His Potential Wife

She lasered him with an icy glare. “Are those—” she flicked her head curtly toward the trio who were still going at it hammer and tongs “—your children?”

“Yeah.” He raked a long-fingered hand through his black hair. Gold gleamed from his wafer-thin gold watch and from a stylishly engraved gold cuff link and from his wide gold wedding band. He dropped his hand and his hair fell back into perfect place—the unmistakable sign of a very expensive salon cut, Willow thought sourly. “I have to confess,” he murmured, “they are most certainly mine—”

“Then I have to confess they are the very worst-behaved children I have ever seen!”

“If you’ll let me apologize for them—”

“Apologize for them?” Her laugh was scornful. “Oh, don’t apologize for them.” From the corner of her eye, she saw an employee approach to clean up the mess on the floor. “You are the one who should be ashamed. When children behave as yours do there’s no one to blame but the parents!”

She should have stopped there. And she probably would, if she hadn’t suddenly realized how pathetic she must seem to him in her cheap T-shirt and old cutoffs, while he looked elegant enough to have dinner at Buckingham Palace. So instead of calling a halt, she charged recklessly on.

“Maybe if you spent less time on your hair and your clothes and your…your fancy accessories,” she sputtered, “and more time reading up on child psychology, you’d be able to take your family out into the world without having to apologize for them.”

How rude! As soon as she’d said the words, she felt a shock of disbelief, and wanted desperately to drag them back. But of course it was too late…

And now he was angry.

A dangerous glitter had replaced the twinkle in his eyes. A thin, compressed line had replaced the full sensual curve of his mouth. And his pleasant demeanor had been replaced by an aura of hostile menace that made her think apprehensively of a cougar making ready to strike.

Uh-oh. Alarm rattled through her. A speedy retreat was most definitely called for.

Grabbing up Jamie’s backpack, she stuck her nose in the air and in a valiant attempt to appear regal—which was a bit of a stretch considering her petite build and her ragtag outfit—she swept Jamie toward the exit door.

An imperious “Hey, hang on there!” rang after her.

She pretended not to hear it.

Once outside, she walked even faster in case he came after her, and hurried Jamie along the street, not looking back till they reached the end of the block. And when she did and saw no sign of him, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Thank goodness!

The whole incident, she reflected with a grimace, had been distressing to say the least.

Jamie said, “Who were they, Mom?”

“Just strangers. Passing through.”

“Well, I’m glad about that because I sure wouldn’t ever want to see them again.”

Willow echoed his sentiments exactly.

Jamie dug into his pocket. “Here’s your change.”

“Put it in your bank,” Willow said. “After your next swimming lesson, we’ll go back to Morganti’s again.”

“Will we tell Gran what happened today?”

“Sure, if you like.”

But when they got home, Willow’s mother, Gemma, had news to pass on—news so welcome that both Willow and Jamie forgot all about the unfortunate incident at Morganti’s.

The employment agency had called. At last Mrs. Trent had a job for Willow—an excellent job, she had enthused to Gemma, as nanny to a family of darling, darling children. Willow must call in at the office right away, her mother told her happily, to sign the new contract.

“The job’s at Summerhill?” Appalled, Willow stared at Ida Trent.

“Yes, Willow. Do you have a problem with that?”

Willow’s stomach dropped sickeningly as memories flooded her mind. Memories that still, after seven years, tore at her heart and filled it to overflowing with sorrow…and guilt.

More than anything, guilt. Guilt that would never, she knew, go away.

“Willow?”

With an effort, Willow gathered herself together. “Of course not. You know how keen I am to be working again.”

Ida set her palms on the desk in front of her. “Good, because this job is perfect for you. And Summerhill is a beautiful house. Of course, it’s been lying empty for the past seven years…the Galbraiths—Galen and Anna—moved to Nova Scotia right after their son’s funeral, and then Galen suffered a fatal heart attack just days later. His wife never came back, and when she remarried this spring, the house passed on to the surviving son…Dr. Scott Galbraith. He arrived at Summerhill with his family a week ago.”

“They’re staying here permanently?”

“Yes. He’s going into partnership with Dr. Black at the local clinic, starting first of next month. I know, Willow, that you prefer to be home at night, but he wants a live-in nanny and he’s offering an extremely generous salary.”

“And…you say you met the children?”

“Darling, darling children—” The phone rang and murmuring “Excuse me,” Mrs. Trent picked it up. She listened to the caller and with a worried sigh, said, “Yes, Dora, of course. I’ll be right there.”

Putting down the phone, she pushed the contract across the desk to Willow.

“I’m sorry to rush you, dear.” She got to her feet. “But I have to close the office and dash home. My husband has had one of his turns, that was his sitter.”

Feeling disorientated, as if everything was happening a bit too fast, and she hadn’t taken everything in yet, Willow scanned the contract and then signed her name.

As soon as she put down the pen, the agency owner said, “I really must hurry!”

Clasping her handbag, she ushered Willow to the door.

“Mrs. Trent, the children—”

“Darling, darling children,” Mrs. Trent assured her again, with an unaccustomed vagueness. “Dr. Galbraith is expecting you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. He’ll fill you in on everything once you get to Summerhill.”

The agency owner’s white car was parked nearby. As she ran toward it, she added, over her shoulder, “The man’s a widower, Willow, and he warned me not to send anyone who would see him as a potential husband. A plain-Jane nanny is what he asked for,” she continued breathlessly, “and he more than hinted that women consider him devilishly attractive and find it difficult to keep their hands off him.”

Willow gaped. The conceit of the man. Who did he think he was?

And as to that, it didn’t do her own self-image much good to know Mrs. Trent considered her a plain-Jane. She knew she was no beauty but—

“I told him,” the agency owner continued as she threw herself into her car, “that you had no interest in men.” She slammed the car door. “So all in all,” she called through the open window, “I think the relationship will work out very well. You and Dr. Galbraith would seem to be a perfect match!”

Mind still awhirl, Willow stood staring after the car as it sped away. She was not looking for a husband; Mrs. Trent had at least got that right. But…she and this Scott Galbraith a perfect match? Hardly! Of all the men in all the world she didn’t want to work for, one as arrogant as he apparently was would be at the top of her list.