His Potential Wife

“Welcome, Ms. Tyler, to Summerhill.” Scott Galbraith’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile.

“Yesterday, as I recall, you pronounced my children the worst-behaved you had ever seen,” he continued. With an exaggeratedly courtly gesture he invited her to come inside. “From now on they are in your hands.”

As Willow walked past him, her heart hammering like mad, he added, “I should warn you that in the last twenty months my children have gone through no less than five top-notch nannies.”

“I wonder,” Scott continued in that already so familiar brown velvet voice, “just how long you are going to last.”

Grace Green grew up in Scotland, but later immigrated to Canada with her husband and children. They settled in “Beautiful Super Natural B.C.,” and Grace now lives in a house just minutes from ocean, beaches, mountains and rain forest. She makes no secret of her favorite occupation—her bumper sticker reads, I’d Rather Be Writing Romance! Grace also enjoys walking the seawall, gardening, getting together with other authors…and watching her characters come to life, because she knows that once they do, they will take over and write her stories for her.

Books by Grace Green

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3706—THE NANNY’S SECRET

3714—THE PREGNANCY PLAN

3737—FOREVER WIFE AND MOTHER

His Potential Wife

Grace Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

“WHAT I want, Mrs. Trent, is a plain-Jane nanny.”

“A…plain-Jane nanny, Dr. Galbraith?” Ida Trent looked startled. “I’m not sure I underst—”

Scott Galbraith shot forward in his chair. “Mikey, get your fingers out of there!” He swept his son onto his lap a nanosecond before the two-year-old managed to tug a purple African violet from its clay pot on Ida Trent’s tidy desk.

The owner of the Trent Employment Agency cleared her throat. “Dr. Galbraith, I’m not sure exactly what you—”

“Let me spell it out.” Abstractedly Scott dusted potting soil from Mikey’s fingers. “I want a woman whose top priority—in fact, her only priority!—is caring for my three motherless children. I want a woman who doesn’t dream of orange blossom or see me as a potential husband—”

He broke off as four-year-old Amy stomped toward the office door. “Amy, get back here!”

Amy plodded on.

“Lizzie!” Urgently he prodded his elder daughter, who was slouched, reading, against the end of the desk. “Would you please catch your sister before she hits the street!”

Lizzie sighed as only a put-upon eight-year-old can sigh and took off to restrain her sister. Then none-too-gently she pushed the sturdy redhead down onto a sofa by the window. “Stay there,” she snapped. “And try not to be such an absolute pest!”

Amy’s blue eyes puddled with tears. “I am not a pest!”

“Are, too!”

“Am not!”

Lizzie flicked back her long blond braid and curled her upper lip in a sneer. “Pest, pest, pest!” Stalking back to the end of the desk, she resumed her slouching position and fixed her gaze again on the pages of her book.

Scott opened his mouth to chastise her…but closed it again when he noticed that his daughter’s face had become paper-white and her lips were trembling.

The sight reduced him to despair and helplessness—emotions that had become all too familiar to him over the past twenty months. He felt his heart go out to Lizzie, aware that her emotions must often be in a turmoil similar to his own. Of the three children, she was the one who missed her mother most. And he knew that because she was the eldest, he’d often stuck her with too much responsibility. So instead of berating her, he returned his attention to the woman seated across the desk from him.

“Now, Mrs. Trent, where were we?”

“You were telling me you wanted a plain-Jane nanny—”

“And one who isn’t man mad!”

“—and one who isn’t man mad. Actually—” Ida Trent looked thoughtful “—I believe I have someone who will suit you perfectly. She has excellent references and a true love of children…and I know, for a fact, that the last thing she’s looking for in her life is romance. Fortunately she’s between positions and could start right away.”

An ominous warm dampness suddenly seeped from Mikey’s diaper-padded bottom through the fabric of Scott’s brand-new designer pants. Oh, great. Just what he needed.

“So tell me,” he said resignedly, “does this paragon of virtue have a name?”

“She does, Dr. Galbraith. Her name is Willow Tyler.”

“Hey, Mom!”

Willow Tyler glanced up from her sunny bench and as she saw her son race toward her from the Rec Center’s entrance, she stuffed her wallet back into her handbag.

She would worry about her low bank balance later. For the present she would focus on Jamie. Once she got another job—and she prayed that would happen soon—she’d have little enough time to spend with him.

She couldn’t help smiling now as he approached her, his black hair dripping wet, his T-shirt outside-in, his sneakers ineptly tied. She itched to tidy him…but he was the most independent child on the face of the earth and she knew he would balk. From the beginning, he’d adamantly refused to let her tend to him after his swimming lessons.

“You’re not allowed into the men’s changing rooms,” he’d announced. “And—sorry, Mom!—no way am I going into the ladies’ changing rooms!”

Now—reeking of chlorine—he danced in front of her, his gray-green eyes eager. “Can we go to Morganti’s for a burger? Please? I’m starving!”

Willow hesitated. She hated spending money on fast food…yet she hated to disappoint Jamie; he didn’t ask for much. “All right—but let’s not make a habit of it.”

Morganti’s was only a hop and a skip away, at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fir Street. When they got inside, Jamie said, “Are you having a burger, too, Mom?”

“No, I’ll have a hot caramel sundae.”

“I’ll get it.”

He’d adopted a take-charge tone and she knew that for the moment, he’d assumed his man-of-the-house role. He held out his hand for money. “You want nuts on it?”

“No nuts.” She gave him a ten-dollar bill. “But I’ll have double caramel.”

“Can I have a large cola?”

“Sure.”

“Yes!” Gleefully he thrust his backpack at her and scampered off to take his place at the counter.

Willow sat at a vacant table and tucked his backpack under her chair before glancing around.

The restaurant was busy but Tradition, British Columbia, was a small town and she knew most of the people there. With a friendly wave she acknowledged those who sent a smile her way.

At the next table was a group of four—a man and three small children. He was dark-haired and broad-shouldered but he had his back to her so she couldn’t see his face. She had a plain view of the children, though, and they were strangers to her—a lovely blond girl of around nine, who was reading while eating a burger; a younger redheaded girl with grubby tear-stained cheeks; and a little boy in a high chair, whose fair hair was smeared with what looked like ketchup from the French fries spread out on his tray.

The man got up and she heard him say in a deep voice that made her think of dark brown velvet, “Lizzie, keep an eye on these two. I’m going for a coffee refill.”

He strode away toward the counter and she saw that he was quite tall, and wearing a beautifully cut charcoal-gray suit. She also noticed that he walked in an athletic way that spoke of lean muscles and coiled strength, and with a sense of purpose that gave an impression of self-confidence.

He took up his place in one of the short lineups and as he did, she saw Jamie turn from the counter.

He began walking toward her, carefully balancing his tray. She held her breath as the tall cola cup wavered, but he paused and it steadied and he resumed his precarious journey.

All went well until a fracas suddenly erupted at the next table. The tot in the high chair let out an enraged howl: apparently the middle child had stolen a handful of French fries from his tray because the one called Lizzie snapped, “Put those back, Amy! You said you didn’t want any fries. When are you going to stop being such a pest!” She grabbed Amy’s fist and tore the half-dozen fries from her.

“Give those back!” screamed Amy and reached after them.

“No way, you little pest! Pest! Pest! Pest!” Taunting her sister, Lizzie swung her hand away, out into the aisle…

And banged it into Jamie’s carefully balanced tray, knocking it wildly from his hands.

For a split second, silence fell on the group of three. The boy’s mouth froze in a wide-open O; the redhead’s screams stopped as if chopped off by an ax; and the girl called Lizzie’s expression turned to one of stark shock.

And then…oh, the clatter as the tray bounced on the tiled floor; the mess as the cola spilled out in a sticky stream; the cry of dismay from Jamie as he stared in horror at the demise of his gleefully anticipated treat.

But even as Willow shot to her feet, the three children resumed their squabbling.

“That was all your fault, Amy. If you hadn’t been such a pest—”

“You did it!” Amy’s shout was outraged. “It was—”

“I want more fries!” The little boy hammered his hands on his tray. “More, more, more!”

Jamie was quietly sobbing.

“Oh, honey!” Willow hunkered down and gathered his slight body to her. “Don’t cry. It wasn’t your fault, you were being so very careful. We’ll get someone to clean up this mess, and then we’ll just order the same thing again.”

He leaned away from her and furiously swiped his hands over his teary eyes. “I want to go home. I don’t like it in here today.” He glared at the still-squabbling trio who were paying him no attention. “And I don’t like them! They didn’t even say they were sorry—”

“Excuse me.”

At the same time as she heard and recognized the brown velvet voice, Willow saw, over Jamie’s shoulders, a pair of long legs encased in fine charcoal-gray fabric.

She felt a surge of grim satisfaction: the man had returned at just the right time to be assaulted by the full force of her annoyance.

Grabbing Jamie’s hand, she lurched upright, bursting to vent the words of censure that were rising up inside her—

She gulped. And reared back. The stranger was way, way taller than she’d realized.

And he was undoubtedly the most devastatingly attractive man she had ever seen.

Her senses reeled from the dazzling effect of electric-blue eyes twinkling at her from under a slash of black eyebrows; Hollywood white teeth glinting in a wry smile; and features so perfectly chiseled they could have been computer-generated.

By Bill Gates himself.

But even as she gawked at him she had a disturbing feeling of déjà vu.

She had seen this man before.

Somewhere.

But if she had, wouldn’t she have remembered him? He was surely unforgettable—

“Excuse me,” he murmured again, a toe-curling, coaxing tone now brushing his velvety, sexy voice.

Willow stiffened her toes. And her knees. And her resolve. She was not going to allow this man to sweet-talk her. She was made, was she not, of sterner stuff?

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.

And of all the places in all of the world where she didn’t want to work, Summerhill would be right up there, too.

She had no option, however, but to take the job, and to work for him, because she desperately needed the money.

Not only had bills piled up during her most recent period of unemployment, but she’d had to take her car off the road because she couldn’t afford to renew the insurance, and Gemma would need a car to drive Jamie to school once the stormy winter weather set in. Being the sole breadwinner for their household was a challenging and never-ending task; however, it was one she was not about to shirk.

So she’d take this job and she’d turn up for work at Summerhill tomorrow because she had no other choice.

But if Scott Galbraith were ever to discover that she was responsible for the tragedy that had beset his family seven years ago, he would boot her out of his house so fast she wouldn’t have time to blink!

The morning after the Morganti’s fiasco, Scott woke from a deep sleep to the sound of Mikey’s demanding cry.

He rolled his eyes. Who needed an alarm clock with this kid in the house?

Lurching out of bed, he was stumbling to the door when Lizzie stormed into the room. She was holding a paperback in one hand and dragging her sister with the other.

“This little pest tore the last page out of my book!” She gave Amy a rough shake. “Before I’d even read it! Now she won’t tell me where she put it!”

Scott said, “Lizzie, isn’t that the book you bought at the library sale? The page might’ve been missing when—”

“I didn’t tear her old book!” Amy managed to wrench herself free. “I like books. I’d never tear—”

Another demanding scream from Mikey’s room drowned out whatever Amy had been going to say.

Scott tugged up the waistband of his cotton boxer shorts and made for the door. “Hang on, kids, we’ll settle this after I change Mikey’s diaper.”

“Pest!” Lizzie hissed at her sister.

“Am not!”

“Are, too!”

Shaking his head, Scott went into Mikey’s bedroom. His son and heir was jumping up and down in his crib, his pyjama bottoms at half-mast, weighed down by a soggy diaper. He stopped crying when he saw his father, and greeted him with a watery, heart-melting smile.

“Morning, buster,” Scott said.

“Potty, Dad!”

Scott grinned. “I think we’ve missed the boat there, son!” He noticed that Mikey’s blankets were scattered with scraps of paper. What the heck…?

Gathering up a few of the pieces, he scrutinized them and frowned as realization dawned.

“Mikey,” he said. “Where did you get this?”

“Book.”

“Lizzie’s book? This is a page from Lizzie’s book?”

“It fell out.” He nodded gravely. “Amy said.”

Out in the corridor, Scott heard Lizzie and her sister yelling at each other. Like a pair of heathens.

As he swept Mikey up and headed for the children’s bathroom, he felt a great surge of thankfulness that this was going to be the last morning he’d have to cope alone with his rebellious troops. The new nanny—Mrs. Trent’s promised “paragon of virtue”—was due to arrive at ten.

He could hardly wait.

Willow pedaled up the driveway to Summerhill on her bike, slowing as she reached the fork at the top. One road led to the forecourt of the Cape Cod house with its white siding and blue shuttered windows; the other led to the back.

The last—and only other time—she had ever visited this house, she had come not as an employee but as a highly distraught teenager with a letter to deliver.

The memory of that night, and the consequences of her actions, were still vivid in her mind. Far too vivid. And far too painful.

She shoved them back into their compartment and locked them up where they belonged. In the past.

She took the road to the rear of the house, where she parked her bike against the wall and then rang the doorbell. Taking in a deep breath to calm her nerves, she waited for someone to answer her summons.

She didn’t have long to wait.

The door swung in and as it did, her tentative smile froze in place when she saw the person facing her. Her new employer was the man she’d confronted so rudely yesterday!

And with a suddenness that stole her breath away, she realized why she’d had that feeling of déjà vu at the sight of him. Yes, she had met Scott Galbraith before…and on this very spot.