The Billionaire's Babysitter

1

Laine McGuire sidestepped a crack in the sidewalk and turned to her best friend, forcing a smile, Van, I’m babysitting a billionaire. I’m really not sure about this .

I am. It’s called work experience. You know how many disgusting banana splits I had to serve before anyone would try my new flavors? Hundreds. Who wants banana with ice cream? Yuck!

But sweet corn ice cream is normal?

Hey, it got me through culinary school. Vanessa grinned.

"I thought I got you through culinary school."

You did. But if the dean hadn’t loved my corn ice cream, I’d still be sitting in fish class.

No way. We cheated your way through fish and sauces.

It’s not my fault that béchamel is so damn lumpy.

Yeah, it kind of was your fault, Laine laughed, But we made it.

"You have to have good references, preferably rich references, to score a good nanny gig, you know that. So what’s the deal with the guy?"

His brother, Sloan Anderson, requested a nanny from the temp agency. Apparently Wyatt needs a babysitter.

Is he a drug addict?

Not that I know of. It’s just weird.

Are we talking Christian Grey weird? Because, yes please! Or are we talking creepy weird?

I’ll find out in a few minutes. We need to make a left here.

I’m guessing rich guy has an ocean view?

No doubt, Laine said, I thought it was bad enough when I had to do the temp job from hell last month….

Vanessa grinned. You mean the Demon Child? Thank god, he’s safely off at boarding school now.

Until he gets kicked out again. He was a handful.

Handful? You had to stop him from setting fires and pulling wings off butterflies! He’s the next criminal mastermind, Lainey.

His parents thought I could have done more to help him, and get him ready to adjust to another school.

He’s nine. It’s his FOURTH school and in a month, you’re supposed to reform him completely? I think they should give you sainthood, and then hire a really good psychiatrist for that kid.

This should redeem my ratings though. At least that’s what Paige at the temp agency swears. She knew I didn’t want to babysit the Daredevil Billionaire. He base-jumped off a skyscraper, Van. Who does that? If I tried that—which I wouldn’t—I’d be killed or paralyzed. He was laughing when they arrested him. I saw the video online. She shook her head.

Think you can reform him in a month? Vanessa teased.

No way I’d even try. I’m here to keep him in seclusion—keep him out of the limelight. I guess the family wants him to stay on the down low after that stunt. All I want is the reference and the paycheck. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t even talk to the guy. What could we possibly talk about?

You love a good story. I bet he has a million of them.

No, you’re thinking dollars. He has a million dollars, Laine joked.

Uh, billions. If you pull this off, and keep this adrenaline junkie out of trouble when that beach and loads of bikinis beckon down below, you should get the reference of the century.

I’d settle for a successful month. They both came to a stop outside a huge beach house. Oh crap, look at this place. Should I have dressed up more?

You look fine. You’re gorgeous and you’re dressed like a nanny which is your job.

Laine looked down at her white shorts and her sky blue cardigan and thought she looked like a preppy mom at best—too casual for a billionaire’s staff. She blinked at her friend, screwing up her courage. I can do this. I kept the D.C. from torching his mother’s garden party with a stolen Zippo. I can handle some overgrown frat boy for a month. If he’s smart enough to stay out of trouble.

If he were, he wouldn’t need a babysitter, Van pointed out and Laine drooped a little at the thought.

I’ve got to get back to the shop, sweetie. Call me later and let me know how you’re doing. I want details on this guy. Your month is going to be anything but boring.

Laine watched her friend drive away with a pang of regret. She’d rather go with Vanessa, back to her cheeky-monikered ice cream parlor, Luscious Licks. But she had wanted this, had wanted a stable, family life even if it meant being the nanny to a rich kid. She hadn’t been born to an idyllic white picket fence life and she hadn’t been able to create one for herself so she’d happily settled for being on staff with one. Just the idea of looking in the window at a cozy fire, at children playing Candyland at the table, of getting to let herself in that door and go make mugs of cocoa for them and join the game—that was bliss. She felt the smile curve her lips as she charged up to the mansion. It may have been called a beach house by the mega-wealthy Andersons, but it was a mansion.

Paige from the temp agency got out of her Subaru and gave Laine a folder of information she might need for the job. You’re on time. Excellent. You’re here to be Mr. Anderson’s assistant—fetch him anything he wants from town, keep him amused because he’s far from used to being confined, and make certain he remains on property. The family would like to avoid further scandal, so you’re here, in a sense to keep him out of trouble.

I see. Thank you for meeting me. Where’s the client?

I believe that’s him now, the woman said, indicating the limo that slid into the curving drive.

The driver opened the passenger door. Laine watched with interest for the appearance of her new charge. Instead of an exhausted billionaire in Brooks Brothers casualwear ready for a month of seclusion, what came out of the limo was a surfboard.

He didn’t get out of the limo. Was she going to have to bribe him with a lollipop to get out of the car—she’d had to use that trick with a preschooler on one job, but she would think a fully grown man could exit the damn car and greet his new employee. Finally, she stalked over to the car and peered in the open passenger door. More sports equipment. No signs of life.

Had she already misplaced her charge? She rifled through the folder the agency had provided, looking for a cell phone number so she could call and find out where he was. She called the number but there was no answer. The driver emerged from the house to collect more baggage and she demanded to know where Mr. Anderson was.

Look up, the driver said with a trace of amusement.

There above them was nothing more than a dot, a dark spot against the bright blue of the sky. It was miles off, she thought, shading her eyes and squinting as it grew larger and nearer. Her mouth dropped open. That’s him? What the hell is he doing?

I suggest you get used to thinking that rather than saying it aloud. I think we’ve all thought the same thing most days of his life. The driver said.

Laine put her hand on the agency woman’s shoulder, He’s jumped out of a plane or something. Is he going to crash into the house? Should I call 911?

Definitely not. The woman said, backing up a step or two as the dark silhouette of a skydiver grew nearer.

Why doesn’t he open his parachute? He’s going to die! You can’t wait to the last second with those things… Laine said anxiously.

She held her breath. A moment later, a blazing orange silk bloomed behind him and the form was tugged back as the parachute filled and he sailed nearer to the ground. She took a step to the side warily and the agency worker dived out of the way.

A hundred and eighty pounds of rock hard man crashed into her and knocked her to the ground. He was laughing. The bastard was laughing as he levered up and looked at her. He had the bluest eyes, a scoundrel’s half smile, dark hair windblown and wickedly sexy. The thud that knocked the breath out of her hadn’t been the sideways impact of this guy falling back to earth. It had been the cockeyed daredevil grin. She was quitting this job. As soon as she scrambled to her feet.

The man, this reckless Adonis who had laughed when he barreled into her, extended his hand to help her up. She brushed herself off and he held out his hand again, Wyatt Anderson, good to meet you.

"Laine Maguire. I was sent by the temp agency