Page 2 of The Billionaire & the Nanny: Vol. 3

Suddenly, a light sound of footsteps enters the room from the opposite side. His mother (or whoever) may have thought he was down the hall, but nope. He comes in from the opposite end of the house like a ghost floating through his modest, sixty-thousand-book library .

He’s towering, commanding, brusque and business-like—like a cleaned-up pirate in a suit—and I shrink when I see him. I put on a smile. He doesn’t care for pleasantries. “Miss Carrington, you’re late .”

Nerves lodge themselves in front of my larynx. I attempt vocals. “I’m sorry. I’m never late, sir. Only today.” My God, this man is…big. My imagination fires off a short round of naughty thoughts but I successfully bat them away .

“Why today?” His voice resonates deep and rich. My stomach sinks to my feet just hearing it. The world’s obsession with Logan Raider is warranted. This man is a specimen of beauty .

Can’t tell him the truth, that I was a scared chicken shit just outside his door. “First, the trains were unusually crowded today. Then, I received a text when I was almost here and wanted to make sure it wasn’t related to our interview—a cancelled appointment or something .”

“I never cancel appointments.” Mr. Raider steps out of the shadowy hall, and I get an even better look. Whoa. He’s well over six feet, maybe six-six, a thick, beautifully-built man. He wears tailored pewter pants, a white shirt with the sleeves pressed to perfection, cuffs hugging his wrists so elegantly. His face is surprisingly more rugged than in his pics, but his eyes are that famous vampire-like silver. Sparkling, sadistic, and out for my blood. “You don’t get to where I am by crapping out on people .”

“Point taken, sir.” I nod. I can’t. Stop. Staring at him .

“Miss Carrington, if you’re going to be working for me, and I do say if, you might want to begin by telling the truth .”

“The truth?” Have I screwed up already? Did he mean to point to Caitlyn’s photo and instead got me? Instead of the diamond, he got the cubic zirconia? “I’ve told the truth .”

“No.” He places a small crumbled paper into his maid’s hand as she swings past him. “You stood outside my door for five minutes talking to yourself, not checking work-related texts.” I feel like I’m in trouble when I’ve done nothing wrong. “Next time, tell me you were waiting, catching your breath, or whatever it was you were doing standing there. But don’t tell me about traffic and texts when I know better. Understood?” He gives me a pointed look before turning back to the hallway .

I want. To die .

How did he know I was standing outside his door for five minutes? Wait. I’m an idiot. He’s a billionaire with hidden cameras everywhere .

“I do apologize, then…I was feeling sick. Like anxiety sick,” I explain, catching the amused look on the older housekeeper’s face as she comes out of the hall. I’m sure she’s seen this happen before. “That’s the truth .”

He watches me, intense gaze roving over me, stirring all sorts of heaven and hell within me. Can he see critical areas lighting up all over my body like Rockefeller Center during Christmas? Because I’m incredibly turned on by him and highly embarrassed by it. Holy shit .

“I’ve read about you,” I explain when he doesn’t reply. “I was nervous .”

“Understandably.” He spins back to the hallway. No reassurance that there’s nothing to be nervous about. Just pure cockiness. “Follow me .”

I purse my lips and let out a slow breath. This is going even worse than I was expecting. I follow him and his ass of exquisite perfection, but since I know I’ll go to hell for thinking that at such a professional moment, I force my eyes elsewhere. At the architecture, at the polished concrete floors, at anything, though the world’s most perfect backside has already been indelibly printed in my mind .

“The woman you met was my Aunt Vivian. She’s been taking care of my children during this ordeal .”

“She’s a lovely woman,” I say .

“She’s the only family I’ve got. My mother was a crack addict, my grandmother who raised me died of cervical cancer, and my father was never in the picture .”

His cool and seemingly glib recitation of personal tragedies is jarring. But I manage to sound almost as casual as him with my response. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear .”

“Don’t be. Circumstances are just that,” he mutters with an air of impatience like my every comment or reply is evidence of dull, conventional thinking .

“I know what you mean,” I say. Props to him for becoming a world-renowned architect with only Grandma to raise him .

He walks into what’s clearly a children’s play room, sparse décor, but every toy imaginable. For some reason, I expected it to be cold, like him. “Do you now?” He looks at me again. “You know what I mean ?”

This is a test, because I’m lying again. “No,” I sigh. “I’m just trying to empathize. I — ”

“I don’t need empathy, Miss Carrington. I need truth. At all times.” He counts off on his fingers. “Truth about where you are, truth about what you’re doing, what my children did today, what you fed them, every thought that ran through your mind at every moment of the day. I deal with enough lies and misinformation on a daily basis. The last thing I need is for it to come from the hired help .”

Wow.

Do I feel smaller than a molecule .

And every thought that runs through my mind? I don’t think so, buddy. I don’t care how wealthy you are, nobody’s entitled to my thoughts. You know what? I don’t have to stand here and listen to him. As intimidating as he is, this is still a free country, and he hasn’t hired me yet. I can still leave. Do I need the money so badly ?

Uh, yes .

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