The Ceo's Nanny Affair

Jo walked toward the kitchen, taking Ellie with her. When she was out of earshot, Tate gathered her courage to look at Linc. “I promise you, I won’t abuse your hospitality.”

Linc nodded, his face granite hard. “I won’t let you. Trust me, I have no intention of being played for a sucker again. So, fair warning, whatever you think you can get out of me, it’s not going to happen. One night, Tate. That’s it. Tomorrow, you’re gone.”

Tate wanted to explain that she wasn’t like her sister, but quickly realized that Linc wasn’t interested in her explanations and, worse, didn’t care. She was the dust on the bottom of his shoes, and the sooner he could shake her off, the happier he’d be. “Tomorrow, I’m gone,” Tate agreed.

“See that you are. My mother got her way this time. She won’t again.” Linc lifted his wrist to look at his expensive watch. “I’ve got to get back to the office. I’ll arrange to have your luggage collected if you give me the address. Amy’s working on finding that lawyer, and I will ensure that whatever my mother wants purchased gets delivered.”

“Thank you. I do appreciate your help,” Tate said, her back still straight and her eyes still clashing with his.

Linc surprised her when he stepped up to her and gripped her chin in his large hand. An inch apart, she could feel the heat of his hard body, smell his sweet breath. She could see the faint scar in the corner of his mouth, count each individual bristle of his sexy stubble. Her pulse raced. She wanted that mouth on hers...wanted to wind her arms around his neck, to push her aching breasts into his wide chest.

She wanted to know what he tasted like, how he kissed.

“I fell for the machinations of one pretty Harper woman before. I won’t do it again.” Linc’s gaze darted to her mouth and back up to her eyes again. She saw desire smoldering under his layers of anger and frustration. “So don’t get any ideas, Tate.”

“One night, Linc.” It was all she could think of to say, the only words she could force through her lips. “I promise.”

Derision flashed across Linc’s face as he dropped his hand and stepped back. “Sorry, but Harper promises mean less than nothing to me.”

Fair enough, Tate thought as he strode away. If her fiancé had bailed on her and her child two weeks before their much-anticipated society wedding, she, too, would still be furious and not inclined to play nice with his relatives.

And she most definitely wouldn’t have been as calm as Linc had remained with her. Tate placed her hands on her hips and stared at her feet.

She’d been granted a reprieve, and she’d use that time wisely to rest and pick Jo’s brain on the basics of childcare. Tomorrow she’d move on.

Between now and then the one thing she would not do was fantasize about Linc Ballantyne. Yes, he was insanely hot, but if she were to have a type, he wasn’t it. Within ten minutes she’d pegged him as a traditional guy, someone absolutely committed to his son and his family, to his stable, conventional life.

He was everything she was not. And that was perfectly fine with her, because in the morning she would be moving on.

After all, moving on was what she did best.

Three

In the space of an afternoon, Tate had fallen in love.

She absolutely adored her niece, was partly in love with Jo, was pretty much there with Shaw and utterly entranced with the brownstone the three of them called their home. It was after midnight, and Tate, barefoot and dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, padded down the imposing wooden staircase, her hand sliding down the banister. How many hands had repeated the same action since the house was built in the late 1800s? How many guests had snuck down these stairs to head for the kitchen for a late-night glass of milk or a glass of wine to aid sleep?

Clutching a baby monitor, Tate stepped off the last tread and turned into the enormous room on the ground floor. Jo had taken her on a tour of the five-story home earlier in the day, and every room was a delight. The huge entrance hall opened up to reception rooms and formal living rooms, a library and a smaller sunroom.

The second floor was Linc’s domain, comprising a master bedroom, a home office/library and Shaw’s bedroom and playroom.

She was on the third floor, in the middle bedroom, which was linked by an interleading door to Shaw’s old nursery.

Jo occupied the top floor but this ground-level floor was already Tate’s favorite. As a food lover, she was delighted by the state-of-the-art kitchen. She loved the way the kitchen flowed into an informal dining area and then into a relaxed living space filled with books and toys and...mess. Magazines and coloring books and handheld computer games. The mess reassured her that a family lived here.

Oh, she did love the house but... What was it about it that made her feel out of place? It wasn’t the luxury; she didn’t care about the expensive furnishings and the exclusive address. It was the permanence of The Den, Tate realized, that made her feel twitchy. Like Ballantyne’s store on Fifth Avenue, their flagship store, it was an institution. It screamed tradition, solidity...everything she, the ultimate rolling stone, was not.

She was a product of her tumultuous past, Tate decided as resentment twisted her stomach into knots. Her life had been perfect before Kari and her mom, Lauren, Tate’s mother’s twin, came to live with them for what was supposed to be a month or so, until the single mom found a job and her bearings. A month had turned into six, and her dad had moved out, threatening divorce unless their lives returned to a normal, Kari-and Lauren-free existence.

Her mom, Lane, chose her twin. Tate had lost her dad, her home and her mother, who seemed to prefer Kari to her, all in less than a year. They all had lost the financial security her father had brought to the table. Then when she was eight and Kari eleven, her aunt had been diagnosed with breast cancer and quickly passed away, leaving the three of them to muddle along, moving from one rental to another. Lane had managed to scrape enough money together to cover the legal fees for her to formally adopt Kari and to petition the courts to change Tate’s surname to Harper, with no objection from her father.

All her life Tate had felt like the third wheel and a stranger in her own house. Her teenage years with Kari had been pure hell. Kari had an uncontrollable temper, a sense of entitlement and was a master manipulator.

Tate had coped by dreaming of running away to places like Patagonia and Santorini, Istanbul and Ethiopia. Anywhere, she decided, was better than sharing a small house with a selfish, irresponsible drama queen and her enabler. When she left home to travel the world, she’d realized her teenage instincts were correct and that she was much happier having an ocean and a couple of continents between her and her mother and Kari. She liked being alone and free, not having to answer to anyone but herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t like people, she did, but her mom and Kari were emotional leeches. At a young age she’d learned to create little pockets of solitude around herself and tried to spend as much time there as possible.

When you didn’t rely on anybody for anything—companionship, love, company—they had no power to hurt you.

It was funny how two melded-together families, hers and Linc’s, could be so different. When Kari and Linc had become engaged, Tate made it her mission to study the family her sister was marrying into, and she’d been impressed by what she’d learned from press reports and interviews with various members of the famous family.

Their story was a modern-day fairy tale. Jaeger, Beck and Sage Ballantyne were orphaned young and placed into the care of their uncle, Connor Ballantyne. Linc was the housekeeper’s son, but Connor adopted all four children as his, and they were now one of the most powerful and influential families in Manhattan, known for their fierce love and loyalty to each other and the family name. If you messed with one Ballantyne, it was said, you messed with three more.

Their commitment to each other was absolute.

The Ballantynes functioned as a cohesive unit, whereas her family was a train wreck, and her only commitment was to her job and to avoiding Kari. That entailed staying on the move, never allowing herself to put down roots. Without roots and connections she couldn’t disappoint people and, more important, open herself up to being disappointed.

Using the light from the hallway, Tate headed for the stainless steel fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk. After opening cupboards she found a glass and sat at the informal table to drink her milk. She’d love a cookie, but she felt that rummaging about in the Ballantyne cupboards was an abuse of their hospitality.

Despite feeling like she was camping in the middle of enemy territory, Tate had enjoyed her evening with Shaw and Jo. It was a relief not to have Linc there, glaring at her as she ate; thank God for whatever it was that kept him at work past dinner and bedtime. Though, possibly, working late was just an excuse to avoid her. Truth or lie, Tate silently thanked him—the evening had been far more relaxed with Jo and Shaw than if she’d had to make awkward small talk with the deliciously sexy Linc.

She’d never understood why Kari walked out on the man. Kari craved status, and Tate had expected her to grab onto Linc like the lifeline that he was. After all, he had been—still was—New York’s biggest catch. Seriously smart and successful, devastatingly handsome, filthy rich. And judging by the way that Shaw’s eyes lit up when he spoke about his dad, he was an excellent father.

Linc was the type of guy women dreamed about. A full-time, fully involved father. Someone stable, committed, responsible.

Tate had never believed in fairy tales, in handsome princes and happy endings. But she did believe in the power of lust... It was simple attraction to Linc that made her heart thump, her blood heat and her panties a little uncomfortable. Images of them together, on his huge bed upstairs, bombarded her. She could easily envision herself naked on his sheets, his big body covering hers, his long, muscled legs tangled with hers. Chest to chest, breaths and mouths and hands mingling... Had he loved Kari like that in that same bed?

The thought barreled in from nowhere and Tate groaned. God, she now needed brain bleach to wipe out that thought. They might have made Shaw in that very bed!

Tate scrubbed her face as her heart constricted. She scowled at the unfamiliar sensation. Thoughts of Kari and Linc together made her feel totally off-kilter. Why? Tate didn’t like the only, and obvious, explanation. She was jealous; jealous of Kari, envious that she’d had that sexy mouth on hers, his broad hands stroking Kari’s skin and not her own. Tate shuddered at the thought of Linc and Kari, naked, doing what naked people did.

You are not allowed to lust after Kari’s ex, Tate told herself sternly. It was against the sister code, the cousin code, against the laws of nature.

Besides, Linc was the last guy on earth she should be attracted to. Like his house, he had an air of tradition, permanence, solidity. Kari had informed her—during their awful fight—that she and Linc agreed that she would be a stay-at-home mom, that they would have a traditional marriage, with Linc as the breadwinner. But that was too conventional for her sister, so she’d run.

Like Kari, Tate was a drifter. But unlike her sister, she was determined to keep her distance from people—men!—and she guarded her independence, like a mommy bear guarded her cubs.

She and Linc were noon and midnight, cliffs and sea, trains and planes...

And really, she had bigger problems to deal with than this inconvenient desire to see Linc naked. Get a grip for goodness’ sake! Lusting after Linc was a stupid waste of energy, and, besides, she knew that he would rather kiss Shaw’s bearded dragon than kiss her.

She was under no illusion that when Linc looked at her, he saw Kari, and, on the surface, they were alike. But if Linc took the time to get to know her, which he wouldn’t, he’d quickly see that they couldn’t be more different. She might not have the trappings of wealth, but she had a very healthy bank account, thanks to saving most of her salary for the past seven years. She worked hard, and she was committed to her career and her independence, but those came at a price. On occasion, she was desperately lonely, and sometimes she craved company, someone else to talk to besides her production crew. Sure, she wasn’t interested in a relationship, but she sometimes hungered for a connection, a pair of strong arms around her, a masculine chest to lay her head on, a deep voice whispering dirty things in her ear as hot hands explored her body.

She could handle sex, a fling, even a temporary affair—provided there was an end in sight—but her lifestyle, and career, made that difficult. Most of the men she met were backpackers and travelers, and she understood that, for them, hooking up while traveling was a major part of the “experience.” Apart from the icky diseases factor, she really didn’t want to be another in their long line of sexual conquests. And sleeping with her coworkers was out... As a result, she’d been celibate for more years than she’d care to count.

Linc, damn him, made her remember exactly how long it had been. Why did he have to be such a sexy, sexy guy? He made her remember what being uncomfortably horny felt like. That had to be why she felt like she wanted to jump out of her own skin whenever he was around.

“Can’t sleep?”

Tate screeched and hurtled up from her chair, knocking over her glass of milk. She tried to grab the glass, but it rolled away from her, off the table and smashed on the tiles below. Tate swore and, as she put her foot down, she felt a shard of glass pierce her heel. She groaned and dropped her butt onto the chair, hoisting her heel up onto her knee to look at her wound.

Tate blinked when the kitchen filled with light and turned her head to look at Linc, who was walking toward her. She started to apologize for breaking the glass, but her words, and the moisture in her mouth, disappeared when she saw that he was dressed in nothing more than athletic shorts and shoes. Earlier, dressed in his suit, he’d looked urbane and sophisticated, but this Linc—perspiration glinting on his bare skin, bulging muscles, a defined six-pack and muscled thighs—was pure masculine power.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Linc said, walking over to her and bending his head to look at her heel. He winced at the shard of glass in her heel. “Can you pull it out?”

Tate quickly removed the sliver and dropped her heel.

“Careful,” Linc warned. “There’s glass everywhere.”

“Sorry,” Tate said. “I’ll replace the glass.”

Linc frowned. “It’s a glass, Tate, not a Picasso. Relax. And sit down. I’ll clean up.”

“But—”

“I’m wearing shoes. You are not,” Linc said and turned to walk into the expansive utility room behind the kitchen, returning with a broom and dustpan. Within minutes he’d swept up the glass, mopped up the milk and was chugging down a bottle of water he’d pulled from the fridge.

“Do you normally work out at midnight?” Tate asked, trying to break the heavy silence between them.

Linc lifted a big, broad shoulder, and Tate wondered how it would feel to run her hand through his light sprinkling of chest hair. “I work out daily. Sometimes I have crazy days, and that means that my workout happens at crazy hours.” Linc lowered his water bottle and nodded at the baby monitor on the table in front of her. “Did she go down easily?”

Tate shook her head. “Not really. I had to rock her to sleep.” She made herself meet his hard eyes. “She’s probably missing Kari.”

Linc bent down and rested his forearms on the granite island of the kitchen, his expression broody. “So, have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“About Ellie?” Tate clarified and waited for his nod before continuing. “I’m still thinking it through. My plan is still to get legal advice and go from there.”

“Are you going to talk to my PI?” Linc leaned his butt against the kitchen counter and crossed his ankles. His hands gripped the granite countertop behind him, and his muscles bulged and tightened. Raised veins—a fine indication that he was super fit, in case she didn’t catch a clue from his zero-fat, all-muscle body—snaked over his forearms and biceps.

Concentrate, Harper!

Tate squirmed under his hard, penetrating stare, sensing that he was frustrated by her lack of decisiveness. He wanted answers, an immediate plan of action. It was the CEO way, she decided.

But this wasn’t his company; it was her and Ellie’s lives. She’d take all the time she needed to make a decision she felt comfortable with. Besides, he would be free of them in the morning, so what did he care?

But he’d been kind enough to let her stay here tonight, so she thought she might, maybe, owe him a brief explanation.

“I’m conflicted and feeling a lot overwhelmed, Linc. I need time to process what’s happened,” Tate admitted, she jumped up from her seat at the table and walked toward him.

So much for a brief explanation, she thought, as words rolled off her tongue. “I know I can’t look after a baby, and I don’t want the responsibility of making decisions for Ellie. I have two months before I go back on the road and can’t take a baby with me! Ellie is her daughter, not mine. I mean, God, she’s cute and sweet and pretty damn easygoing but I’m not mommy material!”

How could she be? Lane, Kari, even her aunt Lauren, had been—were—shockingly bad mothers, and there was no reason to think she’d be any different.

Having a baby was the ultimate commitment, so keeping Ellie was out of the question. Besides, conventional wisdom stated that the child was always better off with their mother so restoring Ellie to Kari was her ultimate goal.

“Along with your killer body and gorgeous hair, that seems to be a trait you share with your sister,” Linc said, his voice flat.

His words were an acid-tipped arrow straight to her heart. She wanted to lash back, to tell him that she wasn’t anything like Kari, that she wasn’t irresponsible and selfish and so very screwed up. But the suspicion in his eyes told her that, no matter what she said, he wouldn’t believe her.

But she had to try. For some crazy reason she didn’t want him to judge her by her family name. She was better than he thought. “I’m not my sister, Linc.”

Linc didn’t acknowledge her words. He just held her indignant look, and she watched as his eyes turned from granite to a smoke gray. Oh, God, she recognized that hot, masculine look of appreciation, and it had nothing to do with liking her mind or her personality and everything to do with liking the way she filled out a T-shirt.

He was as attracted to her as she was to him. Oh, Lord, what was she supposed to do with that thought, how was she supposed to process it?

The smart reaction would be to walk away, to turn her back on him and hightail it out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Tate wanted to be smart, she really did. But more than that, she wanted to taste him, to press her breasts into his bare chest, to feel that hard, sweaty skin under her hands. She wanted to inhale him, devour him, climb inside him...

An unintelligible curse erupted from Linc’s mouth, and his hand shot out to grab her wrist. With a hard yank, he pulled her into him, and her hips slammed against his erection—ooh, nice—and he ducked his head to cover her mouth with his.

He didn’t bother to sip or suckle, he didn’t tease or taunt; Linc just slid his tongue into her mouth to tangle with hers, challenging her to give as good as she got. Tate responded by twisting her tongue around his, answering his silent dare.

Something hot and hard arced between them. Tate felt heat zinging through her as Linc’s big hand slipped between the fabric of her shirt to cup her, his hand easily covering her small breast. His thumb swiped her nipple, and she made a guttural sound in the back of her throat, rising on her toes to align her mound with his erection, wanting more heat, more hardness.

Her hands, by their own volition, skated up his rib cage, across his chest, flirted with the ridges of his stomach. Linc responded by placing his arm under her butt and lifting her off her toes. It made sense for her thighs to grip his waist, to hook her ankles behind his back, to rub her long-neglected core against his hot-and-hard-as-hell length. She wanted this man. She wanted him in the worst possible way.

She wanted no fabric between them, she wanted them slick and hot...battling to breathe and crazy with need. Because feeling Linc inside her, touching all those neglected, lonely places, was what she needed, craved. Tate thought about asking him whether he had a condom as she pushed her hands down the back of his shorts to thrust her fingers into the hard muscle of his butt. A wave of desperation rose within her. They had to rid themselves of the barriers of clothing, mostly hers, that kept him from sliding inside her, stretching her and filling her.

Words, she needed them, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop kissing him long enough to get her point across. Tate swirled her tongue around his, pulling on his bottom lip, but, unlike earlier, he didn’t respond. Tate frowned. Taking stock, it occurred to her that his hands had stopped exploring her body, that she was sliding down his big frame, that her toes and then her feet were touching on the cold floor. Shaking her head, she tried to work out why he’d stomped on the brakes.

Had she done something he didn’t like? Did he think that she was a wild woman? A slut? Oh, God, did he think he was kissing Kari and suddenly realized that it was her?

Tate shoved her hands into her hair and looked up him, dreading the expression of cool disdain she knew she’d see.

Linc, however, looked calm and in control and not at all like he’d just tried to inhale her. Where did all that passion go? What had he done with all that hot, unbridled desire? Tate looked down and saw that he was no longer rock hard... That’s an amazing amount of control, Ballantyne.

It pissed her off.

Tate opened her mouth to utter a very snarky comment, but he spoke first. “Ellie is crying.”

Tate blinked, trying to make sense of his words. Who? What? Where?

“The baby is crying, Tate. You need to go to her.”

Through the monitor on the dining table Tate heard Ellie’s soft wail, heard the desolation in her muffled cry, and she snapped back to the here and now. Oh, God, the poor thing sounded like her heart was breaking. How long had she been crying? Minutes? An hour? Longer? How long had she and Linc kissed? She couldn’t tell, she’d lost all sense of time, and of reality.

Oh, my God... She almost lost her freaking mind. She’d been a heartbeat away from asking her sister’s ex to do her on the kitchen counter!

What must he think?

And more important, what must Ellie think? Did she think that Tate had abandoned her just like her mother? Not wanting to make the little girl wait another minute, Tate whirled away from Linc and sprinted for the stairs.

Yes, she was desperate to get to Ellie, but honesty made her admit that she was equally desperate to get away from Linc. She had absolutely no control of herself around him, and she thanked God for Ellie’s interruption. And for his keen ears because she hadn’t heard a damn thing.

She’d been deaf, dumb, blind with lust for him...

It was a very good thing, Tate thought as she sprinted up the stairs, that she was leaving tomorrow.

Four

Linc, after a night short on sleep and long on aggravation, hustled Shaw through his morning routine, trying not to think about the fact that he’d been so close to taking his ex’s sister on the kitchen counter the night before. He’d been desperate to know if she was as hot and honeyed as he expected, and his hands had been in her pants, about to push the fabric over her hips, when he’d heard Ellie crying. Would he have stopped if she’d slept through?