Page 4 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Chapter Two

Rhys let out a relieved sigh asthe door swung shut behind the shapely ass of his would-be nanny, his relief almost immediately replaced by annoyance at his right-hand man. What was Collins thinking? Weren’t nannies supposed to be kindly gray-haired ladies, like Mrs. Doubtfire? Without the penis, naturally.

He slumped down at his desk and scrubbed a hand through his hair. As much as he wanted to blame his assistant, it was his fault, too. Collins might have screened the résumés the agency had sent over, but if Rhys had paid closer attention, taken time to have more than a five-minute phone conversation with the woman his assistant had picked as the best of the bunch, he would have realized she was all wrong for the position.

Beth had been gone three years, but sharing a house—even an eight-bedroom mansion with a large terrace, private pool, and four-car garage—with an attractive, single woman under the age of forty still felt disloyal to her. Especially since it was his fault she was dead.

He pushed away the guilt he’d fought like a demon every damn day for the last one thousand–plus days and pressed the intercom. Before he could speak, the door cracked open and Collins stuck his head in.

“It’s customary to knock.” Rhys released the button. No need for an intercom when the man you were looking for was standing right in front of you.

“It’s also customary not to fire the new nanny before she starts,” Collins shot back, entering the room fully and closing the door behind him.

“News travels fast. Book Miss Worthington on the first flight back to New York and line up some more experienced candidates for me to interview.” Translation: kind, matronly women in their fifties or sixties who smell like fresh-baked cookies and readGreen Eggs and Hamon demand. Rhys flipped open the file for his conference call in­­—he checked his Patek Philippe Nautilus—five minutes, hoping Collins would take the hint and consider the subject closed.

Instead of following his marching orders, Collins took a seat in one of the guest chairs. So much for taking the hint. “Can I speak freely?”

Rhys reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a Darth Vader PEZ dispenser. Unlike some collectors, he didn’t believe in hiding his treasures on a shelf or behind glass, with the exception of a few especially valuable pieces. A robot PEZ dispenser from the 1950s. A pre-1989 Batman PEZ in its original packaging. And his prize possession, a rare Mickey Mouse soft head prototype worth over seven thousand dollars.

He pulled back Darth’s head, and a yellow tablet popped out. Lemon. Beth’s favorite. She’d laughed at his obsession with the iconic candy, but eventually she’d come to appreciate the kitschy containers. Hell, she’d bought a good portion of them for him, including the one he held in his hand. He ran a thumb over Darth’s helmet as he stuck the tablet in his mouth and sucked on it. “If I said no, would that stop you?”

“Probably not.” Collins smirked. It was a good thing he’d made himself virtually indispensable, or Rhys would have canned his ass, too.

He consulted his watch again. “You’ve got four minutes.”

“You’re making a mistake sending Miss Worthington away.”

“You don’t say?” Rhys leaned back in his chair and crossed an ankle over his knee. “What makes you think that?”

Collins hesitated, then shrugged. “Call it a gut feeling.”

Rhys had a gut feeling, too, but it was telling him the more distance between him and Mallory Worthington, the better. He dropped another candy into his mouth and tossed the dispenser onto his desk. “Forgive me if I don’t trust your gut.”

“It’s not like you to dismiss someone without good cause.”

Rhys arched a brow. “Who says I don’t have good cause?”

“You just met the woman,” Collins said pointedly. “What could she have done in the minutes you spent with her to justify letting her go?”

Rhys stood and crossed to the rolling bar cart in the corner. He needed alcohol to get through this conversation. He poured himself two fingers of eighteen-year-old Macallan into a tumbler, added an extra splash for good measure, then turned back to his assistant.

He could have told Collins to fuck off. That he was the boss, and his reasons for sending Mallory Worthington packing were none of his assistant’s goddamn business.

But shutting himself away from the rest of the world meant there weren’t a lot of options when he needed a sounding board. In the seven years Collins had worked for him—especially in the three since Beth’s death—he’d become more than an employee. He’d become a trusted confidant, the one person Rhys could rely on to tell him the whole ugly, unvarnished truth.

The one person Rhys could come close to calling a friend.

Rhys sat back down at his desk and sipped his scotch. “We both know why having her here isn’t a good idea.”

“You mean because she’s young, attractive, and available, and so are you?”

Rhys wanted to wipe the persistent smirk off his assistant’s face. “How do you know she’s available?”

“She took this job and moved almost fifteen hundred miles from the city she called home at the drop of a hat.” Collins leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’d say she wasn’t worried about leaving anyone behind.”

“All the more reason why she can’t stay.” Rhys downed another gulp of scotch, relishing the burn as it streamed down his throat.

“Stop me if I’m overstepping my bounds…”