A Nanny Under the Mistletoe: A Nanny Under the Mistletoe / Single Father, Surprise Prince!. Teresa Southwick
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or the not wealthy. Just anyone he could use for his own selfish reasons. Including his own daughter—especially his daughter.
“What are you doing here, Dad?”
Chapter Six
Libby stared at Bill Bradford’s charming smile and the crinkly lines around his pale blue eyes. It seemed wrong that her father’s dark hair was sprinkled with gray. That should be earned by hard work and worry, neither of which the man had ever done. This was the first time in months that she’d seen him, not since her younger sister Kelly had graduated from high school.
That meant he was up to something.
“What do you want?” she asked, pulling Morgan close to her.
“How are you, Lib?”
“Fine.”
“Who’s this?” he asked, looking at the little girl.
“Morgan,” she answered. “Charity’s child.”
He nodded. “I heard. Kelly mentioned it. I’m sorry.”
Libby didn’t answer. This man didn’t give a rat’s behind about anyone but himself. “What do you want?” she asked again.
“Can’t a father say hello to his kid?”
“Of course. But when you do, there’s an ulterior motive.”
The charming smile disappeared and the crinkly lines just made him look old. “Have you talked to your sister?”
“We e-mail all the time. She loves UCLA.”
He nodded. “Now that she’s away at college, Cathy’s parents have suggested I should make other living arrangements.”
A nice way to say get out, and about darn time, she thought. The man had mooched off Cathy’s family for years, ever since Libby was a little girl. There was nothing that tugged on heartstrings more than a motherless child. About the time her folks had his number, Cathy turned up pregnant. She’d lost a child to a debilitating disease and descended into despair and drugs. She’d been on the street when she’d hooked up with Bill Bradford. All Cathy had ever wanted was her own baby to love and her parents would do anything to give her that, even if they also had to take in the baby-to-be’s worthless father and his kid.
“What about Cathy?” Libby asked.
“She’s staying.”
So they were splitting up, which meant Cathy had finally had enough, too. At least the woman had been smart enough not to marry him.
He slid his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. “They didn’t give me any warning, so I haven’t had a chance to put together a plan. Other living arrangements take money and I haven’t had time to save up.”
She didn’t say it out loud—that he’d had the last eighteen years to put away money, but that took ambition. “I don’t have any cash to spare.”
“I understand. Just thought I’d check.” He looked at Morgan. “I know how expensive it is to have a kid.”
Play the guilt card and fishing for information at the same time. Classic manipulation.
“I’m her nanny,” Libby explained. “Just a working girl.”
“I live with my Uncle Jess,” Morgan added. “He has a big, big apartment in a very high building.”
Bill forced a smile. “Sounds really nice.”
“It is. And he bought me a new bed, with princess sheets.” She held up her bandaged hand. “I didn’t cry when I got stitches yesterday and he took me to the toy store and got me lots of stuff.”
“Your Uncle Jess did that?” Bill Bradford’s eyes gleamed with interest.
“Don’t even think about it,” Libby warned. “Jess Donnelly isn’t someone you can—”
“The Jess Donnelly, billionaire resort builder?”
Darn. Darn. Darn.
“Look, we have to go.” She took Morgan’s uninjured hand and led her away.
From behind she heard him say, “Goodbye, Morgan.”
“’Bye.”
When the little girl slowed to look back, Libby tugged her along.
“See you later, Lib.”
Not if she saw him first.
Libby kicked herself for letting anger squeeze out common sense. She was trying so hard to leave her past in the past and didn’t want it to spill over into her present. All she wanted was what every woman wanted—a family, someone to love who would love her back. She didn’t want to be associated with the man whose DNA she was trying so hard to overcome.
At dinner around the kitchen table, Jess had Libby on one side and Morgan on the other. She was eating fish sticks and fries, picking them up with her left hand because her right one was wrapped in white gauze. Because of him, her trauma had stretched out far longer than necessary.
He felt like pond scum. Actually worse. Scum was on top of the water. What he was settled lower, deeper, darker and slimier, at the bottom of the water. Because of him, the experience had been worse for Morgan, and remembering the way Libby’s voice cracked and her struggle not to cry ripped him up even now. Fear had been starkly etched on her face and bothered him more than he would have believed possible.
When he stopped beating himself up, Jess noticed that the girls were quieter than usual. No small talk tonight to fill the silence. Normally Libby picked up the slack, but tonight she looked different. The sunshine was gone and he wondered why. It was best not to consider why he noticed at all.
He looked at her, then Morgan. “So, how was your day?”
“I didn’t have to go to the hop-spital.”
“I’m glad about that,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. Obviously she remembered his boneheaded attempt to distract her from the upsetting situation with her hand.
“But I didn’t get to play outside,” the little girl added.
“Why?”
“’Cuz of my hurt hand.” She chewed a French fry. “Miss Connie didn’t want me to make it worser.”
He glanced at Libby, who would normally have corrected the grammar slip, and was surprised when there was no comment. Definitely preoccupied.
“So what did you do inside?” Jess persisted.
“I colored. But not very good.”
“How come?”
He directed the question to Morgan, then glanced at Libby, who was passive-aggressively multi-tasking. She was pushing fish stick bites around her plate and brooding at the same time.
“It was hard to hold the crayons in my other hand.” She picked up a green bean and popped it in her mouth. “But Miss Connie said it was art stick.”
“Is that scholastic terminology? A secret word between students and teachers?” he asked Libby.
“What?” she hadn’t been paying attention.
“Her teacher called her coloring ‘art stick.’”
“Artistic,” she translated.
“Ah. That means it was good,” he told Morgan. “Sometimes it’s hard to be objective about our own work.”
“Huh?”
“It means that we always like what we do so it’s not easy to tell whether or not other people will like it, too.”
“Oh.” But she still looked confused.
“The