by Regina Kyle
The second she spotted him, the relaxed smile playing around the corners of her lips disappeared, replaced by a hard, thin line. Her hands balled into fists then slowly loosened, as if she had to will her fingers to relax.
“Miss Worthington.” He nodded a greeting. “Great minds think alike.”
“I hope it’s not a problem.” She folded her arms across her chest, hiding her scantily clad breasts from view. He didn’t know whether to say a silent prayer of thanks or curse his lousy luck. “Oliver’s still sleeping, and Mrs. Flannigan said he wouldn’t be out of bed for at least an hour.”
“It’s hard to resist the call of the Caribbean. You might as well take advantage of it while you’re here.”
A shadow crossed her beautiful face, and her eyes darted to the beach behind him. “Right. I’ll let you get to your swim.”
He mentally kicked himself in the ass.
Way to go, dickweed. Remind her she’s got one foot out the door.
As guilty as he felt for disrespecting his wife’s memory by sharing his house, even temporarily, with an attractive woman, Beth would have hated the way he was treating Mallory. He could almost hear her scolding him in that sweet, singsongy voice that betrayed her Southern roots, the voice that haunted his dreams, waking and sleeping.
She’s come all this way to help you. To help our son. The least you can do is be polite.
Rhys rubbed a hand over his jaw, scratchy with early-morning stubble. “You don’t have to leave on my account. The ocean’s big enough for the two of us.”
“I’m sure it is, but I was about to head back to the house.” Mallory gave her hair another twist, wringing out a few more drops of water that fell to her chest and clung there, defying gravity as they shimmered in the yellow-gold of the rising sun. “I want to be showered and dressed before Oliver wakes up.”
The mere mention of the word “shower” had Rhys’s sex-starved brain spinning off in a thousand directions. Her swimsuit didn’t leave much to the imagination, but his mind was more than willing and totally able to fill in the blanks. Slick, soapy skin. Water running over her soft curves and down her milky thighs. Her head tipped back, eyes closed, a low moan escaping her parted lips as she lathered up her hair.
“Mr. Dalton? What about breakfast?”
Her clipped words jerked him back to the present. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
She rolled her doe eyes. “I asked if Oliver had a favorite breakfast. I know I won’t be here long, but I thought I’d start off on the right foot by making something he likes.”
“Pancakes, I think. Or waffles.” Or was it French toast? Scrambled eggs? Rhys swore under his breath. Was he so preoccupied with work he didn’t know his own son’s food preferences?
“That’s okay. I’ll ask Mrs. Flannigan.”
Her words said okay, but there was no missing the judgment in her tone. It washed over him like a rogue wave, making him feel like even more of a shit than he already did.
Before he could come up with some sort of response, something to redeem himself—although he had no fucking clue why he gave a damn about the opinion of a woman he barely knew and didn’t plan on getting to know—she was on the move, the waves lapping at her knees, then her ankles as she headed for shore. His eyes tracked her as she walked away, the subtle sway of her hips making things stir south of the border.
When she was out of sight, he turned and dived headfirst into the rippling water. He surfaced and swam parallel to the shore, pounding through the waves with confident, powerful strokes. He wasn’t sure what he hoped it would accomplish more, cooling down his overactive sex drive or washing away his sins.
Unfortunately, it did neither.
Failing to protect Beth. Choosing his work over their son. Lusting after Mallory. A little swim in the surf, no matter how punishing, wasn’t going to erase all that.
Not that it stopped him from trying.
…
“What’s that?” A four-year-old nose wrinkled and eyes the same warm chestnut as their owner’s father’s narrowed at the plate Mallory placed on the eat-in counter.
“French toast.” She turned briefly to the stove to flip another slice of thickly battered brioche bread before swiveling back to face the little boy who was her responsibility until further notice. “Mrs. Flannigan says it’s your favorite.”
Oliver wrinkled his nose again and pushed the plate away. “That’s not French toast. French toast isn’t fat. And it doesn’t have strawberries on it. I hate strawberries.”
What kid doesn’t like strawberries?
Oliver crossed his scrawny arms over his bony chest, hiding the Captain America logo on his pajamas, and glared at her with an intensity that rivaled his father’s.
This kid, apparently. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to send Mrs. Flannigan away.
No, she had this. The poor woman had enough to do without having to watch over them like a mother hen. And Mallory had dealt with more than her fair share of tough customers at the Worthington. Handling a picky preschooler couldn’t be that different. Could it?
She inched the plate back toward him. “It’s brioche bread. That’s why it’s so thick. And I can take the strawberries off. Or give you another slice.”
Oliver shook his head, his glare not losing one bit of its ferocity. She’d only met him a few minutes ago, but she could already tell he was Rhys Dalton’s mini-me, from the eyes to the attitude. “I hate bee-yotch bread.”
Mallory swallowed a laugh and fought hard to keep the corners of her mouth from curling. “Brioche. And how do you know you hate it if you haven’t tried it?”
He cocked his head. “How do you know I haven’t tried it?”
Damn. The kid had her there. Pretty solid logic for a four-year-old. Another trait no doubt passed down from his no-nonsense father.
This called for a little negotiation.
She turned back to the stove, flicked the now perfectly toasted brioche from the pan onto a plate, and swapped it with the one on the counter before shutting off the burner. “Tell you what. Try one piece. Just one. And if you don’t like it, I’ll make you thin French toast, like you’re used to.”
It would kill her to use the glue-flavored, mass-produced crap most people thought of as bread, but if the way to Oliver’s heart was through his stomach, she’d swallow her master-chef pride and make the kid what he wanted.
He rested his elbows on the counter and put his chin in his hands. “How big of a piece?”
She held up two fingers about an inch apart. “This big.”
He frowned and held up two fingers of his own with half an inch between them. “This big. With syrup. The real kind, in the glass bottle Mrs. Flannigan brought back from New Hamster.”
Mallory found herself battling back another grin. “I think you mean New Hampshire.”
“She and Mr. Flannigan went there on their second honeymoon to look at the leaves. And you have to heat it up in the microwave like she does.”
Kid drove a hard bargain. She stuck out a hand for him to shake. “Deal.”
He took it, his small hand disappearing in hers but his grip surprisingly strong. “Deal.”
She found a bottle shaped like a maple leaf in the refrigerator, poured some into a ceramic creamer, and put it in the microwave, setting the timer for thirty seconds. When it dinged, she took out the creamer and slid it across the counter to Oliver.
His eyes widened. “Aren’t you going to pour it for me? Mrs. Flannigan always does.”
“I don’t know.” She tapped a finger against her cheek, pretending to study him with the absorption of Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. “You look like a big boy to me. I’ll bet you can do it all by yourself.”
He sat up straighter on his stool, puffing out his puny preschooler chest. “I am a big boy.”
“I thought so.” She leaned in and lowered her voice to a clandestine whisper. “How much do you use? A little or a lot?”
“A lot.” His fingers curled around the handle of the creamer.
“Me, too,” she agreed, still whispering as if their shared love of syrup was a state secret. “I like my French toast swimming in the stuff.”
“Yeah. Swimming.” He giggled and tipped the creamer over his plate until it was almost empty.
“Here.” She held out a fork and a butter knife. “I’ll bet you can cut it all by yourself, too.”
He pursed his lips and pushed her hand away. “Mrs. Flannigan says I make too much of a mess.”
“So we’ll clean it up.” She extended the fork and knife to him again. “There’s sponges and disinfectant for the counter. We can throw your pajamas in the wash. Problem solved. Unless…” She let her voice trail off.
His brow furrowed. “Unless what?”
“You don’t melt if you get wet, do you?”
“You mean like the Wicked Witch of the West?”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
“No way.” He shook his head so hard his platinum curls—the color inherited from his mother, she assumed—flew around his face. “I like the water. I’m a real good swimmer. I can even dunk my head. My daddy teached me.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” From the way his daddy acted yesterday, she was surprised he remembered he had a son, never mind taught him how to swim. But first impressions could be misleading. She knew that better than anyone.
Not that her opinion of her boss—good or bad—mattered one iota if she couldn’t convince him to let her stay.
“Yep.” Oliver’s response jerked her back to the present. “He says I’m a fish.”
“Then you’ll be easy to clean up, too.” She handed over the utensils. “Have at it.”
He gripped the fork and knife in his pudgy fingers and started to saw away, predictably splattering syrup over everything in a three-foot radius. After a few minutes, he succeeded in separating a small square of toast and spearing it with his fork. He stared at it for what seemed like hours before lifting it to his mouth and nibbling at one corner.
Mallory pulled up a stool outside the danger zone and reached for the plate Oliver had rejected. “What do you think?”
He nibbled again.
Licked his lips.
Nibbled.
Licked.
“Not as good as Mrs. Flannigan’s,” he finally announced, popping the rest of the square into his mouth and continuing through a mouthful of food. “But it’s okay, I guess.”
“Thanks, I guess.” High praise coming from a kid used to having the best of everything. Except French toast, obviously. Mallory mentally patted herself on the back and started in on her own plate.
“Can we go to the beach?” Oliver asked, reattacking his food with his knife and fork.
“When you finish your breakfast.”
Mallory’s head snapped up at the gravelly, already-too-familiar voice of her employer, lounging against the archway between the kitchen and living room as if he owned the world. Which he probably could if he wanted to.
He’d showered and changed, but if she thought being fully dressed would make him less distracting she was way off base. She’d had a glimpse of what was underneath his short-sleeved polo and neatly pressed khakis, and that was something she wasn’t going to unsee any time soon. Not that she wanted to.
“Would you like some French toast?” she asked, staring at a button in the middle of his chest. Seemed as safe a place to look as any other. “I can whip up another batch.”
He didn’t say anything for a long, torturous moment, the awkward silence forcing her gaze up the strong column of his tanned throat and past his freshly shaven, chiseled jaw until her eyes locked with his. The cool appraisal in their chocolate depths shook her to the core, and she sucked in a quick breath.
What was wrong with her? He was just a guy. Okay, an extraordinarily good-looking guy. Like eleven-on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten good-looking. But she’d spent her life surrounded by “the beautiful people,” as her sister called them. Why did this guy have to be the one who made her girlie parts wake up and do the Macarena?
“He never eats breakfast,” Oliver piped up, his youthful high-pitched voice cutting through the sexual tension that had descended on the room like a thick fog. At least, she thought it was sexual tension. Maybe it was completely one-sided, and Rhys Dalton was mentally counting the days until he could get rid of her. “Right, Dad?”
“Just coffee for me,” Rhys finally answered, his eyes never leaving hers. “Black.”
She broke his gaze and stood, losing the battle of wills but determined to win the war. Her appetite gone, she took her plate to the sink and scraped the remains of her French toast into the disposal. “You know breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right?”
“That’s what Grover says on Sesame Street,” Oliver added in between bites, his plate almost empty. “He can’t be Super Grover until he eats his breakfast.”
Mallory shot him a thumbs-up for having her back.
“I’ll take it under advisement. But for now, coffee will do. I have a Skype session with one of our design engineers in fifteen minutes and a lot of material to go over before then.”
Rhys ruffled his son’s hair as he crossed past him on the way to the rack of K-Cups on the counter next to the Keurig machine, and her insides did a funny little flip. Something about the small, affectionate gesture gave her all the feels. It was hard to reconcile with his aloofness the night before, and for the second time that morning, she questioned her rush to judgment.
The man was a hot mess of maddening contradictions. Working for him would be one heck of a challenge. But it was one she desperately wanted the chance to conquer, if for no other reason than to prove to herself she could succeed on her own, outside the sphere of her parents’ influence, without any special treatment because of a disease she’d had—and beaten—years ago.
She opened the cabinet next to the sink and reached for a mug. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when ten o’clock rolls around and you can’t focus on anything but your stomach grumbling.”
“My stomach doesn’t grumble. And I never lose focus.”
He went to take the cup from her, and their fingers brushed. The brief contact was like touching a live wire, making her jerk back and sending the mug clattering to the floor, where it shattered on the hard tiles.
“I’m sorry.” She bent and started picking up the shards. “I’m not always such a klutz.”
“I’ll help.” Oliver hopped down from his stool, his bare feet slapping the terra-cotta.
“No,” Rhys snapped, holding up a hand and freezing his son in his tracks. “I’ve got this. You two go upstairs and get ready for the beach.”
“Are you sure?” Mallory surveyed the damage. Ceramic slivers all over the floor. Counter covered in syrup. Dirty dishes in the sink. Her fault, and her responsibility to fix.
“Please,” Rhys hissed, inclining his head toward Oliver. “Before he hurts himself.”
“Right.” Some nanny she was turning out to be, putting her feelings before Oliver’s safety.
“Come on.” The little boy stuck out a sticky hand to her. “I want to build a sandcastle and catch hermit crabs and go swimming in the pool. Then you can make me grilled cheese for lunch. On bee-yotch bread. Okay?”
“Okay.” She stepped gingerly across the kitchen, tossed the remnants she’d collected into the trash, and took Oliver’s grubby hand. The morning hadn’t been a complete disaster. She’d gained his trust. And turned him on to brioche bread.
She only hoped the father was as easy to win over as the son.
Chapter Four
Rhys scrawled his signature across the bottom of yet another document and pushed it across his desk. Paperwork was one of his least favorite duties as chairman and CEO of Argos Research and Development, the tech company he’d started from his dorm room at Stanford. He’d much rather be brainstorming ways to expand into new markets or working on the company’s latest gadget to im
prove lives, like the robotic arm that propelled Argos into the Fortune 500. But as much as he loved the creative side of things, the administrative crap was a necessary evil. “Is that the last of them?”
“One more.” Collins took the signed document and replaced it with another, thicker one. “The employment contract for the new CFO. Legal approved it yesterday. I’ve tabbed where you need to sign.”
“It’s about time.” Rhys leafed through the document, reading as he signed where Collins had indicated. “I gave the board the go-ahead to hire him weeks ago.”
“Legal had to do some negotiating. His attorney had some issues with the wording of the noncompete clause.”
Rhys flipped to that section of the contract. “I take it Legal is satisfied with the revisions?”
“Yes. Baker felt comfortable reducing the term from a year to six months as long as the nondisclosure agreement was in place. He says to call him if you want to pick his brain.”
“I trust his judgment.” Mark Baker had been the head of the company’s in-house legal team since it had gone public. He’d proved his worth time and time again, and Rhys didn’t make it a habit of second-guessing valued employees.
“Nice to know you respect someone’s opinion other than your own,” Collins muttered.
Rhys lifted an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
The sounds of Mallory’s voice and his son’s laughter followed by splashing drifted through the open window—the house had central air-conditioning, but nothing beat a cool late-afternoon breeze—and Rhys had a sudden sinking suspicion of what was coming next.
“Are you still planning on firing Miss Worthington?”
Rhys signed the last page of the contract with a flourish, closed the document, and practically threw it across the desk at Collins. “I wouldn’t exactly call it firing.”
“What would you call it then?”
Good question. If he’d been paying more attention, he never would have hired Mallory in the first place. He was only trying to put things back the way they were. Or the way they would have been if he hadn’t screwed up. Was there a word for that?