by Regina Kyle
She broke the block of bark into pieces and dumped them into a microwave-safe bowl. “Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”
“Both.”
She stuck the bowl in the microwave, punching the buttons with more force than necessary. “I hate to sound juvenile, but you started it.”
“I ended it, too.”
Ouch.
The microwave beeped. She stirred the semi-melted bark and set the timer for another thirty seconds. “I take it back. I’ve found something you’re not adept at. Letting women down easily.”
A dark cloud crossed his handsome face. “Beth always said diplomacy wasn’t my strong suit.”
“It’s okay. You’re right. You’re my boss. I work for you. Kissing you is definitely not part of my job description.”
No matter how much she wanted it to be.
The microwave dinged again. She pulled out the bowl of fully melted bark and set it on the counter. “I should get Oliver. He likes to drizzle the chocolate on the popcorn.”
“I’ll do it.” Rhys pushed back his chair and stood. For a moment she thought he was going to say something more. Then, with shake of his head, he retreated, seeming to realize that at least for the time being, she needed the subject of THE KISS to be closed.
As soon as he left the room, the tension seeped from Mallory’s body like air from a collapsed soufflé. She busied herself lining a baking sheet with wax paper and spreading out the popcorn. She was almost done when Rhys returned, alone.
“Where’s Oliver?”
“I don’t know.” His face was etched with concern. “He wasn’t in his room.”
“Did you check the rest of the rooms upstairs?”
“Yes. I can’t find him anywhere.”
She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “I’ll help look. He can’t have gone far.”
For the next ten minutes, they went floor to floor, searching every corner of the house where a four-year-old could hide and coming up empty.
“We’re wasting our time here.” Rhys grabbed his windbreaker off the back of the couch and shoved his arms through the sleeves. “He’s not in the house.”
“You think he went outside?” Mallory cast a cautious eye out the window. The sky had darkened to an ominous gray, and wind whipped the tops of the trees.
“I don’t think, I know.” Rhys yanked up the zipper on his jacket. “And I’ve got a pretty good idea where he is.”
Their eyes met, and they spoke at the same time.
“Beth’s beach.”
…
The ride to Beth’s beach in the UTV was the longest few minutes of Rhys’s life. Longer than when he’d stalked the mailbox checking for grad school acceptances. Longer than the time he’d paced outside the bathroom door of their Tribeca co-op, waiting for Beth to pee on a stick. Even longer than the agonizing moments he’d waited for the doctors to tell him her fate after the terrorist attack two years later.
His son, his lifeblood, the one living soul who depended on Rhys to keep him safe, was out there in the gathering storm, alone, unprotected, and afraid.
He has to be all right. He has to be all right. He has to be all right.
This couldn’t be happening again, not after everything he’d done to protect Oliver. He couldn’t lose his son now, when they’d just started to find each other.
He floored the gas pedal and the UTV lurched around a stand of trees and up the hill leading to the secluded beach. The air was thick and heavy with moisture. Any second the clouds would let loose, pelting them—and Oliver—with fat, stinging raindrops, soaking their clothes until they felt like lead weights. Already the wind tore through the trees, buffeting the UTV as it made its slow, excruciating ascent. Rhys swore under his breath, willing it to go faster. He punched the gas pedal again, and the UTV swerved.
“Be careful. We’re no good to him if we don’t get there in one piece.”
A light, almost hesitant touch on his knee reminded him he wasn’t alone in his blind panic this time. He had Mallory beside him, and if her ashen face and the trembling hand on his leg were anything to go by, she was as fearful for Oliver’s safety as he was.
He gave her a tight nod and eased up on the gas. The UTV ground its way to the crest of the hill and began the treacherous trek down as Rhys’s eyes frantically scanned the beach below for any sign of his son. Was he there? What if they were wrong and he’d gone somewhere else? Or gotten lost?
“There he is,” Mallory shouted over the building roar of the wind and waves.
He followed her pointed finger. Any momentary relief evaporated when he made out the tiny form of his son, crouched on the outcropping he’d thought looked like a duck. He was huddled on the ledge that formed the bill, flattened against the rock face by the force of the wind and the spray of the surf, his pale, thin arms clinging to the cliff.
“Shit.” Rhys didn’t make any attempt to hide the profanity this time. “How the hell did he get up there?”
“More important, how are we going to get him down?” Mallory asked.
“I’ve got an idea.” He turned the UTV around and gunned it back up the hill.
“Where are you going?”
“To the top of the cliff. I’ll have to climb down to him.”
In under a minute, Rhys skidded the UTV to a stop and climbed out, leaving the vehicle running and the lights on. A drop of rain splattered on his cheek, and he pulled up the hood of his windbreaker and tightened it around his face, praying the worst of it held off until he had Oliver on firmer ground.
Mallory jumped out after him. “What can I do?”
“There’s some rope in the back. Grab it and follow me.”
As much as he didn’t want to involve Mallory, this rescue was going to take them both. Even then, he wasn’t completely confident of their ability to pull Oliver to safety. But they didn’t have much choice. It was them or nothing. And nothing wasn’t a goddamn option.
Two long strides and he was at the edge of the cliff, bracing himself against a wind gust. He knelt and peered down at his son. Christ, he looked so fragile down there, his small, frail body pressed against the jagged rocks.
Rhys steeled himself to stay calm even as his heart thudded in his rib cage.
“Oliver,” he called as loudly as he could, hoping his voice wasn’t swallowed by the storm. “Don’t move. I’m coming for you.”
His son lifted his head, his eyes filled with tears. “Daddy?”
“Don’t move,” Rhys repeated. “I’ll be right there.”
Oliver looked down at the churning waves, then back up at Rhys. “I’m scared.”
Rhys flinched, his son’s thin, frightened wail clawing at his chest, wrapping icy fingers around his heart. “I know you are. Just keep your eyes on me. Don’t look down.”
Without standing, Rhys turned to Mallory. “Give me one end of the rope and tie the other to the UTV. I’m going to drop it to Oliver and follow it down.”
She stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I don’t see what choice I have.”
“At least tie it to yourself so you don’t fall.”
She handed him one end of the rope, her fingers pausing to linger on his, then walked backward with the other to the UTV, where she bent down and attached it to the front axle. He made a loop in his end, slipped it around his waist, and pulled it tight.
“Satisfied?” he asked her.
“Be careful,” she said, echoing her earlier sentiment instead of answering him. “Please.”
“I will.”
She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, and he realized it wasn’t only Oliver she was concerned about, it was him.
But right now, he had one objective.
Get. Oliver.
He swung his legs over the side of the cliff. “When I tug on the rope, pull.”
Panic flashed in her eyes. “I’m not strong enough to pull both of you up on my own.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll do mos
t of the work. You only have to give us a little extra boost. Can you manage that?”
“I think so.” She stood taller against the wind and squared her shoulders. “Yes, I can.”
“Good. Wait for my signal.” He glanced down to check on Oliver, still huddled on the ledge, his hands white-knuckled on the rocks. “Hang in there, pal. I’m on my way.”
He felt with one foot, then the other for a toehold, winding his way down the steep precipice as quickly and efficiently as he could without slipping. The rain had started to fall more steadily, making the stones slick and slowing his progress.
“Hurry,” Oliver moaned. “It’s hard to hold on.”
“Almost there.” A few more feet and he’d be able to crowd onto the narrow ledge with his son. “Don’t let go.”
When his feet touched the ledge, Rhys let out a long, exhausted breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He loosened the rope so it was big enough to fit around both of them and slipped it over Oliver’s shoulders, turning his son to face him. His pale cheeks were streaked with rain or tears or both. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Oliver’s lower lip quivered. “Are you mad at me?”
Despite the tight spot they were in, Rhys had to fight not to crack a smile. “We can talk about that later. How about first we get off this cliff?”
“O…okay.” Oliver hiccuped.
“Put your arms around me and hold on with everything you’ve got.”
Wordlessly, Oliver complied, wrapping his arms and legs around Rhys’s neck and waist. Rhys tugged on the rope, and they began the long climb back up the cliff, made even harder by the increasing wind gusts and the added weight of their now rain-soaked clothing. When, after what seemed like hours, they reached the top, Rhys’s arms and legs throbbed with exhaustion. Fortunately, Mallory was there to help them over the edge.
“Take him,” Rhys panted before flopping, spent, onto his back on the wet ground. “He’s drenched.”
“Come on.” She freed Oliver from the rope and scooped him up. “I don’t know how dry they’ll be, but I saw a couple of blankets in the UTV.”
Rhys dragged his tired body out of the muck and shuffled after her, then untied the rope from the axle and stuffed it inside his jacket. He started to slide into the driver’s seat, but Mallory stood in his way, blocking him.
“You’re drenched, too. Take this and wrap yourself up.” She thrust a damp wool blanket into his chest. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”
Numbly, he took the blanket. “Thanks.”
“I’ll drive. Get in the back with Oliver.”
“I can…”
“No, you can’t.” She gave him a little push toward the rear of the UTV. “You had your chance to play hero. Now it’s my turn. Sit with your son. He needs you.”
Too tired to argue—and conceding she had a damn good point—Rhys draped the blanket around his shoulders and climbed into the back seat next to Oliver. Mallory revved the engine, and the UTV lumbered down the hill.
His trembling son looked up at him with wide eyes, his fair hair dark with rain and plastered to his face. “Are you going to yell at me now?”
Rhys put his arm around his son, wrapping them both in the blanket. “No, I’m not going to yell at you. But we are going to have a long talk in the morning, once you’ve dried off, warmed up, and had a good night’s sleep.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.” Oliver buried his head in Rhys’s chest, muffling his words.
“I know.” Rhys smoothed a hand over his son’s hair.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
Oliver lifted his head. “Thanks for rescuing me even though I was bad. I love you.”
“I love you, too, buddy.” Rhys swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. It had been a hell of a night, one he’d be reliving in his nightmares for weeks. But it had brought them to this point, so at least some good had come from all the pain. “I love you, too.”
Chapter Nine
“Is he asleep?” Mallory padded down the hall in pink-and-white striped pajama pants and a matching T-shirt, a towel twisted on top of her head.
Rhys pulled Oliver’s door closed. “Out cold.”
“All the excitement must have worn him down.” She released the towel and shook out her hair, still damp from the shower, assailing him with the coconut scent of her shampoo.
“Not just him.” Rhys yawned and slumped against the door. He was mentally and physically fried. The only thing keeping him upright was pure adrenaline, and now that his son was safe, sound, and sleeping, his adrenaline high was starting to wear off.
“Understandable.” She used the towel to wring a few final drops from the ends of her long blond waves. “What you did out there tonight…”
“What we did,” he corrected. “It was a team effort.”
She blushed and ducked her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of damp hair. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” He reached up to grab the top of the doorframe, hoping it would ease the kinks out of his abused and aching muscles. “If you weren’t there, who would have pulled us up off that cliff?”
And kept him from falling apart, with her quiet strength and clear thinking.
“You did most of the hard work. I was just there for moral support.” She shifted from one prettily polished foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable taking any of the credit for Oliver’s rescue. Modesty. Another quality he could add to her long list of attributes.
“Don’t sell yourself short. Moral support is invaluable.”
“Any word from Collins?” she asked.
Rhys didn’t miss the skillful change of subject, but he let it pass, nodding. “He’s staying in town with a friend. The storm’s moving fast. He should be able to get back sometime tomorrow morning.”
“Good. That he’s somewhere safe, I mean. And that the storm’s not as bad as we thought.” Mallory gave her hair one last squeeze and draped the towel around her neck. “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Can I get you anything?”
“After the day we’ve had, I need something a hell of a lot stronger than tea.”
“That doesn’t sound half bad. If you don’t mind sharing.”
She stretched, revealing a strip of smooth, tanned skin between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her pajama pants. The rest of his body might be on the verge of collapse, but his dick had a little life left. He cursed the uncooperative appendage for being so weak-willed and shifted his weight to hide his reaction.
“How about scotch?” he asked. “I’ve got some eighteen-year-old Macallan.”
“I wouldn’t know the difference from six-month-old rotgut.”
“You will after you taste this.”
“If you say so.” She gave him a sexy half smile. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her scrubbed-clean face, making her look like a seductive water nymph.
“I need to shower first.” Preferably a cold one. “I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes.”
“Sounds good.” A gust of wind shook the house, and she winced. “I’ll scrounge up some snacks and we can wait out the storm. What goes good with scotch?”
“You’re the chef. I’m sure you’ll figure out something.”
“Challenge accepted.”
She turned to go downstairs, and he followed, his eyes tracking the soft sway of her hips in those shouldn’t-be-sexy, cock-hardening pajamas. What the fuck was wrong with him? Not four hours ago he’d been clinging to the side of a cliff, fighting for his life and the life of his son. And now he was ogling the nanny.
Again.
When they reached the bottom of the steps, he peeled off and headed to the master suite, going straight for the bathroom and its walk-in shower. He stripped off his clothes, turned the dial to the coldest setting, and stepped in.
Under the harsh, pounding spray, his thoughts drifted invariably back to Mallory. No surprise there. She’d been creeping into his
subconscious far too often since that night in the kitchen.
And that kiss.
He braced a hand flat against the tile and swore, letting the icy water wash over him. What the fuck had he been thinking, kissing the damn babysitter? It was a recipe for disaster. If he needed to get laid, he could find any number of willing women on the mainland.
Problem was he didn’t just want to get laid. And he didn’t want just any willing woman. He wanted Mallory. He wanted late-night chats and early-morning breakfasts. He wanted spontaneous picnics and walks on the beach. Things he hadn’t wanted to share with anyone in a hell of a long time.
He looked down to find his disobedient dick at half mast and turned off the shower. Why waste water when it wasn’t having the desired effect anyway? He toweled dry, threw on sweatpants and a clean T-shirt, and went in search of Mallory. He found her in the great room, cross-legged on the couch, her face flushed, a half-empty rocks glass in her hand. The bottle of scotch and a second glass sat on the coffee table in front of her, next to a marble cutting board loaded with meat, fruit, cheese, and crackers.
“Sorry.” She lifted her glass, whether as a real apology or a mock salute he couldn’t tell. “I started without you.”
“No need to apologize.” He sat on the opposite end of the sofa, not wanting to tempt fate by getting too close to her, then slid the bottle toward himself and poured himself a generous two-finger shot. The rich amber liquid burned a path down his throat to his stomach, taking the edge off his shitshow of a day.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and examined the virtual feast she’d laid out. Was she expecting the offensive line of the Tampa Bay Bucs? “Nice spread.”
“If you’re half as hungry as I am, there won’t be any left when we’re done.” She cut a slice of some sort of exotic-looking cheese. “Here. Try this. It’s Comté. From the French Alps. They mature it in special caves.”
She inched next to him, holding the sliver of cheese to his mouth. His brain screamed at him to tell her was allergic to cheese cultures or lactose intolerant. Anything to avoid the intimacy of having her feed him. But instead his lips parted, almost involuntarily, and he closed his eyes as she slipped the sliver into his mouth.