Page 5 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“Stop.”

“…but it’s been three years since the accident.”

“Beth’s death was no accident.” Rhys slammed his glass down on the desk. Scotch sloshed over his hand and onto the blotter, splashing the PEZ dispenser. “It was murder.”

And he was the one responsible.

“She wouldn’t want you living this way,” Collins persisted. “If you can call cutting yourself off from civilization living.”

Damn stubborn man, made all the more annoying by the fact that deep down, Rhys knew he was right. Beth would hate what he’d become. Not that he was admitting it to Collins.

“Look around. This place is practically a palace, not a one-room shack in the middle of the woods. And I’m not cut off from civilization. That’s what I’ve got you for.”

Collins narrowed his eyes. “What about Oliver? Is this what she’d want for him?”

“She’d want him alive.” Rhys tossed back the rest of his scotch, stood, and crossed to the bar cart for a refill. “I’m doing what I have to in order to keep him safe.”

He might not have been able to protect Beth, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake with his son. Even if it meant making him a virtual prisoner for the time being. Rhys didn’t want to think about the inevitable changes as his son grew older. High school. College. He couldn’t keep Oliver to himself forever.

But he could for now, and as long as possible.

Collins let out a long, loud sigh. “I understand your motivation, even if I don’t necessarily agree with your methods.”

“Does that mean the Spanish Inquisition is over?”

“No. But I’ll grant you a temporary reprieve.”

“I’ll take it.” Rhys poured another generous two fingers of scotch into his glass, swirled, sipped, and stared down his assistant. “Don’t you have a plane reservation to make?”

Not one to back down, at least when they were mano a mano, Collins met his gaze. “You’re still determined to send her away?”

Rhys continued to swirl, sip, and stare.

“All right.” Collins stood a little more abruptly than necessary and straightened his tie. No matter how many times Rhys told him to lose the formal attire in the Florida heat, the man insisted on dressing like an undertaker when he was on duty, his only concession to the weather the deck shoes he wore on the launch. “Have it your way.”

“I always do. That’s the benefit of being the boss.”

“Would you consider a small compromise?”

“How small?”

“Let her stay until we get a replacement. Mrs. Flannigan’s got enough on her plate with the housekeeping, and she’s not getting any younger. It’s not fair for her to do double duty.”

Rhys tipped his head back and looked skyward. Or more accurately, ceiling-ward. When Collins was right, he was right. The older woman had signed on to do light housework, laundry, and the occasional meal, not keep up with an overactive preschooler. It wasn’t fair of him to put his hang-ups before her job satisfaction and his son’s well-being. He brought his gaze back down and gave Collins the slightest, almost imperceptible nod. “Fine. But I want someone here by the end of the week. Two, tops.”

Fourteen days, for the good of his housekeeper and his son. That didn’t dishonor Beth’s memory, did it?

“Done.” Collins brushed his hands together triumphantly, as if to emphasize that the matter was settled, and he had, at least in part, emerged the victor. “And let the record show I still think you’re making a mistake not giving Miss Worthington a chance.”

“Duly noted.” Rhys raised his glass in a mock salute.

With a salute of his own, Collins spun on his heel, crossed the room, and disappeared out the door, leaving Rhys the way he found him. The way he spent most of his days, with the exception of the all-too-rare moments he had with his son.

Alone.

…

“Here you are, Miss Worthington.” Mrs. Flannigan led Mallory into a room more fit for a VIP than a nanny. “I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”