The Nanny Affair

The Nanny Affair
Robyn Donald

NANNY WANTEDTo my heir, Beau Prescott, I leave my Sydney estate and place into his good care my dedicated staff: housekeeper, gardener and nanny. Nanny? Beau Prescott was highly suspicious of this interloper in the family home. A fit man until his sudden death, what did his grandfather need with a nanny?Maybe he'd taken her in out of pity - Margaret Stowe did sound as if she'd be the starchy, spinster sort. But the vision that greeted him on his arrival home called out to every male hormone Beau had. Margaret Stowe was a stunningly beautiful young woman. Just what situation had he inherited?

Nanny’s nightmare (#ue7e4983a-64f0-5e03-afa8-74560d3d6112)Letter to Reader (#u47092d2e-6fe5-5f97-9c64-ec51eaccc21c)Title Page (#ud039436f-3e0c-573a-936b-5c4cb5bdf83b)Dedication (#u6795ceec-9bac-5c56-947b-c306777bfa66)CHAPTER ONE (#u7d77e42e-7b1f-506a-a908-eda91e7129c4)CHAPTER TWO (#ufaaee431-fadb-562b-9e5f-dc543ba85f00)CHAPTER THREE (#uee5df564-a5cb-51f4-a724-e0ef6d4f3a03)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Nanny’s nightmare

Emma reeled at the horrible coincidence that had sent her to the house where Diane, the woman Emma’s father had wanted to marry—the woman Emma had driven away—had lived.

There was now no chance of ever being more to Kane than a very temporary neighbor. She’d ruined any such hope seven years ago, when she’d been sixteen, grief-stricken and outraged—and determined and devious.

She wondered whether she should tell Kane, but dismissed the idea. No, it was over and done with, long gone, and it didn’t sound as though Diane came home from the other side of the world very often. Let sleeping dogs lie, Emma thought.

Dear Reader,

A perfect nanny can be tough to find, but once you’ve found her you’ll love and treasure her forever. She’s someone who’ll not only look after the kids but could also be that loving mom they never knew. Or sometimes she’s a he and is the daddy they are wishing for.

Here at Harlequin Presents® we’ve put together a compelling new series, NANNY WANTED!, in which some of our most popular authors create nannies whose talents extend way beyond taking care of the children! Each story will excite and delight you and make you wonder how any family could be complete without a nineties nanny.

Remember—Nanny knows best when it comes to falling in love!

The Editors

Look out next month for:

Accidental Nanny by Lindsay Armstrong (#1986)

The Nanny Affair

Robyn Donald

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

To Don and Lucky, and in memory of Morag

CHAPTER ONE

‘LUCKY! No!’

Emma Saunders deepened her normally gentle voice into an authoritative roar, but the barely half-grown dog ignored her, slithering beneath the bottom wire of the fence like an eel before racing towards the flock of sheep some two hundred metres away.

Their heads came up; a few of the nearer ones began to run, and Lucky recognised a new and exciting variation of chase. Barking, he set off after them.

Panic grabbed Emma beneath the breastbone. ‘Lucky, no,’ she yelled ferociously, not pleased when the elderly corgi at her side barked imperatively.

However, that summons did the trick. Reluctantly Lucky skidded to a halt, wistfully panting after the sheep, which were now in full flight across the paddock.

‘Here!’ Emma ordered, muttering, ‘Thank you, Babe,’ to the corgi as relief surged through her and her pulse rate slowed.

Realising he’d committed some unknown sin, Lucky approached carefully and with ingratiating whines. Her senses honed by adrenalin, Emma tried to ignore the car that drew up behind her.

It didn’t work. The skin on her back prickled in a primitive warning. Because she didn’t dare take her eyes off the puppy, every sound the driver made as he or she got out assumed vast significance. The solid thunk of the closing door almost made her jump.

A cold, dark, very male voice stated, ‘If I see that dog chasing my sheep again I’ll shoot him.’

Emma had to swallow to ease her dry throat. ‘It won’t happen again,’ she said without turning her head. Her voice sounded oddly tinny in her ears.

Although not yet a year old, Lucky’s mostly Rottweiler blood—and dominant male genes-told him that Emma might need protection. In a streak of black and tan he hurtled beneath the fence and positioned himself on four stiff legs between Emma and the unknown man, hackles raised, ears slightly flattened as he watched with wary alertness.

‘Heel!’ Emma said sharply as she turned to face both man and dog.

Lucky stood firm. Not now! Emma thought, repeating the command. This was a tussle of wills she couldn’t afford to lose. Her demand for obedience was not aided by the old corgi, who was eyeing the intruder with grave reserve.

‘Heel!’ Emma said steadily, refusing to accept the pup’s offer of a compromise, which was to sit just in front of her, black and brown face turned implacably towards the strange man.

Emma hadn’t yet looked directly at him, but from the corner of her eyes she could see that he took up too much room.

At least he understood dogs. Silently, with ominous stillness, he waited as she ordered again, ‘Heel.’

Lucky didn’t want to move, but he knew who was the leader in his particular pack. Unwillingly, keeping a cautious gaze on the stranger, he got to his feet.

Emma waited until he stood at heel before saying, ‘Good boy. Sit.’

He sat.

After patting him, Emma lifted her head. Because the setting sun shimmered in a dazzling aura around the stranger’s head she couldn’t discern his features, but the rest of him was formidable enough to make her check an instinctive step backwards. She didn’t need to see his face to be aware of an overwhelming presence, made more impressive by a curbed patience that sent a swift, chilling shiver through her.

Talk about dominant males! she thought, stubbornly refusing to be impressed. He and Lucky were a good pair.

Big—too big—the stranger had shoulders that would have done a rugby forward credit. They surmounted a magnificent chest that tapered to narrow, masculine hips above long legs. Neither trousers nor checked shirt hid the powerful muscles of a man who used every single one every day.

He loomed at least a foot above her five feet three inches, and every inch of that height was significant.

But it wasn’t his physical configuration alone that fired Emma’s senses. It was his stance—the lithe, disciplined authority, self-possessed and uncompromising, of a man who could deal with anything that came his way.

Emma, who until that moment had considered herself to be confident and assured, despised the uncertain note in her voice as she said, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, but if I don’t make him obey orders he’ll grow up undisciplined.’

Coolly, inflexibly the stranger said, ‘And for a Rottweiler that would be disastrous. I meant what I said. If I see him in my paddocks again I’ll shoot him.’

Delivered calmly, it was a simple statement, not a threat. Emma knew perfectly well that any farmer in New Zealand had the right to shoot a dog that chased stock; nevertheless she had to block an unwise and impetuous response.

‘And don’t say he wouldn’t worry sheep,’ the man continued, not trying to soften the grimness in his voice. ‘From chasing to killing is only a step.’ He bent his head a little to examine the corgi, now sitting at Emma’s feet. His voice hardened as he said, ‘Usually it’s the work of at least two dogs, one a bitch.’

‘Babe is fourteen years old,’ Emma retorted crisply. ‘She can hardly stagger along the road.’

‘I’ve seen older dogs than that bale up lambs and rip their throats out. Keep them both off my land.’ Delivered in the same inexorable tone as everything else he’d said, there was no room for negotiation in the warning.

Emma nodded stiffly, grateful for once that she had long curling lashes, eminently suitable for hiding any resentful, mutinous expression in her grey eyes. She found herself staring at the exact place where a button fastened his checked shirt, revealing the tanned skin of his throat. Slow and steady, a pulse beat in the smooth hollow there.