Grace Green - His Potential Wife

“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.

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE ®

3706—THE NANNY’S SECRET

3714—THE PREGNANCY PLAN

3737—FOREVER WIFE AND MOTHER

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

“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.