Nanny to the Billionaire's Son

Just as well. Dating had not played a big part of his life since Chris died and he liked spending time with his son.

But it would take a while to forget that kiss with Sam. He had tried to move on after grieving for Chris, only no one had come close to replacing her in his life. Sam was nothing like his wife, yet he could almost taste her on his lips. He remembered the warmth that had crashed through him when she’d returned the kiss. Another one or two of those wouldn’t hurt. It would prove he was still living and capable of moving forward. Chris would have wanted that.

“So, how was it?” Charlene asked as soon as Sam entered the kitchen the next morning.

Sam smiled at her sister and went to pour herself some hot coffee. She’d slept later than normal because it had taken a long time to fall asleep after her magical evening. Thankfully today was a holiday, or she’d be a zombie at work. Home before one, it was actually after three before she stopped reliving every precious memory of Mac McAlheny.

“It was fabulous, how else?” she replied, turning and leaning against the counter. She glanced down at her bunny slippers, a fun Christmas offering from her sister. She sighed softly. She was much more a bunny-slipper kind of gal than elegant socialite.

“For one evening I felt like Cinderella,” she said slowly.

“You looked so marvelous,” her sister said.

“You told me that before I left,” Sam commented, grinning. She had felt marvelous. “The hotel was fabulous. I saw lots of people who are in the newspaper all the time. The mayor was there, and our representative. The food was to die for. And I had the best dance partner in the world. Tall, dark and handsome—and he could dance better than Fred Astaire, I believe.” She ended, mentioning one of Hollywood’s most famous dancers she and her sister enjoyed watching in old black and white movies.

“Ooooh, do tell all!”

Sam put some bread in the toaster and began to relate every delicious memory of the previous evening to her sister. She ended with her dances with Mac.

“We danced, then I left.”

“That’s all?” Charlene clearly wanted more.

“Actually the tall, dark and handsome stranger turned out to be the man from whose office I got the ticket. What are the odds of that happening? Once I realized that, I left before he figured it out. I consider that a lucky break. I was worried half the evening that someone would spot me as an imposter and have me thrown out.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. The ticket had been thrown away. You were just recycling,” Charlene said.

“Which was the argument you used to talk me into going. And I’m glad I did, but the longer I stayed, the more chance there was of someone asking how I came to acquire a ticket.”

“No one would have been so rude. And your dress fit in, didn’t it? You’ll have to tell Margaret all about it.”

“You should have seen the designer creations there. But I held my own. It’s a lovely gown and I’m so glad she trusted it to me. What if I had spilled champagne on it or, worse, caviar?”

Charlene laughed. “My sister, the champagne and caviar girl.”

“Well, champagne maybe. I don’t think I’ll be eating caviar again.” Sitting at the table, she finished her toast, still feeling the warm glow from the night before. She’d had a fabulous time. If only she could have afforded to buy a ticket on her own and gone without a care in the world. The party had ended too early for her and would never be repeated.

She’d relished the sensations she experienced wearing that shimmery satin dress. It would take a long time to forget the feelings of elegance and sophistication. A magic beginning to the New Year.

And a kiss to welcome it in. She hadn’t had that in a few years, either.

She glanced up, at the coat hanging from the nail on the plywood at the back. She’d hung it on one of the nails last night to let the dampness dry.

“At least that’s good for something,” she muttered.

“Hey, we’re warm and dry,” Charlene said.

“Dry anyway. It’s drafty in here. And I’m so tired of using a camping stove for cooking instead of our old gas range. It’ll take weeks to finish paying off the roof before we can start saving for this repair. It’s already the worst part of winter. Do we want the back wall open to the elements now? The house is hard enough to heat in winter without losing a wall for a few days.” She sighed. She was back to reality with a vengeance.

Charlene gazed at the damaged space patched by panels of plywood. “It could have been worse—we could have been in here when the tree crashed through.”

“We were too busy trying to stem the flood of water coming in through the attic when parts of the roof blew off,” Sam reminded her. The hurricane that had freakishly blown into Georgia last September had wreaked havoc in a wide swatch of the state, including this southside of the state capital. Their roof, more than a hundred years old, had not stood up to the gale force winds. Nor had the huge old oak trees that fell beneath that force when the soil became saturated with all the water that rained down for days. Only one fallen tree had damaged the house, thank goodness. But it had done a tremendous job of taking out most of the back wall.

Insurance covered a portion of the repair costs but it was up to Sam to earn the extra money needed to finish the repairs and get their home back in order. Charlene did the best she could, but there was a limit to her work as a transcriptionist.

“Happy New Year, Sam,” Charlene said, raising her mug.

Sam clinked hers against her sister’s and smiled. “Happy New Year, sis.”

She felt her eyes fill with tears and blinked, looking away. Only a short time ago she’d been kissed into the New Year.

“So are we going to make New Year’s resolutions?” Charlene asked.

“We do each year, why should this one be different?” Sam asked, hoping her sister didn’t see her distress.

“Then, I resolve to make a push to sell some of my quilts,” Charlene said.

Sam laughed. “You say that every year.” There was nothing wrong with her life. She should be grateful it was as full as it was.

“This time I mean it. I’ll force myself. It’s not right that you have to do everything for me. I’m capable. The damage from the hurricane shows me how close to the edge we live. I need to do something to contribute to the unusual expenditure, not be a drain.”

“You’re not a drain. You have your job and I have mine.”

“Face it, Sam. If I can get some of these quilts sold, it would help a lot and make your time working that second job shorter.”

Her sister had been confined to a wheelchair since the accident nine years ago. Charlene would never walk again, nor dance, nor enjoy all the freedom that Sam took for granted. But she pulled her own weight with her home-based job and as a hobby made beautiful quilts. Some were the traditional kind that went on beds. But more and more she was doing artistic work—quilted pictures and clothing. Sam had two of her quilted vests and always received compliments when she wore them.

“And you should resolve to go back to school,” Charlene said before Sam could think up a single resolution.

“I have a full-time job and am working nights until we get the house repaired. When do you suggest I consider attending classes and studying?” Sam asked. She loved the courses she took at one of the local colleges. It was taking far longer than she originally expected to get her degree, but she drew closer each year.

“I don’t know, but you need to put that as a resolution. If I could sell a few quilts for enough money, we could catch up on the bills and arrange for the repairs.”

“You do that and I’ll look into college again.” She rose and went to the sink to run water in her cup, not wanting Charlene to see how fragile her control was. She longed to return to college to finish her degree. She had less than a year’s worth of classes left. Once she had her B.S., she would apply for a job with the National Park Service. She’d have to make sure she could afford living arrangements for her and her sister if she got selected. But if they could renovate this house, they could either sell it, or rent it out when they moved west. It was the only legacy their parents had left them. It was a mixed blessing, now, with the hurricane damage.

“I’ll need help,” Charlene said.

“With what?” Sam turned to look at her sister. She was so pretty and seemed so small tucked in that chair.

“Getting contacts. Finding someone willing to buy the quilts,” Charlene said.

“Doesn’t your quilting guild have contacts?”

“Not really. Everyone there dreams of selling their work for fabulous sums and becoming famous and rich. I think the patterns are a better aspect to focus on. I have quite a few I designed, you know.”

Sam hadn’t a clue how to market her sister’s quilts. But she could find out. This was the first time Charlene had sounded like she was serious, rather than simply indulging in wishful thinking, so Sam would be as supportive as possible.

“And you should date,” Charlene said. “You still have weekends.”

Sam blinked at that. “What? Where did that come from?”

“You haven’t gone out on a date since the hurricane. You don’t have to stay home with me all the time,” her sister said candidly.

“Charlene, you know I only have the weekends to catch up on chores and get some rest. Besides, I don’t have anyone in mind right now. Jason at work asked me, but I don’t see myself and him having anything in common except the Beale Foundation, and I don’t want to talk business on a date.”

Charlene bit her lip. “Well, once things turn around.”

“I can’t conjure up dates,” Sam said, her mind instantly bringing Mac’s face to the forefront. He’d be the last person she’d date. What if he found out about the ticket? How embarrassing that would be!

“But if you go places where men are, you could meet some interesting ones and get asked out.”

Sam had met a very interesting man last night. Only circumstances conspired to make sure they never met again. She wasn’t sure whether she wished she’d never used the ticket or not.

“Okay, the next time a presentable man asks me, I’ll go out.” The chances of that happening were slim to none, so she felt safe making the commitment.

“Until then, you can help me sort through my stuff and see which quilt would be the best to start marketing,” Charlene said.

Mac and Tommy stood on the porch waving Louise farewell. The little boy still didn’t grasp the full extent of the departure. He would begin to get it when Louise wasn’t there to prepare dinner or tuck him in. And again when a new nanny arrived.

Tommy had his arm around Mac’s neck and waved with his other hand. “Bye-bye,” he said.

Mac waited until the car was out of sight before heading back inside. It was cold, but the rain had stopped during the night.

“Want to go to the park later?” he asked as he put Tommy down.

“Yes!” The little boy raced around in excitement. An hour or so at the park would burn off some of that energy.

Louise had left a casserole for dinner, so that left only lunch to prepare—something Mac could handle. But the next few weeks were going to see a lot of changes.

He went to his room to get his keys. He’d emptied his pockets last night, placing the contents on the dresser. Keys, billfold, tickets. Both his and Sam’s. He picked them up to drop them in the trash when he noticed the numbers were sequential.

For a moment he stared at them. One was crumpled as if someone had balled it up and tossed it into the trash. From where it had been retrieved and used?

Was this the ticket he’d bought for Teresa and tossed away when he decided to break it off with her? For a long moment he stared at them, trying to come up with another scenario. How had Sam gotten hold of his discarded ticket?

Mac McAlheny arrived late at work on Monday—an unheard-of event. The new nanny had shown up on time, but Tommy had taken an instant dislike to her. Mac had stayed with his son until he had calmed down and agreed to give Mrs. Horton a chance. The woman wasn’t precisely warm and loving, but was competent, as Mac knew having interviewed her twice and checked her references. She had also come highly recommended. Mac hoped she and Tommy would get along until he could sort out a more permanent solution.

“Good morning, boss,” Janice said. His secretary had been with him from the beginning and knew as much about the business as he did. “Late isn’t your style,” she commented, following him into his corner office.

“Domestic problems, I’m afraid. Tommy didn’t take to Mrs. Horton.”

“Poor kid. It has to be hard on him changing like that,” she said. Placing two folders on the desk, she leaned one hip against the edge. “Anything I should know before the day starts?”

They often began the day going over his appointments and reviewing updates on projects.

“Who does the cleaning of our offices?” Mac asked, glancing at the folders.

“Whoa, where did that come from?” She glanced around at the immaculate room. “Are you unhappy with the standard of work?” she asked.

“Just curious about something,” Mac said. The more he considered the idea, the more he began to think it held merit. Sam had somehow obtained the invitation he’d thrown away. The only way he could picture it was if someone from the cleaning staff had taken it. Had he or she then sold it? Or had that been Sam herself? He’d realized how little he knew about her when he tried to figure out how she’d obtained the ticket.

“The building owners arrange for that. It’s in our lease they’ll take care of it. If you want, I can find out who they hire.”

“Please do. And then call the two employment agencies looking for a housekeeper for me and find out why there isn’t one qualified woman in all of Atlanta who would like to have a live-in job keeping house and watching one small boy.”

“Got it, boss.” Janice headed for her desk.

Mac glanced at the phone messages, and began to return some calls. As soon as Janice had the information he needed, he’d put work on hold and track down Samantha-my-friends-call-me-Sam.

While he didn’t want to think about people going through his trash, he suspected that’s what had happened. Did Sam work as a cleaner? Employment these days was difficult to find, even for skilled workers.

He tossed aside the paper he was reading and leaned back in his chair. He’d been intrigued by her the entire evening. She was one of the few women under forty who hadn’t tried to flirt, hadn’t hinted she’d be available if he ever called. Hadn’t made a big deal out of a New Year’s kiss. Hadn’t practically invited herself back to his place.

He remembered at the table when she’d turned from him to talk with the man on her other side. It was an unusual experience for Mac in recent years. Ever since Chris died and the company had taken off, he felt he’d become prey for determined single women. He’d shared everything with Chris—hopes, dreams, pet peeves. Now it seemed his unexpected wealth had become the most important part of his personality.

Except to Sam.

Even when he’d held her while dancing, she had not flirted. He could tell she truly enjoyed herself. Unself-consciously. Her smile had been genuine, lighting up her dark eyes. Her hair was also dark, so unlike Chris’s blond mane.

He frowned. He wasn’t comparing his wife with other women. There would never be anyone to take her place in his heart or his life.

The phone buzzed; it was Janice.

“Jordan Maintenance keeps this building clean,” she said. “Want the number?”

“Yes.” Mac jotted it down and then called the firm. In only moments, he had Samantha’s last name, Duncan. The firm would not give out personal information but had let that slip. The owner, Amos Jordan, was quite flustered to have one of the building’s tenants call. Mac normally would not have even mentioned the situation, but he hoped to learn more about his mystery woman. Mr. Jordan revealed nothing else and assured him the cleaning staff was of the highest caliber.

Hanging up frustrated, Mac reached for a phone book. No Samantha Duncan listed in Atlanta. Damn, how was he going to find her? Camp out tonight and wait for the cleaning staff to arrive? He couldn’t do it—he had to get home for Tommy. But he’d find a way.

“But, Mr. Jordan, I didn’t steal anything,” Samantha tried to explain to the boss of the cleaning crew she worked for. The cleaning position, though not really a job she relished, had nonetheless been a lifesaver in providing much-needed cash with minimum training.

Now she’d been accused of theft and was being fired!

“The client was displeased. I have the reputation of my company to consider. I thought I could trust everyone, but to find someone of your caliber stooping so low is more than I care to deal with,” he said.

“It was in the trash,” she interjected.

“If important papers were in the trash, would you take them and sell to the highest bidder?” he asked.

“Of course not!”

“How could I trust you? If you take one thing, you could take another.”

Sam rested her forehead against her palm, her elbow on her desk. Thank goodness the door to her tiny office was shut. She couldn’t bear for anyone to hear this conversation.

“Please, Mr. Jordan, there was no harm done. It was trash. I was recycling,” she said, giving the airy excuse Charlene had used. It was stupid. She shouldn’t have done it. She wouldn’t have done it if she’d been thinking clearly, but the chance for a wonderful night had proved too alluring.

And now her dream man from the ball had accused her of theft. She felt sick—not only for the accusation, but because he thought that of her. She knew she’d never run into Mac again—their worlds were light-years apart. But she wished he’d been left with a pleasant memory, not one tainted by his thinking she’d stolen something.

“I regret the situation, although I have no choice but to fire you. I will also not provide you with a reference,” Mr. Jordan said heavily.

Sam took a deep breath. “I understand. Thank you for the opportunity to work for your firm,” she said. She recognized the inevitable when she saw it.

“Damn,” she said after hanging up the phone. She sat up and gazed out the narrow window where the sun was shining. How ironic. On the most fabulous night of her life it had been pouring rain. Now the worst thing had to happen and the sun shone.

Not the worst—that would be if Mac McAlheny made the entire situation public.

“Oh, no,” she groaned quietly. She couldn’t have her reputation smirched. It would jeopardize her job at the Beale Foundation.

When she thought about it, really considered it from his point of view, she could concede he had a point. Those tickets went for five hundred dollars each. Just because it had been tossed away didn’t negate its value. And she’d used it as if it had been given to her.

She was stricken with remorse. It had seemed like a lark. First to find it and take it home to Charlene to show the embossed script, the fancy gold seal. Then to fantasize about attending. The actual borrowing the dress from Margaret’s boutique and going now seemed like the dumbest thing she’d ever done.

Closing her eyes, she could still see Mac’s eyes as he gazed down into hers as they danced. Their special kiss. Her heart rate increased thinking about it. The image dissolved as she remembered he had filed a complaint with the owner of the cleaning company.

What could she do to make amends? Send him a check to cover the cost of the ticket? And where would she get that kind of money? The entire reason she had a second job was that she was about at the end of her rope. They needed a large down payment for the carpenter to begin work on renovations to the back of the kitchen.

Charlene’s salary didn’t cover all her expenses, much less unexpected surprises.

Samantha’s job at the Foundation didn’t pay much—no job in nonprofit companies did. She’d have to find something else. Leave the work she enjoyed, the cause she embraced, for something a bit more mainstream and financially beneficial. Definitely more financially beneficial.

A job she probably wouldn’t like. But she’d started at the Foundation not wanting to work for them—or in any business in Atlanta. Her dream had been so different.

But reality didn’t allow for dreams. She had a house—for which she was grateful. She had her sister to care for. She had to make the most of what she had and not bemoan a future that wasn’t to be.

“Double damn,” she said, pounding her desk once with her fist. She had to do something—but what?

Sam fretted all morning. She didn’t know if Mr. McAlheny would contact her, though Mr. Jordan had assured her he had not given out any information. But how hard would it be for a man with Mac’s influence to find out her name and address? Then what?

She called home.

“Hello?” Charlene answered.

“Any calls for me?” Sam asked. She knew it was an odd request; her friends knew she worked days and called the Foundation if they really needed to get hold of her during business hours.

“Here?” Charlene asked.

“Just a thought. Don’t give out my work information to anyone, okay?”

“As if I would. What’s up?”

Sam debated not telling her sister, but it would come out eventually. “Mac McAlheny found out I used his ticket and called my boss at the cleaning service. I was fired.”

“What? Why?”

“For indiscretion,” Sam said softly. She still couldn’t believe it.

“So if he threw away a fan and you fished it out of the trash, that would be a problem? That doesn’t make sense. We were recycling. People do it all the time. Throwing something away ends ownership.”

“I guess a case could be made for that,” Sam said. “But Mr. Jordan didn’t see it that way.”

“So now what?”

“I look for another job and hope Mr. McAlheny doesn’t come breathing down my neck.”

“Gosh, sis, I’m sorry. I know I urged you to use the ticket. I never expected you to lose a job over it. Can I do anything?”

“Pray I can find another part-time job soon.”

The rest of the day Sam alternated from nervousness every time her phone rang, to panic about where she would find a second job to help pay off their debt.

Just before leaving that evening her boss popped his head in through her open door.

“You remember the business luncheon tomorrow, right? I’m hoping my speech will loosen some wallets. I want you and Pam there to handle any donations we may get.”

Sam nodded. “I’ve had it on my calendar for weeks, ever since you told me, Tim. We’ll both be there from eleven-thirty on. Maybe some of the guests will take a brochure or something prior to lunch and offer a few thousand dollars on the spot.”

“That’s always a hope.”

Raising funds for worthy charities was getting more difficult. There were so many deserving organizations, but with companies tightening their belts to make sure their bottom lines continued to be robust, available corporate donations were drying up. Sam’s boss, Timothy Parsons, had been scheduled to speak at this luncheon for weeks.

Sam liked attending events like this since it gave her an opportunity to discuss the wonderful work of their Foundation with people who may not know about it. While not her first choice of professions, her work at the Foundation was important to her.

Nothing untoward had happened the rest of the day. Anonymity should prove enough protection—she hoped.

That evening shortly after dinner was finished, Sam studied the want ads in the paper. Most were for day jobs or required specialized training. It was depressing how few jobs there were that she could do, and even more so how few part-time jobs. Nothing popped out at her.

Charlene was in her studio, as they called the former dining-room-turned-quilting-haven. Her sister was so talented in that area maybe Sam should look at marketing the quilts until another part-time job appeared. It would be wonderful if Charlene could overcome her shyness and sensitivity to being in a wheelchair and sell some of the lovely works she’d created. Not only for the much-needed income, but as a boost to her sister’s self-esteem.