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The Billionaire's Nanny
Melissa McClone
TEMPORARY ASSISTANT…FULL-TIME FIANCЕE Just when he thinks "problem solved," internet billionaire AJ Cole realizes he needs more than a temp. He needs a fiancеe to show off when he returns home to Haley's Bay for the first time in ten years. His family has a habit of matchmaking, and AJ doesn't need the drama. But as soon as Emma Markwell agrees to his assignment, he learns that pretend love can feel oh-so real. Once a nanny, Emma's played many games of make-believe. This shouldn't be any different - until a few hot kisses meant for show blur the line between fantasy and reality! AJ doesn't do commitment, but Emma has always longed for true love and refuses to settle for less. AJ can't resist a challenge, and soon, he can't figure out if he's just trying to get into her bed...or keep her from getting into his heart.
“It’s time we acted like a real couple.”
Crackling with electricity, she averted her gaze. Afraid of … she didn’t know what, but AJ made her uncomfortable. His confidence, his strength, his wealth intimidated her. Two people couldn’t be more different. “But there’s no one around to see us.”
“If you can’t be comfortable with me close to you, touching you, we’ll never be able to pull this off with an audience.” He stroked her skin, sending her pulse rate climbing. “Is this so bad?”
“No.” Her hand snuggled against his, their fingers laced together in a natural way. Though she’d die before admitting that.
“If we’re going to sell being a couple, there’s something else we need to practice. Kissing in public.”
Her heart slammed against her chest. “You want to kiss me now?”
“Holding hands worked. Kissing seems the next logical step.”
AJ’s lips touched hers. Soft. Warm. Yummy.
Remember, he’s not your boyfriend.
But the truth was so easy to forget when the kiss felt this good.
The Billionaire’s
Nanny
Melissa McClone
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With a degree in mechanical engineering from Stanford University, the last thing MELISSA McCLONE ever thought she would be doing was writing romance novels. But analyzing engines for a major US airline just couldn’t compete with her happily-ever-afters. When she isn’t writing, caring for her three young children or doing laundry, Melissa loves to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, her cats and a good book. She enjoys watching home decorating shows to get ideas for her house—a 1939 cottage that is slowly being renovated. Melissa lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon, with her own real-life-hero husband, two daughters, a son, two lovable but oh-so-spoiled indoor cats and a no-longer-stray outdoor kitty that has decided to call the garage home.
Melissa loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 63, Lake Oswego, OR 97034, USA, or contact her via her website, www.melissamcclone.com (http://www.melissamcclone.com).
To the authors, readers and friends who helped me save Miss Mousie, a foster cat, who now has a forever home with us.
Special thanks to Sarah for sparking an idea about a nanny heroine, and Lisa Hayden, Terri Reed and Teresa Morgan.
Contents
Cover (#u427b47f1-5714-5f8e-90bd-af304d2350a0)
Introduction (#u1c93cf06-445d-5725-852a-1cb653028ed9)
Title Page (#u38a96036-d26a-54d9-80aa-94874d64d196)
About the Author (#uaa8561c9-f73c-5417-a492-dfd46fb7b943)
Dedication (#u0df401d0-3464-5c45-9843-3647b9c5f699)
Chapter One (#uac13318b-c41f-5746-9d90-3dd0560ef458)
Chapter Two (#u7532d902-2eb8-5526-a2fc-59306ad63e99)
Chapter Three (#u7563985b-732d-5415-8361-3ecc008e5e4e)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_f3da52db-6704-5d76-86ec-187a44c847ff)
“Mmmeorrrrrooooowwwrrrrreeee.”
The cat’s mournful they-left-me-here-to-die wail grated on Emma Markwell’s frazzled nerves. She wiped her sticky palms on her serviceable knee-length gray skirt. Her gaze dropped to the cat carrier on the floor of the small airport catering to corporate and private planes in Hillsboro, Oregon. “I know you don’t want to be here. Me, either. But we’ll be on our way to Haley’s Bay soon.”
Blossom hissed. The sound echoed across the waiting area.
Emma’s shoulders were hunched, as if she could hide from the people looking at her. But with the slasher movie sounds spewing from the she devil in the cat carrier, no one would ignore them now.
Perspiration dampened the back of Emma’s neck. The brown plait of French braid felt heavy and sticky. If she wasn’t careful, anxiety might create a perspiration crisis before she set foot on the private jet. Not good. She wanted to meet her new boss, Atticus Jackson “AJ” Cole, looking professional—a perfect temporary personal assistant—not show up on his plane smelly and wet.
So what if she hadn’t flown in five years, two months and seventeen days? The flight to AJ’s hometown in Washington, where the Columbia River met the Pacific Ocean, would be short. Time to pull herself together. Blossom, too. Emma peered into the crate.
The eight-year-old orange tabby’s backside greeted her. The cat’s tail trembled.
Poor kitty. Last night, Blossom’s first at Emma’s studio apartment in southeast Portland, hadn’t gone well. The foster cat had shredded two rolls of toilet paper. Now the cat stared at the crate wall as if she were in a time-out. Adjusting to a new environment was difficult when you were alone in the world. Emma had been old enough to understand what being a foster kid meant and learned to adapt, unlike this frightened feline.
She reached toward the carrier’s door. Sixteen years without any family to rely on and six years being a nanny made her an expert caretaker, no matter what the age or species of her charge. “Hey, no worries. I won’t let anything happen to you. Promise.”
The cat responded with a banshee yowl. Three men in business suits glared. A woman pressed her lips together and narrowed her gaze.
Emma rubbed her fingertips along the strand of fake pearls hanging over the neckline of her pink short-sleeved sweater set. She leaned closer to the crate’s door. “You might not agree, but traveling with me is your best option. Otherwise, you’d be stuck in a metal cage at a vet’s office while they repair the shelter. Kitten season means foster homes are full of little ones. I called each and every person on the foster list to see if they had room.”
None did. With such short notice, no pet sitter was available. That meant Blossom was coming along with Emma.
Traveling was difficult for animals, but especially cats. Still, the shelter director thought flying by a private jet and staying with Emma, who Blossom tolerated unlike the other shelter volunteers, would be less stressful than being crated at a clinic.
A name sounded over the PA system. Not Emma’s. Her relief was palpable.
A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a black messenger bag swung over his shoulder walked toward the door.
“Not our turn, Blossom.”
Thank goodness. Emma glanced around the waiting area full of orange upholstered chairs. People sat, working on tablets or laptops. Others stood, talking or texting on cell phones. No one looked nervous about flying. She hoped she didn’t. She crossed her fingers.
Always appear cool and confident even if you’re not, an instructor had told the class at the Rose City Nanny Academy. Emma lived by those words whether she was rushing bleeding or sick kids to the ER, speaking about a child’s behavior on behalf of a parent with a school principal or giving statements in custody battles. Today should be no different. Not should, would.
A security guard passed in front of her. A chain jiggled from his belt loop.
Blossom hissed.
“Stupid cat,” he muttered, walking away with a disapproving look.
“Stop acting like a grumpy diva,” Emma said to the cat. Blossom’s antisocial behavior had kept her from being shown at any of the Portland Paws Rescue’s adoption events. However, the cat did better one-on-one. “No one wants an unfriendly kitty. And you don’t want to spend the rest of your life at the cattery. Being in a forever home with a loving family would be so much better for you.”
She dreamed of owning a home and having a family herself. She would take care of her own house and children, not be an employee who never quite fit in or belonged. Someday...
Libby Hansen’s catchy ringtone sounded.
Emma grabbed her phone and hit Answer, eager to talk to her best friend recovering in a New York hospital. “How are you?”
“I could be better.”
Her pulse accelerated. “Complications from the ruptured appendix?”
“I wish.” Libby’s voice sounded dry, scratchy. “A smokin’ hot resident made rounds today. He didn’t give me a second glance. All he cared about was reading my chart.”
Emma released the breath she’d been holding. “He was wowed speechless by your beauty.”
“I look like a zombie from a high school kid’s horror movie project. Enough about me. You’re at the airport, right?”
“I’m here with Blossom.” Libby and her parents were Emma’s final foster family, the closest thing she had to living relatives. She would take Libby’s place as a personal assistant for the next five days, even fly, to give her friend the rest and recovery time she needed. “Attila hasn’t arrived yet.”
Libby sucked in a breath. “Don’t you dare call AJ that to his face.”
Emma hadn’t met Libby’s boss, but the nickname fit the photographs she’d seen of AJ. Over six feet with a beard, he looked more like a conquering warrior than computer geek turned billionaire. Libby described her boss as gorgeous. The guy might be attractive with a hot body, but Emma had never been a fan of tall, dark and dangerous men with facial hair. “You call him Attila.”
“Only when I’m hungry or PMSing or overworked.”
Libby sounded exhausted. But recovering from emergency surgery while on a business trip to the East Coast would wear a person out. “So that leaves what? Two days a month?”
“Ha. Ha. AJ’s a good boss who pays me extremely well.”
“A good boss does not wake you up in the middle of the night to order flowers for his woman du jour. Or make you spend Christmas on an airplane instead of with your family. Or put his interview on CNBC ahead of your abdominal pains. All that money he pays you is worthless if you’re dead.”
“Hey, I’m very much alive.”
No thanks to Mr. Atticus Jackson Cole. The what-ifs surrounding Libby’s appendix turned Emma’s stomach into enough knots to make a Boy Scout proud. “I’m thankful you’re alive.”
“I’m thankful you’re filling in for me on such short notice.” Libby, who focused on what her boss might need before he realized he needed something, didn’t miss a beat. Even when connected to an IV and on painkillers. “Did you have a shot of tequila?”
“It’s still morning.”
“Remember what happened when we flew to Mexico?”
“Of course.” Flying for the first time on a spring break trip to Puerto Vallarta had nearly turned into a one-way trip. Boarding a plane...no big deal. Accelerating along the runway...no big deal. Feeling weightless when the wheels lifted off the tarmac... Emma tapped her toe, a race-walk patter catching up to her marathon-run pulse. “Well, except for the flight home. You got me so drunk I passed out before the plane left the gate.”
“I did that on purpose, and my plan worked. You didn’t throw up. Go down a shot. For medicinal purposes. You need to settle your nerves for the flight.”
Getting drunk at ten in the morning on the first day of a new job wasn’t an option today. Emma would have to tough out the flight without alcohol. She’d survived worse, right? “My nerves are fine.”
“Your voice sounds an octave higher.”
“Bad connection.”
“I hope so, because AJ’s jet just landed.”
The phone slid from Emma’s sweat-slicked hand. She tightened her grip. “How do you know that?”
“I’m paid to know these things.” Libby’s words had a sharp edge, the way she sounded when handling a rare mishap. “But don’t worry. The majority of your work will be party planning. But you might have to remind AJ that he’s on vacation.”
Libby’s new tone and her old tales told Emma that caring for a dozen kids in training pants running with open pots of finger paints might be easier than assisting one billionaire while he tried to relax on a trip to his hometown. “I can’t believe I’m going to be doing your job.”
“You’re perfect. You’ve dealt with angst-ridden teens, tweens with horrible attitudes, tantrum-throwing kindergartners, pampered preschoolers and toddlers with death wishes. You can handle anything, including AJ.”
“I don’t know about that.” Emma watched a little girl carrying a stuffed dog and her mother talking into a cell phone walk into the restroom. “A bachelor billionaire with no kids doesn’t need me.”
“AJ needs you.” Certainty filled Libby’s voice. “Don’t let his type A personality get to you. Billionaires aren’t that different from toddlers except they know how to use silverware and occasional manners. Sometimes. Trust me, they need direction and supervision.”
“You’d think he could pull together his grandmother’s birthday party.”
“AJ doesn’t make his own dinner reservations,” Libby said matter-of-factly. “Arranging his grandmother’s soiree on his own is out of the question.”
Emma’s insides twisted. “Soiree sounds fancier than a party.”
“Semantics. Stop worrying. You threw a spectacular birthday party for the twins.”
Abbie and Annie. Cute six-year-old twins Emma had cared for the past year.
