The Billionaire's Nanny

“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

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.

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

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

“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.

Trey Lundberg. Their handsome, widowed father who was about as perfect as a dad could be.

A weight pressed against Emma’s chest. She’d stopped working for Trey three months ago. He’d made his personal interest in her clear and suggested they go out without the girls. Everything Emma wanted—a family of her own and the house with the white picket fence—had been within her grasp. But something had felt off. The idea of a ready-made family appealed to her, but Trey was still grieving the loss of his wife. Any feelings he had for Emma couldn’t be real. Not that soon after burying the mother of his children. The more Emma had thought about going after her dreams with Trey, the more wrong doing so had felt. So she quit.

She shifted the phone to her other ear. “The twins were easy. They’re little.”

“AJ’s grandmother is little. Barely five feet tall from what I’ve heard.”

Emma sighed. “Libby.”

“What? You have all the skills needed for my job. I could never do yours because of the crud and ick factor.”

True. Libby didn’t do crud or ick. She moved ten feet away from people who sneezed. She used two napkins during meals. She carried hand sanitizer at all times.

Emma never minded the messes kids made. Holding tissues during nose blowing. Wiping jelly spots off Abbie’s cheeks. Helping Annie change her sheets before anyone noticed her wet bed.

A lump formed in Emma’s throat, pressed upward. No regrets. She couldn’t work for the Lundbergs when she didn’t have the same feelings for Trey as he had for her. She’d helped find her replacement, trained the new nanny and told the girls to call if they needed anything...anytime.

A wistful, but not unexpected, sigh escaped. She wanted to find that special someone who would take care of her the way she took care of everybody else. Too bad happily-ever-after endings happened only in storybooks, not real life.

Emma cleared her throat. “The cruddy stuff isn’t so bad. There’s lots of fun to be had on the playground, believe it or not.”

Except on the swings. She hated swings.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Libby said.

Emma’s name sounded over the PA system. Every muscle group bunched, including ones she’d never met. Her stomach jangled, a mix of worry and trepidation.

She’d ridden enough elevators and carnival rides to know her tummy’s reaction to weightlessness. Antigravity was her proven enemy, its falling sensation her greatest fear.

She blew out a puff of air. “Time to go.”

“Good luck, not that you need it.”

She swallowed. “Thanks.”

“Have a good flight.”

The line disconnected.

Emma tucked her phone into her tote bag, hand trembling. She swung the leather strap over her shoulder then picked up the cat carrier. “Here we go, Blossom.”

The cat’s snarl sounded like a combination of moan, hiss and spit. An omen of things to come? Emma hoped not.

* * *

The jet taxied on the tarmac in Hillsboro, Oregon. Except for a slight movement of AJ’s tablet on the table in front of his seat and a glance out the window, he wouldn’t have realized they’d landed. Not surprising. His flight crew consisted of top-notch, former military pilots. AJ never worried what was happening in the cockpit. But he was worried about the stranger, a nanny with a cat, who would be his assistant for the next five days. AJ rubbed his chin.

Emma is my best friend. She’s smart and conscientious. A hard worker. She doesn’t like to fly, but trust me. She’s the perfect person, the only person, to take my place while you’re in Haley’s Bay.

Libby had been his personal assistant for two years. He had no reason to doubt her. Relying on her recommendation made more sense than yanking an employee away from other duties or hiring an untested temp from a service. A nanny should be able to follow directions, entertain his brother Ellis’s kids at their grandmother’s birthday party and, most importantly, deal with AJ’s family. He wasn’t a fan of cats, but he hoped the feline would be a distraction. The more attention his family gave the cat, the less they would give AJ. A win-win situation for all involved. Mostly him.

Dad wouldn’t say much, if anything, unless forced to talk by Mom. The man would never forgive AJ for leaving Haley’s Bay and the family business after graduating from college. The fact that he’d bailed out the fishing company during the economic downturn had only made his father resent AJ more. As if he’d had any other choice.

What was he supposed to do? See his family bankrupt and out of work, especially Ellis with a wife and two kids? No way. AJ had the means. Not helping would have been worse. Unthinkable.

He would never apologize to his father or anyone in his family for choosing to make billions with a computer instead of breaking his back working on a boat. AJ regretted nothing. He doubted his dad could say the same thing, if Jack Cole ever decided to talk to his oldest son again.

AJ wasn’t sure how his four younger brothers would react to his being home. Only Grady, the youngest of the family, kept in touch. At least AJ wouldn’t have to worry about the female members of the Cole family.

The Cole women would welcome him home with smiles and hugs. His grandmother, mom and two sisters called, texted, Skyped and visited him as much as they could. Though the four would likely be butting their noses into his life and asking much too personal questions while he was there. His stomach tightened.

Why had he wanted to come back? Oh, yeah. His grandmother’s eightieth birthday.

An alarm sounded. The buzzing filled the cabin and made him glance at his tablet.

A message illuminated the screen. Conference Call—Marketing Department. Libby must have set his clock when he said goodbye at the hospital. The woman was the definition of competent, vital to his success for keeping his life running smoothly.

If only Libby were here with him. Damn appendix. Striking her down in New York. He balled his hands. AJ couldn’t believe Libby had hidden her condition from him until it was almost too late. A foolish move, but one done out of loyalty to him. She knew how much he relied upon her. Or had until leaving him stuck with a nanny from Portland, Oregon.

If AJ didn’t know better, he would think his father planned this. But nothing, not a hospitalized assistant or a cat-carrying nanny, would stop AJ from showing his family how far he’d come. Nothing was going to stop him from making a triumphant return to Haley’s Bay.

Nothing at all.

* * *

Emma stepped outside the terminal, a sunny August sky overhead. Flying was safer during good weather, right?

But the roar of engines weighted her feet like chimney bricks.

For Libby. Step by dragged step, Emma crossed the tarmac toward a new-looking jet. Her heart pounded in her throat.

For Libby. Emma clasped the jet’s railing. Her legs trembled—don’t stumble—and she forced herself to climb the short staircase, one step, then another, followed by two more.

For Libby. Emma stepped into the plane. The hair on the back of her neck and arms prickled, ramrod straight beneath her sweater.

Noise from planes taking off and landing faded. Air-conditioning cooled her skin. The jet’s interior muted tones exuded calm comfort. The plush carpet and cushioned chairs were a hundred and eighty degrees different from flying on a packed 737 with zero legroom and no empty seats. This time might be different.

“Welcome aboard, Miss Markwell.” An attractive woman with long blond hair, a light blue blouse and navy slacks greeted her with a bright, white-tooth smile. “I’m Camille. I’ll be your flight attendant today.”

“Hi, I’m Emma.” She forced a first impression smile and raised the cat carrier, welcoming the distraction. “Is there a place this should go?”

“I have the perfect spot.” Camille took the carrier. “What’s your cat’s name?”

“Not my cat. She’s a foster. Long story. But her name is Blossom. Thank you.”

Camille peered into the carrier. “Hello, Blossom.”

The cat’s growl, a hair-raising, guttural sound, made Emma cringe.

Eyes wide, the flight attendant drew back. Her at-your-service smile faltered. She lifted the carrier away from her body as if radioactive waste filled the inside, then tipped her head to her left. “AJ’s in the cabin.”

“Thank you.”

Emma passed between two forward-facing leather-covered captain’s chairs. Each seat contained a television screen and game controller. The understated look was more luxurious man cave than flashy flaunt of wealth.

The next row faced backward. Someone with a head of thick brown hair occupied the seat to her left.

Attila. Atticus. AJ. This had to be him.

Libby thought the world of her boss, when she wasn’t complaining about AJ. She described him as exacting. “Workaholic” was how Emma imagined him, based on how many hours he kept Libby working. And prompt. Libby said he would fire a manager if a project went over schedule, break up with a woman if she arrived late for a date and eviscerate a chef if forced to wait between courses.

Not everything Emma had heard about AJ Cole was awful. He paid employees well, was a philanthropist and doted on his grandmother, who visited him in Seattle at least once a month. The guy couldn’t be all bad if he was throwing his grandma an eightieth birthday party—make that a soiree.

Voices sounded. Three or four.

Emma didn’t see anyone else on board. She stepped closer.

The brown-haired man sat with a tablet in front of him. Three other faces appeared on the screen. One, a woman, spoke about branding.

Emma glanced from the tablet to her temporary boss. Whoa. A six-foot-plus mass of male hotness sat in the seat. A guy with no beard.

She blinked. Refocused. Still hot. Definitely AJ. She recognized his intense green eyes from the photographs.

Yum. Libby called her boss a nice piece of eye candy, but now that Emma was standing next to AJ Cole, he seemed more like a five-pound box of gourmet chocolates. Mouthwateringly delicious.

His gray suit jacket, expertly tailored, accentuated straight, wide shoulders. Unruly brown hair, curly at the ends, fringed the starched collar of his white dress shirt. His ruggedly handsome features fit perfectly together, making her heart accelerate like a car on a racetrack.

His smoldering gaze met hers.

Her throat tightened. She wished he hadn’t shaved his beard so she wouldn’t find him attractive. Then again, she still might. A photograph couldn’t capture the 3-D version of the living, breathing man.

He motioned with his finger to the seat facing him. A small table separated the two chairs.

Emma removed the tote bag strap from her shoulder and sat. She ignored the conversation from the conference chat, not wanting to eavesdrop. She pressed each button to see what it did. Peering inside the pouch on the side of her seat, she saw a barf bag. She hoped she wouldn’t need it.