Billionaire's Jet-Set Babies. Catherine Mann

He looked over at her quickly, brow furrowed. “Is the psychoanalysis included in the cleanup fee?”

      She winced as his words hit a little too close to a truth of her own. Travis used to complain about that same trait. Well, she did have plenty of practice in what a shrink would say after all the time she’d spent in analysis as a teenager. The whole point had been to internalize those healthier ways of thinking. She’d needed the help, no question, but she’d also needed her parents. When they hadn’t heard her, she’d started crying out for their attention in other ways, ways that had almost cost her life.

      Her thoughts were definitely getting too deep and dark, and therefore too distracting. Something about this man and his children made her visit places in her mind she normally kept closed off. “Like I said, just making small talk. I thought you wanted me to come up here for conversation, to dig a little deeper into the background of your new, temporary nanny. If you don’t want to chat, simply say so.”

      “You’re right. I do. And the first thing I’ve learned is that you don’t back down, which is a very good thing. It takes a strong person to stand up to the twins when they’re in a bad mood.” He shuddered melodramatically, his complaint totally undercut by the pride in his voice. Mr. Button-Up Businessman loosened up a little when he spoke of his kids. “What made you trade in your white gloves at tea for white glove cleaning?”

      So he knew a little about her privileged upbringing as well. “You did more than just read my cover letter.”

      “I recognized your name—or rather your return to your maiden name. Your father was once a client of a competing company. Your husband chartered one of my planes.”

      “My ex-husband,” she snapped.

      He nodded, his fingers whitening as his grip tightened on the yoke. “So, back to my original question. What made you reach for the vacuum cleaner?”

      “Comes with the business.”

      “Why choose this particular line of work?”

      Because she didn’t have a super cool hobby like he did? She’d suffered a rude awakening after her divorce was finalized a year ago, and she realized she had no money and no marketable skills.

      Her one negligible talent? Being a neat-freak with a need to control her environment. Pair that with insights into the lifestyles of the rich and spoiled and she’d fashioned a career. But that answer sounded too half-baked and not particularly professional.

      “Because I understand the needs of the customer, beyond just a clean space, I know the unique services that make the job stand out.” True enough, and since he seemed to be listening, she continued, “Keeping records of allergies, favored scents, personal preferences for the drink bar can make the difference between a successful flight and a disaster. Flying in a charter jet isn’t simply an air taxi service. It’s a luxury experience and should be treated as such.”

      “You understand the world since you lived in it.”

      Lived. Past tense. “I want to be successful on my own merits rather than mooch off the family coffers.”

      Or at least she liked to think she would have felt that way if there had been any lucre left in the Randall portfolio.

      “Why work in this particular realm, the aircraft world?” He gestured around the jet with a broad hand.

      Her eyes snagged on the sprinkling of fair hair along his forearm. Tanned skin contrasted with the white cuffs of his rolled up sleeves and wow did her fingertips ever itch to touch him. To see if his bronzed-god flesh still carried the warmth of the sun.

      It had been so long since she’d felt these urges. Her divorce had left her emotionally gutted. She’d tried dating a couple of times, but the chemistry hadn’t been there. Her new business venture consumed her. Or rather, it had until right now, when it mattered most.

      “I’m missing your point.” No surprise since she was staring at his arm like an idiot.

      “You’re a … what … history major?”

      “Art history, and being that close means you read my bio. You do know a lot more about me than you let on at first.”

      “Of course I do or I never would have asked you to watch my children. They’re far more precious to me than any plane.” His eyes went hard, leaving no room for doubt. Any mistakes with his son and daughter would not be tolerated. Then he looked back at the sky, mellow Seth returning. “Why not manage a gallery if you need to fill your hours?”

      Because she would be lucky if working in a gallery would cover rent on an apartment or a lease on an economy car, much less food and economic stability. Because she wanted to prove she didn’t need a man to be successful. And most importantly, because she didn’t ever again want the freaked out feeling of being less than six hundred dollars away from bankruptcy.

      Okay, sort of melodramatic since she’d still owned jewelry she could hock. But still scary as hell when she’d sold off her house and car only to find it barely covered the existing loans.

      “I do not expect anyone to support me, and given the current economy, jobs in the arts aren’t exactly filling up the want ad sections. Bethany has experience in the business, while I bring new contacts to the table. We’re a good team. Besides, I really do enjoy this work, strange as that may seem. While A-1 has employees who handle cleaning most of the time, I pitch in if someone’s out sick or we get the call for a special job. I enjoy the break from office work.”

      “Okay, I believe you. So you used to like art history, and now you enjoy feeding people’s Evian habits and their need for clean armrests.”

      The deepening sarcasm in his voice had her spine starching with irritation. “Are you making fun of me for the hell of it or is there a purpose behind this line of questioning?”

      “I always have a purpose,” he said as smoothly as he flew the plane. “Will your whim of the week pass, once you realize people take these services for granted and your work is not appreciated? What happens to my aircraft then? I’ll be stuck wading through that stack of proposals all over again.”

      He really saw her as a flighty, spoiled individual and that stung. It wasn’t particularly fair, either. “Do you keep flying even when people don’t appreciate a smooth or on-time flight, when they only gripe about the late or bumpy rides?”

      “I’m not following your point here. I like to fly. Are you saying you like to clean?”

      “I like to restore order,” she answered simply, truthfully.

      The shrinks she’d seen as a teen had helped her rechannel the need for perfection her mother had drilled into Alexa from birth. She’d stopped starving herself, eased off searching the art world for flawless beauty and now took comfort from order, from peace.

      “Ah—” a smile spread over his face “—you like control. Now that I understand.”

      “Who doesn’t like control?” And how many therapy sessions had she spent on that topic?

      He looked over at her with an emerald-eyed sexy stare. The air crackled as if a lightning bolt had zipped between them. “Would you like to take over flying the plane?”

      “Are you kidding?” She slid her hands under her thighs even though she couldn’t deny to herself just how tempting the offer sounded.

      Who wouldn’t want to take a stab at soaring through the air, just her and the wide-open blue rolling out in front of the plane? It would be like driving a car alone for the first time. Pushing an exotic Arabian racehorse to gallop. Happier memories from another lifetime called to her.

      “Just take the yoke.”

      God, how she wanted to, but there was something in his voice that gave her pause. She couldn’t quite figure out his game. She wasn’t in the position to risk her livelihood or her newfound independence on some guy’s whims.

      “Your