Looking up, he saw that the nanny was standing in the doorway. When had she arrived? How long had she been there and how much had she heard?
“I was preparing to call the agency for a replacement.”
“That won’t be necessary. I have your lunch,” she said, setting a tray down on the coffee table.
“Where did you order this?” he picked up a spear of asparagus wrapped in prosciutto.
“I made it,” she said quietly. He narrowed his eyes at her.
“That’s surprising. The last time I saw you, you were burning flip-flop rubber on your way out of my driveway. Now you’ve returned and made what looks to be a sumptuous meal.”
“I’m sorry I took off like that. I’ve assured the agency I’ll meet the terms of the contract and serve the four weeks here. As you can see, I cook. I’ll do laundry, fetch anything you need from town, as long as you meet a few terms of my own,” she declared.
He chuckled and took another spear of asparagus, waiting for her to announce her terms.
“I’ll make sure you have everything you need to be comfortable during your house arrest but you are to stay strictly in the bounds of your sentence. I’m not going to cover for you when the monitoring calls come in and I’m not going to spend my days chasing you away from the property line and luring you back inside with a lollipop.”
“A lollipop?”
“It worked with the last kid I nannied for. I’ll be here in the mornings at eight and I’ll stay to clear away the supper dishes in the evening.”
“No way. I eat breakfast early. You should just stay here.”
“There’s no need for that.”
“At your last nanny job, you were a live in, I presume. That’s part of this position. You can have any bedroom you like in the house and any time you’re not running errands for me or cooking a meal—we have a housekeeper for cleaning and laundry—your time is your own.”
“At my last position, I had to take care of a small child who could not be left alone at night obviously. As an adult, you don’t require that kind of care.”
“But I need supervision, that’s why you’ve been hired and, I’m sure, well compensated by my brother, Sloan.”
“Is that who Sloan is? The one you were talking to on the phone?”
“A suggestion, since you are clearly not accustomed to working with adults. Don’t overhear anything.”
“Force of habit. If I didn’t listen closely, this one kid I took care of would be plotting arson. True story.”
“I like breakfast in bed. True story,” he countered.
“I can be here by six in the morning to make your breakfast,” she said.
“Why have an early commute when there are, at last count, twenty-five bedrooms you can choose from here? Twenty-six if you count the one I’m sleeping in.”
She blushed. He felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. She had been a surprise from the start, turning up with an excellent lunch and a half-assed apology for running out. Now she was fighting the live-in portion of the arrangement and he felt a surge of interest, something very unlike the boredom he’d been facing. It might be fun to convince her to stay, to get her to stray outside her heavily patrolled comfort zone.
“As long as I know which door to knock on when I bring your breakfast, I have no other interest in your bedroom, I assure you,” she said coolly.
“Have a seat. If you’re cooking for me, I have preferences you should know.”
She looked around for a place to sit. His tablet and some file folders occupied one chair and the scanner was on the ottoman. This left only the space beside him on the couch. Gingerly she perched on the edge of the couch cushion, leaving as much space as possible between them.
“I like olives and capers. I’ll eat any vegetable and most fruits but I don’t like sweets. I prefer lean protein in the morning, an egg white omelet for example. My favorite foods are Mexican and sushi so when I ask for takeout, that’s what I prefer.”
“Right. Any allergies?”
“Just to boredom,” he said. “So what do you get out of this arrangement apart from the salary and nice digs for a few weeks?”
“I need a good reference to secure a full time nanny position. It’s a competitive field and I want to stay in this area.”
“Where are you from?”
“The Simmons Employment Agency, as far as you’re concerned. I appreciate your friendliness, but I’m your employee and there’s no need to exchange personal information.”
“I see. So now that you know boredom is my only allergy, we’re done talking? Did the job description include keeping me sane?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, but I assumed that involved the administration of some kind of antipsychotic prescription,” she deadpanned and he laughed.
“No, I’m not even claustrophobic; I just hate being locked up here.”
“It’s not a seven by seven concrete cell where you pee in a bucket. It’s a zillion square foot ocean view palace,” she quipped.
“First world problems, I know. But I’m going to require some entertainment while I’m cooped up. What do you do for fun, Laine?”
“Puzzles.”
“The kind with a thousand tiny pieces that fit together and make a picture of kittens?”
“No, crosswords, Sudoku and Hidato.”
“I know the first two. What’s the last one?”
“It’s an Israeli logic game with sequential numbers that have to be arranged adjacent to each other in an array of hexagons.”
“Christ that sounds boring! I mean, it’s nice that you enjoy logic puzzles, but that right there is my idea of hell on earth apart from this.”
“This is your idea of hell?” she laughed.
“That sounded a little bitter. Pissed that I said your Israeli hexagons were boring? How did you get interested in something like that? I mean, if you were like seventy-three years old or, forgive me; if you were ugly I would understand the puzzles as a pastime and having ten cats or something.”
“My aunt Janelle was a puzzle designer. She created hundreds of Sudokus for a bunch of publications when I was a kid and I liked learning about them from her.”
“Oh. That’s interesting. Does she still do that?”
“Not since she died in a car accident a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, surprised to see her brow furrow and her mouth tighten as if wincing in pain. She had been so composed that even her quiet show of emotion was unexpected. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You haven’t,” she said, “May I get you anything else?” she stood and whisked the plate out of his hands almost before he’d finished.
“How are you at mixology?”
“I tended bar to pay my way through cooking school. What would you like?”
“It’s warm outside. Open the French doors and I’ll have a sloe gin fizz.”
“Simple syrup or sugar cube?”
“Syrup.”
“Coming right up,” she said.
“Make one for yourself also. Come sit on the terrace.”
“I think I’ll just take care of the dishes.”
“Would you rather have a tour of the property? I promise not to climb the fence and escape.”
“I’d rather do the dishes,” she said stubbornly, color rising to her cheeks.
“Snob,” he teased.
“No, not a snob. Just the help.”
Laine returned with his drink, “Thank you,” he said, “I have to keep to the terms of my probation, but having you here is supposed to make it as painless as possible. Can you help me out here?”
“I could probably help you with a Sudoku if you’re stumped. Other than that, I’m pretty sure you and I have different definitions of fun,” she replied before leaving him to his drink.
Wyatt didn’t watch her go. He kept his eyes on the horizon, where the ocean stretched out so much farther than he was allowed to follow it. For the third time since yesterday,
he wondered how far he could get before the cops showed up.
His phone beeped indicating a text and he lifted the phone off the table to see whom it was from. Seeing his brother, Greyson’s name, he swiped to read the message.
“Thought I’d check to see if you burned the house down yet.”
“Do you think they’d take pity on me and reduce my sentence?”
“Last I heard, you’d get more time for arson. Maybe best to stick to alcohol and porn.”
Chapter 3
Laine woke up early on her first morning at the mansion. She made an egg white omelet with fresh red and yellow peppers and spinach, went to the door of the master bedroom and knocked. There was no response so she balanced the tray on her hip with care and turned the knob. The bedroom was empty, the bed still made. If he had snuck out on her first night there and violated his sentence, her ass was getting a terrible reference.
“Mr. Anderson?” she called. When there was no answer, she called out again down the long hall lined with bedrooms, “Mr. Anderson! Where are you?” she bellowed.
“In here,” a voice called and she made her way back toward the front of the house and swung open the door. He sat shirtless on the bed, laptop open and papers strewn all over the rumpled sheets.
Ah, fuck, she thought, narrowly stopping herself from saying it aloud at the sight of Wyatt Anderson without his shirt. His tanned, muscular torso gave new meaning to those men’s magazine articles promising a ripped chest and shredded abs. She shook her head, trying to hide the undeniable tug of attraction she felt when she looked at him.
“Are you going to switch rooms every night? I’m used to playing hide and seek with kids, but I expected you to stay in one place.”
“I may change rooms more than once a day. There’s plenty to choose from and I get bored with the same view day after day. You never know where you’ll find me. I may wake up in your bed one morning,” he said archly.
“If you come into my room you’ll wake up in traction, not in my bed. Here’s your omelet.”
Laine practically threw the tray at him and bolted from the room in evident panic. When she reached the kitchen, she grabbed the ringing phone and answered it.
“Tell the Stiff to answer his fucking phone,” a voice shouted.
“Excuse me? I’m afraid this is a wrong number. You’ve reached the Anderson residence.”
“I know. Go tell the Stiff to pick up his cell phone. Tell him it’s the Fifth,” the voice insisted.
Bewildered, Laine hurried back up to Wyatt’s room and walked in. There was Wyatt Anderson, all tanned sinewy back, muscular ass and strong legs, fresh from the shower with his towel on the floor.
“Ah!” she cried, shutting her eyes, holding out the phone and waving it around mutely.
She’d seen him naked. She’d closed her eyes before he turned around but she’d seen enough to know she wanted to see more. He was lean and strong, with some dark tattoo on his shoulder that looked tribal, mysterious.
“Er, phone,” she managed to choke out, opening one eye a slit to determine if he was reaching for the phone. He turned around; she covered her eyes with her hand and dropped the phone on the floor, dashing into the hall. The sound of his laughter followed her.
***
Wyatt finished vetting the spreadsheets and went to take his dishes to the kitchen. He was distracted from his route by a loud noise like breaking glass. He strode toward the sound, which came from the smaller sitting room. He hoped it hadn’t been part of his mother’s collection of Japanese porcelain that shattered. Swinging open the door, he heard the shock of gunfire and it startled him. He looked around the perfectly ordered sitting room and saw Laine curled up on the white sofa, riveted by the television at top volume.
“Are you watching Die Hard?” he yelled over the volume.
She didn’t look up, just motioned for him to come in. He put the dishes on a side table and sat beside her. “I hate the fact that he’s barefoot. McLane would’ve had those bastards cleared out in half an hour if he’d had his shoes on,” she said fiercely.
“How many times have you seen this?”
“Hundreds of times. I’ve been watching it since I was about six,” she said. “Greatest movie ever.”
“Six? This movie is rated R for a reason. Or didn’t your parents mind you learning words like motherfucker in first grade?” he chuckled.
“They didn’t care.”
“I didn’t learn that word until I was about fifteen. Very select schools,” he said.
“Ah, parents didn’t want you mixing with the commoners?”
“Or learning motherfucker from a six-year-old.”
“I could’ve taught you a thing or two,” she said archly, and he realized she was flirting.
“So if you had this permissive upbringing, why did you freak out and hide your eyes when I was changing pants?” he challenged.
“I’m a by-invitation-only kind of girl. If Ryan Reynolds wants to drop his pants in a movie, you can bet I’m going to look. But I’m not a Peeping Tom either. I’m not going to invade someone’s privacy.”
“We’re living together. There is no privacy.”
“We are not living together. I’m your nanny. And since you have such sensitive ears, you shouldn’t be in here listening to all this bad language. Get out of here and read something improving.”
“If you’re my nanny why aren’t you entertaining me?”
“Fine,” she said, switching off the TV. “We can play Chutes and Ladders, but I cheat.”
“That’s not the kind of game I had in mind.”
“Really. So what did you play as a kid?”
“Uh, my brother Sloan—he’s the good son—loves to tell the story of how my parents actually tied me to a tree when we had company at our house in Westchester to keep me from setting off firecrackers like I did at the last party.”
“Right. If you don’t want to play Chutes and Ladders, I have a couple apps on my phone that are very educational. The five to eight crowd loves them.”
“Do you know any forms of entertainment for the over-twelve set?”
“Scrabble. Sudoku. Crossword puzzles.”
“I see now how you manage the difficult kids. You bore them to sleep,” he said, “They’d never have a chance.”
“Whatever works. Do you have a list for me of what you want picked up today?”
“I put it on the Google calendar and shared it with you in the drive.”
“You’re too high tech for a sticky note? Fine. I’ll look it up.”
He watched as she took out her phone, squinted at the screen and tapped at it, swiping and scrolling with one finger, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was cute, he thought, allowing himself that one concession. Boring as hell and strange—Die Hard at age six? Sudoku all the time?—but cute with her nose wrinkled up like that. If she were dressed right and stood up straight, she’d be a knockout. A really boring one, he reminded himself as he felt a stir of interest in his body.
“Bring in Amazon Prime boxes. Unpack green juice and refrigerate. That’s my list?”
“For today, yes.”
“This is a stupid job,” she complained. “You have three minutes to carry your own boxes.”
“Not if they leave them out at the mailbox.” He indicated his ankle bracelet. “The range on this thing is pretty specific.”
“Hey, you might get into some serious trouble if you went as far as the mailbox. You could corrupt passing delivery guys.”
“I’ve never corrupted a guy,” he said.
“Okay, delivery women. I’m sure you’ve led a few women astray.”
“More than a few,” he confessed. “Not to brag.”
“So there’s really nothing besides getting the packages?”
“If you go into town, I could use some kale chips and some fresh fruit. Berries would be good.”
“I’ll get that when I go for ingredients later. I was thinking a vegetarian supper. Sound good
?”
“Fine with me.”
“Mind if I go for a walk before I head into town?”
“Go right ahead. I have work to do anyway.”
“Thanks. See you at lunch.”
Laine sprang off the couch and he stared after her, surprised anyone that dull could move that fast or show enthusiasm. Although she’d been passionate about Die Hard. Apparently, she had fiercer depths. He wondered idly what else got her that wound up, and then scolded himself. He wasn’t attracted to the nanny. It was some form of Stockholm Syndrome from being cooped up in this house all day with no one to look at or talk to besides her. He would have been ogling some mean old broad named Gertrude if the agency had sent her.
***
Wyatt answered emails and polished up the Carlyle deal. He was staring out the window when something caught his eye on the beach down below. It was a moment straight out of a James Bond movie and his teenaged fantasies. The sun was beating down on the gleaming wet skin of a bikini-clad goddess emerging from the surf. Waves lapped at the sand as she strode out of the water, slicking back her hair, striding on long, lickable legs. Wyatt had spent a lot of hours watching that Halle Berry scene from the Bond flick and the image still set his blood on fire, so when he saw it come to life, the slender curves of some stranger on the beach splashing out of the waves in just a scrap of yellow bikini, his mouth went dry.
In his haste to open the window, he dropped his phone and shoved the window up so he could lean out for a closer look. He didn’t just want to look. He wanted to touch. Hell, he wanted to run down to the beach, take this Bond girl brought to life in his arms and kiss her breathless before he peeled away the yellow fabric and knelt in the wet sand to take her nipple into his mouth. He wanted to lay her down right there under the sky and take her.
Wyatt turned and surged down the stairs and out the back toward the beach. He broke into a run, the easy stride of a lifelong adventurer used to climbing and hiking and cliff diving. He was almost to the gate in the back garden when he heard the beep, a high-pitched whine. He skidded to a halt and looked down. It was his ankle bracelet. He kicked the iron gate growling because none of the curse words he knew could give vent to what he felt. Frustrated, thwarted, caged. Kept by this stupid device from vaulting onto the beach and catching up to that siren he knew was only a few yards away. He kicked the gate again and stalked back into the house.
Billionaires On the Beach: The Anderson Brothers Page 17
