Nanny to the Billionaire's Son

“Got it, boss.” Janice headed for her desk.

Mac glanced at the phone messages, and began to return some calls. As soon as Janice had the information he needed, he’d put work on hold and track down Samantha-my-friends-call-me-Sam.

While he didn’t want to think about people going through his trash, he suspected that’s what had happened. Did Sam work as a cleaner? Employment these days was difficult to find, even for skilled workers.

He tossed aside the paper he was reading and leaned back in his chair. He’d been intrigued by her the entire evening. She was one of the few women under forty who hadn’t tried to flirt, hadn’t hinted she’d be available if he ever called. Hadn’t made a big deal out of a New Year’s kiss. Hadn’t practically invited herself back to his place.

He remembered at the table when she’d turned from him to talk with the man on her other side. It was an unusual experience for Mac in recent years. Ever since Chris died and the company had taken off, he felt he’d become prey for determined single women. He’d shared everything with Chris—hopes, dreams, pet peeves. Now it seemed his unexpected wealth had become the most important part of his personality.

Except to Sam.

Even when he’d held her while dancing, she had not flirted. He could tell she truly enjoyed herself. Unself-consciously. Her smile had been genuine, lighting up her dark eyes. Her hair was also dark, so unlike Chris’s blond mane.

He frowned. He wasn’t comparing his wife with other women. There would never be anyone to take her place in his heart or his life.

The phone buzzed; it was Janice.

“Jordan Maintenance keeps this building clean,” she said. “Want the number?”

“Yes.” Mac jotted it down and then called the firm. In only moments, he had Samantha’s last name, Duncan. The firm would not give out personal information but had let that slip. The owner, Amos Jordan, was quite flustered to have one of the building’s tenants call. Mac normally would not have even mentioned the situation, but he hoped to learn more about his mystery woman. Mr. Jordan revealed nothing else and assured him the cleaning staff was of the highest caliber.

Hanging up frustrated, Mac reached for a phone book. No Samantha Duncan listed in Atlanta. Damn, how was he going to find her? Camp out tonight and wait for the cleaning staff to arrive? He couldn’t do it—he had to get home for Tommy. But he’d find a way.

“But, Mr. Jordan, I didn’t steal anything,” Samantha tried to explain to the boss of the cleaning crew she worked for. The cleaning position, though not really a job she relished, had nonetheless been a lifesaver in providing much-needed cash with minimum training.

Now she’d been accused of theft and was being fired!

“The client was displeased. I have the reputation of my company to consider. I thought I could trust everyone, but to find someone of your caliber stooping so low is more than I care to deal with,” he said.

“It was in the trash,” she interjected.

“If important papers were in the trash, would you take them and sell to the highest bidder?” he asked.

“Of course not!”

“How could I trust you? If you take one thing, you could take another.”

Sam rested her forehead against her palm, her elbow on her desk. Thank goodness the door to her tiny office was shut. She couldn’t bear for anyone to hear this conversation.

“Please, Mr. Jordan, there was no harm done. It was trash. I was recycling,” she said, giving the airy excuse Charlene had used. It was stupid. She shouldn’t have done it. She wouldn’t have done it if she’d been thinking clearly, but the chance for a wonderful night had proved too alluring.

And now her dream man from the ball had accused her of theft. She felt sick—not only for the accusation, but because he thought that of her. She knew she’d never run into Mac again—their worlds were light-years apart. But she wished he’d been left with a pleasant memory, not one tainted by his thinking she’d stolen something.

“I regret the situation, although I have no choice but to fire you. I will also not provide you with a reference,” Mr. Jordan said heavily.

Sam took a deep breath. “I understand. Thank you for the opportunity to work for your firm,” she said. She recognized the inevitable when she saw it.

“Damn,” she said after hanging up the phone. She sat up and gazed out the narrow window where the sun was shining. How ironic. On the most fabulous night of her life it had been pouring rain. Now the worst thing had to happen and the sun shone.

Not the worst—that would be if Mac McAlheny made the entire situation public.

“Oh, no,” she groaned quietly. She couldn’t have her reputation smirched. It would jeopardize her job at the Beale Foundation.

When she thought about it, really considered it from his point of view, she could concede he had a point. Those tickets went for five hundred dollars each. Just because it had been tossed away didn’t negate its value. And she’d used it as if it had been given to her.

She was stricken with remorse. It had seemed like a lark. First to find it and take it home to Charlene to show the embossed script, the fancy gold seal. Then to fantasize about attending. The actual borrowing the dress from Margaret’s boutique and going now seemed like the dumbest thing she’d ever done.

Closing her eyes, she could still see Mac’s eyes as he gazed down into hers as they danced. Their special kiss. Her heart rate increased thinking about it. The image dissolved as she remembered he had filed a complaint with the owner of the cleaning company.

What could she do to make amends? Send him a check to cover the cost of the ticket? And where would she get that kind of money? The entire reason she had a second job was that she was about at the end of her rope. They needed a large down payment for the carpenter to begin work on renovations to the back of the kitchen.

Charlene’s salary didn’t cover all her expenses, much less unexpected surprises.

Samantha’s job at the Foundation didn’t pay much—no job in nonprofit companies did. She’d have to find something else. Leave the work she enjoyed, the cause she embraced, for something a bit more mainstream and financially beneficial. Definitely more financially beneficial.

A job she probably wouldn’t like. But she’d started at the Foundation not wanting to work for them—or in any business in Atlanta. Her dream had been so different.

But reality didn’t allow for dreams. She had a house—for which she was grateful. She had her sister to care for. She had to make the most of what she had and not bemoan a future that wasn’t to be.

“Double damn,” she said, pounding her desk once with her fist. She had to do something—but what?

Sam fretted all morning. She didn’t know if Mr. McAlheny would contact her, though Mr. Jordan had assured her he had not given out any information. But how hard would it be for a man with Mac’s influence to find out her name and address? Then what?

She called home.

“Hello?” Charlene answered.

“Any calls for me?” Sam asked. She knew it was an odd request; her friends knew she worked days and called the Foundation if they really needed to get hold of her during business hours.

“Here?” Charlene asked.

“Just a thought. Don’t give out my work information to anyone, okay?”

“As if I would. What’s up?”

Sam debated not telling her sister, but it would come out eventually. “Mac McAlheny found out I used his ticket and called my boss at the cleaning service. I was fired.”

“What? Why?”

“For indiscretion,” Sam said softly. She still couldn’t believe it.

“So if he threw away a fan and you fished it out of the trash, that would be a problem? That doesn’t make sense. We were recycling. People do it all the time. Throwing something away ends ownership.”

“I guess a case could be made for that,” Sam said. “But Mr. Jordan didn’t see it that way.”

“So now what?”

“I look for another job and hope Mr. McAlheny doesn’t come breathing down my neck.”