself harder, trying to sweat her out of his system. It ran in rivulets down his face and neck, soaking his T-shirt. When he reached the rock jetty at the end of the beach, he pulled up short and bent over at the waist, his breath coming in q
uick, ragged gasps.

  It had been a mistake bringing Mallory to Flamingo Key. But it was one he was in the process of fixing ASAP. Until then, he’d keep his distance. With more than twenty rooms and an entire island to work with, that shouldn’t be a problem.

  His resolve steeled, Rhys straightened, wiped his brow with the hem of his T-shirt, and started to retrace his steps, picking up the pace as he went. By the time he reached the stretch of beach in front of the house, he was winded and drenched with sweat again, the warm, peaceful waters of the Caribbean screaming for him to dive in and cool off.

  It was a siren song he heard on almost every morning run but usually ignored, in too much of a rush to get a head start on his business day before the rest of the world woke up. But not today. Today he had a damn good reason to stay on the beach as long as humanly possible.

  He kicked off his sneakers and peeled off his socks and shirt, leaving him in only lightweight running shorts. Not his typical swimming attire, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  As he neared the water’s edge, he could make out a small silhouette cutting through the waves like an Olympic medalist. No way either of the Flannigans could swim like that. Or Oliver, who had just learned to put his head under water and preferred their infinity pool to the salty ocean. Collins was a strong swimmer and sometimes took a dip before breakfast, but he’d taken the launch to Key West for supplies.

  Which left only one possible person. The very person Rhys was trying like hell to avoid.

  The smartest course of action would be to get the fuck out of there before she saw him. But then she stood, rising from the water like a goddess, and slicked back her long blond hair. The movement arched her back and thrust her breasts against the thin, almost sheer fabric of her one-piece swimsuit. It left so little to the imagination it might as well have been a dental floss bikini.

  Rhys froze, all his good intentions—and any semblance of rational thought—evaporated. He stood transfixed, wishing his damn running shorts were a little less form-fitting, as Mallory wrung out her hair and blinked the water from her eyes.