Page 43 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

He drew one nipple into his mouth and flicked it with his tongue, gearing up for another round, when the patter of little feet came racing down the hall.

“Daddy? Are you up? I can’t find Mallory.”

“Shit.” She pushed him off her and scrambled to sit, clutching the sheet around her gorgeous breasts.

“Relax.” He gave her a quick kiss, jumped out of bed faster than his exhausted body should have been able to, and yanked on a pair of board shorts. “I’ve got this. I’ll get him some breakfast and take him outside to survey whatever damage there is from the storm. That should give you time to shower and get dressed.”

“Thanks.” She relaxed her grip on the sheet, and it slipped down a fraction of an inch, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of one creamy mound.

He commanded his libido, which had a mind of its own, to calm the fuck down and went for the door. He and Mallory had a lot to figure out.

But first he had to head off the impressionable four-year-old only seconds away from discovering them.

…

“Are you all right? I knew it was a bad idea for you to go down there.”

Her mother’s voice dripped with disapproval, and Mallory instantly regretted calling her. The hurricane-that-almost-was-but-wasn’t had been all over the news for days, and her guilty conscience wouldn’t let her rest until she let her parents know she was safe. But a quick text would have done the trick. And she could have deleted her mother’s snarky responses without reading them.

She tightened the belt on her robe and grabbed a brush to run through her freshly showered hair. “I’m fine, Mom. The storm turned out to be nothing.”

“Hurricanes and alligators—who needs that?” Mallory could almost hear her mother shudder over the phone line. “When are you coming home?”

“This is my home.” Mallory answered reflexively, but for the first time in a long time the words didn’t feel like a lie. Had she landed where she truly belonged? Found her place? Her purpose?

Her person?

She gave herself a mental shake. No. Her feeling of belonging wasn’t because she and Rhys were doing…whatever it was they were doing. It was Oliver, Collins, the Flannigans, all of them. In the short time she’d spent on Flamingo Key, they’d become like family to her.

“You know what I mean.” Pamela Sinclair Worthington was formidable when she was angry, and it was clear from her tone she was well on her way to royally pissed off. “You belong here, in New York, with us. Living in the guesthouse. Working at the Worthington. Not cooking, cleaning, and caring for some troglodyte and his spoiled son.”

Troglodyte?Who talked like that? The next time Mallory called her mother—if there was a next time—she’d be sure to have a dictionary handy.

“I don’t clean.” Mallory sat at her vanity and ran the brush aimlessly through her hair. “We have a housekeeper for that. And Oliver’s not spoiled. He’s a nice, normal four-year-old boy.” Who’d been through a lot for a little kid, something Mallory could relate to. But she wasn’t getting into that with her mother. The last thing she needed was a reminder of her daughter’s medical history.

She sighed and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Bee-stung lips. Tender breasts, her still-sensitive nipples clearly visible through the silk of her robe. She looked like a woman who’d been well and thoroughly shagged. Was it that obvious? Would Collins take one look at her when he got back and know what she and Rhys had done the night before? And that morning?

What about Oliver? He was young but perceptive. Would he figure out something was different?

“Are you still there?” Even traveling via radio waves from hundreds of miles away, her mother’s shrill tone could pierce Mallory’s ears. And her heart. “You’re deliberately avoiding the question.”

Mallory stuck the brush under her arm and switched the phone to her other ear. “What was that again?”

“You know perfectly well what I said.” Her mother practically spat out the words. Mallory swore she could feel spittle fly through the airwaves. “When are you going to give up this ridiculous charade and come home?”

With more calm than she felt, Mallory grabbed the brush and began tackling the hair on the other side of her head. She’d been spared her parents’ disapproval growing up thanks to her cancer and later because she’d played the dutiful daughter, going along with their plans for her without objection. Was this what Brooke had been dealing with all these years? How did she do it without resorting to physical violence? Mallory had new respect for her as-of-yet-non-homicidal sister.

“I know Dad doesn’t get it, but I thought you understood why I had to leave. I need to be on my own for a change, without you and Dad always there to catch me when I fall.”

“That was before your life was in danger in that swamp you’re calling home. I almost lost you once. I’m not going through that again. I can’t.”

Her mother’s voice broke on the last word, making Mallory feel like crap. But like her therapist said, as difficult as it had been for her parents to see her in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and monitors, it was wrong for them to use her illness to hold her hostage.

Not that she needed her parents to make her feel like a prisoner of her disease when she had reminders like the test results she was waiting on, hanging over her head like a guillotine.

She laid down the brush and stood. “I know my being sick was hard on you and Dad. But you can’t keep me in a bubble forever.”

“Why not?” Her mother sniffled. “It worked for John Travolta in that TV movie.”