Nanny to the Billionaire's Son

by Barbara McMahon

  Nothing untoward had happened the rest of the day. Anonymity should prove enough protection—she hoped.

  That evening shortly after dinner was finished, Sam studied the want ads in the paper. Most were for day jobs or required specialized training. It was depressing how few jobs there were that she could do, and even more so how few part-time jobs. Nothing popped out at her.

  Charlene was in her studio, as they called the former dining-room-turned-quilting-haven. Her sister was so talented in that area maybe Sam should look at marketing the quilts until another part-time job appeared. It would be wonderful if Charlene could overcome her shyness and sensitivity to being in a wheelchair and sell some of the lovely works she’d created. Not only for the much-needed income, but as a boost to her sister’s self-esteem.

  How did one go about marketing quilts besides visiting specialty shops and seeing if the owners would take them on?

  The worry that she hadn’t heard the last of the purloined ticket nagged at her. If Mac wanted to make an issue of her using the ticket, she’d pay him the cost of it. She wasn’t sure how she’d come up with the money on short notice, but there had to be some way. She tried to think of something of value they owned that she could sell.

  Charlene rolled her chair into the kitchen. She took out some juice and went to the lower cabinets where they stored dishes. Glancing at Sam, she frowned. “No luck?”

  “Huh? No, none. How’s the vest coming?”

  “Just about finished. Then I want to bind the wall hanging of the garden scene.”

  It was common for the women in Charlene’s quilting guild to donate some of their work to the annual Beale Foundation Boutique that the Foundation hosted each December. All proceeds went to the Foundation. Sam privately thought her sister’s work the best of the bunch, but Charlene received none of the money her creations brought in. If only she could find a steady buyer for her work. The garden scene she referred to was a picture quilt and Sam thought it was stunning.

  But she knew better than to expect some fairy godmother to show up out of the blue to buy all Charlene’s quilts.

  “Want to rent a movie for Friday night?” Sam asked, folding the newspaper and putting it aside.

  “I’m going to Betty’s for dinner and to see her new quilt. She used my pattern and I want to see how someone else interpreted it. She’s picking me up at six. I forgot you won’t be working nights anymore. Want to join us? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Charlene said.

  “I’ll pass.” It wasn’t often her sister went out. When Sam had worked for Jordan Cleaning, her evenings were full. Now she had a break. For a moment she wondered if it would be too late to enroll in spring classes at the local college.

  No, she was being stupid to even consider it. She had to find something to supplement her income to afford their repairs. Maybe she could find another evening job this week and be busy again by Friday. She went back to studying the ads.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN Sam entered the large restaurant, which hosted the business luncheon, she was immediately surrounded by people she knew. Caroline Bentley’s law firm donated regularly to the Beale Foundation. She was accompanied by one of her law partners, Ted Henley. Then Sam greeted two CEOs of companies who also routinely gave funds to the Foundation. She enjoyed catching up on snippets of news as she worked her way to the table assigned her. Her counterpart, Pam, and their boss, Tim, were sitting at separate tables, so between the three of them they could speak to more guests.

  There were twenty tables of eight set up. A nice turnout, Sam thought as she took a chair with her back to the lectern. She already knew what Tim had to say; this way she could judge reactions while he talked.

  Things settled down shortly after noon when everyone took a chair and the meal began. As the waiter was placing the salad in front of Samantha, she looked up—straight into the eyes of Mac McAlheny!

  He sat at the next table over, in her direct line of sight. He lifted one eyebrow at her, but could not do more across the distance.

  Flustered, Samantha looked at her plate. Good grief, what was he doing here? She peeked again to see him still watching her. She hadn’t a clue he’d be one of today’s guests. Would he cause a scene? She couldn’t tell anything from his expression and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. Could she somehow find an excuse to leave? He didn’t know she worked for the Beale Foundation. Maybe he’d think she was the CEO of some firm he didn’t know. All he knew was she once worked for Jordan Maintenance.

  The man at her left spoke and she gratefully grasped the diversion. She made a special effort to engage each person at her table, giving information about the Foundation in practical terms, resisting the temptation to look over at the other table again. But it was an effort and she felt her nerves on edge the whole time. Mac was watching her. Some sixth sense made that clear. How far would he go in a public forum like this? She didn’t want to put it to the test.

  When Tim was introduced, some people shifted their chairs slightly for a better view of the keynote speaker. She risked a glance at the other table. Mac’s gaze was narrowed and focused directly on her. She shifted slightly so she wasn’t in his line of sight. Listening to Tim with only partial attention, she glanced around for the nearest exit. When the luncheon finished, people would be leaving, chatting, creating a barrier between her and Mac. She could zip out through the exit on the side before Mac confronted her.

  Samantha was ready to make her move as soon as Tim finished. She quietly gathered her purse and tote that carried pamphlets for the Foundation. She’d already distributed most of them before lunch. The applause was heartfelt and she was pleased Tim’s speech had gone over so well. But now—

  “I must admit his speech pushed me over the top,” the man next to her said. “I’d like to discuss a donation. I like the idea of a perpetual gift, one that keeps generating income over the years. If our own fortunes continue to increase, we could add to the gift each year. And if not, the Foundation would still get income from the initial grant in the name of our company. Are you the lady I talk to?”

  Samantha sighed softly. No escape.

  Smiling brightly, she put down her purse and tote. “I sure am, Mr. Hadden. And the Beale Foundation would be grateful for any donation, but a gift that keeps giving is especially appreciated.” She dug into her tote for the proper pamphlet explaining gifts-that-keep-giving and handed it to him. “As you can see, you have a choice of ways to do this. I can run some numbers if you give me an indication of how much you wish to donate.”

  Her body went on alert. Without turning, she knew Mac stood right behind her. She longed to turn and glare at him for disturbing her peace through lunch. Maybe if she continued to talk with Mr. Hadden, Mac would get tired and give up.

  Ha, who was she kidding? She knew CEO types; they were focused and persistent. Ruthless, some said. A man didn’t build a company being easily dissuaded.

  “I’ll have to talk to my chief financial officer, but I was thinking something along one or two million to begin with. This is a good year for us. I like the way your Foundation works,” he said.

  Two million dollars was a huge donation. Samantha had to keep talking. Would Mac please, please, please leave?

  “In addition to accepting donations, we’d also like to encourage businesses to hire people with disabilities. There are many tasks that are easily handled by people with some limitations. I know a deaf woman who works with data entry and analysis. She’s a whiz at it. Another young man who has strong computer skills is working in an electronic engineering firm. He’s been working for only a few months and has already received a promotion because of his excellent work. One older woman in a wheelchair is perfect at customer service. She is on the phone all day and has improved the company’s image of customer caring. She received a bonus at Christmas that almost equaled her annual salary. Please, give some of our registered prospects a chance,” she said.

  Sam handed Mr. Hadden three more pamphlets
. “Many people don’t look beyond the obvious disabilities to the true talents of people who are slightly different.”

  “I’ll have my HR people look into that as well,” he said.

  “I’ll take a couple of those brochures,” said one of the other CEOs at her table who had been listening.

  She thanked them all and then, unable to put it off, gathered her things and rose. Please don’t let him make a scene here in front of potential donors, she prayed, scrambling around for an excuse that would get her off the hook.

  A warm hand lightly grasped her arm and turned her gently. Not unlike the other night. But this time she wasn’t moving away from danger, but directly into it.

  “Hello, Samantha Duncan,” Mac said.

  His voice sounded as warm as honey on a summer’s day. A quick glance up at his face assured her she’d not forgotten a single thing about him. His dark eyes were just as compelling. That slight dimple in his left cheek called to her. She still ached to trace the indentation, feel the texture of his skin. Fisting her hands to resist, she forced a smile.

  “Hi.” Her heart pounded. Her skin felt too tight. People chatted as they made a general exodus from the restaurant. The waitstaff was clearing tables and moving some of the furnishings to reconfigure for their normal seating. She felt caught like a fly in amber.

  “I listened to your brief discourse about the Beale Foundation. Have you worked there long?” he asked.

  She could hardly concentrate, with his hand holding her and her worry he’d accuse her of theft. The delightful sensations that swept through her made her want to lay down her purse and put her arms around him. Would he kiss her as he had on NewYear’s Eve? Or threaten her with the police? Was stolen property valued at five hundred dollars a cause for misdemeanor or felony?

  Get a grip, she admonished herself. He was not going to have her arrested. At least she hoped not. If he wanted to, he would have already taken action. She tried to quell her rioting nerves with that rationale.

  “More than eight years,” she said, hoping the trepidation didn’t show.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “Perhaps your firm would like to give a donation or hire a partially disabled person,” she said brightly, trying to ease her arm from his grip. His fingers tightened slightly.

  “It went well, don’t you think?” Timothy Parsons said as he strode over to join Samantha. Pam came over and both looked expectantly at Mac.

  Samantha wanted to sink through the floor, disappear and never have to face any of them again. She gave in to the inevitable.

  “Timothy, I’d like you to meet Mr. McAlheny. This is my boss, Timothy Parsons, and my coworker, Pam Barnnette.”

  “Good to meet you,” Tim said, reaching out to shake hands. Mac was forced to release Sam’s arm in order to return Tim’s greeting. She sidestepped out of reach and stood halfway behind Pam, resisting the temptation to turn and run for her life.

  “I’m impressed by the work your Foundation does. I was hoping to get some time with Samantha to discuss it further,” Mac said smoothly.

  “Excellent. Carry on. I’ll see you back at the office,” Tim said to Sam. In only seconds he and Pam left her alone with Mac.

  Traitors. Only they didn’t know how much she did not wish to be left alone with Mac McAlheny.

  Once the others were out of earshot, she glared at him. “If you really wish to discuss the Beale Foundation, Tim would have been a better choice. He’s the head of our Ways and Means Division.”

  “After eight years on the job, I expect you know as much as he does. Which raises the question, what is an accomplished businesswoman like you doing cleaning offices?”

  He was going to challenge her on the ticket. At least he’d waited until they were virtually alone. She didn’t count the busboys moving about their tasks.

  “I need the money.”

  “Ah, to fund an extravagant lifestyle,” he said smoothly.

  “Hardly,” she returned with a short laugh. “To fund the consequences of Hurricane George.”

  She caught the change in his attitude. His mocking ceased and he looked almost thoughtful. Yeah, right, like that was going to happen. Men like Mac never had to count pennies or worry about how to make needed repairs. She’d bet Hurricane George hadn’t dented his place, much less caused major damage which exceeded his ability to repair.

  “So maybe you can tell me more about the Beale Foundation over dinner,” he said.

  She blinked at the unexpected comment. Turning, she began walking toward the exit. “If you really want to discuss contributions, I’d be happy to do so, but I suspect that was just a ploy to get rid of my boss.” She took a deep breath. “I know what you really want.”

  “Oh?” Mac felt a kick of amusement. He’d been stunned when he looked up from the luncheon program and found himself staring at Sam. He normally did not believe in coincidence. When he wanted something, he usually had to work to get it. He’d had no luck in finding out more about Samantha than her last name and had begun randomly calling a number of the Duncans listed in the Atlanta phone book to no avail. With a bit more patience, he could have saved himself a lot of trouble.

  He refused to closely delve into the reason he’d gone to such lengths to find her. Here she was, of all places. It hadn’t made sense at the onset.

  He’d watched her during the entire time he ate. She looked polished and professional and seemed to relate well to the people sitting at her table. Twice she’d glanced his way. Once she reminded him of a doe caught by headlights—she’d looked downright stricken. The other glance had been more surreptitious, as if verifying he was still there.

  Once the after-lunch speech finished, he made directly for his quarry and been impressed with her discussing huge grants with Hadden. He knew the man only by reputation, but she’d handled him perfectly.

  “So what do I really want?” he asked after a few seconds of silence. Tension seemed to radiate from her. He leaned a bit closer to better hear her.

  “Retribution for taking the ticket. It was in the trash, you know,” she added quickly.

  “Retribution? It was indeed in the trash. I bought it for someone, then ended that relationship. Having no further need of it, I tossed it. I haven’t a clue what you mean by retribution.”

  “For me to pay for it or something,” she muttered, picking up her pace. They reached the doors to the outdoors and Samantha sailed through, stopping short when a gust of cool wind blew right in their faces.

  “I’ll get a cab,” he said, gesturing for one as it approached.

  Before she could argue, he ushered her into the vehicle and climbed in beside her. She scooted to the far side, probably wishing the space was larger.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  Mac looked at her.

  She gave the driver an address and then threw Mac a wary glance. Was there some hidden message in that?

  He studied her for a moment. She apparently thought he was out for some kind of payback for the ticket. Was that all that was keeping her from at least being somewhat glad to see him? He frowned. He didn’t care if she were glad to see him or not.

  He almost laughed, for the situation was proving farcical. For the past three years every time he turned around another woman was waiting to pounce. Now he’d found someone who rebuffed his every move. Cindy would have to revise her estimate that Mac had charisma after all.

  “I can’t pay back the ticket at this time,” she said primly.

  “Forget the damn ticket,” he said. “It’s not important.”

  “After you got me fired over it? I don’t think so!” Sam retorted indignantly.

  “Fired? What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t you call Mr. Jordan and accuse me of stealing the ticket?”

  “Of course not. That is, I called him, but only to find out who you were. I hoped to find out some way to locate you. I realized eventually that you weren’t coming back to the table on New Year’s Eve. Y
our ticket was still on the table and it was the next one issued after mine. I put two and two together and tried the cleaning service. How else would you have suggested I find out how to contact you?”

  “Well, Mr. Jordan took it wrong, because he fired me Monday morning, and I really needed that job.”

  “Cleaning offices? I thought you worked for the Beale Foundation.”

  “I do, but the pay is not the greatest. After George ripped off the roof of the house and caved in the back with a huge oak that crashed in under the force of the wind, money has become more important.”

  “Didn’t you have insurance?” he asked, surprised to hear the reason she had to take a second job.

  “Only partially. I didn’t know I was supposed to update it periodically as property values rose. So it covered some, but not the full amount.”

  “Hence the second job?”

  “Which I no longer have, thanks to you,” she said, flaring at him.

  “That was not my intent.”

  “Gee, that’s good to know. You got me fired all the same.”

  “So come to dinner with me and donate the savings in your food bill to the house fund,” he said whimsically.

  “What?” She stared at him.

  Mac watched her expression. There was something about Samantha Duncan that intrigued him. How many women did he know would take a second job to pay for something without whining or looking for sympathy? Or even a handout once they realized he had money to burn.

  “Why did you want to find me?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she gazed at him.

  “To see you again. Come to dinner Friday.”

  “Since I probably would have had a sandwich on Friday night, I’m not sure the sixty cents or so it would save me to eat with you will help a lot,” she said.

  He was hard-pressed not to laugh. “I’ll double the savings.”

  “This is all a joke to you, isn’t it?” She glared at him.

  “No. Have dinner with me and we can discuss ways for you to get that money you need for repairs.”