The Nanny Plan
Sarah M. Anderson
This billionaire bachelor has a baby challenge…Being a father to his orphaned infant niece is out of this tech billionaire’s comfort zone. Lucky for Nate Longmire, Trish Hunter is a natural at motherhood and she’s agreed to be his temporary nanny. But long glances, slow kisses and not-so-innocent touches are strictly off limits…Trish’s goal is to help Nate in exchange for a big donation to her charity for Lakota kids. Falling for her bachelor boss—and his adorable baby girl—is not part of the plan. But when the month is up, will she be able to walk away?
This was the closest she’d been to him.
Close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiating in the space between them. Close enough to see the deep golden flecks in his brown eyes. “I haven’t done anything yet,” she said.
“You’re here. Right now, that’s everything.”
Even though Jane was waking up and starting to fuss at still being swaddled in the blanket, Trish couldn’t pull away from the way Nate’s eyes held hers.
“You don’t have to buy me a phone.” It came out as a whisper.
The corner of his mouth curved up and he suddenly looked very much like a man who would seduce his temporary nanny just because he could. “And yet, I’m going to anyway.”
Trish swallowed down the tingling sensation in the back of her throat. This was Nate after a nap? What would he be like after a solid night’s sleep?
And how the hell was she going to resist him?
* * *
The Nanny Plan is part of the No.1 bestselling series from Mills & Boon
Desire™: Billionaires and Babies—Powerful men … wrapped around their babies’ little fingers.
The Nanny Plan
Sarah M. Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Award-winning author SARAH M. ANDERSON may live east of the Mississippi River, but her heart lies out West on the Great Plains. With a lifelong love of horses and two history teachers for parents, she had plenty of encouragement to learn everything she could about the tribes of the Great Plains.
When she started writing, it wasn’t long before her characters found themselves out in South Dakota among the Lakota Sioux. She loves to put people from two different worlds into new situations and to see how their backgrounds and cultures take them someplace they never thought they’d go.
Sarah’s book A Man of Privilege won the 2012 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Mills & Boon
Desire™. Her book Straddling the Line was named Best Mills & Boon Desire of 2013 by CataRomance, and Mystic Cowboy was a 2014 Booksellers’ Best Award finalist in the Single Title category as well as a finalist for the Gayle Wilson Award for Excellence.
When not helping out at her son’s school or walking her rescue dogs, Sarah spends her days having conversations with imaginary cowboys and American Indians, all of which is surprisingly well tolerated by her wonderful husband. Readers can find out more about Sarah’s love of cowboys and Indians at www.sarahmanderson.com (http://www.sarahmanderson.com).
To Maggie Dunne, the founder of Lakota Children’s Enrichment.
You had a very large check and a whole lot of gumption! While I changed many things,
I hope I kept your spirit of charitable action going!
To Maisey Yates and Jules Bennett, who came up with the baby for this book. You guys are the baby experts!
And to Laurel Levy for making sure I got the details of San Francisco right. I’ll get back out there to visit you someday!
Contents
Cover (#u01e6ce8b-2d54-55dc-ba0f-bb12aa2d154f)
Introduction (#ub4e5f417-cec9-5e29-949a-2453ef2d5b58)
Title Page (#ue1dfcc73-f75c-50a0-9153-0811d3d3b7c0)
About the Author (#u99e4de41-37b0-5253-942a-017d82060269)
Dedication (#u7d1d660c-a800-5675-9a67-aaee8a21fdb1)
One (#ulink_51decc81-68ab-5966-a87c-6d759a661b4c)
Two (#ulink_1fb25527-85eb-5ee6-b5bb-114974fe78b4)
Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#ulink_88eae83e-ad3d-5f76-8810-b1afb05ee706)
The auditorium was filling up, which was exactly what Trish wanted. Maybe four hundred people had crowded into the lower level and, in addition to the journalists from the college paper, some reporters from the San Francisco television stations were in attendance. Excellent. A good crowd would leverage some social pressure on her target. No billionaire would risk looking heartless by saying no to a charity in front of a big crowd.
Trish had been sitting in her spot—end of the third row, to the left of the podium on the stage—for over an hour. She’d gotten here early enough that no one had seen her smuggle in the check. She wished she could afford a cell phone—then she could at least play with that until the talk started instead of being the only person in the room who wasn’t connected.
She was as ready as she was ever going to be. She just had to wait for her moment. Timing an ambush of one of the wealthiest men on the planet required precision.
Trish had planned everything down to her shirt—a great find at Goodwill. It was a distressed blue T-shirt with a vintage-looking Wonder Woman logo emblazoned over her breasts. It was a half size too small, but she had on her black velvet suit jacket, so it looked fine. Polished, with a geeky air.
Exactly like her target, Nate Longmire.
People continued to filter in for another thirty minutes. Everyone was here to see Longmire, the newest billionaire to come out of Silicon Valley’s wealth generators. Trish had done her homework. Longmire was twenty-eight, which didn’t exactly make him the “Boy Billionaire” that the press made him out to be. As far as Trish could tell, there wasn’t anything particularly boyish about him.
He was six foot two, broadly built and according to her internet searches, single. But the plan wasn’t to hit on him. The plan was to make him feel like she was a kindred soul in all things nerd—and all things compassionate. The plan was to box him into a corner he could only donate himself out of.
Finally, the lights in the auditorium dimmed and the president of the Student Activities Board came out in a remarkably tight skirt. Trish snorted.
“Welcome to the Speaker Symposium at San Francisco State University. I am your host, Jennifer McElwain...”
Trish tuned the woman out as Jennifer went on about SFSU’s “long and proud” history of social programming, other “distinguished guests,” blah-blah. Instead of listening, Trish scanned the crowd. Over half of the mostly female crowd looked like they were hoping for a wild ride in a limo to happen within an hour.
The sight of so many young, beautiful women made Trish feel uneasy. This was not her world, this college full of young, beautiful people who could casually hook up and hang out without worrying about an unexpected pregnancy, much less how to feed that baby. Trish’s world was one of abject poverty, of never-ending babies that no one planned for and, therefore, no one cared for. No one except her.
Not for the first time, she felt like an interloper. Even though she was in her final year of getting a master’s degree in social work—even though she’d been on this campus for five years—she still knew this wasn’t her world.
Suck it up, she thought to herself as she counted the number of television cameras rolling. Five. The event was getting great press.
She was a woman with a large check and a secondhand Wonder Woman T-shirt waiting to ambush one of the richest men on the planet. That was her, Trish Hunter, in a nutshell.
“...And so,” Jennifer went on, “we are thrilled to have the creator of SnAppShot, Mr. Nate Longmire, here with us tonight to discuss social responsibility and the Giving Pledge!”
The crowd erupted into something that wasn’t quite a cheer but came damn close to a catcall as the Boy Billionaire himself walked on stage.
The audience surged to their feet and Trish surged with them. Longmire walked right past her. She had an excellent view of him.
Oh. Oh, wow. It’s not like she didn’t know what Nate Longmire looked like. She’d read up on his public persona—including that ridiculous article naming him one of the Top Ten Bachelors of Silicon Valley, complete with a photo spread.
But none of the pictures—not a single one of them—did the man justice. Attraction spiked through her as she studied him. In person, the tall frame and the broad shoulders weren’t just eye-catching, they moved with a rippled grace that left her feeling flushed. He had on hipster jeans and Fluevog boots, but he’d paired them with a white tailored shirt with French cuffs and a purple sweater. A striped purple tie was expertly tied around his neck. He wore a scruffy beard and thick horn-rimmed glasses. They were the nerdiest things about him.
Longmire turned his face to the crowd and Trish swore she saw him blush as the thunderous noise continued. He did not preen. If anything, he looked almost uncomfortable. Like he didn’t quite fit in up there.
“Thank you,” he said when the noise did not let up. “Please,” he asked, a note of desperation in his voice, motioning for everyone to sit down. That, at least, worked. “There we go. Good evening, San Francisco State University!”
More applause. Trish swore he winced. He sat on a stool in the middle of the stage, gestured and the lights went down. A single spotlight fell on him. Behind him, a screen lowered to the ground and a slideshow began.
“Technology,” he started as the screen flashed images of attractive people on tablets and smartphones, “has an enormous transformative power. Instant communication has the power to topple governments and reshape societies at a rate of speed that our forefathers—Steve Jobs and Bill Gates—only dreamed of.” The audience laughed at this joke. Longmire gave them a tight smile.
Trish studied him as he spoke. He’d obviously memorized his remarks—not surprising, given that the press had reported his IQ at 145—just above the threshold for a true genius. But when the audience responded in any way, he seemed to draw back, as if he didn’t know what to do when he went off script. Excellent. That was exactly the sort of speaker who wouldn’t know how to tap-dance out of a blatant donation request.
“And you are on the cusp of this technological revolution. You have that power at your fingertips, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.” Longmire paused to take a drink from a water bottle and clear his throat. Trish had the distinct impression that he was forcing himself through this. Interesting, she thought.
“The problem then becomes one of inequality,” Longmire went on. “How can you communicate with the rest of humanity if they don’t have those things?” Images of tribal Africans, destitute southern Asians, aboriginals from Australia and—holy crap, had he actually found a picture of...Trish studied the photo hard before it clicked past. No, that hadn’t been her reservation out in South Dakota, but it might have been the Rosebud lands.
Well. Yay for him acknowledging the state of the Native American reservations in a five-second picture, even if the montage did irritate her. All the people of color had been relegated to the poor section of the talk.
“We have a responsibility to use that power—that wealth,” he went on, “for the betterment of our fellow humans on this planet...”
Longmire talked for another forty-five minutes, calling for the audience members to look beyond their own screens and be conscious consumers of technology. “Be engaged,” he told them. “A rising tide lifts all boats. Solar-powered laptops can lift children out of poverty. Make sure the next Big Thing won’t be lost to poverty and disease. It all starts with you.” This time, when he smiled at the crowd, it was far more confident—and far more practiced. “Don’t let me down.”
The screen behind him shifted to the official Longmire Foundation photo with the Twitter handle and website. The crowd erupted into applause, giving him a six-minute standing ovation while Longmire half sat on his stool, drinking his water and looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
The emcee came back out on stage and thanked Longmire for his “absolutely brilliant” talk before she motioned to where the microphones had been set up in the aisles. “Mr. Longmire has agreed to take questions,” Jennifer gushed.
Timing was everything. Trish didn’t want to go first, but she didn’t want to wait until the reporters started to pack up. She needed a lull that was just long enough for her to haul out her check and get to the microphone before anyone could stop her.
About ten students lined up in either aisle. Some questions were about how Longmire had started his company in his dorm room and how a regular student could come up with a billion-dollar idea.
“What’s something that people need?” Longmire replied. “I wanted a way to take my digital photos with me. Adapting a simple idea that would make it easier to share photos with my parents—and make it easy for my parents to share those photos with other people—led me to adapting the SnAppShot app to every device, every platform available. It was ten years of hard work. Don’t believe what the press says. There are no overnight successes in this business. See a need and fill it.”
When he was replying, Trish noted, he had a different style. Maybe it was because he was really only talking to one person? But his words flowed more easily and he spoke with more conviction. The power in his words filled the auditorium. She could listen to that voice all night—he was mesmerizing.
This was a problem. Trish rubbed her hands on her jeans, trying to steady her nerves. Okay, so he spoke quite well off the cuff—which he demonstrated when a few people asked antagonistic questions.
Instead of acting trapped, Longmire’s face would break into a sly smile—one completely different from the cautious movement of lips he’d used during his prepared remarks. Then he would dissect the question at an astonishing rate and completely undercut the argument, all without getting off the stool.
Ah, yes. This was his other reputation, the businessman who, much like his technological forefathers, would occasionally sue people for fun and profit. Nate Longmire had amassed the reputation of a man who never gave up and never surrendered in the courtroom. He’d completely bankrupted his former college friend, the one he’d started SnAppShot with.
Trish caught herself fidgeting with her earrings. Okay, yes—there was always the chance that her little stunt wouldn’t go over well. But she was determined to give it a shot. The only people who lost were the ones who never tried.
Finally, there was only one person in line on her side and Longmire was listening intently to a question from the other aisle. Trish looked back and didn’t see anyone else coming forward. This was it. She edged her check out from behind her seat and then stood in line, less than two feet away from the check. She could grab it and hoist it up in seconds. This would work. It had to.
The person in front of her asked some frivolous question about how Longmire felt about his status as a sex symbol. Even as Trish rolled her eyes, Longmire shot beet red. The question had unsettled him. Perfect.
“We have time for one more question,” Jennifer announced after the nervous laughter had settled. “Yes? Step forward and say your name, please.”
Trish bent over and grabbed her check. It was comically huge—a four-feet long by two-feet tall piece of cardboard. “Mr. Longmire,” she said, holding the check in front of her like a shield. “My name is Trish Hunter and I’m the founder of One Child, One World, a charity that gets school supplies in the hands of underprivileged children on American Indian reservations.”
Longmire leaned forward, his dark eyes fastened on hers. The world seemed to—well, it didn’t fall away, not like it did in stories. But the hum of the audience and the bright lights seemed to fade into the background as Longmire focused all of his attention on her and said, “An admirable cause. Go on, Ms. Hunter. What is your question?”
Trish swallowed nervously. “I recently had the privilege of being named one of Glamour’s Top Ten College Women in honor of the work I’m doing.” She paused to heft her check over her head. “The recognition came with a ten-thousand dollar reward, which I have pledged to One Child, One World in its entirety. You’ve spoken eloquently about how technology can change lives. Will you match this award and donate ten thousand dollars to help children get school supplies?”
The silence that crashed over the auditorium was deafening. All Trish could hear was the pounding of blood in her ears. She’d done it. She’d done exactly what she’d set out to do—cause a scene and hopefully trap one of the richest men in the world into parting with just a little of his hard-earned money.
“Thank you, Ms. Hunter,” the emcee said sharply. “But Mr. Longmire has a process by which people can apply for—”
“Wait,” Longmire cut her off. “It’s true, the Longmire Foundation does have an application process. However,” he said, his gaze never leaving Trish’s face. Heat flushed her body. “One must admire a direct approach. Ms. Hunter, perhaps we can discuss your charity’s needs after this event is over?”
Trish almost didn’t hear the Oohs that came from the rest of the crowd over the rush of blood in her ears. That wasn’t a no. It wasn’t a yes, either—it was a very good side step around giving a hard answer one way or the other. But it wasn’t a no and that was all that mattered. She could still press her case and maybe, just maybe, get enough funding to buy every single kid on her reservation a backpack full of school supplies before school started in five months.
Plus, she’d get to see if Nate was as good-looking up close as he was at a distance. Not that it mattered. Of course it didn’t. “I would be honored,” she said into the microphone and even she didn’t miss the way her voice shook, just a little.
“Bring your check,” he said with a grin that came real close to being wicked. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one that large before.”
Laughter rolled through the auditorium as Longmire grinned at her. Behind his glasses, one eyebrow lifted in challenge and then he pointedly looked offstage. The message was clear. Would she meet him backstage?
The emcee was thanking Longmire for his time and everyone was applauding and the rest of the evening was clearly over. Trish managed to snag her small purse—a Coach knockoff—and fight against the rising tide of college kids who had not been invited backstage for a private meeting with the Boy Billionaire. With her small purse and her large check, Trish managed to get up the steps at the side of the stage and duck behind the curtains.
The emcee stood there, glaring at her. “That was some stunt you pulled,” she said in a vicious whisper.
“Thanks!” Trish responded brightly. No doubt, Jennifer had had grand plans for her own post-interview “meeting” with Longmire and Trish had usurped that quite nicely.
“Ah, Ms. Hunter. Hello.” Suddenly, Nate Longmire was standing before her. Trish was a good five-nine—taller in her boots—but she still had to lean her head up to meet his gaze. “Excellent,” he went on, looking down at her as if he was thrilled to see her. “You have the large check. Jennifer, would you take our picture?”
His phone chimed. He looked at it, scowled briefly, and then called up his SnAppShot app. He handed his phone to the emcee, who forced a polite smile. “Hand it up here,” Longmire said, taking half of the check in his hand. Then he put his arm around Trish’s shoulders and whispered, “Smile.”
Trish wasn’t sure she pulled off that smile. His arm around her was warm and heavy and she swore to God that she felt his touch in places he wasn’t touching.
She would not be attracted to him. She couldn’t afford to be attracted to him. All she could do was forge ahead with her plan. Phase One—trap the Boy Billionaire—was complete. Now she had to move onto Phase Two—getting a donation out of him.
Forging ahead had absolutely nothing to do with the way his physical touch was sending shimmering waves of awareness through her body. Nothing.
Jennifer took two shots and then handed back the phone. Longmire’s arm left her and Trish couldn’t help it—she shivered at the loss of his warmth.
“Mr. Longmire,” Jennifer began in a silky tone. “If you recall, I’d invited you out for a dinner after the program. We should get going.”
There was a pause that could only be called awkward. Longmire didn’t even move for three blinks of the eye—as if this statement had taken him quite by surprise and, despite his ferocious business skills and dizzying intellect, he had no possible answer for Jennifer.
Jennifer touched his arm. “Ready?” she said, batting her eyes.
Trish rolled hers—just as Longmire looked at her.
Oops. Busted.
But instead of glaring at her, Longmire looked as if Trish was the answer to all his questions. That look should not do things to her. So, she forcibly decided, it didn’t.
“Gosh—I do remember that, but I think I need to address Ms. Hunter’s question first.” He stepped away from Jennifer much like a crab avoiding a hungry seagull. Jennifer’s hand hung in empty space for a moment before she lowered it back to her side. “Call my office,” Longmire said, turning on his heel. “We’ll try to set something up. Ms. Hunter? Are you coming?”
Trish clutched her check to her chest and hurried after Longmire, trying to match his long strides.
That definitely wasn’t a no.
Now she just needed to get to a yes.
* * *
Nate settled into the Apollo Coffee shop. He liked coffee shops. They were usually busy enough that he didn’t garner too much attention but quiet enough that he could think. He liked to think. It was a profitable, satisfying experience for him, thinking.
Right now he was thinking about the young woman who’d trucked a comically large check into the hired car and carried it into the coffee shop as if it were the most normal thing ever.
Trish Hunter. She was drinking a small black coffee—easily the cheapest thing on the extensive menu. She’d insisted on buying her own coffee, too. Had absolutely refused to let him plunk down the two dollars and change for hers.
That was something...different. He was intrigued, he had to admit.
The large check was wedged behind her chair, looking slightly worse for wear. “That’s not the real check, is it?” he asked over the lip of his grande mocha.
“No. I got a regulation-sized check that went straight into the bank. But this makes for better photos, don’t you think?” she replied easily, without that coy tone women had started using around him about the time he made his first million.
“Not a lot of people would have had the guts to try and trap me like that,” he noted, watching her face closely. She was lovely—long dark hair that hung most of the way down her back, brown skin that graced high cheekbones. With her strong features and strong body—because there was no missing that—she looked like she could be Wonder Woman.
She didn’t act like the kind of women who tried to trap him with their feminine wiles. Instead, she sat across from him, drinking cheap coffee and no doubt waiting to tell him why he should cut her another check.
For a second—the amount of time it took for her to look up at him through thick lashes—Nate almost panicked. He wasn’t particularly good with women, as evidenced by that nagging feeling that he hadn’t handled Jennifer’s dinner invitation well and the fact that he had flat-out ignored that message from Diana—the third one this month.
Ever since things with Diana had fallen apart—and then really gone to hell—he’d kept things simple by simply not getting involved. Which meant that he was horribly out of practice. But there was no way he would let another woman take advantage of him. And that included Diana. Hence why he would just keep right on ignoring her messages.
Trish Hunter wasn’t doing the things that normally made him nervous—treating him like he was a sex god she’d been secretly worshipping for years.
She grinned, a small curve of her lips over the edge of her cup. That grin did something to him—made him feel more sure of himself. Which sounded ridiculous but there it was. “Did it work? The trap, that is.”
Nate smiled back. He was terrible about negotiations with members of the opposite sex. Money, however, was something he’d learned to negotiate. And the fact that this lovely young woman wasn’t playing coy—wasn’t acting like he’d gotten used to women acting around him—only made him more comfortable. Everything was out in the open. He could handle this kind of interaction. “That depends.”
Her eyes widened slightly and a flash of surprise crossed her face. It made her look...innocent. Sweet, even. “Upon?”
“Tell me about your charity.”
She exhaled in relief. It wasn’t a big gesture, but he saw it nonetheless. He wondered what she’d thought he would ask. “Of course. One Child, One World is a registered 501(c) charity. We keep our overhead as low as possible.” Nate sighed. He hated the boring part of charity work. It was, for lack of a better word, boring. “Approximately $0.93 of every dollar donated goes to school supplies...” her voice trailed off. “Not the right answer?”
He sat up a little straighter. She was paying attention to him. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t flattering. “Those statistics are all required as part of the grant application process,” he replied, waving his hand. “The lawyers insisted. But that’s not what I wanted to know.”
She raised a strong eyebrow and leaned toward him. Yes, he had her full attention—and she had his. “You asked about my charity.”
Oh, yeah—her words were nothing but challenge. This was not a woman telling him whatever he wanted to hear. This was a woman who would push back. Even though he had the money and she had a very cheap coffee, she’d still push back.
That made her even more interesting.
And as long as he kept thinking of it in terms of power and money—instead of noting how pretty she was and how she was looking at him and especially how he was no doubt looking at her—he’d be just fine.
“Tell me about why a young woman would start an organization to get school supplies into kids’ hands. Tell me about...” You. But he didn’t say that because that would cross the line of business and go into the personal. The moment he did that, he’d probably start flailing and knock the coffee into her lap. “Tell me about it.”
“Ah.” She took her time sipping her coffee. “Where did you grow up? Kansas City, right?”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“Any good trap is a well-planned trap,” she easily replied, a note of satisfaction in her voice.
He nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, I grew up in Kansas City. Middle-class household. Father was an accountant, mother taught second grade.” He left out the part about his brothers. “It was a very comfortable life.” He hadn’t realized how comfortable until he’d made his money—and started looking at how other people lived.
Trish smiled encouragingly. “And every August, you got a new backpack, new shoes, new school clothes and everything on that list teachers said you had to have, right?”
“Yes.” He took a calculated risk. Just because she had black hair and skin the color of copper and was running a charity that helped American Indians on reservations didn’t necessarily mean she was a Native American herself. But there was no such thing as coincidence. “I take it you didn’t?”
Something in her face changed—her eyes seemed to harden. “My sixth-grade teacher gave me two pencils once. It was all she could afford.” She dropped her gaze and began to fiddle with one of her earrings. “It was the best present I ever got.”
Nate, being Nate, didn’t have a smooth comeback to that. In fact, he didn’t know what to say at all. His mom, Susan, had worked as a teacher, and she’d occasionally talked about a student who needed “a little extra help,” as she put it. Then she’d fill a backpack with food and some basics and that was that. But that was before she’d had to stay home with Nate’s brother Joe full-time.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. Once, he hadn’t believed there was a world where a couple of #2 pencils were an amazing gift. But now he knew better.
Her gaze still on her coffee, she gave him a quick, tight smile. He needed to move the conversation forward. “So you’re working to change that?”
“Yes. A new backpack full of everything a kid needs in a classroom.” She shrugged and looked back at him. The hardness fell away. “I mean, that’s the first goal. But it’s an important first step.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “You have bigger plans?”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, of course! It’s just the beginning.”
“Tell me what you’d do.”
“For so many kids, school is...it’s an oasis in the middle of a desert. The schools need to open earlier, stay open later. They need to serve a bigger breakfast, a bigger lunch and everyone needs an afternoon snack. Too many kids aren’t getting regular meals at home and it’s so hard to study on an empty stomach.” As she said this last point, she dropped her gaze again.
She was speaking from experience, he realized. Two pencils and nothing to eat at home.
“Indians on the rez love basketball and skateboarding,” she went on. “Having better courts and parks on the school grounds could keep kids from joining gangs.”
“You have gang problems?” He always associated gangs with inner-city drug wars or something.
She gave him a look that walked a fine line between “amused” and “condescending.” “Some people have perverted our warrior culture into a gang mentality. We lose kids that way and we rarely get them back.”
He thought over her wish list, such as it was. “I haven’t heard anything about computers.”
She paused, then gave him that tight smile again. “It’s the ultimate goal, one that will require far more than ten or even twenty thousand dollars of funding. Most schools don’t have the infrastructure to support an internet connection, much less cloud storage. I want kids to have basic supplies and full bellies before I get to that. You understand, don’t you?”
He nodded. He’d toured some bad schools—mold growing on the walls, windows taped shut to keep the glass from falling out, ancient textbooks that smelled like rot. But what she was describing...
“What is it you want from me, then? Just ten grand?”
The moment he said it, he realized that maybe he shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. Especially not when Trish leaned back in her chair, one arm on the armrest, the other curled up under her chin—except for her index finger, which she’d extended over her lips as if they were in a library and she was shushing him. She met his gaze full-on, a hint of challenge lurking in her eyes. The air grew tight with tension.
God, she was beautiful and there was something else behind that gaze—an interest in more than just his bank account. He should ask her out. She wasn’t intimidated by him and she wasn’t throwing herself at him. She was here for the money and all her cards were up front, no hiding funding requests behind manipulative sexual desire. Hell. He didn’t meet too many women who could just sit and have a conversation with him.
Except...dating was not his strong suit and he was pretty sure that asking a woman out right after she’d requested a donation would probably cross some ethical line.
Damn.
“Of course, One Child, One World would be delighted with any funding the Longmire Foundation saw fit to disperse,” she said, sounding very much like someone who’d written a few grants in her time.
“How’d you get to be a Woman of the Year?”
“One of my professors nominated me,” she told him. “I didn’t know she was doing it. One day, I’m trying to organize a bake sale to raise a hundred dollars to cover postage back to the rez and the next, I’m being flown to New York and given a lot of money.” She blushed. “I mean, a lot of money for me. I’m sure ten grand isn’t very much to you.”
“I can remember when that much was a lot of money,” he admitted. He winced. That was a totally jerky thing to say and he knew it.
He was about to apologize when she said, “Tell me about your charity,” turning his question back on him.
He regarded her for a second. “Is that another way of asking why I’m giving money away for free?”
“You did go to all that trouble of earning it in the first place,” she pointed out.
He shrugged. “Like I said, I had a comfortable childhood. We didn’t always get everything we wanted—I didn’t get a car for my sixteenth birthday or anything—but we were fine.”
How he’d wanted a car. Brad, his older brother, had a half-rusted Jeep he’d bought with lawn-mowing money that he swore made it a breeze to get a date.
Back then, Nate had absolutely no prospect of a date. He was tall and gangly, with dorky glasses and awful skin. They were still trying to integrate Joe into a mainstream classroom at that point and Nate was mercilessly mocked by his peers. The only possible way he could have gotten a girl was if he’d had a sweet ride to pick her up in.
Alas. No car. No date.
“Anyway,” he went on, shaking his head, “I made that first million and I felt like I’d made it. But a weird thing happened—that million spawned a second million, then a third. And then the buyout happened and now...” He gave her an apologetic smile. “Honestly, what the hell am I going to do with a billion dollars? Buy a country and rule as a despot?”
It wasn’t as if this background was entirely new information—he’d given interviews explaining the rationale for his foundation—but those were formal things with scripted answers, preapproved by his assistant, Stanley.
Right now, sitting here in a coffee shop with Ms. Trish Hunter, it didn’t feel like an interview. It felt like a conversation. An honest one.
Nate nodded toward her shirt. “I bought Superman #1—you know?”
A smile quirked at her lips. “I do know. Didn’t you pay the highest recorded price for it?”
“I did. It was wild—I felt like I was jumping off a cliff, to pay five million for a comic book.”
“Did you at least read it? Or did you lock it up?” The way she asked the question made it clear—she would have read it.
“I read it. Carefully.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, as if he were saying something salacious. She laughed. It was as close to flirting as he got. “With tongs. In a temperature-controlled room.”
Her eyes lit up. “Were you wearing one of those hazmat suits, too?”
“No. Just gloves.” She giggled at the image and he laughed with her. It had been totally ridiculous. “But what else am I going to do with this much money besides buy comic books?”
“You donated a lot to mental-health research,” she said. She was leaning forward slightly, her body language indicating that she was really listening.
“I have a...personal connection to that.” When she waited for more, he added, “I keep my family private. It’s the only way to stay sane in this industry.”
Yes, he had set up an endowment into schizophrenia, depression and bipolar research. That was the public action. The private one had been setting up a trust fund for the care of Joe. Mom was able to stay home full-time with Joe now, and they had reliable home health aides to assist. Nate had tried to give his parents a million dollars or an all-expenses paid trip around the world, but it turned out that peace of mind about their youngest son was all they really wanted.
And after what had happened with Diana...
Nate’s private life stayed private. Period.
“Ah, understood.” She tilted her head. “That explains why there’s no press on it. I wondered.”
He stared at her. Yeah, he expected that she’d done her homework, but it was unusual to have someone admit to digging into his past—and then agree not to discuss it. As the shock of her blunt attitude wore off, he felt himself grinning at her even more. “Thanks. So, you know—I’m rich, I no longer run my own company—what am I going to do with the rest of my life? I set up a fund for my niece, bought my brother a house, took care of—well, I took care of the rest of my family, fended off a few lawsuits. That only left me with about a billion. Giving away the money seemed like something to do. The Longmire Foundation has given away fourteen million dollars and I haven’t even made a dent yet.”
That was the truth. He was making more in interest than he could give away. The simple truth was that her request for a matching grant of ten thousand dollars was the product of about five minutes for him, if that. He could add two or three zeroes to the end of the check and never even notice the money was gone.
“Is that what makes you happy?”
He looked at her funny. Happy? He was rich. He wasn’t the same gangly nerd he’d been in high school. He was a ruthless businessman, a hugely successful one. He owned his own jet, for crying out loud.
But there was something in the way she asked it...
“I’m doing good. That’s what counts.”
“Of course.” She opened her mouth, paused—and then angled her body toward his. Her gaze dropped again, but only for a second. She looked up at him through her lashes. Energy—attraction—seemed to arc between them as he stared at her.
Her eyes were a deep brown, like dark chocolate. Sweet, yes—but much more than that. There was innocence, but now it had an edge to it—an edge that held a hell of a lot of promise.
He leaned forward, eager to hear what she would say—and whether or not it would sound like legal boilerplate or if it would sound like something else.
He leaned right into his coffee and promptly spilled what was left of his grande mocha into her lap.
“Whoa!” she shouted, hopping to her feet. The dark stain spread down her leg.
“Oh, damn—I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. What had he been thinking? Of course she wasn’t going to say something along the lines of “Maybe we should discuss this over dinner.” He grabbed some napkins and thrust them at her. “Here.”
This was terrible. He’d been doing just fine when it’d been a business negotiation, but the moment he hoped it’d go past that—it blew up in his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “I’ll pay for the cleaning bill.”
She laughed. And after she’d checked her seat for coffee, she sat down, spread a napkin over her lap, and grinned at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But your clothes...” Even now, he could see the droplets of coffee on her shirt.
“I’m used to spills and stains. Don’t worry about it.”
He wasn’t sure if he believed her, but then he met her gaze. It was full of humor, yes—but he didn’t get the sense that she was laughing at him. Just the situation. Clumsy billionaire knocks coffee into her lap.
He had to get out of here before he did even worse damage to her clothes or his pride. “Listen, why don’t you come by my office in two weeks? I’ll have my assistant start the paperwork and we can settle the terms then.” He fished out his card, which just said, “Longmire Foundation,” with the address and email. “And please—bring the dry-cleaning bill. It hurts me to think that I might have ruined your shirt.”
A second too late, he realized he was staring at her chest. The jacket had fallen open a little more. It was a very nice chest.
God, what was he doing? Trying to make this worse? He shook some sense—he hoped—back into his head and handed over the card. “Say, Friday at two?”
“I have to work.” She took the card and studied it. “This is in the Filmore area.”
“Yes. I keep an office close to where I live.” She was still looking at the card. “Is that a problem?”
“No, it’s fine. I just thought you’d be down in the Mission or in SOMA. Close to where all the other tech billionaires hang out.”
He waved his hand. “I like to walk to the office when it’s nice out.” She gaped at him, as if she couldn’t believe a billionaire would stoop to walking on his own two feet instead of being carried on a gold-plated litter by trained elephants. “Truth be told, we’re not some sort of secret billionaire club. And I don’t really have much interest in the constant one-upmanship that happens when you get us all together. I like peace and quiet and a nice view. I like to be a little bit not what people expect.”
That got her attention. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and...encouraging?
If she could still look at him after he dumped his drink all over her, then maybe...
She went back to studying the card. “I won’t be able to get there until five. Is that too late?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll make sure Stanley knows you’re coming.”
“Stanley?”
“My assistant.” Actually, Stanley was more than that—he picked out Nate’s clothes and made sure Nate projected the right amount of geek-cred cool. If only Stanley had been here tonight, no one would have gotten a damp lap.
He’d have Stanley start the due diligence on her charity to make sure her numbers were correct.
She grinned up at him again, as if she wasn’t sure how to process an assistant named Stanley. “I look forward to our meeting.” She stood, crumpling up the napkins and stuffing them into her empty cup. Then she extended her hand. “Mr. Longmire, it has been an honor. Thank you so much for considering my proposal.”
“It’s a worthy cause.” He took her hand in his and tried to shake it, but the feeling of her slender fingers warming his momentarily froze his brain. He wanted to say something suave and sophisticated that let her know he was interested in more than her charity.
He had nothing.
Maybe their next meeting would go more smoothly—in his office, Stanley would be ready to swoop in and save Nate from himself as needed. “And again—sorry about the coffee.”
She waved him off and retrieved her large check from behind the chair. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be too splattered. “I’ll see you on Friday in two weeks.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” That got him a nice smile, warm and friendly and comforting—like she realized exactly how socially awkward he really was and was rewarding him for doing a decent job.
Nate watched her figure retreat from the coffee shop and disappear into the foggy darkness, the check glowing white. Trish Hunter. Yes, Stanley would have to do some due diligence on her charity. And on the woman herself. Nate wanted to know more about her—a lot more.
He sent for a car to take him home and was picking up the coffee cups—his mother had always taught him to pick up after himself and being a self-made billionaire hadn’t changed that—when his phone rang. Not the chime that went with a message, but the ring of someone actually calling him.
His mother. She was pretty much the only person who called him, anyway. She was too old to learn to text, she said. That was her story and she was sticking to it.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, heading out to the sidewalk.
“Nate? Oh, honey.” She was crying. Nate froze halfway out the door. Instantly, all thoughts of Trish Hunter and large checks and coffee were pushed from his mind.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Nate—oh, God. There’s been an accident.”
“Dad?” Panic clawed at him. His parents were only in their fifties. He didn’t want to lose either one just yet.
“He’s fine. Oh, Nate...we need you to come home. It’s Brad and Elena...”
“Are they okay?” But even as he said it, he knew the answer was no. His mother was crying. Something horrible had happened to his older brother and his sister-in-law. “What about Jane?” When his mom didn’t answer right away, Nate nearly threw up. “Mom—is Jane okay?”
“The baby is fine. We were watching her so they could go out... Come home, Nate. Come home now.”
Dear God in heaven. “I’m on my way, Mom. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hung up and called Stanley. This was one of the benefits of being a billionaire. He didn’t have to deal with emergency flights. He had an assistant—and a private jet.
“Stanley, get the plane ready. I need to go to Kansas City. Right now.”
Two (#ulink_dbd707a2-59b7-50a8-8934-edc54e62dbf7)
Trish had spent a good deal of time on this outfit. Wearing the Wonder Woman shirt again would be too obvious, even though it had washed clean. Trish had decided to go a little more formal for this meeting. She had on a coral skirt that came to midcalf. She’d paired it with a white shirt that was as crisp as she could get it in a public Laundromat and a denim jacket from Diesel—another major score from the thrift stores. Her only pair of cowboy boots were on her feet. Once they’d been black, but now they were a faded gray. Which was trendy enough, so she figured she was okay.
She was wearing the one good piece of turquoise she had, a teardrop-shaped pendant that hung on a thin silver chain. She’d twisted her hair up into a professional looking knot and had put in a pair of silver hoops that looked more expensive than they really were.
This was her being a business-professional Lakota woman. This was not her dressing to impress a certain billionaire. Not much, anyway.
She didn’t have a cleaning bill to give him and she had the distinctive feeling that he wasn’t going to be happy about that. What could she do? Tell him she needed $1.25 in quarters for the Laundromat?
The skirt had necessitated the bus, however. She hadn’t wanted it to get tangled up in her bike spokes. So, at 5:08—after almost an hour and a half—she finally arrived at his address in the Filmore district.
The Longmire Foundation was on the fourth floor of an austere-looking office building. On the ride up, Trish swallowed nervously. Yes, the conversation with Nate at the coffee shop had been pleasant and encouraging—but who knew what might have changed in the past two weeks? Because of how the event had played out in the press, she was worried that he might have changed his mind. The news reports had caught the look he’d given her when he’d asked her to meet him backstage and rumors about something else happening backstage had already started.
Trish had fielded a few phone calls, which was good. Sort of. Yes, any attention she could draw to One Child was good attention—but the quotes reporters had been looking for were much more along the lines of whether or not a romance had sparked.
Which it hadn’t. Really.
So Nate Longmire was tall, built and twice as handsome in person as he was in photographs. So there’d been something between them—something that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since the moment she’d walked out of that coffee shop. It’d almost been like...like she’d belonged there, with him. For just a little bit, he hadn’t been some unreachable Boy Billionaire and she hadn’t been a dirt-poor American Indian. He’d just been a man and she’d just been a woman and that was—well, it was good. With the potential to be even better.
And that potential? That’s what she’d been dreaming about almost every single night for the past two weeks.
Well. They were just dreams. And she needed to stick with reality.
And the reality of the situation was that Nate was not her type. She didn’t have a type, but whatever it might be, a Boy Billionaire clearly wasn’t it. She would probably never have a total of five million dollars in her entire life—and he was the kind of guy who spent that on a comic book.
At least the Wonder Woman shirt had done its job, she figured. Now, in her fancy clothes, it was time to do hers.
She’d done her best to avoid answering any questions about her supposed involvement with Nate Longmire by throwing out every single stat she could about poverty on Indian reservations and how even a five-dollar donation could make a difference. In the end, unable to get a juicy quote out of her, the press had left her alone.
She’d noticed that, in any report, whether online or on television, Nate Longmire had always been “unavailable for comment.” She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.
Trish found the right door—suite 412, The Longmire Foundation written in black letters on the glass—and tried the doorknob, but it was locked. A growing sense of dread filled her as she knocked.
A minute passed. Trish didn’t know if she should knock again or...what? She had no other options. Nate said he’d be here—that Stanley would be here. He hadn’t forgotten, had he?
She knocked again.
This time, a man shouted, “Jeez, I’m coming. I’m coming.”
The door was unlocked and thrown open. Instead of Nate Longmire’s well-dressed form, a man in a white tank top, oversize corduroy pants held up by bright red suspenders and more tattoos than God glared down at her. “What?”
“Um, hello,” Trish said, trying not to be nervous. This guy had spacers in his ears. She could see right through them. She swallowed. “I have an appointment with Mr. Longmire—”
“What are you doing here?” the man all but growled at her.
“I’m sorry?”
The man looked put out. “You’re supposed to be at his house for the interview. Didn’t they tell you that?”
They? They who? “No?”
Mr. Tattoos rolled his eyes to the sky and sighed. “You’re in the wrong place. You need to be at 2601 Pacific Street.” He looked at her dubiously. “2601 Pacific Street,” he repeated in a slower, louder voice, as if she’d suddenly gone deaf. When Trish just stared at him, he pointed again and said, “That way. Okay?”
“Yes, all right.” She stood there for a minute, too shocked to do much but not look through the holes in his ears. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, good luck—you’re gonna need it,” he called after her, then she heard the door shut and lock behind her.
Great. Trish was going to be way late. Panic fluttered through her stomach. Was this a sign—Nate had reviewed her case and decided that her charity didn’t meet his requirements? Why on earth was she supposed to go to his house—especially if he was going to turn her down? This wasn’t about to get weird, was it?
She did the only thing she could do—she started to walk. She loved walking through San Francisco, looking at all the Victorian houses and wondering what it would be like to live in one. To have a view of the bay or the Golden Gate Bridge. To not have to worry about making rent and having enough left over.
Her mother, Pat, had loved the music from the Summer of Love. When she was with a real jerk of a boyfriend—which was often enough—Pat would sometimes get nostalgic and talk about one day coming out to San Francisco to find Trish’s father. That was how Trish found out that her father had come to this city when he’d abandoned his family.
Trish did what she always did when she walked the streets—she looked in the faces of each person she passed by, hoping to recognize a little part of herself. Maybe her father had gotten remarried and had more kids. Maybe Trish would find a half sister walking around. Or maybe the woman her father had settled down with would recognize her husband’s face in Trish’s and ask if they were related.
Trish had lived here for five years. This on-the-street recognition hadn’t happened, not once. But she kept looking.
She walked to Pacific Street and turned. This was such a beautiful place, right across from the park. Nothing like the tiny garret apartment in Ingleside she rented for the subsidized sum of $350 a month.
She found the right house—she hoped. It was a sweeping three-story Victorian home, the exterior painted a soft shade of blue with bright white paint outlining the scrollwork and columns. The curtains on the ground-level windows were closed and a painted garage door was shut. Next to that was a wide, sweeping set of steps that led up to the perfect porch for a summer afternoon, complete with swing.
It was simply lovely. The small part of her brain that wasn’t nervous about this whole “interview at his house” thing was doing a little happy dance—she would finally get to see the inside of one of these homes.
But that excitement was buried pretty danged deep. To get inside the home, she had to get through the gate at the bottom of the stairs—and it didn’t budge. How was she supposed to be at the house if she couldn’t even get to the door? Then she saw a buzzer off to the right. She pressed it and waited.
Even standing here felt like she was interloping again. This wasn’t right. Nate had been very clear—she was to meet him at the office. Trish had no idea which “they” should have told her about the change, but what could she do? She needed the donation, desperately.
So she rang the bell, again, and waited. Again. She caught herself twisting her earring and forced her hands back by her sides. This was not about to go sideways on her. This was fine. She was a professional. She could handle whatever was on the other side of that door with grace and charm.
Up on the porch, the door opened and a short, stocky woman in a gray dress and a white apron stood before her. “Hello?”
“Hi,” Trish said, trying her best to smile warmly. “I have an appointment with Mr. Longmire and—”
“Ay mia—you’re late,” the woman said—but unlike Mr. Tattoo, she looked happy to see Trish. “Come in, come in.” A buzzer sounded and the gate swung free. Trish climbed the stairs, schooling her features into a professional smile—warm, welcoming, not at all worried about the lack of communication about any changes to the plan.
“Hello,” she said when she was face-to-face with the woman. “I’m Trish Hunter and—”
The woman latched onto Trish’s arm and all but hauled her inside. The door shut with a resounding thud behind her.
“Who is it, Rosita?” Trish recognized Nate’s voice as the one calling down the stairs.
“The girl,” Rosita called back.
“Send her up.”
It was only then, with Rosita the maid shooing her up the stairs so fast that she could barely take in the beautiful details of the entry room, that Trish heard it—the plaintive wail of a deeply unhappy baby.
It was pretty safe to say that Trish had absolutely no idea what was going on. But up the stairs she went, bracing herself for what baby-related carnage awaited her.
She was not wrong about that.
Nate Longmire—the same Boy Billionaire who had given an impassioned talk on social responsibility, the same Nate Longmire who had insisted on paying her dry-cleaning bill, the very same Nate Longmire that had looked positively sinful in his hipster glasses and purple tie—stood in front of one of those portable playpens that Trish had coveted for years. Nate was in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. That part wasn’t surprising.
What was surprising was that Nate was trying to hold a screaming baby. The child was in nothing but a diaper and, unless Trish missed her guess, the diaper was on backwards.
“What on earth?” Trish demanded.
* * *
Nate spun at the sound of the exclamation from behind him just as Jane squirmed in his arms. Oh, hell—why were babies so damned hard to hold onto?
“Uh...” he managed to get out as he got his other arm under Jane’s bottom and kept her from tumbling. The little girl screamed even louder. Nate would have thought that it was physically impossible for her to find more volume from her tiny little body, but she had.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” the woman said. The next thing he knew, Jane had been lifted out of his arms by a beautiful woman with striking dark eyes and—
Oh, God. “Trish!”
“Yes, hello,” she said, slinging the baby onto her hip with a practiced air. “Where are the diapers?”
“Why—what—I mean—you’re here?”
Trish paused in her search for diapers and gave him a look. It was a look that he deserved. Never in his entire life had he felt more like an idiot. “Yes. We had an appointment.”
He started. “Your appointment?”
“Yes,” she said, as she turned a small circle, surveying the complete and total destruction of the room that, until seven days ago, had been a sitting room and now was supposed to be a nursery. Even Nate knew that it wasn’t a nursery, not yet. It was a hellhole. He couldn’t tell if she was finding what she was looking for or not.
His mind tried to work, but that was like trying to open a bank vault where all the tumblers had rusted shut. He was so tired but Trish was here. He’d never been so happy to see a woman in his entire life. “You’re here about the nanny position?”
That got him another look—but there was more pity in her eyes this time. “Mr. Longmire,” she said in an utterly calm voice. She snagged a blanket and, with the screaming baby still on her hip, managed to smoothly lay the cloth out on the floor. “We had an appointment in your office at five today to discuss a matching grant to my charity, One Child, One World.”
Oh, hell. “You’re...not here about the nanny position?”
Trish located a diaper and then fell to her knees in an entirely graceful way. She carefully laid Jane out on the blanket. “Oh, dear, yes,” she soothed in a soft voice that Nate had to strain to hear over the screaming. “You’re so cold, sweetie! And wet, too? Oh, yes, it’s so hard to be a baby, isn’t it?” Trish changed the diaper and then looked up at him. “Does she have any clothes?”
“Why are you so calm?” he demanded.
“This is not difficult, Mr. Longmire. Does she have any clothes?”
Nate turned and dug into one of the suitcases Stanley had loaded onto his private plane. “Like a dress or something?”
“Like jammies, Mr. Longmire. Oh, I know,” she said in that soothing voice again. “I know. I think he’s trying his best, but he doesn’t know how to speak baby, does he?”
For a blissful second, Jane stopped screaming and instead only made a little burbling noise, as if she really were talking to Trish.
Then the screaming started right back up with renewed vigor.
Nate grabbed something that looked like it could be jammies. Orange terry cloth with pink butterflies and green flowers, it had long sleeves and footies attached to the legs. “This?”
“That’s perfect,” Trish said in that soothing tone again. Nate handed over the clothes and watched, stunned, as Trish got the wriggling arms and kicking legs into the fabric.
“How do you do that? I couldn’t get her into anything. And I couldn’t get her to stop screaming.”
“I noticed.” Trish looked up at him and smiled. “How are you feeding her?”
“Um, my mom sent some formula. Down in the kitchen.”
Trish rubbed Jane’s little tummy. Then, like it was just that easy, she folded the blanket around Jane and tucked in the ends and suddenly, Nate was looking at a baby burrito.
“One second, baby.” Then, to Nate, she said, “Don’t pick her up—but watch her while I wash my hands, okay?”
“Okay?” What choice did he have? The baby was still crying but, miraculously, her volume had pitched down for the first time since Nate had seen her.
“Bathroom?” Trish asked.
“Through that door.” As he stared at Jane, he tried to think. For a man who had done plenty of thinking while pulling all-nighters, he was stunned at how much his brain felt like the sludge at the bottom of a grease trap.
Trish Hunter. How could he forget her? Not even a funeral or a solid two weeks of sleep deprivation could erase the memory of her talking with him in a coffee shop. She’d been smart and beautiful and he’d—he’d liked her. He’d gotten the distinctive feeling that she’d been interested in him—not just his money.
Crap. He must have forgotten about their appointment entirely when his world fell apart. Which—yes, now he remembered—had occurred moments after his conversation with Trish in the coffee shop.
The woman he’d felt a connection with was the same woman who had just walked into his house and changed his niece’s diaper.
Wait.
A woman he’d felt a connection with had just changed his niece’s diaper. And gotten her dressed. And wrapped her into a burrito. And, if the indications were to be believed, was about to go down and fix a bottle of formula.
He’d been expecting a candidate for the position of nanny.
Maybe she had arrived.
Trish came out, looking just as elegant as she had before. “There now,” she said in that soft voice as she scooped Jane up and cuddled the baby against her chest. “I bet you’re hungry and I bet you’re sleepy. Let’s get some milk, okay?” Jane made a little mewing sound that came close to an agreement.
Trish looked at Nate, who was staring. “Kitchen?”
“This way.”
Nate felt like he needed to be doing something better here—but he was at a loss. All he could do was lead the way down stairs and into the back of the house, where Rosita was looking like the last rat on the ship. When his maid saw Trish cuddling the slightly quieter baby, her face lit up. “Oh, miss—we’re so glad you’ve come.”
Trish managed a smile, but Nate saw it wasn’t a natural thing. “Any clean bottles and nipples?”
Rosita produced the supplies, babbling on in her faint accent the whole time. “I tried, miss, but I never much cared for children.” She got out the tub of formula and a gallon of milk and started to mix it.
“Wait—stop.” Trish’s voice was one of horror. Then she looked at Nate and then around the room again, just like she had in the nursery. When she settled upon the breakfast bar with the stools, she said, “Mr. Longmire—sit.”
He sat.
“Hold out your arms like this.” She slid Jane down into a cradled position. Nate did as she asked. “Good. Now. Don’t drop the baby.” Trish set Jane into his arms and then ran her hands over him, pushing his arms tighter here, looser there. Even in his exhausted state, he didn’t miss the way her touch lingered on his skin.
He looked up at her. Her face was only inches away from his. If possible, she was even prettier today than she’d been in the coffee shop.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said. It came out quiet and serious.
She paused and met his gaze, her hands still on his bare skin. Heat flashed between them, that attraction he’d felt before.
She didn’t say anything, though. She just kept arranging his body until—for the first time—Nate felt like he had a good grasp on his niece.
Although he still didn’t have a good grasp on the situation. Well, one thing at a time. Baby first. Attraction second.
“All right,” Trish said, sounding very much like a general about to engage in battle. “Dump that out, please. Do you have any other clean bottles?”
“Miss?” Rosita said, hesitantly.
“No milk, not yet. The formula’s supposed to be mixed with water.”
“Oh,” Rosita and Nate said at the same time. Nate went on, “My mom just said she needed her milk every three hours and I thought...damn. I mean dang,” he corrected, looking down at Jane.
“I am so sorry, Señor Nate,” Rosita said in a low voice. “I...”
“Don’t worry about it, Rosita. We both missed it. No harm done.” He glanced back at Trish. “Right?”
“Probably not,” Trish replied as she fixed a fresh bottle. “Is there somewhere we can go sit? I have a few questions.”
“Yeah.” She took the baby out of his arms and waited for him to lead the way.
Nate couldn’t go back up to the disaster zone that was supposed to be the nursery. That was no image to present to anyone, but especially a lovely young woman who had a way with a baby and hadn’t run screaming at the sight of Nate at his worst.
“Rosita, if you could try and make some sense of the nursery while Ms. Hunter and I talk?”
“Yes,” Rosita said, sounding relieved to be off the hook. She scurried out of the kitchen faster than Nate had ever seen her move in the three years she’d worked for him.
Nate led Trish to his front parlor. He liked this old house, these old rooms. He kept his technology in a separate room so that this room, where he received visitors, had a timeless feel to it. The front parlor was an excellent room within which to think. No blinking lights or chiming tones to distract him—or disturb an upset infant. “Where do you want to sit?”
“This will be fine.” She settled herself in his favorite chair, the plush leather wingback with a matching footstool. She propped her arm on the armrest and got Jane to take the bottle on the second try. Nate watched in surprise. He had hardly been able to get Jane to drink anything.
Of course, if they’d been making it wrong...
“So,” she said when he perched on the nearby sofa. “Tell me about it.”
Nate didn’t like to talk about his family. He liked to keep that part of himself—his past, their present—private. It was better that way for everyone. But he was desperate here. “This doesn’t leave this room.”
She lifted her eyebrows, but that was the only sign that his statement surprised her. “Agreed.”
“I didn’t mean to forget our appointment.”
“It’s pretty obvious that something came up. Didn’t it, sweetie?” she cooed at Jane, who was making happy little slurping noises. Nate was thrilled to see her little eyelids already drifting shut.
“I haven’t slept more than two hours at a shot in the last two weeks. I don’t...I told my parents I couldn’t do this. I don’t know anything about babies.”
“Agreed,” Trish repeated with a smile. Nate became aware of a light humming that sounded like...a lullaby?
He took a deep breath. He’d only told two other people about what had happened—Stanley and Rosita. “My brother, my perfect older brother, and his wife left Jane—that’s the baby—with my parents to go out to dinner.”
The humming stopped and Trish got very still. “And?”
He knew how bad it was to look weak—he’d almost lost his company back at the beginning because he’d been trying to be a nice guy and Diana didn’t play by those rules. He’d learned never to show weakness, especially not in the business world.
But the horror of the past two weeks was almost too much for him. He dropped his head into his hands. “And they didn’t make it back. A semi lost control, flipped over. They...” The words clogged up in his throat. “They didn’t suffer.”
“Oh my God, Nate—I’m so sorry.” He looked at her and was surprised to see tears gathering in her eyes. “That’s—oh, that’s just horrible.”
“I mean, Brad—that was my brother—you know, it was hard to grow up in his shadow. He was good-looking and he was the quarterback and he got all the girls. He took—” Nate bit down on the words. He’d made his peace with Brad. Mostly. He’d done his best to put aside the betrayal for the sake of their mother. “We’d...we’d started to become friends, you know? It wasn’t a competition anymore because he could never beat me in money and I could never beat him in looks and we were finally even. Finally.”
In the end, Brad had done him a favor, really. At least, that’s how Nate had to look at, for his sanity’s sake.
There was a somewhat stunned silence as Trish stared at him, punctuated only by the noises of Jane eating. “For what it’s worth,” she said in a quiet voice, deeper than the one she used on the baby, “you are an incredibly attractive man.”
There it was again—that challenge, that something else that seemed to draw the air between them tighter than a bowstring. For a second, he was too stunned to say anything. He didn’t feel attractive right now—just as he hadn’t felt attractive when he’d been named one of Silicon Valley’s Top Ten Bachelors.
But Trish—beautiful and intelligent and obviously much more knowledgeable about babies than he’d ever be—thought he was attractive. Incredibly attractive.
He realized he was probably blushing. “Sorry,” he said, trying to keep control of himself. “I don’t know why I told you that about my brother. I...”
“You’ve had a long couple of weeks. When did the accident happen?”
“I got the call as I was leaving the coffee shop. I guess that’s why I didn’t remember you were coming. I’m sorry about that, too.”
“Nate,” she said in a kind voice and Nate’s mind went back to the way she’d touched him in the kitchen. If only he could think straight... “It’s all right. I understand. Life happens.”
“Yeah, okay.” He could do with a little less life happening right now, frankly.
“So your brother and sister had a baby girl?”
“Jane. Yes.”
“Jane,” Trish said, the name coming off her tongue like a sigh. “Hello, Jane.” But then she looked back at Nate. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you have Jane? What about your parents?”
Nate dropped his head back into his hands. It was still so hard to talk about. There wasn’t the same stigma now, but back when he’d been a kid... “They couldn’t take her.”
“Not even for a week or so? No offense, but you don’t have a baby’s room up there. You have a death trap.”
“I—” He swallowed. “I have another brother.”
There was that stillness again. She was 100 percent focused on him.
“He’s severely mentally ill.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not. Not anymore. But there were...problems. He was institutionalized for a while until we could get the meds straightened out.” He shrugged. “He’s my brother and I love him. He loved Brad, too. Brad was his buddy. They’d go out and throw the football around...” His throat seemed to close up on him and he had to swallow a couple of times to get things to work again.
Trish looked at him like she wanted to comfort him. But she said, “No one knows about your brother?”
“In the past, other people have tried to use that against me. Against my family. And I will not stand for it.” The last part came out meaner than he meant it to. She wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t Diana.
“You give to mental illness research.”
“Because of Joe, yeah.” He sighed. “He needs his routine. My mom takes care of him and I pay for home health workers. But the last few weeks, my parents have been so upset about Brad and Elena... Besides,” he added, feeling the weight of the words, “I’m her legal guardian.”
“I see,” she replied. “Oh, that’s a good girl, Jane. Here.” She handed Nate the bottle and then casually moved the baby to her shoulder and began patting Jane’s back. “So you’re trying to hire a nanny?”
“Yeah. You want the job?”
Trish paused in midpat, and then laughed a little too forcefully. “That’s not why I’m here.”
He wasn’t about to take no as an answer. So he didn’t always know what to do around members of the opposite sex. He knew how to negotiate a business deal. He needed a nanny. She needed money.
“What do you mean? You obviously know what you’re doing.” The more he thought about it, the better he liked this idea. He’d already sort of interviewed her, after all. He liked her. Okay, maybe that wasn’t a good enough reason to offer her a job changing diapers and burping a baby, but he was comfortable with her and she knew what she was doing and that counted for something.
She sighed. “Of course I do. My mom had nine kids with...four different men. Then she married my current stepfather, who had four kids of his own with two other women. I’m the oldest.”
Nate tried to process that information. “Your mom had ten kids?”
“Not that she took care of them,” Trish replied and for the first time, he heard a distinctive note of bitterness in her voice.
“You?”
Her smile was tight. “Me.”
“Perfect.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, I need a nanny. More than that, I need you. I’ve had three people come to the door and no one’s made it past five minutes, whereas you’ve gotten Jane to calm down and stop screaming. I swear this is the first time in two weeks I’ve been able to hear myself think.”
And all of that had nothing to do with the way Trish had touched him, so he was still acting aboveboard here.
“Mr. Longmire,” she said in a deeply regretful tone, “I can’t. I’m due to graduate with my master’s degree in a month and a half. I need to finish my studies and—”
“You can study here. When she sleeps.”
Trish’s eyes flashed in defiance, which made him smile. “I work two jobs,” she went on, in a stronger voice. “I do research for the professor who nominated me for the Glamour award and I answer phones in the department.”
This was much better. She was negotiating. And God knew that, despite the fact that he was so tired he was on the verge of seeing two Trishes cuddling two babies, he could negotiate a business deal. “For, what? Ten dollars an hour?”
Her back stiffened. “Twelve-fifty, if you must know, but that’s not the point.”
He felt himself grinning. This was what he’d liked in the coffee shop. She wasn’t afraid to push back. She wasn’t afraid to challenge him. “What is the point?”
“I have a plan. I have school obligations and employment obligations and charitable obligations that I will meet. I have to start organizing the back-to-school drive now. I can’t drop everything just to nanny your niece. You’ll find a perfectly qualified nanny, I’m sure.”
“I already have.”
“No, Mr. Longmire.”
He did some quick calculations in his head. He had to keep her here with him. He needed her in a way he’d never needed any other woman. Everyone had a breaking point. Where was hers?
“I will personally call your professor and explain that you’ve been selected for a unique opportunity.”
Her eyes flew wide in disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”
“Obviously you’ll finish your degree, but you’ll need to stay here during the month. Sleep here.”
“Excuse me?” She looked indignant. The baby, who had actually stopped crying and was possibly asleep, startled and began to make mewing noises.
“I’ll pay you five thousand dollars for one month.”
Whatever biting rejection she’d been about to say died in a gurgling noise in the back of her throat. “What?”
“One month. I can probably find another nanny in that amount of time, but I need you now.”
“Mr. Longmire—”
“Nate.”
“Mister Longmire,” she went on with whispered emphasis. The baby mewed again. Without appearing to think about it, Trish stood and began rocking from side to side.
Yeah, he was looking at his nanny. “One month. A temporary nanny position.”
“I’ll lose my lease. I’m—I can’t afford much. My landlord wants me out so she can triple the rent.”
“Ten thousand.”
All the blood drained out of her face, but she didn’t answer.
“Come on, Ms. Hunter. Ten grand could get you set up in a nice apartment. For one month of teaching me how to care for my niece and helping me find a more permanent nanny. I’d hazard a guess that you’d be moving out of that apartment after graduation, anyway. This can be the nanny plan. Just a slight change to your original plan.”
Her mouth opened. “A slight change?”
Which was not a no, but also wasn’t an agreement to his terms. Where was her breaking point? Then it hit him. The charity.
“Twenty thousand,” he said, impulsively doubling the salary. Let’s see her say no to that, he thought. “In addition to that salary, I’m prepared to make a donation to the One Child, One...whatever it was. One hundred thousand dollars.”
Trish collapsed back into the seat, which jostled the baby. She quickly stood again, but instead of rocking from side to side, she turned and walked to the window. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“I can and I will.” She didn’t reply. He realized she wasn’t necessarily playing hardball with him, but what the hell did a couple hundred grand mean to him? Nothing. He’d never even miss it, but he might change her life. “Fine. Two-fifty. My final offer.”
“Two...fifty?” She sounded like she was being strangled.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to your very worthy charity, to be paid half now, half at the end of the month, provided you stay here, handle the night feedings and whatever else has Jane up every two hours, and teach me how to do some of the basics.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sarah-anderson/the-nanny-plan/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.