Page 15 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Chapter Five

What the hell was taking her so damn long?

Rhys resisted the urge to bang on the door again, crossing his arms and leaning against the frame to lessen the temptation. Every second that ticked by on his Patek Philippe further convinced him coming to Mallory like this, with his ego in shreds—and his head up his ass—was a mistake of epic proportions.

He wasn’t a guy who was used to groveling. He was a mover. A shaker. A dealmaker. A hard-nosed negotiator who inspired awe—and a healthy dose of fear—in the hearts of all those lucky—or unlucky—enough to do business with him.

In short, he was the grovel-ee, not the fucking groveler. And there was only one force on earth strong enough to reverse that.

His love for his son.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself to knock a third time. Before his knuckles could strike the door, it swung open and Mallory stood before him, her hair free from its usual ponytail, falling in soft, wild waves around her face and shoulders.

Predictably, his thoughts drifted into X-rated territory. Not an uncommon occurrence since their encounter on the beach. Mallory, wet, breathless, and nearly naked, had become the star of his late-night erotic fantasies. And a few dirty daydreams, too.

Rhys did his best to ignore his reaction to her—something he had a feeling he’d be doing a whole hell of a lot if their conversation went as planned—and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, not really.” Mallory’s cheeks flushed an appealing shade of pink. There was something irresistible about a woman who embarrassed so easily. It made him wonder if she blushed all over. “I was on the phone with my sister.”

Way to win her over. Cut her off from her family. He took a step back and held his hands up, palms out. “I’m sorry. If you want to call her back, we can do this later.”

“Do what?”

She blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence, and his hyperactive imagination went into overdrive, picturing all the things he’d like to do to her. Places he’d like to touch her, taste her…

“Mr. Dalton? Are you all right?”

Fuck no, he wasn’t all right. He was all wrong. This was all wrong.

He had to stop thinking with his dick and remember why he was there. His son. “I wanted to talk to you about Oliver.”

“Is something wrong?” The color drained from Mallory’s face, and the hand still holding the doorknob tightened its grip. “He was fine when I put him to bed.”

“Fast asleep. I just checked on him.”

“Thank goodness.” Some of the pink returned to Mallory’s cheeks. “You scared me for a second.”

“I’m sorry.” Her obvious concern for his son made his chest tighten and gave him the courage to forge ahead, doubts—and desires—be damned. “Can I come in?”

She opened the door wider and waved him inside. He was surprised to find in her short time there she’d managed to put her own personal stamp on the room. A scented candle burning on the nightstand. E-reader on the desk. Framed photos on the dresser.

“Sit down.” She gestured to the bed.

On the sheets where she slept wearing what he imagined was damn near next to nothing, the Egyptian cotton caressing her bare flesh as she shifted in slumber?

No. Fucking. Way.

He wasn’t a damn masochist. He opted for the desk chair instead. Hard and unforgiving and not in the least bit likely to stir up sexual fantasies.

“Whatever you want to talk about, it must be important for you to make a personal appearance,” she continued, taking the spot she’d indicated for him. “Or was Collins busy?”

Rhys wanted to protest, but she had a point. Yes, he’d been avoiding her. And yes, he’d considered sending his assistant in his place. But some things a man had to do for himself.

Like admitting he’d royally screwed up.

“I want you to stay,” he began, opting for the direct approach.

“Really?” She crossed one smooth, tanned leg over the other and leaned back on her palms. “Why the change of heart?”