Page 35 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Chapter Nine

“Is he asleep?” Mallory padded down the hall in pink-and-white striped pajama pants and a matching T-shirt, a towel twisted on top of her head.

Rhys pulled Oliver’s door closed. “Out cold.”

“All the excitement must have worn him down.” She released the towel and shook out her hair, still damp from the shower, assailing him with the coconut scent of her shampoo.

“Not just him.” Rhys yawned and slumped against the door. He was mentally and physically fried. The only thing keeping him upright was pure adrenaline, and now that his son was safe, sound, and sleeping, his adrenaline high was starting to wear off.

“Understandable.” She used the towel to wring a few final drops from the ends of her long blond waves. “What you did out there tonight…”

“What we did,” he corrected. “It was a team effort.”

She blushed and ducked her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of damp hair. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” He reached up to grab the top of the doorframe, hoping it would ease the kinks out of his abused and aching muscles. “If you weren’t there, who would have pulled us up off that cliff?”

And kept him from falling apart, with her quiet strength and clear thinking.

“You did most of the hard work. I was just there for moral support.” She shifted from one prettily polished foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable taking any of the credit for Oliver’s rescue. Modesty. Another quality he could add to her long list of attributes.

“Don’t sell yourself short. Moral support is invaluable.”

“Any word from Collins?” she asked.

Rhys didn’t miss the skillful change of subject, but he let it pass, nodding. “He’s staying in town with a friend. The storm’s moving fast. He should be able to get back sometime tomorrow morning.”

“Good. That he’s somewhere safe, I mean. And that the storm’s not as bad as we thought.” Mallory gave her hair one last squeeze and draped the towel around her neck. “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Can I get you anything?”

“After the day we’ve had, I need something a hell of a lot stronger than tea.”

“That doesn’t sound half bad. If you don’t mind sharing.”

She stretched, revealing a strip of smooth, tanned skin between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her pajama pants. The rest of his body might be on the verge of collapse, but his dick had a little life left. He cursed the uncooperative appendage for being so weak-willed and shifted his weight to hide his reaction.

“How about scotch?” he asked. “I’ve got some eighteen-year-old Macallan.”

“I wouldn’t know the difference from six-month-old rotgut.”

“You will after you taste this.”

“If you say so.” She gave him a sexy half smile. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her scrubbed-clean face, making her look like a seductive water nymph.

“I need to shower first.” Preferably a cold one. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.”

“Sounds good.” A gust of wind shook the house, and she winced. “I’ll scrounge up some snacks and we can wait out the storm. What goes good with scotch?”

“You’re the chef. I’m sure you’ll figure out something.”

“Challenge accepted.”

She turned to go downstairs, and he followed, his eyes tracking the soft sway of her hips in those shouldn’t-be-sexy, cock-hardening pajamas. What the fuck was wrong with him? Not four hours ago he’d been clinging to the side of a cliff, fighting for his life and the life of his son. And now he was ogling the nanny.

Again.

When they reached the bottom of the steps, he peeled off and headed to the master suite, going straight for the bathroom and its walk-in shower. He stripped off his clothes, turned the dial to the coldest setting, and stepped in.

Under the harsh, pounding spray, his thoughts drifted invariably back to Mallory. No surprise there. She’d been creeping into his subconscious far too often since that night in the kitchen.