Prince Daddy & the Nanny (5 page)

“Hannah's trying to make me go to the beach.” She made it sound as if her nanny was proposing a new kind of water torture.

“That sounds like a lot of fun.”

The little girl wrinkled her nose, clearly unconvinced. “Will you come with us?”

He hesitated, and Hannah knew he was going to refuse, so she spoke quickly, responding before he did in the hope that it might lessen the sting of his refusal for Riley.

“I'm sure your daddy would love to come if he didn't have important business that needed his attention right now.”

“But it's Saturday,” Riley said, looking up at him pleadingly.

“Well, in that case,” he said, “I could probably play hooky for a couple of hours.”

His daughter's eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Sure, just give me a few minutes to change.”

While the prince disappeared to don more appropriate beach attire, Hannah made sure that the princess was covered in sunscreen. Although the little girl obviously didn't like having the cream rubbed on her skin, she didn't protest. Apparently she was willing to put up with the process—and even Hannah—so long as she got to go to the beach with her daddy.

Hannah glanced up when she heard his footsteps, and exhaled a quiet sigh of purely female admiration. Over the past week, she'd come to appreciate how good the prince looked in his customary Armani trousers and Turnbull & Asser shirts, but the more formal attire had given her no indication of how muscular and toned he was beneath the clothes. Now he was wearing only board shorts slung low on his hips with a striped beach towel draped across very strong, broad shoulders, and just looking at him made Hannah's knees go weak.

She'd admired him from afar for so many years. As a teen, she'd snipped every photo of him out of newspapers and magazines and created her own personal scrapbook. Back then, she'd never expected that their paths would ever cross again. And now he was only a few feet away from her—almost close enough to touch. In fact, if she took only two steps forward, she could lay her hands on his smooth, tanned chest to feel the warmth of his skin and the beating of his heart beneath her palms. She could—

“Are we ready?” he asked.

“I'm ready, Daddy!”

It was the excitement in the little girl's response that snapped Hannah out of her fantasy and back to the present. She reached down for the bucket of toys, conscious of the warm flush in her cheeks. She should have outgrown her adolescent crush on the prince long ago, but as embarrassing as it was to accept that some of those feelings remained, it was somehow worse to realize that the man she was ogling was her boss. Obviously she had to work on maintaining appropriate boundaries.

“Let's go,” she said brightly.

She'd barely taken a dozen steps out the door when she heard a familiar chime. Startled, she turned back to see the prince reaching into the pocket of his shorts.

“You weren't really planning to take your BlackBerry down to the beach, were you?” she asked incredulously.

“I've been waiting to hear back from a new client,” he said without apology. And without another word, he turned away and connected the call.

Riley watched him, her big brown eyes filled with disappointment.

Hannah shook her head, acknowledging that while the prince might have a fabulous body and a face worthy of magazine covers, his priorities were completely screwed up.

Then she remembered the telephone conversation she'd overheard and the prince's adamant refusal to send his daughter away to school. Obviously he loved his little girl and wanted to keep her close—so why did he keep himself so distant from her? And why was she so determined to uncover the reason for this contradictory behavior?

Pushing the question from her mind, at least for now, she continued toward the water and the expensive private beach that had been calling to Hannah since her arrival at Cielo del Norte. “Do you want to know one of my favorite things about the beach?” she asked the princess.

The little girl shrugged but trudged along beside her.

“When the waves break against the shore, you can give them your troubles and they'll take them back out to the sea.”

“No, they won't,” the princess protested.

But instead of her usual confrontational tone, this time the denial was spoken softly, and the quiet resignation in her voice nearly broke Hannah's heart.

“Well, not really,” she agreed. “But I'll show you what I mean.”

She found a long stick and with it, she wrote in the sand, right at the water's edge: M-A-R-K-I-N-G-T-E-S-T-S.

“I'm a teacher,” she explained. “And I love teaching, but I don't like marking tests.”

The little girl looked neither interested nor impressed, but she did watch and within a few moments, the movement of the water over the sand had completely erased the letters.

Hannah offered the stick to Riley, to give her a turn. The princess seemed to consider for a moment, then shook her head.

So Hannah wrote again: T-O-F-U. She smiled when the letters washed away.

“What's tofu?” Riley asked.

“Bean curd,” Hannah said. “It comes from China and is used in a lot of vegetarian dishes.”

Thinking of China made her think of Ian, so she wrote his name in the sand.

“Who's Ian?”

“Someone I thought was a friend, but who turned out not to be. He's in China now.”

“Eating tofu?”

She chuckled at Riley's question. “I don't know—maybe he is.”

The little princess reached for the stick. She paused with the point of it above the sand, her teeth nibbling on her bottom lip. Finally she began to make letters, carefully focusing on the formation of each one until she spelled out: R-A-M.

“You don't like sheep?”

Riley smiled, just a little. “It's ‘Riley Advertising Media.'”

“Your dad's company?”

The little girl nodded.

Hannah frowned as a strange thought suddenly occurred to her. “Did he actually name you after his business?”

Now the princess shook her head. “Riley was my mommy's middle name—because it was her mommy's name before she married my granddad.”

“Oh. Well, it makes more sense that you'd be named after your mom than a corporation,” Hannah said lightly.

But the little girl was writing in the sand again, this time spelling out: H-A-N-A…

She tried not to take it personally. After all, this game had been her idea, and she should feel grateful that Riley was finally communicating with her, even if she didn't like what she was communicating.

“Actually, my name is spelled like this,” she said, and wrote H-A-N-N-A-H in the sand.

Riley studied the word for a moment, and when it washed away, she wrote it again, a little further from the waves this time. “Your name is the same backwards as forwards.”

Hannah nodded. “It's called a palindrome.”

“Are there other palindromes?”

“There are lots, not just words—” she wrote R-A-C-EC-A-R in the sand “—but phrases and even complete sentences.”

“Do you know any sentences or phrases?” Riley challenged.

N-E-V-E-R-O-D-D-O-R-E-V-E-N.

“That's pretty cool,” the princess admitted. Her gaze flickered back toward the house. The prince was pacing on the terrace, his phone still attached to his ear.

She took the stick from Hannah again and wrote D-A-D.

“Good job,” Hannah said, then winced when the little girl crossed the word out with so much force the stick snapped.

“Do you want to go back inside?” she asked gently.

Riley shook her head again. “I need to wash off this sand.”

 

Michael had just ended his call when he spotted Hannah and Riley coming out of the water. Obviously he'd missed the opportunity to join them for a swim, and he was as sincerely disappointed as he knew his daughter would be. But as she made her way up the beach with Hannah toward the lounge chairs where they'd left their towels, his attention
and his thoughts shifted from his little girl to the woman with her.

He hadn't expected that she would swim in the shorts and T-shirt she'd worn down to the beach. Truthfully, he hadn't even let himself think about what kind of bathing suit she had on beneath those clothes. But it wasn't the bathing suit that snared his attention so much as the delectable curves showcased by the simple one-piece suit of cerulean Lycra.

He didn't feel the phone slip from his fingers until it hit the top of his foot. With a muttered curse, he bent to retrieve the discarded instrument—and smacked his head on the rail coming up again. This time his curse wasn't at all muted.

Rather than risk further bodily injury, he remained where he was, watching through the slats of the railing as the nanny helped Riley dry off. After his daughter's cover-up had been slipped back on, Hannah picked up a second towel and began rubbing it over her own body. From the curve of her shoulders, down slender, shapely arms. From narrow hips, down endlessly long and sleekly muscled legs. Across her collarbone, dipping into the hollow between her breasts.

There was nothing improper about her actions—certainly she wasn't trying to be deliberately seductive. But like a voyeur, he couldn't tear his gaze away.

She tugged her shirt over her head, then shimmied into her shorts, and Michael blew out a long, slow breath, urging the hormones rioting in his system to settle down. But he now knew that, regardless of what she might be wearing, he would forever see the image of her rising out of the water like a goddess.

It was a good thing he would be going out of town for a few days.

B
y the time Michael joined his daughter and her new nanny, Riley was packing sand into a long rectangular mold. She glanced up when he lowered himself onto the sand beside her, but didn't say a word. She didn't need to say anything—he could tell by the reproachful look in her big brown eyes that she was displeased with him.

He could handle her quick mood changes and even her temper tantrums, but her evident disappointment cut him to the quick. He was trying his best to be a good father, though it seemed increasingly apparent to him that he didn't know how. Every time he thought he was getting the hang of things, the rules changed.

“Sorry I missed swimming,” he said, tugging gently on a lock of her wet hair. “But that was a really important client.”

“They're all really important.” She turned the mold over and smacked the bottom of it, perhaps a little too hard, with the back of a plastic shovel.

She was right. And she certainly wouldn't be the first person to suggest that he might be too focused on his company. But his work was at least something he understood. In his office, he was competent and capable and completely in charge. With Riley, he often felt helpless and overwhelmed and absolutely terrified that he was going to screw up—as if he hadn't done so enough already.

He glanced over at the nanny, to gauge her interpretation of the stilted exchange with his daughter, but Hannah's eyes were hidden behind dark glasses so that he couldn't tell what she was thinking. He decided he would wait to tell both of them of the meeting that would take him back to the city on Monday.

“What are you making?” he asked Riley instead.

“What does it look like?”

He wasn't pleased by her sarcastic tone, but he knew that she wasn't pleased with him at the moment, either, so he only said, “It looks like a sand castle.”

She didn't respond.

“Is it Cinderella's castle or Sleeping Beauty's?” he prompted.

“Uncle Rowan's.”

He should have realized that a child who had run through the halls of an authentic castle would be less fascinated by the fairy-tale versions. He should also have realized that she would be as methodical and determined in this task as with any other. Riley didn't like to do anything unless she could do it well. As a result, she quickly grew frustrated with any task she couldn't master.

Though Hannah didn't say anything, she pushed a cylindrical mold toward him with her foot. He let his gaze drift from the tips of her crimson-painted toenails to the slim ankle, along the curve of her slender calf—

She nudged the cylinder again, with a little less patience
this time. He tore his attention away from her shapely legs and picked up the vessel.

“Building a castle is a pretty big project for one person,” he said to Riley. “Do you think maybe I could help?”

She just shrugged, so he picked up the small shovel and began filling the receptacle.

“You can't use that sand,” she said impatiently, grabbing the mold from him and tipping it upside down to empty it out. “You need the wet stuff, so it sticks together.”

She looked to Hannah for verification, confirming that this castle-building knowledge had been recently imparted by the new nanny, and was rewarded by a nod. Then she demonstrated for him—showing him how to pack the container with sand, then turn it over and tap it out again.

There were a few moments of frustration: first when one of the walls collapsed, and again when she realized the windows she'd outlined weren't even. But Michael patiently helped her rebuild the wall and assured her that sand-castle windows wouldn't fall out if they weren't perfectly level. That comment finally elicited a small smile from her, and he basked in the glow of it.

While he remained outwardly focused on the castle-building project, he was conscious of the nanny watching their interactions. He was conscious of the nicely rounded breasts beneath her T-shirt, and of the long, lean legs stretched out on the sand. He noticed that her hair had dried quickly in the sun and that the ends of her ponytail now fluttered in the breeze.

She could have passed for a teenager who'd skipped school to hang out at the beach with her friends, the way she was leaning back on her elbows, her bare feet crossed at the ankles and her face tipped up to the sun. And his immediate physical response to the sexy image was shockingly adolescent.

Dios,
it was going to be a long two months. Especially if,
as he suspected, he was going to spend an inordinate amount of that time fighting this unexpected attraction to her. On the other hand, the time might pass much more quickly and pleasantly if he
stopped
fighting the attraction. If he reached over right now to unfasten the band that held her hair back in order to slide his hands through the silky mass and tip her head back to taste her—

“Is it okay to dig a moat?” Riley asked, and the fantasy building in his mind dissipated.

He forced his gaze and his attention back to her construction.

“Every castle should have a moat,” he assured her.

“Uncle Rowan's doesn't.”

“But it should, to protect the princes and princesses inside from ogres and dragons.”

She giggled. “Ogres and dragons aren't real, Daddy.”

“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But a moat is a good idea, just in case.”

Riley tipped her head, as if considering, then nodded and began digging.

“What do you think?” he asked Hannah. “Is it worthy of the Sand Castle Hall of Fame?”

“An impressive first effort, Your Highness,” she replied, and he knew she wasn't just talking about the construction.

“But I shouldn't quit my day job?” he guessed lightly.

“I don't imagine you would ever consider doing so.”

He winced at the direct hit.

“But if you did, you might have a future in castle-building,” she relented. “Your spire looks pretty good.”

His brows rose. “My spire?”

Her cheeks colored as she gestured to the cone shape on top of the tower he'd built. She was obviously flustered by his innuendo, and he couldn't help but smile at her.

“But your flagpole is crooked,” she said, and smiled back at him.

His gaze dropped automatically to her mouth, to the seductive curve of her lips. He wondered if they would feel as soft as they looked, if they would taste as sweet as he imagined. And he thought again about leaning forward to press his mouth to hers, to discover the answers to those questions.

Instead, he straightened the twig that was the castle flag and mused that it had been a long time since he'd shared this kind of light, teasing banter with a woman. A long time since he'd felt the slightest hint of attraction for a woman who wasn't his wife, and what he was feeling for Hannah was more than a hint.

He pushed himself up from the sand and picked up an empty bucket.

“Let's get some water for your moat,” he said to Riley.

 

When the moat was filled and the finished project adequately
ooh
ed and
aah
ed over, they returned to the house. Hannah ran a bath for the princess so that Riley could wash the salt off her body and out of her hair. When she was dried and dressed, the little girl had taken a book and curled up on her bed. Hannah suspected that she would be asleep before she'd finished a single page.

After she'd showered and changed, the nanny ventured back downstairs, looking for Caridad to inquire if the housekeeper needed any help with the preparations for dinner. Hannah was embarrassingly inept in the kitchen but with so much time on her hands, she thought she might start hanging around while Caridad cooked. Even if she didn't learn anything, she enjoyed spending time with the older woman.

Unfortunately, the kitchen was empty when she entered. But more distressing to Hannah than the missing housekeeper was the absence of any suggestion that dinner might be in the oven.

She opened the door and scanned inside, just to be sure. Then she opened the fridge and surveyed the shelves.

“Looking for something?”

She started at the unexpected sound of the prince's voice behind her. When they'd returned to the house, she'd assumed that he would retreat to his office and stay there for the rest of the evening. That was, after all, his pattern.

“Caridad,” Hannah said. “I haven't seen her all day.”

“Well, I can assure you that you won't find her in either the oven or the refrigerator.”

He smiled, to show that he was teasing, and she felt her cheeks flush. She hadn't yet figured out the prince or her feelings for him—aside from the jolt of lust she felt whenever he was in the same room. But as attracted as she was to Prince Michael, she was equally frustrated with the father in him. There were times he was so oblivious to his daughter and her needs that Hannah wanted to throttle him. And then there were other times, such as when he'd reached for his little girl's hand on the beach or when he'd slip into his daughter's room late at night just to watch over her while she slept—as she noticed he did almost every night—that his obvious love and affection for the princess made her heart melt. How could one man be both so distant and so devoted?

And how, she wondered, could one man have her so completely tied up in knots? Because there was no doubt that he did, and Hannah had absolutely no idea how to cope with her feelings.

She tried to ignore them, all too aware that Michael was completely out of her league, not just because he was her boss but because he was a prince. Her short-lived engagement to a British earl had forced her to accept that royals and commoners didn't mix, at least for the long term. Unfortunately, ignoring her feelings for the prince hadn't diminished them in the least.

“She and Estavan have weekends off,” Michael continued
his response to her question about Caridad. “Unless I have formal plans for entertaining.”

“Oh,” Hannah replied inanely, thinking that was another check in the ‘good prince' column. She also thought it was great for the housekeeper and her husband—and not so great for a woman whose kitchen expertise was limited to reheating frozen dinners.

“You don't cook, do you?” the prince guessed.

“Not very well,” she admitted.

“Then it's a good thing I'm in charge of dinner tonight.”

She stared at him. “
You
cook?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I just can't picture you standing over the stove with a slotted spoon in one hand and your BlackBerry in the other. Your Highness.”

Rather than taking offense, he smiled. “You do that a lot, you know.”

“What's that?”

“Tack my title on to the end of a reply, as if that might take the sting out of the personal commentary.”

“I don't mean to sound disrespectful, Your Highness.”

“I'm sure you don't,” he drawled. “But getting back to dinner, maybe you could try picturing the stove as a barbecue and the slotted spoon as a set of tongs.”

“I should have realized that when you said you could cook what you really meant was that you could grill meat over fire.”

“You forgot the ‘Your Highness.'”

She smiled sweetly. “Your Highness.”

“And at the risk of spoiling your illusions, I will confess that I also make an exquisite alfredo sauce, a delicious stuffed pork loin and a mouthwatering quiche Lorraine.”

“But do you actually eat the quiche?” she teased.

“You can answer that question for yourself as it's on the menu for brunch tomorrow.”

“And what's on the menu for dinner tonight?” she asked, as curious as she was hungry.

“Steak, baked potato and tossed green salad,” he told her.

Her mouth was already watering. “Can I help with anything?”

“You just said that you don't cook.”

“Can I help with anything that doesn't involve preparing food over a heat source?” she clarified.

He chuckled. “Do you know how to make a salad?”

“I think I can figure it out.”

 

While Michael cooked potatoes and grilled steaks on the barbecue, Hannah found the necessary ingredients in the refrigerator for a salad. When Riley came downstairs, she gave her the napkins and cutlery and asked her to set them on the table.

The princess did so, though not happily. Obviously she wasn't accustomed to performing any kind of menial chores. And when her father came in with the steaks and potatoes, she looked at the food with obvious distaste.

“Can I have nuggets?”

“Not tonight.” The prince had earlier uncorked a bottle of merlot and now poured the wine into two glasses.

“But I want nuggets,” Riley said.

“You had nuggets for lunch,” Hannah reminded her, and gave herself credit for not adding “almost every day this week.”

The little girl folded her arms across her chest. “I want nuggets again.”

“If she'd rather have nuggets, I can throw some in the oven,” the prince relented.

“Yes, please, Daddy.” Riley beamed at him.

Hannah opened her mouth, then closed it again without saying a word.

“Excuse us,” he said to his daughter, then caught Hannah's arm and steered her into the kitchen.

“What's the problem with Riley having chicken nuggets?” he demanded.

“I didn't say anything, Your Highness.”

“No, you stopped yourself from saying whatever was on your mind,” he noted. “And since you didn't seem to have any qualms about speaking up earlier, why are you censoring your comments now?”

“Because I don't want to get fired after less than a week on the job.”

“I won't fire you,” he promised.

“Then I'll admit that I'm concerned about your willingness to give in to your daughter's demands,” she told him. “She's not even four years old, and if you let her dictate what she's going to eat, she might never eat anything but chicken nuggets.”