Page 14 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“Yes, he can, and no, whatever crazy scheme you’re dreaming up, you won’t.” Mallory glanced longingly at the bottle of chardonnay on the nightstand, begging for her to pop the cork. “It’s called at-will employment. He can fire me for any reason he wants, or no reason at all.”

At least that was what the agency told her when she called them with the news. Mallory was afraid they’d dump her as fast as Rhys Dalton, but according to Alison, her placement counselor, getting fired on first sight was more common than you’d think.

“Well, I’m sure the staffing agency will find you another job in no time.” Brooke’s confidence was almost contagious. “And you can stay with me and Eli until they ship you off again to who knows where. We’ve got two extra bedrooms. Take your pick.”

Mallory chuckled and fell back onto the bed, her head cushioned by the hypoallergenic goose down pillows, covered in 500-thread-count Egyptian cotton. Okay, so she’d checked the tags. Sue her. They felt so darn good, she had to see what she was sleeping on. “What are you, a mind reader or something?”

“Just someone who understands needing a little—or a lot—of space from Mom and Dad.”

Amen to that.Mallory had never understood her sister’s rebellious streak before. She liked things to be predictable. Safe. Well-ordered. Pretty typical of cancer survivors, she’d learned thanks to myriad self-help books and weekly sessions with her therapist. They tended to fall into two camps: risk-averse and adventurous. The first did everything they could to stay healthy; the second viewed each day post-cancer as a gift, determined to live life to its fullest.

“You still there?” Brooke asked.

“Yeah.” Mallory huffed a strand of hair out of her eyes and sighed. She really, really needed that wine. Stat. “Sorry. Got lost there for a minute. I was…”

Three sharp raps on the door had whatever excuse she’d been about to spout stuck in her throat. “Ma—Miss Worthington? Can I speak to you?”

Mallory froze.

“Ohmigod,” she whispered into the phone. “It’s him.”

“Who, him?”

“Captain von Dreamy.”

“You sound surprised.” A wrapper crinkled, and Mallory pictured her sister opening a package of Ho Hos. Or a Slim Jim. No telling with Brooke’s addiction to all things junk food. “He’s your boss until further notice. Don’t you talk?”

“No. Not usually.”Unless he thinks his son is in mortal peril. “I mostly deal with Mrs. Flannigan, the housekeeper, or Collins, the…”

What was Collins exactly, anyway?

“Collins,” she finished lamely.

“What’s his deal?” Brooke asked through a mouthful of her chosen snack.“Von Dreamy, I mean.”

“I don’t know. It’s like he goes out of his way to avoid me. On the rare occasions when he’s forced to speak to me, he won’t even use my first name.”

“What does he call you?”

“Miss Worthington.”

“Kinky.”

Three more raps. “Miss Worthington?”

A tremor ran through her body. Why had she never noticed how her name sounded on his lips? Simultaneously formal and dirty, conjuring images of sweat-slicked bodies, satin sheets, and sleepless nights.

Damn her sister and her warped mind.

“Be right there,” she called, moving the phone away from her mouth. “Just, uh, finishing something up.”

Rhys shuffled his feet on the other side of the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need to talk.”

“Hang up and answer the damn door,” Brooke hissed. “But call me back the second he’s gone. I want deets. And remember, if you get nervous, think WWJD.”

Mallory frowned. “What would Jesus do?”

“No.” If a smug smile had a sound, Brooke’s voice, dripping over the airwaves like hot fudge on an ice cream sundae, was it. “What would Julie do?”

The line went dead. Mallory tossed her cell onto the bed beside her and sat up, stashing the sadly untouched bottle of chardonnay on the floor behind the nightstand. She didn’t see any harm in having a glass of wine after hours. But there was no use poking the bear, even if he was about to give her walking papers.

“I’m coming.” She winced at the unintended double meaning. She had sex on the brain, courtesy of her big sister. “I mean, I’ll be right there.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, smoothing down her peasant blouse and khaki shorts. A quick glance in the full-length mirror on the back of her bathroom door told her she might as well not have bothered. She was a wrinkled, rumpled mess. And her hair—gah! She looked like she’d wrestled an alligator, gotten caught in a windstorm, and run a marathon, not necessarily in that order.

Presentable was out of the question. The best she could hope for was somewhere between mildly embarrassing and totally humiliating.

Not exactly how she wanted to face off with her hotter-than-the-sun employer, who most likely was about to inform her that her replacement was en route and her services were no longer necessary. But since she didn’t have much—strike that, any—choice in the matter, she pulled on her metaphorical big-girl panties, adopted what she hoped was a neutral expression, and crossed to the door.

Like a condemned man walking to the gallows.