Until He Met Meg

by Sami Lee

  ‘Certainly not.’

  He appeared so stricken by the idea that Meg hastened to add, ‘I didn’t mean right now.’ Her gaze skidded off him, landing on a painting hanging beside them, an oil colour of Sydney Cove as it would have appeared a century ago. She muttered, ‘Not that you haven’t seen enough already.’

  It took him only an instant to grasp her meaning. ‘Doctor McTavish changed your clothes last night.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Well…he asked for my help. But I averted by eyes.’

  ‘You didn’t…’ Meg cleared her throat. ‘See me in my purple knickers?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Of course not. He hadn’t even been tempted to take a sneaky glimpse apparently. As relieved as she was, Meg couldn’t help feeling a little affronted. So he was probably spoiled for beautiful women who all wanted to show him their underwear. Surely even her less-than-voluptuous figure deserved an involuntary peek?

  Abruptly, Bryce cleared his throat. ‘There’s some breakfast for you in the dining room.’

  ‘Daddy,’ Phillipa interjected with thinly concealed impatience. ‘I need you to help me get ready for school.’

  ‘You know well enough how to get ready, Phillipa. So hop to it.’

  ‘But Daddy, Miss Windsor used to braid my hair. Who’s going to braid my hair?’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you added food colouring to poor Miss Windsor’s shampoo. We’ll be lucky if the woman doesn’t sue us.’

  ‘It was her fault. She didn’t have to have a shower in the afternoon. She was trying to make herself smell nice for you.’

  ‘That’s enough Phillipa.’ Meg thought she could detect he slightest flushing in Bryce’s cheeks at the indication of Miss Windsor’s interest in him. ‘Get your uniform on and your bag packed. Then I’ll braid your hair.’

  Meg had to stifle a laugh at Phillipa’s comically dubious expression. ‘You can’t braid, Daddy.’

  ‘Why not? How hard can it be?’

  ‘She’s right,’ Meg said, barely managing to smother her grin at the idea of Bryce thinking taming his daughter’s particularly wild mop of curls would be easy. ‘Guys can’t braid hair.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s a girl thing.’ Meg glanced at Phillipa, noted her surly demeanour and figured she must be crazy to offer. She did it anyway. ‘I’ll braid your hair.’

  ‘You will braid this?’ Phillipa pointed to her head.

  ‘Did you notice this?’ Meg mirrored Phillipa and gestured to her own flyaway mass of wavy hair. ‘I’m the queen of controlling unruly locks. Besides, I have a feeling I should do something to earn my keep for the night’s accommodation.’ She turned back to Bryce and forced herself to meet his eyes with an air of worldliness. ‘Very comfortable, by the way.’

  His dark brows lifted. ‘I’m glad you approve.’

  ‘I do. And I would really appreciate something to eat.’ The mention of food had finally filtered down to her stomach, which was now growling ferociously. She’d already fought the man for a taxi, slipped into a coma in his study and was now standing before him in his pyjama shirt. Accepting an offer of food was hardly going to make matters worse at this point. ‘Breakfast sounds fantastic. I’m starving.’

  ***

  Bryce hadn’t taken an easy breath since he’d seen Meg sprawled on the floor wearing his silk pyjama shirt. Her position had given him a glimpse of the purple underwear that had become so central to the succeeding conversation, and a good view of the slim length of leg that had quickly become the focal point of his fascination.

  If there’d been anything, anything, in this house he could have given her to wear other than something of his, he would have done so. But Mrs Dunkirk had never taken up his offer to live in, citing her need to care for her elderly mother, so there were no outfits of hers here. And Isabelle had sent someone to the house to collect every personal item she deemed hers the day after he’d kicked her out. There’d been no choice. It had to be his clothes or nothing.

  Now there was a stimulating thought.

  He hadn’t been entirely truthful when he’d told Meg he hadn’t seen her in her underwear last night. He’d tried to be a gentleman but some urges were too primitive to adhere to standards of social decency. The memory of her willowy curves and smooth pale flesh played around in his head. The thought of all that skin now being wrapped up in his silk pyjamas was too distracting for comfort.

  Bryce frowned as he watched Meg dive into the scrambled eggs and toast he’d made. His enchantment with her vexed him, yet he couldn’t seem to shake it. Even watching her devour her breakfast with all the finesse of a truck driver had him strangely mesmerised. ‘When was the last time you ate a decent meal?’ The query was airborne before he could think better of drawing her into conversation. He should really give her money for a taxi and leave her, drive to work and forget about her and everything that happened yesterday.

  She slowed her voracious chewing. ‘Sorry. I guess I’m really hungry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise.’ Why was she continuously apologising to him? Did he come across as such an ogre? Bryce made an effort to gentle his tone. ‘I was simply concerned. Doctor McTavish said you were exhausted, and possibly had the beginnings of flu. You can’t have been eating well.’

  She merely shrugged in response to his comment on her eating habits. ‘I felt a bit peaked yesterday but I feel much better this morning.’ Her cheeks coloured. ‘I’m so sorry I fell asleep here. You must think I’m some kind of lunatic.’

  There she was, apologising again. ‘I don’t think you’re a lunatic.’ He thought she was unusual, at least in his experience. He’d rarely been acquainted with a woman who ate as though she were actually enjoying the experience, instead of cataloguing the calories. He thought she was like the first breath of spring that, despite the early September date, had yet to make itself apparent in the weather. And he thought she was hazardous to his composure and the neatly ordered life he had rebuilt after his divorce.

  He was hardly going to voice all that. Instead he gestured toward the pot in the centre of the table. ‘Tea?’

  In response to her enthusiastic nod he poured her a cup. She used it to wash down the rest of her eggs. She was draining the remains when Phillipa flounced into the room, placing her collection of hair bands and her tortoiseshell hairbrush on the table. She turned without a word to present Meg with the back of her head in a clear challenge.

  Bryce was about to chide his daughter once again for her lack of manners. How had he produced such a wilfully disobedient child? Before he got the words out Meg had picked up the brush and begun dragging it with efficient, confident movements through Phillipa’s wild mane. Bryce watched, entranced once again, as her slender fingers sectioned the locks then twined them with deft movements.

  Mere seconds seemed to pass while she completed the task. When she was done, Phillipa’s hair sat neatly against her nape, showing no signs of its usual chaotic disarray. ‘All done. Satisfied?’

  Phillipa turned and Bryce saw she looked as stupefied as he felt. Phillipa’s nannies had always prepared her hair for school, but Bryce had heard the tears and tantrums. Somehow Meg had accomplished what the most qualified of nursemaids had failed to. She’d taken the drama out of the event.

  Phillipa recovered her usual disposition quickly. She glared at Meg. ‘This doesn’t mean I like you.’

  Bryce groaned. ‘Phillipa…’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Meg didn’t appear in the least perturbed by his daughter’s rudeness. She said to Phillipa. ‘I’ll be out of your hair in no time Missy. As soon as I find my clothes..?’

  ‘They’re in the laundry, I’ll get them for you in a moment.’ A thought had come into Bryce’s head, as surprising as it was persistent. Yet as ludicrous as it was from all logical perspectives, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it made a bizarre kind of sense. He regarded Meg across the table with a speculative gaze, his reason warr
ing with his rarely utilised instinct. ‘I’d like to ask you something, Meg.’

  She fell silent, holding his gaze with her storm-blue eyes.

  This is the most insane idea you’ve ever had, Bryce, he told himself.

  To Meg, he queried, ‘Do you have any nannying experience?’

  ***

  ‘Not unless you count babysitting my three nieces and two nephews whenever my sisters-in-law manage to guilt me into it.’ Actually, they didn’t have to guilt her at all. Her brothers’ kids were great, and Meg enjoyed spending time with them.

  She gestured to Phillipa’s hair, surprised that her skill with braiding would have so impressed Bryce. ‘I’m just good with hair, that’s all. My own can be quite uncivilised, so I’ve had practice.’

  ‘Daddy.’

  ‘I’ll take you to school in a minute, Phillipa.’

  ‘I want to go now.’

  ‘Phillipa.’ His tone turned ominous as he transferred his gaze to his daughter. ‘Go get your bag and wait for me in the living room.’

  The little girl’s jaw set in an implacable line but she didn’t argue further. She sent Meg a look that fairly seethed with animosity as she turned on her heel and stalked from the room.

  Meg had the distinct feeling she was missing something. She turned back to Bryce. ‘What’s going on? Why were you asking about my nannying experience?’

  ‘Why else? I’d like to offer you a position.’

  ‘What position?’

  ‘A position as Phillipa’s nanny.’

  Meg stared at him as her mind tried to work its way through his statement. ‘You want me to be Phillipa’s nanny?’ She was afraid she might be appearing a little dim, but couldn’t stop gaping and asking him to repeat himself. ‘After I’ve just told you I have no experience?’

  ‘You’ve told me you have other career ambitions, so it would only be on a temporary basis. Until you find a job more suited to your qualifications and I find a nanny who can deal with my daughter’s attitude.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to work on Phillipa’s temperament?’

  ‘Perhaps you can help me with that.’

  He was talking with such calm surety, as though this were a perfectly normal job offer. In spite of her desperate need of employment, Meg continued to list the reasons his proposal was so preposterous. ‘But you don’t know me. Phillipa detests me.’

  ‘Phillipa has given grief to every nanny she’s ever had. Somehow I think you can handle it.’

  ‘Well of course I can handle it. What I don’t understand is why you would make this offer.’

  He regarded her steadily with his dark brown eyes, their circumference of gold appearing preternaturally bright in the rather drably decorated room. Meg felt her heart skip several beats, its usual reaction when Bryce turned that serious, thoughtful gaze upon her. She waited for him to speak.

  At length he said, ‘I have a feeling you’re just what Phillipa needs. And given Miss Windsor’s hasty departure, I find myself in grave need of a replacement.’

  Now that Meg could understand. He was desperate, and she was available. Still, it was hard for her to believe the offer was genuine. It would be far too convenient for a plumb job to land in her lap just when she was in dire need of one. Just when she’d been seriously contemplating going back home and admitting defeat, to facing the ‘I told you so’ she was bound to hear.

  As though he’d read her mind, Bryce said, ‘I didn’t think you wanted to return to your home town.’

  Meg tensed at the reminder of what awaited her in Karawak Downs. Or was it the suspicion that she was being subtly manipulated that had her on edge? ‘I don’t want to go back.’ It would be tantamount to saying her dreams had been as pie-in-the-sky as her father had claimed.

  ‘You’re not wanted for a felony are you?’

  Meg chuckled at the joke. At least she hoped he was joking. With that inscrutable expression on his face it was difficult to tell. ‘Not for a felony. More for a marriage.’

  His gaze turned so sharp Meg fancied she could feel the sting. ‘You’re engaged?’

  ‘Hardly!’ she scoffed. Her, married? Not on your Nelly! ‘My father and brothers have an outdated idea of what constitutes a meaningful existence for a woman. Barefoot and pregnant about sums it up.’

  He said nothing to that. She wondered for a moment if he felt the same way. Would he expect anyone he married to abide by an antiquated set of standards? Meg imagined a woman standing beside him at parties, perfectly groomed and softly spoken, existing merely to play hostess to his business associates and stroke her husband’s ego. Was that why his first marriage ended? Had Mrs Carlton wanted to be more than a sidekick?

  None of your business, she told herself. But the image she had conjured seemed to imbed itself in her mind. Perhaps a man like Bryce Carlton, with all his wealth and sophistication, was no more forward-thinking than the people back in her home town.

  ‘You’d need to start right away of course.’ Meg was startled from her thoughts by Bryce’s abrupt return to the business at hand. ‘Today. While Phillipa is at school you could take a car and collect your things. I’d need you settled in by the end of the day.’

  ‘Settled in?’

  At her incredulous look, Bryce clarified. ‘It’s a live-in position. Would that be a problem?’

  Was the man crazy? How could it ever be a problem to live in a mansion on Sydney Harbour? The room she’d spent last night in was bigger and more comfortable than the whole flat she shared with Jessica.

  Jessica. ‘It’s very short notice to give my flatmate. Although…’

  ‘Although…’

  ‘Her boyfriend has been staying there a lot. It’s been getting very congested.’ Meg had overheard them talking last week about getting a place by themselves, so they could have some privacy.

  At the time Meg had felt bad that she was obviously cramping their style. Now it seemed their wish to be rid of her might be a blessing after all.

  ‘I could advance you the money to pay out the lease, if need be.’

  ‘Oh no, that won’t be necessary.’ She’d cover it, somehow. ‘I can arrange it.’

  His brows hiked. Other than that, his face showed no expression. Meg had no idea if he was happy or concerned or just plain indifferent. ‘So you accept?’

  She’d have to be out of her mind to agree. She’d have to be an idiot not to. For someone in her current financial position, Bryce’s offer was a godsend. Yet she asked, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to take the offer back? If you do, now’s your chance.’

  He appeared perplexed by her question. ‘I don’t take things back.’

  No, she supposed he wouldn’t. If there was anything about him that was obvious from the first meeting, it was that Bryce Carlton was straight as an arrow. A man of his word.

  Although she couldn’t shake the feeling she had stepped through the looking glass, Meg decided her best choice right now was to embrace Wonderland. Bryce had said himself that the job would be on a temporary basis. If it turned out to be a huge mistake, she wouldn’t be any worse off than she was now.

  ‘In that case,’ she said slowly, smiling and feeling beyond befuddled but not bad. Not bad at all. ‘I’ll be Phillipa’s nanny.’

  Chapter Four

  Bryce spent the next few days calling himself every kind of fool imaginable. What had he been thinking, offering a job to the unpredictable waif of a woman? Something must have scrambled his brain. He knew nothing about her, and wanted too much to know more. She was the riskiest possible choice for an employee. And he didn’t take risks.

  Each morning he awoke thinking, I have to put a stop to this. Obviously a man of his innate circumspection couldn’t really hire a complete stranger with no experience to do the most important job he had to offer — taking care of his only child.

  But then he’d dress and go downstairs and discover Meg had made the most delicious French toast he’d ever eaten. That she had the sense to slice a bowl of fru
it for Phillipa, even though the girl ate little of it. She even possessed the foresight to brew a pot of English Breakfast tea to the perfect strength. And she did it all with good humour, despite Phillipa’s persistent attitude of defiance and his own efforts to disregard Meg’s presence.

  This was not something he’d been able to achieve, thus far, but it something he was determined to succeed at.

  Yet that task became increasingly difficult with each passing day. On the fourth day of her employment — Friday — Meg was doing her usual clearing of the breakfast dishes when Bryce walked in. Of their own volition, his eyes swept over her. The jeans she wore moulded to her slim hips like Lycra, although the soft denim was infinitely more alluring. Her rear end was shapely and her pert breasts were fetchingly outlined by fitted, well-worn cotton — a silly Daffy Duck T-shirt, the words ‘You’re deth-pic-able’ arcing across her chest.

  For an insane moment Bryce envied Daffy Duck.

  Cranky at his adolescent response, Bryce strode past her to the fridge. ‘Is it casual Friday?’

  He sensed her discomfort and felt like a bastard. ‘Ah…my skirts need washing, and since the job rarely requires me to leave the house, I thought this would be okay for now. I’m going to buy some more appropriate clothes with my first…I mean, soon.’

  By the way she stumbled over the last, Bryce guessed she had been about to say with my first paycheque, but had stopped herself out of politeness. His remorse increased. He should have realised her financial situation was such that she was anxiously awaiting her wages. His brow furrowed. ‘If you needed an advance Meg, why didn’t you let me know?’

  ‘Oh, sure. That’s the first thing a new employee asks for,’ she said dryly. ‘We agreed on fortnightly payment of wages and that’s fine.’ She turned suddenly from where she had been wiping down the kitchen bench and placed a hand on a trim hip. ‘Unless you think I shouldn’t be seen driving Phillipa to school like this?’

  ‘I don’t care what you wear to Phillipa’s school.’

  ‘I do,’ came the remark from the kitchen doorway as Phillipa walked in carrying her empty plate. His daughter was looking at Meg’s shirt with an expression of patent distaste. ‘Daffy Duck is from ages ago.’