“Care to dance?”
As Mac swept her into his arms and began to dance, she forgot about her fear she’d be exposed and escorted from the ball. She could only see Mac, smell the enticing scent of his aftershave, relish the strength of the muscles beneath his jacket.
His dark eyes were mesmerizing. Seconds spun by. She wanted to trace that slight dimple in his left cheek. Wanted to shift her hand from his shoulder to his neck and feel the warmth of his skin. She wanted to learn more about the stranger with whom she danced so superbly. The night was full of magic and she savored every moment. All too soon it would end and she’d be back to her day-to-day routine.
She knew she was on borrowed time. But a few stolen moments of dancing with Mac were worth any risk.
Barbara McMahon was born and raised in the South, but settled in California after spending a year flying around the world for an international airline. After settling down to raise a family and work for a computer firm, she began writing when her children started school. Now, feeling fortunate in being able to realise a long-held dream of quitting her ‘day job’ and writing full time, she and her husband have moved to the Sierra Nevada mountains of California, where she finds her desire to write is stronger than ever. With the beauty of the mountains visible from her windows, and the pace of life slower than the hectic San Francisco Bay Area where they previously resided, she finds more time than ever to think up stories and characters and share them with others through writing. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at PO Box 977, Pioneer, CA 95666-0977, USA. Readers can also contact Barbara at her website: www.barbaramcmahon.com
NANNY TO THE BILLIONAIRE’S SON
BY
BARBARA McMAHON
MILLS & BOON
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Chuck Nash, for always being there for me.
I love you, Daddy.
PROLOGUE
SAMANTHA DUNCAN lifted the crumpled card from the floor. It had fluttered in the air when she dumped the deskside trash can. Smoothing it out on the flat surface of the mahogany desk, her fingers traced the embossed print, complete with gold emblem at the top. It was a ticket to Atlanta’s Black and White Ball on New Year’s Eve. The thick, creamy paper screamed expensive, as did the fancy script. Of course tickets to the ball went at five hundred dollars a pop, so they should look elegant.
And the owner of this one had crumpled it up and tossed it away. For a moment her imagination sparked. She’d love to go to a ball, dressed to the nines, flirt with dashing captains of industry, or trust-fund men who never had to work two jobs to make ends meet.
She held it over the large barrel that held the floor’s trash, hesitated a moment, then slid it in her apron pocket, righted the trash container and continued with the task of dusting and vacuuming the office of the CEO of McAlheny Industries. It probably meant nothing to the man. He was one of the top-ten wealthiest men in Atlanta, maybe even the East Coast. A mere five hundred dollars would be a pittance to him.
As she worked, she furthered her image of herself at the ball, just like Cinderella. She’d be wearing a fabulous designer creation. Men would fall over themselves asking her to dance. She wouldn’t sit out a single one. And she would be dazzling in her witty repartee.
The food was rumored to be to die for. She had a sweet tooth and couldn’t help wondering, would the desserts be beyond fabulous? She’d love to have crème brûlée or a superrich chocolate torte.
“Ready to move to the next floor?” One of her coworkers waited at the door. Sam glanced around the pristine office and nodded. The bubble popped. She was tired. The good news was she only had another five offices on the next floor to clean and she’d be finished for the evening.
It was hard to work all day at her regular job then put in six hours cleaning offices, but she needed the money in the worst way. She’d been lucky to get this job. Still, it was Friday night. Once finished, she’d have two days to sleep in, nap and get ready for the next workweek.
Not for her the promise of a Cinderella ball. She knew her limitations. After Chad, she knew better than to daydream about men dropping at her feet. The reality was always there to face as soon as they met Charlene.
Saturday morning Sam slept in until nine. Not super late, but late enough for someone who usually rose before seven and was at work by eight.
She donned on her robe, slipping the ticket in her pocket, and went downstairs. Her sister was in the small study she used as her office, typing away. Sam paused at the door.
“Did you eat already?”
Charlene looked up and shook her head. “I waited for you. I was hoping for blueberry pancakes.”
“Sounds good,” Sam said. She headed for the kitchen. Feeling slightly depressed when she entered, she glanced at the patched wall where the old oak tree had crashed through during Hurricane George. The damage remained, awaiting funds to repair it. Sighing softly, she quickly moved to gather ingredients to make the pancake batter, using the small, two-burner camp stove they were making do with. Once she had enough money, they would get the kitchen repaired and at that point she was buying a top-of-the-line gas range.
Charlene rolled into the kitchen.
“Want any help?” she asked.
“No, I’ve got it. Why are you working on Saturday? I thought you tried to get everything done during the week.”
“I know, but I got caught up in quilting on Thursday and so am behind a bit. I need to be caught up by Monday.” Charlene was a medical transcriptionist for a local physicians’ clinic. She worked at home and normally her income plus Sam’s kept them afloat. The hurricane had caused them to dip into their small savings, and still repairs remained waiting to be done.
“Oh, look what I brought home,” Sam said, pulling the invitation from her robe pocket and tossing it to her sister.
“Pretty,” Charlene said, looking at it. “I didn’t know you got a ticket.”
“I didn’t. It fell out of the trash at one of the offices last night. I brought it home for you to see. Really posh, don’t you think?”
Charlene toyed with it, glancing at Sam from time to time as Sam flipped the pancakes and dished them up. As soon as Sam sat, Charlene said, “You should go.”
“Where?”
“To the ball, of course.” She tapped the edge of the invitation on the table. “It’s obviously not being used by anyone.”
“Someone paid big bucks for that. I can’t use it,” Sam pointed out, pouring on the maple syrup.
“Why not? Whoever bought it changed his or her mind and tossed it. Think of it as recycling.” Charlene began to warm to her idea. “I think it would be the perfect chance for you to go out and have a great time.