“I don’t care how you entertain the kid. Just do it. And leave me out of it.”
Anna’s face blanched, making her freckles stand out. Pierce experienced a sudden craving for cinnamon toast—the way his mother used to make it twenty-something years ago.
He shook his head to banish the thought.
“Yessir.” She turned away to attend to the kid.
Feeling as if he’d kicked a kitten, Pierce grabbed his plate and a bottle of water and retreated to his office. He’d hired her to deal with the trivial childcare issues. He didn’t need her or her sleepy, sexy—no, not sexy—morning eyes condemning him.
What she didn’t seem to realize was that the kid would be better off if Pierce kept his distance.
Dear Reader,
When my editor asked if I’d like to write a Billionaires and Babies story, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. Who doesn’t love babies?
Except my hero, of course!
My sons are all long past the cuddly stage, and I’ve reached a point where I actually miss their squabbling and wrestling. For those of you who are still dealing with kiddie chaos, rest assured, your day to miss the madness will come all too soon.
I loved having the opportunity to throw not one, but two tiny tots at my baby-phobic hero and watching them (and Anna, the boys’ nanny) win him over. I hope you enjoy watching Pierce succumb to Anna and the pint-size charmers, too.
I enjoy hearing from readers! Please contact me through my website, www.emilierose.com.
Happy reading!
Emilie Rose
About the Author
Bestselling Mills & Boon® Desire™ author and RITA® Award finalist EMILIE ROSE lives in her native North Carolina with her four sons and two adopted mutts. Writing is her third (and hopefully her last) career. She’s managed a medical office and run a home day care, neither of which offers half as much satisfaction as plotting happy endings. Her hobbies include gardening and cooking (especially cheesecake). She’s a rabid country music fan because she can find an entire book in almost any song. She is currently working her way through her own “bucket list,” which includes learning to ride a Harley. Visit her website at www.emilierose.com or e-mail [email protected]. Letters can be mailed to PO Box 20145, Raleigh, NC 27619, USA.
The Ties That Bind
Emilie Rose
To the men and women of our military who sacrifice so much so that the rest of us can stay home with our families.
One
Anna Aronson aimed a measured breath at the plastic wand and wished the bubbles exiting the opposite side could magically carry her worries away on the breeze.
The boys playing at her feet in the thick emerald grass squealed and gurgled in the infectious way only toddlers can, making her smile despite impending disaster.
She had to get this job.
A flash of movement caught her attention. She glanced away from the boys scampering after the bubbles, and spotted the woman who’d interviewed her earlier coming toward them. Tension wound inside Anna like an Archimedean spiral.
“Mr. Hollister will see you now, Anna. He’s waiting in his office. Take the doors on the left side of the patio.” She gestured to the luxurious, sprawling Greenwich, Connecticut, home.
Anna licked her dry lips and lowered the wand. “The boys …”
“I’ll watch them while you talk to the boss. He has the final say. But for what it’s worth, you have my vote.” Mrs. Findley held out her hand for the bottle of bubbles and wand.
Anna, feeling as if she were surrendering a life preserver in rough seas, handed them over. This interview felt very much like a sink or swim situation. If she didn’t get this job she wouldn’t be able to pay this month’s rent or electric bill, and she’d be left with no option except to swallow her pride, go home and beg for help even though her mother had already made it clear that Anna and Cody would not be welcome in the retirement community where she resided.
But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. “Thank you, Mrs. Findley.”
“Call me Sarah. And, Anna, don’t let Pierce intimidate you. He’s a fair employer and a good man despite the armor plated personality.”
Armor plated personality?
Trepidation closed Anna’s throat. She couldn’t have spoken even if an appropriate response had materialized in her seized up brain. Instead she nodded and headed for the house. The distance seemed endless, and by the time she reached the stone porch stairs of the two-story colonial her breaths came quickly—as if she’d run a mile instead of walking a few hundred yards.
Through the glass door Anna spotted her prospective employer sitting behind a massive wooden desk. The air jammed in her lungs. Please, please, please let this go well.
She knocked on the glass. He looked up from a stack of papers, scowling, then bid her to enter with one sharp snap of his head. Her hand slipped on the polished brass knob. She had to blot her damp palm on her dress before trying again and pushing open the door.
Pierce Hollister, with his supermodel chiseled features and thick, dark hair styled in one of those intentionally messy cuts, looked as if he belonged in a glossy magazine advertisement for an expensive product that any young millionaire might want to buy, and though he’d dressed casually in a black polo shirt opened at the base of his tanned neck, he still reeked of power and prestige.
But a handsome, charming, wealthy man had contributed to her current financial predicament. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down with this one.
“H-hello, Mr. Hollister. I’m Anna Aronson.”
Hazel eyes without a trace of friendliness inspected her from head to toe. She hoped her simple shirt dress and sandals passed muster.
“Why were you fired from your last position?”
Flustered by the terse question even before she’d closed the door, she bought time by focusing on the—ohmigod original—art on the walls around him and pushing the door until she heard the lock catch. So much for a polite handshake greeting.
“I was let go because I refused an after school playdate with the father of one of my students.”
“He propositioned you?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you file a complaint with the headmaster?”
“I did. But the parent in question is one of the school’s primary benefactors and his wife is their most successful fundraiser. My complaint was ignored.”
“How long did you work for the school?”
“The dates are in my resume.”
“I’m asking you.”
Why would he question her credentials unless he thought she’d made them up and wouldn’t recall them? “The academy hired me part-time straight out of college as a tutor for some of their struggling students. Six months later when a teacher quit unexpectedly they offered me a full-time teaching position. All totaled I worked for the school for three and a half years.”
“And despite your history as an employee the school fired you because of one parent’s allegations. They chose to take his word over yours.”
“The