Accidental Nanny

“Vices?” Raefe said scornfully. Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“Vices?” Raefe said scornfully.

“And what would you describe this as?” he continued. “Aboveboard and openhanded? Honest? To change your name and masquerade as someone you’re not in order to worm your way into a household where you know damn well you’re the last person who would be wanted?” The gray of Raefe’s eyes resembled cold steel as he added, “And that brings us to why you did it.”

The awkward question, of course, Francesca acknowledged, and paused before answering. It proved to be a fatal mistake.

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

The Editors

Look out next month for.

A Daughter for Christmas

by Cathy Williams (#1993)

Accidental Nanny

Lindsay Armstrong

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

SHE was about five feet six and in her early twenties, he judged, with a fine carriage that displayed a slender neck, straight shoulders and breasts that bounced beneath the yellow silk of her shirt like tantalising fruit as she jumped out of a dusty Land Rover. Her waist was small, her hips compact, her legs, in blue jeans, long. She also had an imperious air and glorious toffee-coloured hair. Then she spoke, and there was absolute assurance in her cultured vowels—the inborn ease of someone who had been used to having all and sundry do her bidding from her cradle...

Raefe Stevensen narrowed his eyes then raised a wry eyebrow. So it’s true, he mused. She has been up on Wirra. He paused and watched the girl toss her head as she spoke to the man who had driven her. I can guess why she’s here—and expecting me to drop everything, no doubt. He watched a moment longer, then deliberately reached for the telephone.

Francesca Valentine jumped down from a battered Land Rover and looked around intently. There was not a lot to see—one prefabricated building, a hangar, one runway with a limp airsock, two light planes and a helicopter parked on the apron. Her deep blue eyes brightened at the sight of the aircraft, however, and she turned to the driver of the Land Rover, flicking her toffee-coloured hair back. ‘This’ll do, Jim. You don’t need to wait around. You’ll be wanting to get back to the station before the road is flooded anyway.’

‘Well...’ The driver, a dusty, middle-aged man, hesitated. ‘I don’t like to leave you, Miss Valentine. Your father—’

‘Jim, so long as there are planes, I can get myself flown out.’

‘But just in case you can’t,’ Jim persisted. ‘This is a very small town, Miss Valentine. There’s only one pub where you could stay and you wouldn’t—well, it’s not what you’re used to. Cattlemen, drovers, truckies and the like,’ he added with deep significance. ‘Your father—’

‘If you mention my father once again, Jim, I’ll scream. It was his idea that I spend some time on Wirra Station; therefore, even if indirectly, it’s his fault that I’m all but stranded here!’

‘He couldn’t have organised this flood,’ Jim replied reasonably. ‘And it wasn’t his fault the chopper conked out on us at a time like this.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Francesca said darkly, but added, ‘Look, surely it’s easier for you not to have me to worry about on top of everything else? I mean, you’re going to have enough on your plate as it is, what with moving stock around let alone yourselves if the waters get up to the homestead.’

Jim sighed and said cautiously, ‘We could be cut off for weeks, I guess.’

‘Exactly! The other thing is, once I get home, I can pull all sorts of strings towards getting you parts flown up to repair the helicopter,’ Francesca finished triumphantly.

‘OK, Miss Valentine, if you say so,’ Jim relented suddenly, and got out to heave her bag off the back seat. ‘I’ll just carry this to the office for you.’

‘I can do it.’ Francesca wrested her bag from him and held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Jim. I do appreciate your concern, and I hope I wasn’t too much of a... time-waster for you. I shall certainly report back that Wirra is in good hands.’

‘Cheerio, Miss Valentine. As for being a time-waster—well, I doubt if those lads have enjoyed themselves as much for years once they got used to...certain things, so don’t you worry your pretty head about it.’ As he shook her hand vigorously he appraised not only her pretty head but also her shapely figure with a genuine and kindly appreciation that gave no offence. ‘You’re a right card at times, Miss Valentine,’ he added. ‘A real chip off the old block—and it’s been a pleasure.’

‘Not too much of a chip, I hope,’ Francesca murmured, but beneath her breath, and then she stayed to wave Jim off before turning once more to survey the landscape of this tiny airfield in the middle of North Queensland’s Cape York Peninsula.

The rain depression that had blown in off the Gulf of Carpentaria had not yet hit, although the sky was heavy. But the floodwaters generated by the depression were creeping inexorably down the channels and river beds and, according to all predictions, it wouldn’t be long before this wild country that was home to some huge cattle stations would not only be awash from those creeping waters but deluged by the skies above. The northern part of Wirra Station was already under water.

Wirra, Francesca mused, and thought back briefly over the last two weeks that she’d spent on the newest acquisition of the diverse, powerful and immensely wealthy Valentine empire.

There had certainly been a tangible restraint amongst most of the employees towards the new owner’s daughter at first. And if it hadn’t been for Jim, whom she’d known for years and who’d been transferred from another Valentine property to take over the running of Wirra, it might have been quite uncomfortable. But with his help I managed to win them over, I think, she reflected. Am I really a chip off the old block? I know Dad can be immensely charismatic when he sets his mind to it, but there’s a hard, cold side to him I hope I haven’t inherited...

‘Oh, well,’ she said aloud, and turned towards the small building that proclaimed from a sign on the roof that it was the home of Banyo Air—the three craft on the tarmac bore the same logo. ‘The sooner I get myself out of here the better!’

It was an unimpressive office she walked into, with one girl behind a battered desk, two uncomfortable orange plastic chairs in front of it and a view through grimy windows of the airfield. There was a watercooler, a sluggish ceiling fan churning the hot, humid air and a variety of blown-up aerial photos tacked to the walls. Francesca dumped her bag down and said crisply, ‘I’d like to see whoever is in charge, please.’

The girl, who looked no more than nineteen, blinked and pushed her dark hair back nervously. ‘He’s on the phone at the moment—’ she gestured to an inner doorway behind Francesca ‘—but if you’d care to wait he shouldn’t be too long.’

‘What’s his name?’

The girl blinked again. ‘Stevensen. Mr. Stevensen,’ she said finally.

‘Then perhaps you can help me, if Mr Stevensen is too busy. I need a flight to Brisbane—’

‘Brisbane?’ the girl echoed, her eyes widening, as if the capital of Queensland were located on the moon.

‘Yes, well,’ Francesca said, reflecting that Brisbane was over a thousand miles away. ‘Cairns, then, or at least somewhere where I can get a regular flight. You do fly to Cairns?’

‘We could,’ the girl said cautiously, ‘but I’m afraid I couldn’t arrange anything like that.’

‘Then would you mind letting this Mr Stevensen know that I am here?’

‘Yes. As soon as he finishes his call,’ the girl amended. ‘Would you like to sit down, or perhaps you’d like a glass of water?’

‘Both,’ Francesca said with a grin, and helped herself to a paper cup.

The girl seemed to relax, and she spent a few moments covertly admiring Francesca—her designer jeans and silk shirt, for one thing, and her soft kid tan boots. She gazed at her narrow, elegant hands, and the one ring she wore—an unusual gold signet on her little finger—and the way her toffee hair fell to her shoulders in a beautifully ordered, shining mane. Then she sighed discreetly and picked up the phone.

Francesca listened idly, because there was no point in trying not to, and discovered that the girl was talking to the Acme Employment Agency in Cairns with a view to hiring a governess for the unseen Mr Stevensen’s motherless seven-year-old daughter. It further transpired that his sister, who usually looked after the girl, had broken her wrist and that the job would entail living on a cattle station.

‘Yes,’ the girl said into the phone, ‘Bramble Downs, that’s right. Yes, it is a bit isolated, although it’s very comfortable. But no, no shops handy—no cinemas, no libraries, no television or anything like that—and it can get very hot...’

Not to mention flooded out—why don’t you tell them that? Francesca thought with a grimace but did not say. And when the call was ended, and there was nothing else to do as the girl began to bang away at an old typewriter, she pondered on the difficulty of getting staff to these remote areas and found herself wishing Mr Stevensen luck in the matter of a governess for his motherless seven-year-old daughter.

Then she glanced at her watch and discovered that she’d been waiting for twenty minutes, and her goodwill towards the elusive man began to seep away. Another five minutes, she told herself. How busy can he be in this God-forsaken spot?

She waited for precisely five minutes, then she stood up and said politely to the girl, ‘What is your name?’

‘Susan—Look, I am sorry, but he’s still on the phone, although I’m sure he knows you’re here. He would have seen you arrive.’

‘Is that so—Susan?’ Francesca said precisely. ‘Well, will you take this message in to your boss? Will you tell him that Francesca Valentine, daughter of Frank Valentine—yes, that one, the multimillionaire,’ she said as Susan’s eyes bulged, ‘would like to see him immediately? Furthermore, will you tell him that if he keeps me waiting any longer I will buy out this tinpot little airline he works for and have him sacked?’

Predictably, Susan couldn’t find the words to respond, but it was a moment before Francesca realised that she might not be the whole cause of the girl’s distress. Because Susan was in fact staring fixedly at a point over her right shoulder, and she swung on her heel to discover that the inner door must have opened silently during her speech and now a man stood there.

For once in her life Francesca herself was rendered speechless, although only momentarily, because the elusive Mr Stevensen—if this was he—was not what she’d expected at all. What had she expected? she was to wonder later. Had the unpretentious, grimy office with its poor facilities led her to expect the same of the man in charge? Had the locality, which wasn’t that far from the black stump, led her to expect a slowlyspoken cattleman-type, who would blink in awe at her?

How wrong could you be? she was also to think later, because this man was certainly not blinking in awe at her. He was eyeing her narrowly and insolently. He was over six feet tall, with fair hair and grey eyes, and he was in his middle thirties, she judged. And as well as being good-looking, and well although casually dressed, in khaki trousers and shirt, he carried an unmistakable aura of savoir-faire directly alongside the aura of a tough and hard man.

Francesca took an unexpected breath, but opened her mouth immediately. ‘Well, well, is it you at last, Mr Stevensen? To what do I owe this honour, or have I got the wrong man?’

‘I am Raefe Stevensen, and if you wish to be flown out of here, Francesca Valentine, daughter of Frank Valentine, I’d advise you not to take that tone with me.’

‘How dare you—?’ Francesca began.

‘I dare for several reasons,’ Raefe Stevensen said in cool, even tones that barely cloaked the contempt beneath them. ‘You can’t buy me out because I own this airline. You won’t find any other way to get to Cairns today. And, last but not least, your father’s millions mean nothing to me—I can’t stand the man.’

Francesca’s nostrils flared and a steady little flame lit her blue eyes. ‘Then may I say that I’m sure the feeling would be mutual—if this is the sloppy way you run a business.’ She flicked a scornful hand.

‘And may I say that your thoughts on the subject, or any subject, are quite without interest to me, Miss Valentine.’

‘Is that so? Well—’

But he overrode her casually. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, and—’ that cool, insolent grey gaze swept up and down her body ‘—you look about as glamorous and useless as the spoilt little rich girl you are. Why don’t you go away and find someone else to terrorise? I’m not flying you to Cairns today.’

‘Oh, yes, you are, mate,’ Francesca said through her teeth. ‘I’ll pay you...whatever you want—you name it. And, on the subject of how useless I am, I’ve just spent the last fortnight on Wirra, doing most of the things all the men did—’

‘Yes, I heard about that.’ Raefe Stevensen smiled unpleasantly. ‘But being good on a horse and a motorbike doesn’t mean to say you’re any good at anything else. The other interesting item of news on the bush telegraph was that you’d been banished up to Wirra by your father for some rather sordid indiscretion down south.’ He leant back against the doorframe, folded his arms and studied her mockingly. ‘It’s a pity to be the subject of that kind of gossip at—what—twenty-two?’

A white-hot gust of anger visited Francesca, and she stepped right up to Raefe Stevensen with every intention of slapping his face. But, although he moved lazily, he managed to grasp her wrist with one hand and with the other like an iron bar around the back of her waist bent her backwards over it.

Sheer surprise held Francesca transfixed for a second. Then she squirmed vigorously, only to have herself clamped ruthlessly against a body that was as hard and strong as a tree-trunk. She was also unexpectedly assailed by a curious sensation of helplessness and, to her horror, an undoubted awareness of all that was masculinely attractive about Raefe Stevensen.

And in the brief moment before he lowered his head to kiss her she saw, to her further horror, in those cool grey eyes that he was all too aware of the effect he was having on her.

It didn’t take long, his kiss, but it contrived to be comprehensive and merciless. ‘There,’ he drawled as he released her and politely steadied her, adding insult to injury, before dropping his hands from her body. ‘Is that what you wanted, Chessie Valentine? I believe that’s what those in the know call you, and I suppose I could be considered “in the know” now.’ His lips quirked. ‘Sorry it couldn’t have been a bit more intimate, but we do have company.’

Francesca stared up into those supremely ironic grey eyes, blinked several times in disbelief then turned to see Susan watching them with all the pop-eyed intensity of a trapped rabbit. She swung back to Raefe Stevensen; the pause had given her a little time to compose herself.

She said grimly, ‘I’m afraid you got it wrong, Mr Stevensen, sir, and—’

‘You’re about to tell me I’ll pay for this somehow or other?’ he suggested. ‘Will you report me to Daddy?’

What shook Francesca as much as anything that had happened to her was that his words were said with the unmistakable indifference of a man who really did not care—a man who believed she was an indulged, useless millionaire’s daughter, if not worse.

Did I ask for it? The thought popped into her head, taking her unawares. I know I can go over the top sometimes, but to keep anyone waiting for nearly half an hour when you’re only in the office next door—surely that wasn’t necessary! It’s not as if he owns Ansett or Qantas. But how the hell am I going to get away from here now?

‘You were saying?’ Raefe Stevensen prompted.

Francesca opened her mouth, closed it, then said stiffly, ‘If I overreacted to being kept waiting for what seemed—I have to be honest—an inordinately long time, I apologise.’

‘Go on,’ he murmured.

‘On? What more do you want me to say?’

‘I was wondering how you might try to cajole me into flying you out.’

Francesca closed her eyes and cautioned herself to stay cool ‘Well...’ She paused, then shrugged. ‘You have the option of flying me out to Cairns at the going rate, Mr Stevensen, or not. It’s up to you.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Then it sounds like a night at the pub for me until I can arrange something else—because if you think I intend to grovel at your feet,’ Francesca said softly, ‘you’re wrong.’

‘Not the pub.’ Susan spoke for the first time in a fairly desperate, bewildered sort of way. ‘I mean, it’s full of stranded track drivers and tourists. Raefe,’ she added on an anxious, entreating note, and glanced at Francesca.

For the first time Raefe Stevensen’s grey eyes softened as they rested on the girl’s face. ‘Sorry, Susie,’ he said. ‘That was a bit rough on you. Uh...call Bill, will you? He’s in the hangar and he’s scheduled to take the Beechcraft down to Cairns this afternoon. Tell him to leave as soon as he can.’

‘Rough on you,’ Francesca heard herself repeating somewhat dazedly, and added, ‘I think I must be going round the bend! I mean, I’m sorry too, Susie, but—’ She broke off and shook her head disbelievingly.

‘It’s all right, Miss Valentine,’ Susan said hastily.

Whereupon Raefe Stevensen grinned and murmured, ‘It seems you have one fan, Chessie, despite your high-handed ways.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Francesca warned grimly. ‘How would you like to be paid? I have a credit card, or—’

‘I’m sure you have the lot,’ he drawled.

Francesca, in the act of opening her purse, which did indeed hold an impressive array of credit cards, paused, then tossed her head and laid the open purse down on the desk. ‘You’re quite right. Take your pick, Mr Stevensen.’

‘Well, Chessie Valentine, I think I might give you this one on the house,’ he said. ‘The plane was going to Cairns anyway, and one more piece of—baggage—is not going to make any difference. You should be able to take off within an hour. Good day to you—I’m about to fly off myself. I don’t suppose we’ll meet again, which might be a good thing. Should be back in a couple of hours, Susie.’ And he strolled out of the office without a backward glance.

Francesca barely restrained herself from picking up her purse and flinging it at his retreating back.

She put up at the luxurious Cairns International that night, after finding herself unexpectedly exhausted, although the flight by Banyo Air to Cairns had been uneventful.

But the next morning she woke to find herself in a different mood altogether. She got up early, showered, wrapped herself in a cool, silky robe and ordered breakfast. While she was eating a delicious mango she knew she should be getting on to one of the commercial airlines to fly her south, but in fact she couldn’t tear her mind from the events of the previous day, and the humiliation she’d suffered at the hands of one Raefe Stevensen.

What surprised her, though, was the fact that she was possessed of almost equal desires not only to avenge herself but to prove him wrong. Why? she wondered. A lot of people out there assume I’m a rich bitch. It comes with the territory—especially when you have a father like mine...

She flinched, and got up to examine the view from her window. But no view of Cairns could distract her from the truth, which was that, after her mother’s death when she was six, her father had taken a series of mistresses—some nice, some ghastly—and the only shield between herself and them had been years at an exclusive boarding-school. Years of yearning for a normal family life until she’d grown a protective shell that was both brittle and bright and sometimes outrageous.

I know it, she thought. I know I can be impossible, and I suppose it’s really ironic that when I am impossible I emulate the very worst side of my father, who I basically despise, but that’s not all there is to me.

Still...she grimaced... I must have acquired more of a reputation for being a chip off the old block than I realised, and I certainly must have acquired more of a reputation for being a dilettante, not to mention glamorous but useless, than I realised if people buried in the wilds of Far North Queensland have heard about me.

Mind you, she countered to herself, I can’t be held responsible for the fact that the reason I came to be at Wirra got wildly distorted, and why should I care what one insufferably arrogant man thinks of me?

She returned to the breakfast table with the uncomfortable knowledge that she did care, even if she couldn’t understand why. Her hands stilled as she started to butter a piece of toast, and a gleam came to her blue eyes. Now, Chessie, don’t rush into this, she told herself, but a few moments later she reached for the phone to call Reception and advise them that she required a fax machine. Then she made several calls to Melbourne, her home town—only one of them being to do with the parts required for the malfunctioning Wirra helicopter.

An hour later the faxes started to roll in satisfactorily. Two hours later she dressed carefully in her most conservative clothes.

She chose cream linen trousers, a cream and green checked blouse and polished brown moccasins. She tied her rich hair back demurely with a green ribbon and she wore no jewellery other than her signet ring and a man’s plain watch with a leather band. She applied no make-up.

She folded her faxes carefully and tucked them into her shoulder bag. She then took the lift to the foyer where the head porter, with sweeping bows, procured a taxi for her and directed it to the offices of the Acme Employment Agency.

‘I believe,’ she said to the lady behind the desk at Acme, ‘that there is a governess position available at Bramble Downs—the Stevensen family. I happened to hear about it and, since I have teaching qualifications and I’m on a working holiday in this part of the world, I thought of applying for it.’

The woman, whose name-tag labelled her as Joyce Cotton, blinked, then smote her forehead. ‘Glory be! I was getting quite desperate! Poor Mrs Ellery has broken her wrist, and as if that isn’t bad enough she’s just rung me to say the cook’s gone walkabout. She really needs help urgently now, but they have very high standards and it’s just not that easy to find quality staff—or any kind of staff,’ she added honestly, ‘for these stations.

‘Then there are floods up there, I believe, so Raefe Stevensen—he’s the girl’s father—is going to be desperately busy and can’t be home. Mind you, I’ll have to check you out before I can—’

‘Of course,’ Francesca said, and just thinking of Raefe Stevensen and the way he’d kept her waiting with no sign of being desperately busy, let alone the way he’d kissed her, helped her to say without a twinge, ‘My name is Fran Moorehouse, and I’ve brought along copies of my references and so on. You’re welcome to check them out.’