Tate plopped her butt onto the bottom stair and placed her chin her hands, her elbows on her knees. She wasn’t acting anything like the nanny she was supposed to be.
Oh, she collected Shaw from school, entertained him in the afternoons allowing Linc to put in a solid day at work. When he came home she didn’t, like a good nanny, walk up the stairs and retreat to her own quarters. Nope, instead she ran straight into his arms. Sometimes, depending on what the kids were doing, they hustled up the stairs, taking a few minutes to rocket each other to a body-blasting orgasm, something to take the edge off until they fell into bed later.
She missed work, of course she did, but not as much as she had expected to. For someone who liked being alone, who felt itchy when she was pinned to a spot for too long, she was remarkably content. And that scared the pants off her. And when she imagined going back to work, to returning to her life of airports and customs control, impersonal hotels and tourist traps, to living life on her own, her heart rebelled. She couldn’t imagine giving up her job, relinquishing her independence and her freedom—she loved what she did far too much—but the notion of giving up Linc and the kids threw her into a tailspin. She didn’t want to live a life without them in it. And deep down in her heart she knew why.
She’d kind of, sort of, fallen a little bit in love with The Den, with the Upper East Side, with being Ellie’s mommy and Shaw’s nanny.
It was also very possible that she was in love with her sister’s ex.
Oh, crap!
Tate dropped her head between her bent knees and sucked in a choppy breath. Say it isn’t so!
No, no, no, Tate.
No! You weren’t supposed to fall in love with him, you idiot. This was about sex, about a mutual fling; it wasn’t supposed to get this intense this quickly.
Tate cursed herself, thinking that she’d definitely forgotten to pay her brain bill.
She couldn’t be in love, she wouldn’t be, Tate decided. She’d just been temporarily seduced by this lovely house and two cute kids and a man who made her catch her breath every time he walked into the room. She was just reliving the last time she’d been part of a family, and she was projecting that happiness onto the here and now.
Reality check, Harper. Reame was going to call, someday soon, and tell her that he’d found Kari, and then she’d return Ellie to her mom’s not-so-loving arms. Man, that would bite. Then, because she had nothing to keep her in the city—she and Linc were as temporary as a social media trend—she’d move out of The Den, and maybe they’d see each other now and again until her vacation was over. She’d receive her next assignment, start working on a new series and she’d be sent God knew where.
She could never risk loving Linc, creating a family with him within the greater Ballantyne clan and then, like before, having it all ripped away. She wouldn’t survive losing another family, losing the people she loved again. Linc and Ellie and Shaw could only be a lovely memory.
That was the way it had to be, the way it would be, so why was her stomach churning and bile creeping up her throat at the thought? Why did the notion of getting on a plane and leaving them behind make her feel like she was facing her executioner? You’re losing it, Harper, so get off your butt and do something! Call Reame, find out what progress he’s made with finding Kari. Contact your producer and see if they have decided where they are sending you next.
Get real. Stop fantasizing about something you can’t have, and let these crazy notions about loving Linc, having it all, go. You have to move on.
Mentally and, sometime soon, physically.
But for now, step off the crazy train, dammit. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. Maybe exercising wasn’t a bad idea after all; maybe she could sweat out her stupidity.
Linc stood in front of the glass case holding Connor’s alexandrite ring, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Around him, the rich and elite of Manhattan, and a few dozen other cities, drank French champagne and popped dainty canapés into mouths filled with perfect teeth.
Sage’s edgy, interesting, modern collection was a roaring success, and the Ballantyne collection of rare precious gemstones was going to be talked about for a long time to come. Amy had volunteered to babysit Shaw and Ellie, and when he’d checked in with her ten minutes ago, both kids were asleep.
For the first time in, well, ages, he was having fun, and that was only because Tate was with him, sharing her pithy observations about his guests. She looked exquisite in a deep red lace dress. The high-waisted bodice was accented with a rose-printed lace, velvet strips and crystals. She’d found the dress in a vintage shop in SoHo, she’d told him, but Linc was more interested in the slight swell of her breasts peeking out from the neckline, her creamy shoulders and the smooth leg the thigh-high slit in the dress occasionally revealed.
She was beautiful, Linc thought, looking across the room to where Tate stood, talking to a tall, black-haired man who had his back to him. The man turned, and Linc saw his distinctive profile... Tyce Latimore, Sage’s ex. Linc looked around the room to find his sister and saw her by the bar, talking to Reame. He’d once hoped that something would spark between Reame and Sage, but it never had; Reame treated Sage like a sister.
Linc turned his attention back to Tate and narrowed his eyes when Latimore placed his hand on Tate’s back to guide her to the bar. His protective instincts revving in the red zone—there was vibe to Latimore that made Linc think that there was something unbridled and dangerous lurking beneath the smooth veneer—Linc pushed his way through the crowd to reach the bar. Sage, seeing Latimore’s approach, slid off her seat and sauntered away, her ex’s gaze following her, his expression benign but his eyes blazing. When he reached the bar, Linc pulled Tate to his side and gave Latimore a hands-off-or-I’ll-beat-the-crap-out-of-you look.
Latimore just lifted a dark eyebrow and smiled sardonically before holding out his hand for Linc to shake.
Linc shook his hand but deliberately kept a frown on his face. “Are you messing with my sister, Latimore?”
“Since she’s currently not talking to me, and hasn’t for a couple of months, that’s not a feasible assumption,” Tyce replied, his voice deep and dark. Linc thought he saw sadness flash in his eyes but dismissed the thought; the Korean French American was far too much of a player to be fazed that his sister was ignoring him.
“My warning still stands. You hurt Sage again and the three of us will take you apart.” Linc pushed the words out through gritted teeth.
Linc heard and ignored Tate’s surprised gasp. Tyce held his stare but banged his whiskey glass on the counter of the bar, and when he spoke, his words were bitter. “Yeah, you Ballantynes are such freakin’ paragons. Have you ever considered that she might have hurt me, that one of yours might have hurt one of mine? You don’t have the monopoly on family and loyalty, Ballantyne.”
Latimore released a muttered curse and held his hand up. “Forget I said that.” He fixed a smile onto his face, but Linc noticed that it didn’t reach his deep brown, almost-black eyes. “It’s been lovely meeting you, Tate. I hope we do so again.”
“Not damn likely,” Linc muttered.
Latimore flashed him a disparaging smile before Tyce’s attention was caught by movement at the door. Linc followed his gaze and saw his sister, in a midnight blue ball gown, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. As if she knew that Tyce was looking at her, she lifted her head, and their eyes clashed and held. Linc’s eyes bounced from his sister to Latimore and back again, slightly uncomfortable at seeing the