Lindsay Armstrong - Accidental Nanny

A white-hot gust of anger visited Francesca, and she stepped right up to Raefe Stevensen with every intention of slapping his face. But, although he moved lazily, he managed to grasp her wrist with one hand and with the other like an iron bar around the back of her waist bent her backwards over it.

Sheer surprise held Francesca transfixed for a second. Then she squirmed vigorously, only to have herself clamped ruthlessly against a body that was as hard and strong as a tree-trunk. She was also unexpectedly assailed by a curious sensation of helplessness and, to her horror, an undoubted awareness of all that was masculinely attractive about Raefe Stevensen.

And in the brief moment before he lowered his head to kiss her she saw, to her further horror, in those cool grey eyes that he was all too aware of the effect he was having on her.

It didn’t take long, his kiss, but it contrived to be comprehensive and merciless. ‘There,’ he drawled as he released her and politely steadied her, adding insult to injury, before dropping his hands from her body. ‘Is that what you wanted, Chessie Valentine? I believe that’s what those in the know call you, and I suppose I could be considered “in the know” now.’ His lips quirked. ‘Sorry it couldn’t have been a bit more intimate, but we do have company.’

Francesca stared up into those supremely ironic grey eyes, blinked several times in disbelief then turned to see Susan watching them with all the pop-eyed intensity of a trapped rabbit. She swung back to Raefe Stevensen; the pause had given her a little time to compose herself.

She said grimly, ‘I’m afraid you got it wrong, Mr Stevensen, sir, and—’

‘You’re about to tell me I’ll pay for this somehow or other?’ he suggested. ‘Will you report me to Daddy?’

What shook Francesca as much as anything that had happened to her was that his words were said with the unmistakable indifference of a man who really did not care—a man who believed she was an indulged, useless millionaire’s daughter, if not worse.

Did I ask for it? The thought popped into her head, taking her unawares. I know I can go over the top sometimes, but to keep anyone waiting for nearly half an hour when you’re only in the office next door—surely that wasn’t necessary! It’s not as if he owns Ansett or Qantas. But how the hell am I going to get away from here now?

‘You were saying?’ Raefe Stevensen prompted.

Francesca opened her mouth, closed it, then said stiffly, ‘If I overreacted to being kept waiting for what seemed—I have to be honest—an inordinately long time, I apologise.’

‘Go on,’ he murmured.

‘On? What more do you want me to say?’

‘I was wondering how you might try to cajole me into flying you out.’

Francesca closed her eyes and cautioned herself to stay cool ‘Well...’ She paused, then shrugged. ‘You have the option of flying me out to Cairns at the going rate, Mr Stevensen, or not. It’s up to you.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Then it sounds like a night at the pub for me until I can arrange something else—because if you think I intend to grovel at your feet,’ Francesca said softly, ‘you’re wrong.’

‘Not the pub.’ Susan spoke for the first time in a fairly desperate, bewildered sort of way. ‘I mean, it’s full of stranded track drivers and tourists. Raefe,’ she added on an anxious, entreating note, and glanced at Francesca.

For the first time Raefe Stevensen’s grey eyes softened as they rested on the girl’s face. ‘Sorry, Susie,’ he said. ‘That was a bit rough on you. Uh...call Bill, will you? He’s in the hangar and he’s scheduled to take the Beechcraft down to Cairns this afternoon. Tell him to leave as soon as he can.’

‘Rough on you,’ Francesca heard herself repeating somewhat dazedly, and added, ‘I think I must be going round the bend! I mean, I’m sorry too, Susie, but—’ She broke off and shook her head disbelievingly.

‘It’s all right, Miss Valentine,’ Susan said hastily.

Whereupon Raefe Stevensen grinned and murmured, ‘It seems you have one fan, Chessie, despite your high-handed ways.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Francesca warned grimly. ‘How would you like to be paid? I have a credit card, or—’

‘I’m sure you have the lot,’ he drawled.

Francesca, in the act of opening her purse, which did indeed hold an impressive array of credit cards, paused, then tossed her head and laid the open purse down on the desk. ‘You’re quite right. Take your pick, Mr Stevensen.’

‘Well, Chessie Valentine, I think I might give you this one on the house,’ he said. ‘The plane was going to Cairns anyway, and one more piece of—baggage—is not going to make any difference. You should be able to take off within an hour. Good day to you—I’m about to fly off myself. I don’t suppose we’ll meet again, which might be a good thing. Should be back in a couple of hours, Susie.’ And he strolled out of the office without a backward glance.

Francesca barely restrained herself from picking up her purse and flinging it at his retreating back.

She put up at the luxurious Cairns International that night, after finding herself unexpectedly exhausted, although the flight by Banyo Air to Cairns had been uneventful.

But the next morning she woke to find herself in a different mood altogether. She got up early, showered, wrapped herself in a cool, silky robe and ordered breakfast. While she was eating a delicious mango she knew she should be getting on to one of the commercial airlines to fly her south, but in fact she couldn’t tear her mind from the events of the previous day, and the humiliation she’d suffered at the hands of one Raefe Stevensen.

What surprised her, though, was the fact that she was possessed of almost equal desires not only to avenge herself but to prove him wrong. Why? she wondered. A lot of people out there assume I’m a rich bitch. It comes with the territory—especially when you have a father like mine...

She flinched, and got up to examine the view from her window. But no view of Cairns could distract her from the truth, which was that, after her mother’s death when she was six, her father had taken a series of mistresses—some nice, some ghastly—and the only shield between herself and them had been years at an exclusive boarding-school. Years of yearning for a normal family life until she’d grown a protective shell that was both brittle and bright and sometimes outrageous.

I know it, she thought. I know I can be impossible, and I suppose it’s really ironic that when I am impossible I emulate the very worst side of my father, who I basically despise, but that’s not all there is to me.

Still...she grimaced... I must have acquired more of a reputation for being a chip off the old block than I realised, and I certainly must have acquired more of a reputation for being a dilettante, not to mention glamorous but useless, than I realised if people buried in the wilds of Far North Queensland have heard about me.

Mind you, she countered to herself, I can’t be held responsible for the fact that the reason I came to be at Wirra got wildly distorted, and why should I care what one insufferably arrogant man thinks of me?

She returned to the breakfast table with the uncomfortable knowledge that she did care, even if she couldn’t understand why. Her hands stilled as she started to butter a piece of toast, and a gleam came to her blue eyes. Now, Chessie, don’t rush into this, she told herself, but a few moments later she reached for the phone to call Reception and advise them that she required a fax machine. Then she made several calls to Melbourne, her home town—only one of them being to do with the parts required for the malfunctioning Wirra helicopter.