Page 1 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Chapter One

Mallory Worthington wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and tied her quarter-zip pullover around her waist. Why hadn’t anyone warned her how humid Miami was in June? If she’d known, she would have at least put her hair up so it was off her neck. And traded the jeans and baby-blue suede Pumas for khaki capris and a cute pair of Kate Spade sandals, which would have had the added benefit of showing off her new pedicure, a shimmery beige-pink with the strangely prophetic name Cozu-melted in the Sun.

She hoisted her weekender tote over her shoulder and scanned the sidewalk for the car that was supposedto be waiting to take her the two-plus hours to Rhys Dalton’s remote estate in the Florida Keys. The guy owned his own island. How much more reclusive could you get?

Finally, she spotted a distinguished-looking man with graying dark hair standing next to a Lincoln Town Car and holding a sign that readWorthingtonin bold bloodred script.

“Miss Worthington?” he asked as she approached.

“Yes.” She extended her free hand, but he ignored it and reached for her bag instead.

“Is this all your luggage?”

“Yes.” Much more of this and she’d sound like a broken record. She raised herself up to her full height—an unimpressive five-feet-even, thanks to multiple rounds of chemo and radiation that had stunted her growth. Normally she wore at least three-inch heels to compensate, but she’d left most of them at home. She might have learned to work the dining room in stilettos on the rare occasions she turned control of the kitchen over to her sous chef—it was good for morale and helped bridge the gap between front and back of house, and she liked seeing the smiles on the customers’ faces—but they wouldn’t be much good for chasing an active toddler. “I had most of my things shipped ahead.”

She preferred to travel light. Plus, if her things were already down there, she couldn’t chicken out at the last minute, could she?

“Right.” He popped the trunk and carefully placed her bag inside before slamming it shut. “Mrs. Flannigan has them waiting for you in your quarters.”

“Mrs. Flannigan?”

“The housekeeper.”

The recruiter had told Mallory she’d be part of a small staff, all living on site. At least she’d have someone to talk to besides her four-year-old charge. Her boss wasn’t what anyone would call the chatty type, as she’d learned from their brief phone interview. They’d talked a grand total of maybe five minutes, presumably because the agency had already grilled her to his satisfaction.

“What about you?” she asked the driver. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Collins, Mr. Dalton’s chauffeur, business manager, and general man-of-all-trades.” He held the door open. “If you don’t mind, miss. We’ve got a bit of a drive. I’d like to get moving so we’re there before dark.”

“No problem.” She stepped into the car, a blast of cold from the air conditioner hitting her in the face. “And please, call me Mallory.”

“Yes, miss.” He closed the door behind her.

Okay then. Miss it was.

Collins—apparently the man had only one name, like Beyoncé or Ludacris—slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Mallory relaxed into the leather seat, her hand landing on a manila folder beside her. “What’s this?”

“A little light reading for your trip.”

“Light reading?” She picked up the folder.

“A few things you should know before you arrive.”

“Like household rules?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

That sounded ominous. The whole interview-to-job-offer-to-acceptance process had been so fast, there was a lot about Rhys Dalton she didn’t know. He’d needed a nanny ASAP to replace someone who left him in a lurch. Not an ideal job for a Culinary Institute of America–trained chef.

But she had to get out of Dodge before she got cold feet and wound up spending the rest of her life in the looming shadow of her parents and the disease she’d fought and beaten as a child. Even if that meant a temporary career change and putting hundreds of miles between her and her big sister, who’d always been her best friend and moral support.

Brooke had forged a new life for herself—great guy, great job, great apartment—and it was time for Mallory to do the same. That wasn’t going to happen if she stayed under her parents’ thumb. Working in the family hotel. Living in the family guesthouse. Letting them hover over her like vultures with thermometers, tissues, and Tylenol, waiting for any sign of a sniffle or sneeze.

But in her rush to escape, what had she gotten herself into? What if Rhys Dalton had turned angry and vengeful in his self-imposed seclusion, like Heathcliff inWuthering Heights? Or maybe his wife was still alive, and he had her locked up in his attic, like Mr. Rochester inJane Eyre?

Mallory shook her head. Clearly, she’d been indulging in too much Gothic romance. She’d have to stick to Stephen King from now on. Way less frightening.

The car pulled away from the curb, and she flipped open the folder and began to read. The first few pages were fairly innocuous. Daily schedule. Dietary requirements for Rhys and his son, Oliver. Emergency contact information in the event of a fire, flood, or alien invasion.