Urgent: One Nanny Required (Crimson Romance) (19 page)

“What? Where did he hear that?” His heart was beating a mile a minute at the thought of having Rania as his wife.

“He said his mum and dad were talking about it.”

Next time he saw Kirk, he’d owe him a knuckle sandwich.

“But I guess not, huh?” The sorrowful comment made him look closer at his son.

“How would you feel about that, Theo; I mean, if me and Rania did get married?” A boulder-sized lump formed in his throat as he waited for the answer.

The gigantic grin quickly appearing on his son’s face was all the answer he needed.

“C’mon, kid. Grab your coat and shoes, we need to go somewhere right now!”

• • •

Popping yet another aspirin, Rania rubbed her head. The damn banging had started up again. She sipped a glass of water, willing it to go away.
Bang, bang, bang.

Wait; that wasn’t her head, that was the door. Sliding her feet into her slippers, she padded down the stairs, tightening her dressing gown around her.

Tanya had deliberately closed late today to try and get more business; the last customer had only left an hour ago. Unless someone had forgotten something, she had no clue who her visitor could be. Saving herself the hassle of lifting the grate and turning all the lights on, she slipped through the shop to use the side door, peering through the key hole and seeing no one.

Maybe it was just some kids playing “knock knock.” Turning to go back upstairs, she heard it again; a distinctive metal bang. Someone was knocking on the grate. Sick or not, she wasn’t having this nonsense.

Her hand froze midway to the doorknob as a familiar childish voice outside came through loud and clear. “Dad, try the other door.” She felt her stomach drop to the floor as she heard scuffling outside, followed by more knocking. She couldn’t breathe. There was only a piece of wood hiding her from the man and boy she loved more than anything.

Without thinking, she pulled the door open and was knocked sideways as a small pair of arms enveloped her, squeezing the breath right out of her. Winding her arms around the small form, she pressed her lips to the top of his head, breathing in the familiar smell of sweets and dirt.

He looked up, his brown eyes shining. “Belle! You’re alive! I missed you!”

Laughing through the tears which threatened to fall, she ruffled his hair. “Of course I’m alive, silly. And guess what? I missed you too. So very much,” she said, her voice breaking as she struggled to hold her emotions in check. “You know what, Theo? I’ve got some new stock in. Brand new flavors and I need an expert’s opinion if they’re any good. Mind helping me out?”

“Sure. Dad, can I?” The enthusiastic question was directed at the man still in the doorway. The small corridor didn’t leave much room for moving, especially with all three of them in it and she moved back against the wall, looking at him through her lashes, heart pounding. He looked tired; tired but amazing. The obligatory faded blue jeans accompanied with beat up tennis shoes and black sweater looked positively haute couture compared to her duck slippers, pajamas and baby blue dressing gown. As for her hair … too late to fuss about the braid now.

At his father’s nod, Theo turned back to her, grinning from ear to ear as he scampered through the door.

“The light is on the left side and the packets are behind the counter,” she called after the retreating figure.

She turned back slowly to face Nick, a twisting feeling in her gut. So many nights she’d dreamed of him and now he was here in the flesh.

The March wind blew in and she shivered under her robe. Seeing her movement, he frowned, moving further into the corridor, closer to her as he closed the door behind him.

His scent, so familiar, wrapped around her senses and she leaned back against the wall for support as her legs turned to jelly.

“You returned the check.” His voice was gruff as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a ball of paper.

She gasped. She’d given that to her dad, saying she didn’t even want it in her home.
Wait, did that mean …

“He came to see you?” she croaked out, mortification flooding through her. So that was why he was here, because her dad had ordered him to come. How embarrassing.

Growing up, she’d always wanted a dad like her friends had; the type of dad who’d give your boyfriend “the talk,” who stayed awake waiting for you to come back from parties. But this was ridiculous. Not to mention, at her age, she was a little past that stage.

“Oh God Nick, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Look, if he’s said anything, threatened your career to make you come here, I’ll … ”

She was cut off as his mouth descended on hers. The gentle pressure of his lips pushed her senses into overdrive as his hands pulled her against him. Stepping up onto her tiptoes, she threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling his head further down, moaning in protest as he started to pull away.

Mentally, she chastised herself;
you idiot, you spend the last three weeks cursing the day he was born, then the first moment you see him you throw yourself at him. Good going.
Pulling her hands down, she tried to step back and found herself unable to move as his arms locked around her.

“Your dad did come to see me. He informed me you were ill,” he told her, leaning back slightly, taking in her disheveled appearance.

“I am. I have the flu.” She sniffled loudly so he would have no doubt as to her state.

“And he gave me back the check. The torn-up check.” His gaze was quizzical as he looked down at her.

“I … I don’t want your money,” she stammered, giving up the attempt to push away from him. “And I’ll pay you back for the Lee Harrow chocolate thing.”

“Forget Lee Harrow! So, you don’t want the money that, may I point out, is rightfully yours anyway and you turned down the nanny post. My question to you, Rania George, is what do you want?”

“You!” her mind screamed. Licking her suddenly dry lips, she lowered her eyes, staring at the black wool of his sweater.

She shook her head, tears burning behind her eyes.

“Before you tell me, I’d like to ask you something. Your dad seemed to think it was a good idea,” he said, his voice hoarse. She didn’t trust herself to look at him, scared that if she did, then the thin dam holding back her tears would burst.

“The thing is, I’m looking for someone to fill another post. Well, two posts really. You see Theo’s in need of a mum and I’m looking for a wife. Know anyone who’d be interested?”

“Depends. What’s the criteria?” Her voice was shaky as she smiled shyly up at him.

“Well, she’d have to be good with kids. Enjoy body boarding. Know how to flip a pancake” he replied, smiling broadly down at her.

“That’s quite a list. Any other requirements?” She was grinning so widely now, she just knew her face would hurt in the morning.

“Oh, definitely. She must have brown hair, and eyes the color of caramel. Be about so high … ” His hand released her for a second to hover above her head.

“Mmmm, I may know someone. What are the perks of the job?” Her breath caught in her throat as his gaze held hers steadily.

“The lifelong devotion of an adorable little boy and … ” He paused, hesitancy flooding his face.

“And … ” she pushed, her heart pounding like a jackhammer in her chest.

“And the eternal love and devotion of a man who knows he’s nowhere good enough for you, but if you give him a chance, will strive to make you the happiest woman on this planet. I love you, Rania George, and if you didn’t guess already, this is my clumsy attempt to ask you to marry me.”

Giggling like a child on Christmas morning, she leaned into him. “Yes. Yes, I will marry you,” she breathed, standing on tiptoe and winding her fingers through his hair, bringing his face mere inches from hers.

“I love you Nicholas Trenton.”

His answering smile made her heart soar and she felt herself floating as he lifted her off the ground, swinging her around, lips meshed together in the promise of forever.

The End

Olivia Logan lives in the ever sunny UK where, if she’s not writing her latest romance, she’s planning the next one.

Olivia loves to hear from her readers. Contact her on:

www.olivialoganromance.com

Or follow her on twitter
@Olivia_Logan_

When Maggie Tyler’s grandma left this earthly coil, she bequeathed Maggie two things: the proceeds of her life insurance policy and a seemingly endless list of maxims to live by. One of her favorites was “If you break a carton of eggs, just laugh and make an omelet.” And heeding grandma’s advice, Maggie was stirring up her own omelet. But laughing? Not a chance. Not after that evening when her high hopes had come crashing down, burying her dreams and plans for living happily ever after in the debris.

It was hard to believe that an evening that started out with so much promise had ended so badly. All seemed right when Andy called, saying he needed to talk to her. She’d pulled out all the stops. If there was ever a time to look great, this was it. Her shoulder-length auburn hair, pulled back with tiny tendrils framing her face, pale blue eye shadow to bring out the sapphire blue of her eyes — she knew she looked good. At eighteen, she’d been her high school homecoming queen. At thirty-two, she hadn’t changed that much. If anything, the passing years had added the gloss of confidence and sophistication that no eighteen-year-old could achieve.

She’d been widowed at twenty-two when her high school sweetheart died on a dusty Afghanistan road. It had taken her a long time to come out from under the cloud that enveloped her but come out she had. If something was lacking in her affair with Andy, she chalked it up to maturity. She knew she couldn’t duplicate the breathless longings and excitement of first love. Life with Andy would be an oasis of calm, and she decided that wasn’t so bad a substitute. Now, as she put the final touches on her hair and makeup, she was prepared to open the new chapter in her life. Mrs. Andy Wells. It had a nice ring to it.

She walked into Le Maison, a place of soft lighting and modulated voices. He had already been seated. His troubled expression should have given her a clue, but she was too caught up in her own fantasy to notice. She crossed the room, pleasantly aware of the admiring glances that followed in her wake. As she drew abreast of the table, he stood up. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. Hey, no sense in getting all X-rated in a crowded restaurant. How would he propose? Had he planted a diamond in her cocktail? Ordered a dessert flying a little flag that said “Will you marry me?” She smiled across the table at him. They’d have beautiful children. Two would be nice, a boy with his curly, dark hair and dimples, a girl with her auburn hair and perfect smile. She was roused from her reverie when Andy waved the waiter away. “Maggie, I don’t know how to say this.”

She smiled encouragingly.

“I never meant for it to happen. I swear to you, Maggie. But Jennifer and I … ”

For a moment, the smile was frozen on her face. Jennifer? The young blond who’d come to work in condo sales just a few months before? She stared at him, shocked.

“I never expected it,” he went on. “But we worked together on that big Weatherly sale, you remember? The one that sold for four point two million? And it got so complicated. We had to work nights and weekends.” He hesitated, avoiding her eyes. “Maggie, it wasn’t something I planned … ” but she had tuned him out.

Her imagination conjured up a picture. Jennifer and Andy bent over appraisals, blueprints, title documents, while Cupid, like a diaper-clad stalker, crouched behind the file cabinet at Barnett & Holmes Real Estate, bow drawn tight, letting fly an arrow that lodged not in Andy’s heart, but a bit lower — right smack in the center of his lying, cheating, lowdown butt.

Maggie was a highly efficient, well-educated executive assistant. She should have taken the blow with dignity and walked out with her head held high. But unknown to her, beneath her calm, well-ordered persona there lurked a crazy woman, itching for an opportunity to burst out. In that moment, Maggie’s rational, ladylike behavior gave way and crazy lady took over.

“You and Jennifer? After I wasted two years? Two damned years?” Her voice had risen.

“Maggie, please,” he cautioned her. “Everybody’s looking.”

“Let ‘em look,” she yelled. She pushed back her chair, sending it flying backward as she stood up. “I want everybody to know what a rotten, lying, sneaking, cheating … ” she had run out of adjectives. She wished now that she’d ordered a cocktail so she could throw it in his face. But she had to settle for the folded napkin that she hurled at him. It fluttered harmlessly to the table.

The maitre d’ hurried toward them.

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t ma’am me,” she shouted, running out of the restaurant before she could embarrass herself further.

The crazy lady, once she’d been set free, refused to go back into whatever dark corner of Maggie’s psyche she’d formerly occupied. Within two weeks of her debut at Le Maison, she followed up with a truly outstanding performance. Maggie had climbed the corporate ladder by means of ambition, ability, and personal charm. She was now the executive assistant to the company vice president in charge of media relations — a position that required extreme tact and the ability to deal with harried, sometimes temperamental account executives. Her warmth and calm demeanor had on more than one occasion defused a potentially explosive situation. Her job required numerous interpersonal skills, but nothing in her arsenal had prepared her for the daily challenge of walking past the Condo Sales Division, where both Andy and Jennifer sat. For the first week after Andy’s bombshell, Maggie contented herself with hurling icy glares at both of them as she strode past their desks. This proved unsatisfactory as neither Andy nor Jennifer would meet her enraged eyes. It was then that the “crazy lady” re-emerged, pen in hand.

Maggie discovered a previously untapped talent. She began to create poison pen notes, complete with stick figures depicting both Jennifer and Andy. She posted them on the company bulletin board while asking herself if she was truly insane. She knew she was on a collision course with unemployment. Sooner or later, she’d be found out. But try as she might, it was a compulsion that she couldn’t control. Maybe it just went to prove another of Grandma’s maxims: hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.