Nanny to the Billionaire's Son. Barbara McMahon

Pearson. At your shervice.” He shook his head. “Service.”

      He reached out and caught her arm. “Here alone? I am. Don’t like to come to these events alone. Too shhhtupid, ya know? But I recognize you. I’m sure we have met.”

      “No. I’m Samantha.” She didn’t want to be rude but Fred was impeding her way to her table and she caught a couple of people looking at them. The last thing she wanted was anything to call attention to herself. What if someone questioned who she was and when she’d bought the ticket?

      “I need to get to my table,” she said, hoping he’d release her.

      “Ah, my table is right over—” He looked around, peering at the numbers on the nearby tables, still holding on to her arm.

      Sam began to wonder if it were to keep him upright.

      “—somewhere,” Fred ended, obviously giving up on finding his own table. “Do you want to dance?”

      “The music hasn’t started yet,” Sam said, trying to pull away without making it too obvious.

      Fred glanced around again, finishing the last of the champagne in his glass. “It’ll start soon.”

      “I think dinner is first. It was nice to meet you. I need to get to my table.”

      “My table is around here somewhere,” he said, stumbling a step as he turned to look around, almost pulling Sam off her feet.

      “There you are. I was thinking I’d missed you.”

      Sam looked to her left where another man in a tux spoke to her. He looked at Fred.

      “You need to let her go. I’ll take over now,” he said.

      “Oh. Thought she was lost,” Fred said, swaying a little. He looked at his hand holding Sam’s arm and slowly released it. “Think I need another drink.”

      “I think we don’t belong here,” her rescuer said. A warm hand grasped her upper arm and urged her quickly to the left. Guiding her through tables and making a way through the couples standing in conversations, she was soon whisked to the sidelines.

      She turned and looked properly at her rescuer—and promptly caught her breath. Her heart fluttered, her breathing stopped. He was gorgeous, tall and dark and breathtaking. He just oozed sex appeal. She’d read about that before, but never experienced it. Now she knew what the books meant. Feeling slightly light-headed, she finally remembered to breathe.

      He was so tall, her head barely cleared his shoulder. Wide shoulders that gave a new meaning to wearing a tux made the suit look as if it were designed with only him in mind and the ruffles on the shirtfront served to highlight his masculinity. His hair was cut just long enough to entice a woman’s fingers to thread through and dark eyes were framed by lashes a starlet would envy. His jaw was rugged. His sensuous lips curled into a slight smile, which showed a dimple indenting his left cheek. His gaze was firmly focused on her. Oh, dear, had he said something?

      She blinked and looked away, her heart pounding. Good grief, she never paid attention to such things. Did coming to a ball like Cinderella give rise to Prince Charming expectations? She almost laughed, except she felt giddy with her conflicting emotions.

      “Are you all right?” he asked. For the second time?

      “I certainly didn’t expect a confrontation at this ball,” she murmured, glancing back to where Fred was making his way through the crowd. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

      “Probably. But you never know with Boozer.”

      “Boozer?” she repeated.

      “Fred’s nickname. Rumor has it he drinks bourbon for breakfast. He’s already three sheets to the wind and he’s only just arrived. Stay clear of him.”

      “I shall. If I had seen him coming I would have gone the other way. Thank you for rescuing me.”

      “My pleasure.”

      A waitress stopped by them, offering tiny crackers covered with caviar.

      Samantha hesitated. She had never tried caviar before and had heard mixed reviews from friends who had.

      Her companion had no compunctions. He took a couple, then looked at her.

      “Not having any?”

      “I’ll try one,” she said, feeling daring. But with her small purse and the ticket in one hand and the other holding the champagne, she wasn’t sure how.

      He solved that dilemma. “May I?” he asked. He fed her one, his fingers barely brushing her lips. She didn’t even taste the caviar, her whole being was riveted on the reaction to his barely felt touch. She shivered slightly, but not due to cold. She gazed up into deep brown eyes and felt her bones weaken even as every cell seemed to stir in anticipation of more. Oh, help, she was in trouble.

      “Another?” he asked, offering a second.

      She nodded and he fed her again. This time she paid attention to the strong taste by looking away.

      “Mmm,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She was not sure caviar would ever become a favorite.

      He laughed and took another cracker for himself before the waitress moved on to the next guest.

      “Not your thing, I take it,” he said as he popped the hors d’oeuvre into his mouth.

      Sam shook her head, her gaze on his lips as he chewed the tidbit. Get a hold of yourself!

      “I’m glad I got to sample it. Now I know I don’t have expensive tastes,” she said.

      “Is this your first time here?”

      She nodded.

      He glanced around. “Will your date know where to find you?” he asked.

      “I came alone. I think Fred—Boozer—picked up on that.” Did that make her sound odd? Should she make up something about her date getting sick at the last moment or something?

      “So did I. If you are ready to find your table, I’ll escort you,” he said genially.

      She smiled, suddenly feeling like anything could happen tonight. Taking another sip of her champagne, she wondered why a man who looked like he did had come alone. Maybe his date really had got sick.

      “Your wife was unable to attend?” she asked, fishing for an answer without being too obvious—she hoped.

      “I’m not married.” His demeanor changed, instantly becoming somber.

      Bad topic. She swept her arm toward the dais. “Mine is table twenty-one. The doorman said it was near the dais.”

      He paused for a moment, staring at her. “How interesting. That’s my table also.”

      She went on alert. For a moment tension rose. Surely he didn’t think she had deliberately set out to sit at his table? He had rescued her after all. Yet his reaction had definitely been odd. She still had the ticket out and showed it to him. He inclined his head slightly and gestured for her to walk toward the front of the large ballroom.

      “My friends call me Mac,” he said, placing his hand at the small of her back as they wound through groups of guests chatting and laughing with enjoyment of the evening.

      “Mine call me Sam. Short for Samantha,” she murmured, her heart pumping wildly—from his touch, or adrenaline, or just plain old fear of exposure, she wasn’t sure. No one had challenged her so far. She should feel safe. But she couldn’t help glancing around to see if anyone was paying special attention to her. Apparently not.

      “Mac and Sam, sounds like a rock group or something,” he responded. Twice he spoke to people as they wound through the conversing groups, but he didn’t stop to introduce Sam.

      The tables were set for eight. A couple was already seated at table twenty-one