Inherited: One Child

One

Jack Mason knew he was in trouble the minute he saw her.

He didn't know why she snagged his attention, considering she sat in a room crowded with nanny applicants of all shapes, colors and ages, none of whom possessed a clue about his true intentions—choosing one of them for his wife. This woman dressed in a somber black pantsuit that wasn't the least eye-catching, so perhaps his reaction had something to do with the way she sat reading a paperback novel...perfectly composed and preternaturally still, an expression of absolute patience on a face more striking than beautiful.

Jack examined her with greater care. Interesting. Everything about her appeared quiet and understated. She'd pulled her hair into ruthless obedience, anchoring the ebony mass into a tight knot at her nape. In addition, she'd used a restrained hand with her makeup, just a hint of color on her cheeks and lips. A light brush of taupe across her eyelids drew attention to a startling pair of deep-set eyes that wavered somewhere between honey and gold and were framed by lush black lashes. She looked impossibly young, and yet one glimpse of those eyes warned of someone who'd been through the pits of hell and back again. They overflowed with ancient wisdom and intense vulnerability.

Was that why he'd keyed in on her from all those crowding the room? And what, in particular, about her appearance aroused such intense interest? It was something subtle. Something that stirred instincts he'd honed during his years surviving in the shark-infested waters of the business world. Those instincts warned that this woman, while appearing so calm and controlled on the outside, seethed with secret passion. It was almost as though he sensed the ebb and flow of those restless seas and reacted on a visceral level to a call only he could hear.

If they'd met anywhere else, he'd have moved in on her and cut her from the crowd. He'd have found a way to break through that carefully cultivated self-control and release the inner passion. It had always been that way with him. He'd always responded to the essence of the woman swirling beneath the surface and felt the burning need to strip her down, layer by layer, to that passionate inner core.

This woman would have many layers, fascinating layers. Layers he could explore intellectually and physically. And he wanted to develop—wanted with an intensity he hadn't experienced in years.

One of his prospective "wives" coughed, snapping Jack's concentration. Awareness of time and place returned, along with an irritation that he'd allowed such pointless speculation to distract him. He forced his attention back to the business at hand—securing a woman who could act the part of both nanny and wife. On the verge of calling the next name on the list, the door to the outer office flew open and his niece burst in.

Her short, curly hair stood out from her head in matted golden-brown spikes that had yet to see a brush that morning, and he could tell what she'd eaten for breakfast with a single look at her shirt. She'd worked a hole into each knee of her new jeans—with a pair of scissors, by the look of it. And she'd used her watercolor paints to turn her face into a startling mask of red and black swirls.

Isabella scanned the room in frantic anger, her olive green eyes narrowed to slits. Taking a stance dead center in the room, she balled her hands into fists and then opened her mouth, letting out a scream loud and shrill enough to cause the windowpanes in his office to shiver in protest. For a split second, everyone in the outer room froze. Jack considered taking control of the situation, but then decided to wait and see how his nanny applicants reacted.

Some of the women took decisive action. They bolted for the door. Jack sighed. Three down. Several of the others exchanged uneasy glances, clearly uncertain how to respond to the crazed child who'd erupted into their midst. One large-set, no-nonsense woman rose and approached Isabella.

"You stop that this instant," she demanded.

Isabella responded by kicking the woman in the shin and increasing the volume and shrillness of her screaming, something Jack would have thought an impossibility. But somehow, his darling niece managed it. The woman exited, muttering furiously beneath her breath—four down—and Jack thanked his lucky stars. He didn't think he could handle a wife with a moustache. Nor did he think Mrs. Locke would believe theirs was a real marriage.

Successfully having rid herself of four of the applicants, Isabella took control of the room. She darted from person to person, giving them an exclusive, one-on-one performance. Each reacted differently. Some attempted to cajole. Others took the first woman's approach and made demands. One actually threatened Isabella with a spanking. Several made shushing noises. Only the woman in black didn't react. She continued to sit quietly, reading her book as though she neither saw nor heard the chaos exploding around her. Isabella took note and her jaw assumed a determined slant.

Jack winced. Hell.

Rushing over to stand in front of the woman, Isabella gave full throttle to her displeasure. It didn't make a bit of difference. The only response was a leisurely turn of the page. Finally, Isabella's voice gave out and she croaked into silence. Only then did the woman look up. For an instant the two stared at each other, a silent contest of wills.

An odd expression burned in the woman's eyes, something that might have been fear combined with an intense vulnerability, which didn't bode well for her ability to control a child of Isabella's willful nature. In the next moment, the look vanished, replaced by a gentle relentlessness, a searing look of hope combined with determination. The expression took his breath away. She'd only been in Isabella's presence for mere moments, and yet he could practically see her weaving an emotional connection with his niece.

She said something to Isabella in a voice so soft it didn't carry any farther than his niece's ears. Then she stood and walked to the door. Opening it, she scanned the area. "Who's in charge of this child?" Jack heard her ask.

The temporary babysitter he'd hired, who'd no doubt been cowering in the hallway, reluctantly stepped forward. "I am."

Without another word, the woman ushered Isabella through the door and, before the child could react, closed it decisively in her face. Then she returned to her seat, picked up her book and resumed reading. A scattering of applause broke out around her, not that she took any notice. Even so, Jack could tell the incident had affected her. A telltale pulse throbbed at the base of her throat, betraying her agitation. It impressed the hell out of him that she could hide her reaction so well. He checked his watch and grimaced. Time to move this show along.

He called the next name on the list. "Annalise Stefano."

He wasn't the least surprised when the woman he'd been studying tucked away her book, shouldered her purse and stood. Somehow, the name fit. She walked toward him with a long, easy stride that suited her lean, coltish build. A tiny curl sprang loose from the tight control she'd attempted to impose on it and bounced against her temple in joyful exuberance. He almost smiled. Her hair was one of the layers he'd love to peel away. How would she look with all those curls tumbling down her back in total abandon?

"I'm Annalise," she said, and offered her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mason."

He took her hand in his and felt the odd dichotomy of fine bones in opposition to a tensile strength. Did it reflect the woman? He suspected it did. He forced himself to release her, when in truth he experienced a sharp desire to tug her closer, if only to see how she'd react, to see how deep that self-control ran. Not good. Whomever he chose for this job would be his temporary wife, a woman he'd want out of his life as soon as feasible. That meant their relationship could be boiled down to two words.

Hands. Off.

"Ms. Stefano," he said. "Come with me." He started to close the door to his office and caught a glimpse of another of the applicants scurrying toward the exit. Hell. Five down, though at least it was the one who'd advocated spanking. He closed the door and waved a hand toward one of the two chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat while I review your résumé."