A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

by Regina Kyle

  “Just tell me you’re going to do it again. Or should I say do him again? And again, and again, and again…”

  The thought made Mallory shiver in anticipation. “He’s my boss.”

  “That didn’t stop Maria.”

  “You’re not going to let this whole Sound of Music thing go, are you?”

  “I only want to see you happy,” Brooke insisted. “After everything you’ve been through, no one deserves that more than you.”

  Mallory’s voice softened. “I know your heart’s in the right place. And I am happy. Really. For the first time in my life, I’m where I want to be, doing what I want to do.”

  “Or who you want to do.”

  “Stop. Seriously.” Mallory’s wry laugh took some of the bite from her words.

  “Fine. I’ll let it drop for the time being. But don’t think this conversation is over.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Mallory stretched her legs out in front of her and yawned. She’d almost forgotten how tired she was. The price she had to pay for a night of wall-banging sex and hardly any sleep. “You know, you’d better be careful. You’re starting to sound like Mom.”

  It was Brooke’s turn to chuckle. “Heaven forbid.”

  The unmistakable sound of an outboard engine cut across her sister’s words. Collins was back.

  “I have to get going.” Mallory swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, crossing to her dresser. “I’ll see you in a few weeks for your post-elopement gala.”

  Brooke groaned. “Don’t remind me. Mom is driving me crazy with invitations and seating charts and flower arrangements.”

  “It’ll all be over soon.” Mallory riffled through her drawers, pulling out underwear, a tank top, and a pair of denim shorts. “Then you and Eli can live peacefully ever after.”

  “From your lips to Mom’s ears. She’s so beside herself that I landed one of Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors, I’m afraid she’ll never leave us alone. Especially now that you’re hundreds of miles away.”

  “Trying to guilt me into moving back home?” Mallory shrugged off her robe and stepped into her panties. “Now you really do sound like Mom.”

  “No. But you know what would get her off my back?”

  “What?” The bra was next, followed by her shirt and shorts.

  “If you found your own most eligible bachelor. Say one with a private island, a tech fortune, and a penchant for naughty nannies. Extra points if he’s got a cute kid she can go all grandmotherly on.”

  “It’s official.” Mallory buttoned her shorts and slipped her feet into a pair of vinyl flip-flops. “The transformation is complete. You don’t just sound like Mom, you are Mom. Although I can’t imagine anyone describing her as grandmotherly.”

  “You wound me.” Brooke’s tone was more playful than hurt. “Now go get your man.”

  “He’s not…”

  But Brooke had already hung up. And Mallory wasn’t sure how convincing her response would have been anyway.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rhys’s stomach rumbled, and he checked the time on his computer screen. Almost noon. He usually skipped lunch, which Mallory constantly warned him wasn’t healthy, but for some reason today he was ravenous. Probably in no small part due to their marathon sex session the night before, this one even longer—and wilder—thanks to the lock he’d installed on his bedroom door and the value pack of Trojans he’d ordered from Amazon Prime.

  Remembering made him hot, made him want to do it all over again—and more. He adjusted himself beneath the zipper of his khakis and saved the spreadsheet he was working on. Now he needed food and a cold shower, not necessarily in that order.

  A knock interrupted his thoughts. Without waiting for a response, Collins pushed through the door, a plate piled high with pickles, potato salad, and the thickest sandwich Rhys had ever seen in one hand and a glass of what looked like sweet tea in the other.

  “Mallory thought you might want a little snack.” Collins set the food and drink down on the desk.

  It was almost spooky the way she anticipated his needs, in and out of the bedroom. If he dwelled on it too long it would freak him the fuck out, so he didn’t, choosing to focus instead on the plate of food in front of him.

  “Looks like more than a little snack.” Rhys sat down and took a bite of the sandwich. Corned beef on rye, exactly the way he liked it with melted swiss and a dab of mustard. He washed it down with a generous slug of tea. “Delicious. Thank her for me.”

  “You can thank her yourself when you see her.” Collins crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Rhys. “Which you seem to be doing a lot more of recently.”

  Rhys returned his assistant’s stare over the rim of his glass. Yes, he and Mallory had been spending more time together in the days—and nights—since the storm. But they were discreet. He thought. “If you have something to say, then say it. You’ve never been good at beating around the bush.”

  “Mrs. Flannigan saw her coming out of your room this morning.”

  Fuck.

  “Yes.” Collins took a seat in one of the guest chairs with a smirk. “That’s what we suspected.”

  Rhys’s chest tightened, and he smashed a fist on his thigh under the cover of his desk. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” Collins asked, adding a mocking eyebrow raise to the smirk.

  “Like what?” Rhys pushed his plate away, his appetite gone. “You seem to think you know everything already.”

  “I wouldn’t say everything.” Collins leaned back calmly in his chair, his unruffled demeanor only infuriating Rhys more. This conversation called for a drink. Something way stronger than sweet tea.

  Rhys stood and went to the bar cart. “It’s your fault I’m in this mess.”

  “My fault?”

  “You’re the one who convinced me not to send her packing.” Rhys’s hand shook, sloshing Macallan onto the bar cart. He topped off his drink and tossed it back, draining the scotch in one long gulp that burned a trail down his throat to his stomach. “This is exactly what I was afraid would happen.”

  “Afraid you’d sleep with her?” Collins prodded. “Or afraid someone would find out?”

  Rhys sighed. In all honestly, he couldn’t say he regretted having sex with Mallory. But he would have preferred to keep their nighttime activities on the down-low, for her sake as well as his.

  “If it makes any difference, I, for one, heartily approve,” Collins said, jutting his chin out like a damned peacock. “Why do you think I wanted her to stay? I had a feeling about you two.”

  Rhys poured himself another generous portion of scotch and slumped back down at his desk. “I don’t remember expanding your job duties to include matchmaker. “

  “You might not have, but someone else did.” Collins reached into his jacket, pulled out a plain white envelope, and pushed it across the desk to Rhys.

  Rhys started at it like it was laced with ricin. “What’s this?”

  “A letter.”

  “I can see that.” Rhys frowned, still not moving to pick up the envelope. “Who is it from?”

  Collins rose and crossed to the bar cart. He picked up a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “Mind if I help myself?”

  “Answer the damn question.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.” Collins poured himself two fingers of bourbon.

  “Are you going to tell me who the letter is from or not?”

  Collins leaned against the paneled wall and sipped. “Beth.”

  Rhys recoiled like someone had slapped him. “I don’t understand. Why do you have a letter from my wife?”

  “Do you remember how sick she was during her pregnancy?”

  “Of course.” She’d been diagnosed with preeclampsia, putting both her and the baby at risk. Rhys had thought his troubles were over when Oliver was delivered without incident.

  “She had a lot of time to think about her own mortality while she was on b
ed rest.” Collins resumed his seat and took another nip of bourbon. “She worried about what would happen to you without her. She wrote letters for you and the baby and left them with me. Oliver will get his on his eighteenth birthday. She asked me to give you yours when you met someone new.”

  Beth had pictured him with someone new? Ironic she’d been able to when it had been impossible for him.

  Until recently.

  Rhys picked up the envelope between his thumb and index finger. “And you think that’s Mallory?”

  “I think she’s the closest you’ve come in three years.”

  For the first time, Rhys studied the envelope. His name was scrawled across the front in Beth’s distinctive, flowery script. He traced her handwriting with one finger. “Why didn’t you give the letters back to Beth after Oliver was born?”

  “I tried. She didn’t want them. Said nothing had changed and I should give them to you both if anything happened to her.” Collins finished off his bourbon. “It was almost like she knew her time on earth was short.”

  “She never said anything like that to me.” Rhys flipped the envelope over and fingered the flap.

  “She wouldn’t, would she?” Collins stood and returned his empty glass to the bar cart. “I’ll let you read it in peace. Call me if you need anything.”

  He stopped at the door, his hand on the knob, and turned. “And Rhys?”

  “Yes?” Rhys looked up from the sliver of white in his hand.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m not the only one who approves of you and Mallory. We all agree she’s good for you.”

  “Who said I needed anyone’s approval?”

  “No one,” Collins admitted. “But you have it anyway. You’re different with her here. Working less. Spending more time with your son. You seem happy for the first time in a long time.”

  He turned back to the door for a second, then spun around, pointing a finger at Rhys. “Don’t mess it up.”

  With that parting shot, Collins was gone, leaving Rhys alone with his thoughts and Beth’s letter. He turned it over in his hands for a few long minutes before he worked up enough courage to slide his index finger under the flap and rip it open.

  His palms damp and his throat dry, he pulled out a single sheet of notebook paper—no fancy stationary for his always-practical Beth—and read.

  My dearest Rhys,

  If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer with you, and you’ve met someone new, someone you can see yourself sharing your life with.

  I’m glad. Really and truly, I am. I don’t expect or want you to live like a monk. I’d be a lousy wife if I wanted that kind of life for you.

  And I think I was a good wife, wasn’t I?

  Anyway, I know if you’ve judged her worthy of your love she must be caring and compassionate. I hope she makes you laugh and reminds you to eat three square meals a day and take time off from work to stop and smell the sunshine. I hope whatever happened to me that our child is with you and that your new partner loves him or her as much as I did, and I know you do.

  I want you to know I have no regrets. Our life together may have been short, but every moment I had with you was a blessing. Yes, even the ones when you forgot to put the toilet seat down or snored so loudly you kept me up all night. True love and soul mates do exist, and I was unbelievably lucky to spend over a decade with the love of my life and my best friend.

  Be happy. Be healthy. Be good. Don’t be afraid to love again. And don’t forget that every day matters. Make them count.

  See you on the other side.

  All my love always,

  Beth

  Rhys let the letter flutter to the desk, his vision blurred by tears. He reached blindly for his scotch and slugged it down, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

  Leave it to Beth to find a way to smack him upside the head, even in death.

  …

  “Where’s Dad?” Oliver whined. “I want him to put me to bed tonight.”

  “Who am I, nobody?” Mallory joked, struggling to hide the doubt niggling inside her head and her heart. Truth was, she had no idea where Rhys was or what he was doing. For the first time in almost a week, he’d barricaded himself in his office, not even coming out for dinner. “I thought you liked me.”

  “I do,” Oliver said, taking his Spider-Man pajamas from Mallory’s outstretched hand and pulling them on. “But Dad always forgets to make me brush my teeth, and you never do.”

  Right. Priorities. She took Oliver by the shoulders, turned him toward his bathroom, and gave him little push. “Go. Brush. Then I’ll read you another chapter of Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle.”

  “With the voices?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Yes, with the voices.”

  An hour later, Oliver had been tucked in and read to, and Mallory was in her room with a glass of sauvignon blanc and the newest Sophie Kinsella on her e-reader. She closed the book after reading the same sentence three times, opened the sliding glass door, and stepped out onto the balcony.

  She leaned on the railing, her wineglass dangling between two fingers, and looked out over the horizon. The sun hung low, a red-orange ball suspended over the gentle swells of the Atlantic. She tried to concentrate on the beauty and serenity of the scene in front of her and not on the churning in her belly.

  She was becoming “that” kind of girl, and she hated it. Needy, clingy, demanding. Freaking out because Rhys changed up their routine. They hadn’t made any promises. He had every right to some alone time. Her head told her it was healthy for them to spend time apart.

  Unfortunately, her heart couldn’t seem to grasp that concept.

  She sipped her wine as the last of the sun disappeared. This was getting out of control. She was working for him. Sleeping with him. And now, she feared, falling in love with him.

  To make things even more complicated, she didn’t have the results of her blood tests yet. She’d missed a call from Dr. Decker’s office earlier. His nurse left a message for her to call back, but by the time she’d seen the notification on her cell phone, the office was closed for the day. Mallory had listened to it over and over. Your results are in, the doctor would like to speak to you, please call back at your earliest convenience. Short and succinct, not much to go on. Although that hadn’t stopped her from trying in vain to read between the lines.

  “Beautiful view.”

  Rhys’s deep, gruff voice made Mallory almost drop her glass onto the patio below. She turned slowly to face the man who occupied a disproportionate number of her waking thoughts, her stupid heart racing when she caught sight of him.

  Why did he always have to look so good? He’d traded the button-down shirt and khakis he typically wore during business hours for a pair of cargo shorts and a white polo that set off his tanned skin. His hair was disheveled and his eyes hooded, but none of that detracted from the pull he had on her whenever he was in her general vicinity.

  She shivered despite the still-warm September night air, his presence a welcome distraction from worrying about something she couldn’t control. She’d get her results tomorrow and face the consequences—whatever they may or may not be—then. Tonight, she was going to live in the here and now. “The sunsets are spectacular in the Keys.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the sunset.” He leaned on the rail next to her, and she detected the faint smell of scotch on his breath.

  She ignored the compliment and went back to studying the horizon, the twilight sky now streaked with red and orange. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “The door was open.”

  “I…we missed you tonight. At dinner, I mean.” There she went again. Needy, clingy, and demanding.

  Fortunately, Rhys didn’t notice. He was focused on something else, namely her ass, which he was fondling through the lightweight cotton of her sleep shirt. “I had some things to work through.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  His hand slipped under her nightdress, her skimpy lace pantie
s the only thing that stood between her bare skin and his probing fingers. One of those fingers toyed with the elastic around her thigh, sliding underneath then retreating, teasing her. “It is now.”

  Her breath hitched, and she almost dropped the glass again. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “If you have to ask, I’m not doing it right.” With his free hand, he took the glass from her fingers and set it down beside him.

  “Out here?”

  He tensed, then withdrew his hand from under her nightgown, leaving her hot and wet and aching for more. “No.”

  He scooped her up, one arm under her knees and the other around her back, and cradled her to his chest as he carried her into the bedroom. He nuzzled her hair off her neck, dropping a lingering kiss on the spot where her shoulder met her collarbone before laying her tenderly on the bed.

  Slowly, agonizingly, he undressed her, taking his time to map every inch of skin he exposed with his fingers and tongue, making her breath come in ragged gasps. When he was done, he stood and stripped for her, and she let her eyes feast on him.

  His eyes shone soft and warm, the evening breeze had tossed his hair into a sexy, ruffled mess, and she’d never wanted him more. This wasn’t hard-core sex. It wasn’t some casual hookup. It was something altogether different and far more frightening, their connection so acute it was almost painful.

  She reached out for him, begging without words. He bent down to pull a condom from the pocket of his shorts, ripped it open, and rolled it down over himself. Then he rejoined her on the bed, gently pushing her back against the pillows.

  “Feel what you do to me?” He took her hand and laid it flat against his chest. The rapid staccato of his heartbeat under her palm almost matched hers. “Here.”

  He moved her hand lower, between his thighs. “And here.”

  Words couldn’t describe the torrent of emotions whirling inside her, so she didn’t bother to try. Instead she kissed him, without hurry, without pressure, without uneasiness about the future or dwelling on the past. This kiss was slow, thoughtful, controlled. Two people with all the time in the world to touch, to taste, to bask in each other’s body.