Page 22 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Damn him, he was right. She was jumping to conclusions, assuming that like her father and mother and everyone back home who knew about her illness, he saw her as a fragile flower, in need of constant protection. Not her usual modus operandi. She was more of a glass-half-full, always-look-on-the-bright-side-of-life kind of girl.

What was it about this man that brought out her inner pit bull? And when had his opinion of her become so important?

She didn’t have time to figure it out because Rhys was speaking again, looking at her with a smile that was part snappy comeback, part sexy invitation. “I changed my mind. You’re world-wise and urbane.”

She regarded him semi-suspiciously, knowing he was only half serious. Still, for Oliver’s sake—she swiveled around and was relieved to see he was sitting contentedly cross-legged on the blanket, scraping the sides of his jar with his finger to coax out the last bits of pie—it was best they learn to get along.

After a long minute that felt like an eternity, she took Rhys’s outstretched hand and shook it. “Deal.”

Big. Mistake. The second their fingers touched something hot and molten sparked inside her, racing down her arm to settle between her legs. She jerked her hand away and took a step back, almost tripping over the picnic basket.

“Your turn, Daddy,” Oliver insisted. “You have to burp. Otherwise Mallory will think you don’t like her chicken.”

Mallory silently praised the powers that be for the impatient interruptions of small children. Oliver’s outburst was the cold dose of reality she needed to rein in her raging hormones. As long as he was around, she’d have to keep whatever was going on inside her in check.

Now she just had to make sure he was always around. Shouldn’t be much of a problem. It wasn’t as if Rhys Dalton was dying to be alone with her. The man did everything in his power to steer clear of her. If there was any way he could avoid her completely, she was 100 percent positive he would.

He proved her point by retreating to the UTV under the pretense of retrieving his sunglasses. “I’m fairly certain Mallory knows how I feel about her chicken. I ate three pieces.”

“Four,” Mallory corrected. “But who’s counting?”

“You, apparently.” With his Wayfarers on, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she’d bet her mother’s Tiffany signature pearl-and-white-gold necklace they were laughing at her.

“Can we go swimming now?” Oliver pleaded, bouncing on the balls of his bare feet.

“Not for another fifteen minutes.” Mallory fished a plastic pail and shovel out of her tote bag and held them out to him.

“I think I saw some sea glass over by those rocks.” She gestured to the cliff Oliver had recognized earlier, the one he correctly said looked like a duck. “How about we collect some and take it home? We can put it in jars. Or use it to make something, like a picture frame.”

“For my mom’s picture?” He looked hopefully at his father.

Rhys nodded stiffly. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Oliver grabbed the pail and raced across the sand, leaving the adults behind without a backward glance. “I’m gonna find all the blue pieces. I like those best.”

“So did Beth,” Rhys mused under his breath, making Mallory wonder if he realized she was still within earshot. “She said it was the hardest color to find. She loved reverse gems.”

“Reverse gems?”

“Traditional gems like diamonds are made by nature and refined by man,” Rhys explained. “Sea glass is made by man but refined by nature. That’s how Beth liked to describe it.”

Mallory stared down at her bare feet, digging her toes into the sand. She’d somehow managed to forget his late wife’s tie to the picnic spot she’d chosen. Or deliberately pushed it to the back of her mind.

“I’m sorry for bringing you here.” It sounded so inadequate, so hollow, but she couldn’t come up with anything more fitting.

Rhys stared down the beach at the distant form of his son, squatting down to sift through the sand and stones. Whether it was because Rhys couldn’t or wouldn’t look at her, Mallory wasn’t sure.

“You had no way of knowing,” he said finally, his voice flat and expressionless. Either he had no emotions—which clearly wasn’t true from the flashes of warmth she’d seen between him and his son—or he was fighting to keep them under control.

“Oliver figured it out pretty quickly. If I had paid more attention to the picture…”

“The one you stole?”

He turned to face her, and she wished he hadn’t. His face was a mix of amusement and angst.

“About that…”

“Stop.” He held up a hand. “It was a joke. A bad one.”