Page 6 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Mallory bit her lip to stop herself from asking the gray-haired housekeeper to call her by her first name. What did it matter? And what did it matter if Mallory approved of the accommodations or not? She wouldn’t be staying long.

Her gut twisted at the thought, and she let out an involuntary sob.

“Everything all right, dear?” Mrs. Flannigan asked, staring at Mallory expectantly. The woman must think she was a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

“Yes.” Mallory gave the housekeeper a smile she hoped read reassuring and not psycho ax murderer waiting to strike. “Thank you.”

“Collins brought up your bag.” Mrs. Flannigan gestured to the corner, where her overnight tote sat on an overstuffed chair. “Ring if there’s anything else you need. The intercom is on the wall next to the bed.”

“Thanks, I will.” Mallory spotted the boxes she’d sent at the foot of the enormous four-poster bed. No use unpacking. She’d slap new labels on them and call the shipping company to pick them up. Or maybe she could dig out her nail polishes. She had the sudden urge to repaint her toenails. Something to match her mood, like Here Today Aragon Tomorrow or Got Myself Into a Jam-balaya. She deserved a little pampering after uprooting her entire life and traveling hundreds of miles just to be summarily dismissed by a condescending, arrogant, self-righteous…

“Breakfast is at eight.” Mrs. Flannigan’s light, lilting voice interrupted Mallory’s rapidly escalating internal tirade. There weren’t enough adjectives in the English language for her to express her extreme dislike—she reserved the word “hate” for things like tabloid journalism and undercooked seafood and the cancer that stole her childhood and almost her life—of Rhys Dalton. She supposed she should be grateful he was feeding her before shipping her out.

“Thanks,” she said again, forcing a smile so the kindly older woman wouldn’t spot her inner turmoil. “What time will Collins be taking me to the airport?”

“Airport?” Mrs. Flannigan’s brows drew together in confusion.

Great. Now Mallory had the added embarrassment of having to explain the whole humiliating situation. Out loud. To a virtual stranger. Making it seem that much more real and five times more mortifying. She cleared her throat. “I guess you haven’t heard. I won’t be staying.”

Mrs. Flannigan clucked her tongue. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but my instructions were very clear. You’ll be here at least a week, maybe more. Mr. Dalton wants you to meet Oliver in the morning and help out until the new nanny gets here.”

Mallory went from confused to majorly pissed off in a nanosecond. Who did this guy think he was, ordering her to hang around and wait for her replacement to show up? As if she weren’t humiliated enough already. She was a highly skilled, sought-after culinary artist, not some lackey content to do his bidding.

“Where is he?” She clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides. “I want to talk to him. Now.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

No, she didn’t. But for maybe the first time in her life she was going to stand up for herself. Wasn’t that what this whole stunt—her father’s word—was all about? Taking charge of her life, making her own decisions, not letting anyone else determine the course of her future? “Just take me to him. Please.”

“Well.” The older woman leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, even though there was no one else in hearing distance. “If I were you, I’d let him sleep on it. Tomorrow’s a brand-new day. Play your cards right, and you might change his mind.”

“And convince him to put me on the next plane home?”

“No.” Mrs. Flannigan’s silvery gray eyes twinkled. “And convince him to let you stay. Permanently. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Was it? When she left New York, Mallory was so sure she was doing the right thing. But now? Was this where she was supposed to be, or had she been in such a hurry to escape, to go somewhere —anywhere—she could start with a clean slate, one that didn’t have “cancer survivor” written all over it, that she’d run to the wrong place?

She shook her head. “What I want doesn’t matter. Mr. Dalton made it clear I’m not his idea of good nanny material.”

“So show him you are.” Mrs. Flannigan moved to the bed and started to turn down the sheets.

Show him you are.Could it be that simple?

“I’ll leave you to think it over.” The housekeeper finished off the bed with a pat and headed toward the door. “Things always look different in the light of day.”

Mallory watched her leave, then scanned the pile of boxes for the one markedToiletries. A new pedicure was definitely in order. But she had a different color in mind. Something along the lines of Tanacious Spirit or No Stopping Me Now. Because if she was going to change Rhys Dalton’s mind about firing her, she’d need all the help she could get.