Page 7 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Chapter Three

There was nothing like an early-morning run on the beach as the sun turned the sky pink. The rumble and hiss of the surf underscoring the pounding of his sneakers on the wet sand, his only company the gulls and pipers foraging in the washed-up kelp. A chance to reflect on the day before. To plan the day ahead.

And, if Rhys was honest, to excise thoughts of a certain striking blonde who had invaded his home and his brain.

He pushed himself harder, trying to sweat her out of his system. It ran in rivulets down his face and neck, soaking his T-shirt. When he reached the rock jetty at the end of the beach, he pulled up short and bent over at the waist, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps.

It had been a mistake bringing Mallory to Flamingo Key. But it was one he was in the process of fixing ASAP. Until then, he’d keep his distance. With more than twenty rooms and an entire island to work with, that shouldn’t be a problem.

His resolve steeled, Rhys straightened, wiped his brow with the hem of his T-shirt, and started to retrace his steps, picking up the pace as he went. By the time he reached the stretch of beach in front of the house, he was winded and drenched with sweat again, the warm, peaceful waters of the Caribbean screaming for him to dive in and cool off.

It was a siren song he heard on almost every morning run but usually ignored, in too much of a rush to get a head start on his business day before the rest of the world woke up. But not today. Today he had a damn good reason to stay on the beach as long as humanly possible.

He kicked off his sneakers and peeled off his socks and shirt, leaving him in only lightweight running shorts. Not his typical swimming attire, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

As he neared the water’s edge, he could make out a small silhouette cutting through the waves like an Olympic medalist. No way either of the Flannigans could swim like that. Or Oliver, who had just learned to put his head under water and preferred their infinity pool to the salty ocean. Collins was a strong swimmer and sometimes took a dip before breakfast, but he’d taken the launch to Key West for supplies.

Which left only one possible person. The very person Rhys was trying like hell to avoid.

The smartest course of action would be to get the fuck out of there before she saw him. But then she stood, rising from the water like a goddess, and slicked back her long blond hair. The movement arched her back and thrust her breasts against the thin, almost sheer fabric of her one-piece swimsuit. It left so little to the imagination it might as well have been a dental floss bikini.

Rhys froze, all his good intentions—and any semblance of rational thought—evaporated. He stood transfixed, wishing his damn running shorts were a little less form-fitting, as Mallory wrung out her hair and blinked the water from her eyes.

The second she spotted him, the relaxed smile playing around the corners of her lips disappeared, replaced by a hard, thin line. Her hands balled into fists then slowly loosened, as if she had to will her fingers to relax.

“Miss Worthington.” He nodded a greeting. “Great minds think alike.”

“I hope it’s not a problem.” She folded her arms across her chest, hiding her scantily clad breasts from view. He didn’t know whether to say a silent prayer of thanks or curse his lousy luck. “Oliver’s still sleeping, and Mrs. Flannigan said he wouldn’t be out of bed for at least an hour.”

“It’s hard to resist the call of the Caribbean. You might as well take advantage of it while you’re here.”

A shadow crossed her beautiful face, and her eyes darted to the beach behind him. “Right. I’ll let you get to your swim.”

He mentally kicked himself in the ass.

Way to go, dickweed. Remind her she’s got one foot out the door.

As guilty as he felt for disrespecting his wife’s memory by sharing his house, even temporarily, with an attractive woman, Beth would have hated the way he was treating Mallory. He could almost hear her scolding him in that sweet, singsongy voice that betrayed her Southern roots, the voice that haunted his dreams, waking and sleeping.

She’s come all this way to help you. To help our son. The least you can do is be polite.

Rhys rubbed a hand over his jaw, scratchy with early-morning stubble. “You don’t have to leave on my account. The ocean’s big enough for the two of us.”

“I’m sure it is, but I was about to head back to the house.” Mallory gave her hair another twist, wringing out a few more drops of water that fell to her chest and clung there, defying gravity as they shimmered in the yellow-gold of the rising sun. “I want to be showered and dressed before Oliver wakes up.”

The mere mention of the word “shower” had Rhys’s sex-starved brain spinning off in a thousand directions. Her swimsuit didn’t leave much to the imagination, but his mind was more than willing and totally able to fill in the blanks. Slick, soapy skin. Water running over her soft curves and down her milky thighs. Her head tipped back, eyes closed, a low moan escaping her parted lips as she lathered up her hair.

“Mr. Dalton? What about breakfast?”

Her clipped words jerked him back to the present. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

She rolled her doe eyes. “I asked if Oliver had a favorite breakfast. I know I won’t be here long, but I thought I’d start off on the right foot by making something he likes.”

“Pancakes, I think. Or waffles.” Or was it French toast? Scrambled eggs? Rhys swore under his breath. Was he so preoccupied with work he didn’t know his own son’s food preferences?

“That’s okay. I’ll ask Mrs. Flannigan.”

Her words said okay, but there was no missing the judgment in her tone. It washed over him like a rogue wave, making him feel like even more of a shit than he already did.