Until He Met Meg
Until He Met Meg
Sami Lee
Sami Lee
From the bestselling author of
A Man Like Mike
comes a new contemporary romance: he can buy anything he wants — except the perfect woman to help rebuild his family.
Meg Lacy came to Sydney to chase her dream, but the dream is somewhat elusive, so she finds herself unemployed, uninspired and on the verge of giving up. A chance encounter with wealthy single father Bryce Carlton gives her a temporary reprieve: a job as a nanny to his headstrong eight-year-old daughter.
The arrangement is supposed to be short-term, an easy way for her to save money while she pursues her dream. But her heart doesn’t understand, and before long she is growing attached to her charge and falling in love with a man determined not to risk his heart a second time.
When his first marriage ended Bryce vowed to never become seriously involved with another woman, but Meg turns his house, his life and his heart upside down.
She is his daughter’s nanny, he’s not the right man for her, and there are a million reasons why their relationship shouldn’t be. Everything was going according to plan…until he meets Meg.
Sami has been, in order: a secretary, sales assistant, bartender, waitress, student, tutor, human resource manager and administration officer, but at heart she’s always been a writer. She lives on the outskirts of Brisbane in Queensland, Australia, with her husband and two stupendous daughters, where she spends her days juggling family life with work and writing, and frittering away far too much time on social media. Sami is multi-published in contemporary erotic romance, and is now enjoying writing sweet and romantic stories for Escape Publishing.
I am indebted to Kate Cuthbert, again, for saying yes. Thanks also to RC and Jess, for help navigating my way around Sydney.
For my girls, who make every day an inspiration
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
‘Cab’s taken, love.’
Meg Lacy glanced first at the bored-looking taxi driver who had spoken, then at the expanse of empty seat beside her. She’d had a long and gruelling day, not to mention a cold and wet one. She sounded as irritable as she felt. ‘Taken by whom? Mr Invisible?’
The driver’s glare came at her through the rear vision mirror. ‘No. By that guy.’ He pointed a thick index finger out his window.
Meg peered out to see a man in a grey suit crossing the street, his long-legged strides purposeful but by no means hurried, despite the light sprinkling of rain that fell on his dark head. He possessed the aura of a man who rarely had to rush anywhere simply because people invariably waited for him.
People like her cab driver. ‘He’s still crossing the street,’ Meg pointed out. ‘I was waiting at the taxi rank. I was first in line, he wasn’t even
in
the line. Therefore, this is my cab.’
The cabbie lifted his hefty shoulders. Nothing in his lined, jowly face hinted at a willingness to help a damsel in distress. ‘He gave me a wave as I pulled in. I waved back. A non-verbal agreement exists. It’s his cab.’
A stubborn streak kept Meg from alighting. She returned her attention to the man approaching the taxi. He was tall, easily over six feet, and solidly built, with thick brown hair swept back from a strong, chiselled face. He reached the passenger door and slid into the back seat with an air of entitlement that further rankled Meg.
‘Rose Bay please,’ he told the driver, without so much as glancing in her direction.
He was impeccably dressed, a crisp white shirt and light blue silk tie tastefully complementing his charcoal suit.
Expensively
dressed, Meg noted, shooting a narrow-eyed look back at the driver. ‘Already anticipating the tip?’
Non-verbal agreement my foot.
The man beside her glanced her way. Meg felt his gaze searing the side of her face. She turned to face him, but was unable to read the expression in his eyes — eyes that were a soft, velvet brown rimmed by a fine band of gold.
Meg stared back, hoping she was able to project an air of unswerving self-assurance. It was more difficult than she would have liked with her heart doing a funny dance in her chest. ‘Excuse me, but this is my cab.’
‘It’s not, Miss,’ the driver interjected.
‘It
is
.’
The man beside her arched a brow, still staring at her with those dark eyes. After a pause he told her, ‘I’m afraid I have a family emergency.’
His voice was deep and resonant, unquestionably authoritative. Meg almost apologized and got out of the car. Her fingers curled around the door handle before she remembered her objection. She set her jaw, furious that she had allowed a naturally autocratic demeanour to influence her actions for even a moment. Had she learned nothing in the last six months of independence?
She stared the suited man down and fibbed. ‘I have an emergency too.’
A date with a hot bath and a trashy novel.
After the most arduous and dismaying day of job-hunting Meg had ever had the misfortune to experience, her feet were protesting inside her high heels and her body, still damp from the earlier downpour she hadn’t managed to evade, was shivering beneath her too-sheer cotton blouse. Her attempt to dry out beneath the automatic hand drier at a fast-food restaurant had been woefully unsuccessful.
To continue the ill luck, Meg had just missed her bus and it was about to rain again. As much as she adored Sydney — the hustle and bustle, the expectation in the air that anything could happen at any moment — she’d had more than enough of it for today. She had a throbbing headache and longed for the comfort of bed.
‘I see,’ the man beside her said at last. The sound of his voice washed over Meg like a warm bubble bath on this cold afternoon; the bubble bath she would dearly love to have if she ever made it home. Unexpected heat spiralled through her, combating the persisting chill of her soaked skin. Her gaze was drawn to the strong, bold line of his jaw. It was dusted with the barest hint of five o’clock shadow, the only mark on his otherwise immaculate appearance. She noted the squared width of his shoulders beneath the suit jacket. She didn’t think padding lent him that shape.
His eyes still regarded her levelly and to her horror Meg felt herself begin to blush at being caught assessing him as a man. Hurriedly she tore her gaze from his. She completely forgot why she was arguing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I suppose I should go.’
She grabbed the door handle again, but the man stopped her. ‘Wait. Perhaps I can drop you off on the way.’
Meg turned back with a wry smile. ‘I don’t think so.’ The poky flat she shared with another girl in Camperdown was
not
on the way to the exclusive suburb of Rose Bay.
But as she placed her foot on the roadside, the downpour that had been promising to return came to pass. Great sheets of rain suddenly slashed the windows of the cab. Fat, heavy droplets smattered Meg’s head and shoulders. Instinctively she withdrew into the dry atmosphere of the taxi and slammed the door.
As though the rain outside beckoned it, moisture threatened to fill her eyes.
Oh no Meg Lacy. You are not going to cry now.
Just because she was unemployed, wet, cold and broke, it didn’t mean she could start sobbing like her life was over. It was only a stupid cab, one she couldn’t really afford to pay for anyway. It was probably fortunate she was losing it. This way she might be able to scrape together enough money to pay this week’s rent, job or no job.
Yet the tears trembled at the corners of her eyes, resisting her will to stem their flow. She knew the prospect of an hour’s wait in the rain and a clammy, uncomfortable bus ride followed by a twenty-minute walk home wasn’t the only thing causing her distress. Her fledgling dreams were shattering around her and she was facing the prospect of returning to Karawak Downs with her tail between her legs, the one thing she swore she’d never do.
With quiet authority the man beside her said, ‘Drive on.’
The cab pulled into traffic. A moment later a pristine white handkerchief appeared before Meg’s eyes. She said throatily, ‘I’m not crying.’
‘Of course not.’ The stranger’s tone was as dry as her hair was wet. He simply continued to hold the handkerchief out to her with a steady hand.
A recalcitrant tear spilled onto her cheek, making a mockery of her feeble attempt to appear stronger than she felt. Pursing her lips against the sting to her pride, Meg plucked the handkerchief from the man’s grip and muttered a thank you.
She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. It was only once she’d made thorough use of the handkerchief that she noticed the neat cursive monogram stitched across the corner of the material in fine blue thread. Surely he didn’t mean to give away such a personal item. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I’ve messed your nice hankie.’
She saw that, while she’d been pulling herself together, he’d drawn a sheaf of papers from his slim briefcase. He didn’t look up from his reading. ‘I expected as much.’
‘I can wash it and return it to you.’
He cast her a sidelong glance. ‘You can keep it.’
Meg had the strange feeling she’d been censured somehow. Did he think she was searching for an excuse to see him again? On the strength of a few minutes in a taxi? What an ego!
Her irritation at his presumptuous attitude made her want to irritate
him
. Although he appeared intent on the diversion of his paperwork she asked, ‘So what does it stand for?’
She sensed his suppressed sigh of impatience. ‘What does what stand for?’
Meg waved the handkerchief at him. ‘The
BAC.
’ When his expression turned hesitant she rolled her eyes. ‘I promise I’m not a stalker.’
He took his time considering her statement before answering. ‘Bryce. Bryce Carlton.’
‘You’re going to make me guess about the A? Alexander? Andrew?’ He did nothing but keep that steady, silent gaze on her.
Okay. No sense of humour then.
Meg cleared her throat. ‘Nice to meet you Bryce. My name’s Meg Lacy.’
There was an awkward moment where Meg wasn’t sure whether to put out her hand. She lifted it from her lap. His eyes flickered down and she was suddenly too conscious of her bluntly cut, unpainted fingernails and the burgeoning calluses on her fingers. As though she had been about to touch a hot stove, Meg drew back and made a show of straightening her hair.
He was still staring at her, his brown eyes glinting with curiosity. He seemed to be examining her as a scientist might examine a bug under a microscope. Unwilling to be so inspected, Meg said ‘You can drop me off at the next intersection, if you like.’ Her voice was taut.
‘Nonsense.’ He sounded surprisingly insistent. ‘It’s pouring out there. You’ll never get another taxi in the CBD in this weather.’
‘I suppose not. But perhaps I can hitch a ride in someone else’s.’ He looked so appalled Meg had to laugh. ‘I’m kidding. I’ll just wait for another bus.’
That’s what she should have done in the first place, she reflected. Or gone to get a train, even though the walk from the stop nearest her apartment block took around ten minutes in dry weather.
‘You’re here now. You might as well share this taxi.’
‘Why thank
you.
How generous, considering this
is
my taxi.’
Bryce’s jaw set in a hard line. ‘I reiterate my offer to drop you at your address first.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Meg said, feeling suddenly guilty about her fractious behaviour. She had nothing ahead but a night of morosely contemplating her dwindling list of options for the future and he had that family emergency waiting at home. She wondered briefly what his wife was like. She’d be beautiful, of course. A man like Bryce Carlton would have a beautiful wife. And adorable, talented children.