by Blake North
This guy is stressing me out. Despite him being is six feet plus of rock-hard gorgeous, which is distracting. I want him to know I’m dedicated to my job. I want to assure him that I’ll read and abide by the guidelines, but it’s difficult when he’s so sexy I can’t stop biting my lip.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ridge
I wish she’d stop biting her lip. She keeps twisting her hair around her finger and letting it spin free. That’s distracting too. The thing where she crosses her legs is also a problem. All of her may as well turn out to be a problem for me, because Reva Sloan is absolutely devastating. I want to kiss her smart mouth. I want to do things to her that are completely inappropriate for a job orientation. Part of me wants to run out of the room and get away from her, get my head together.
The most important thing, the only important thing, is Lydia. My daughter is my whole life. I go to work, come home to spend time with her. That’s everything. She’s the only reason any of this has any meaning. I don’t have time to be selfish. I only expanded the firm and took on federal contract work because the windfall would give her a trust fund, the untouchable kind, so she’s never at the mercy of others the way I was. It represents a freedom and a security for her future that makes me feel better. Except I did my job too well, and now we’re potential targets. Our work was covert, not a matter of public record. It took kidnapping and torture for the syndicate to get my name. A Rativan enforcer got hold of one of the lead agents in the case, got the firm’s name and my identity out of him before finishing him off. It’s not that big of a leap that the family would go after me and mine, specifically the only thing I care about in this godforsaken world: my little girl.
Every resource I have at my disposal is trained on protecting her. Once the trial is over, once things settle down, I suppose I can relax a little. Give her some freedom again. At least, I hope so. I just can’t lose her. It’s all I think about and I might begin to lose hair over the matter.
I want the best for her, which is why I’m tormenting myself with this orientation. My gut tells me this woman is what’s best for Lydia. It doesn’t matter a bit that I find her inconveniently attractive. It doesn’t matter that she’s infuriating and irresistible. It only matters that she’s got this fierce, warm personality, that she’s got the kind of confidence and courage I want my daughter to be around and influenced by. If it makes me miserable as all hell to be around her, so be it. I am a grown man and will suck it up.
I’m going to be doing a lot of push-ups. That was what they had us do in the service when we grumbled about wanting time off to find some girls. Extra workouts, extra tough, because discipline is what makes us great. Yeah, my cock is stiff and I want nothing more than to take it out right now, give it one smooth stroke and look right at her. My baser instincts tell me that she’d be all over me in an instant, that sweet tongue latching onto my member. I throb at the thought of it. This is painful. I shut my eyes for a second, imagine a barrel of ice water dumped right over my head. I’m under control. Always. Just because the filthy thought marched into my mind doesn’t mean I’d ever do such a thing. Mind over matter.
I need to go over the security measures with this new employee. I need to stop making fists since they’re making my knuckles go white because she’s got me so wound up. I take a ragged breath. She’s at least flipping through the information book I gave her. If she were looking at me, I don’t know what I’d do right now. I clear my throat.
“I have a security system in place at the house obviously. I have motion activated cameras on the perimeter, a keypad at the entrances, and two guards. Lydia has a guard, as I mentioned in your interview. She knows him and is comfortable with him, but he stays out of the way. I want to be able to demonstrate to her that you’re a safe person and I put absolute trust in you, so you’ll have all the codes and your thumbprint will be added to the access panel. I’ll need to install the panic button on your phone that alerts my team just in case.”
I wait for her to freak out. This level of security is bound to make her nervous. She just nods and simply hands over her phone. I take it from her. It’s still warm from her palm. I command myself to not think about something so silly yet so prominent. I glance up at her, offer her the phone to activate her touch ID so I can access the screen.
“O97162,” she says, referring to her security code, “If you’re trusting me with your child, I think I can give you my phone code.”
She gives me a half smile. I wonder if I should have asked the agency for someone ugly because she has the power of taking up too much space in my mind with her buttery blond hair, blue eyes, bright smile, and white teeth. She could be Malibu Barbie, I try to tell myself sarcastically, so generic, but she’s not plastic at all. She’s alert and playful and ready to roll her eyes at me any second now or bite those full pink lips.
I quit staring and install the app, showing her how it works. She leans in to peer at the screen. She smells like cotton candy and sin, is what I’m thinking. I clear my throat again to get command of myself and sit back.
“If you’ll text your sizes to this number,” I say, “the shopper can get you a few things for the week. Then you can choose the rest on your own, of course. There’s a credit card for that purpose, as well as one for anything Lydia might need. The bills go to my business manager. You don’t need to keep a record of charges, as you’ll only be questioned if there’s an anomaly.”
“Like if I tried to charge a bass boat or something,” she says. I raise an eyebrow at her. It’s the only concession I’ll allow myself even though I want to laugh.
“Do you need a bass boat?” I counter.
“Need? No. But if one caught my eye…” she proceeds.
She is trying too hard, I think, with the joking about money. I can see her wince a little. A tiny squirm in her seat. She doesn’t know that I know about her credit history. Instead of making me concerned she’ll abuse the expense account, her dumb joke reassures me that she’s serious that she wouldn’t be careless with my kid or my cash.
“So are you an impulse shopper? Buy a lot of boats?” I joke back in a flat tone.
“No,” she says quickly, “I wasn’t serious.”
“The only financial concern I have for you is this: Lydia loves iTunes. Apps, music, all of it. I have parental controls set on her iPod, obviously, restricting her content. But she has a weekly iTunes budget for songs or in-app purchases that she has to earn. She has three things to keep up with as far as chores—clothes go in the hamper, toys are put up every night, and shoes go in the closet.”
“Hamper, toys, shoes. Got it,” she repeats.
“Oh, if only it were that easy,” I groan, “She has reasons. There are always excuses. She’s got to leave the Barbies out because she’s playing a story and needs to finish it tomorrow. Stuff like that. And her shoes—well, the shopper likes to send her boots so she has a ton of shoes. We could skip the area rugs and just walk on piles of shoes if she isn’t made to put them up every time she wears them.”
“I can manage that,” she says.
“Lydia’s a great kid, but she’s a little strong willed. It’s not a bad thing, but it’s frustrating at times,” I admit. What I want to say is, she can make you want to run out onto the lawn and scream because she will not let it go if she doesn’t get her way.
“Persistent?” she asks with a grin. I nod, “Then she won’t ever be a victim of peer pressure when she’s a teenager. That’s the bright side. The downside is she may be the one leading the other kids off a cliff.”
“Exactly,” I tell her. I can’t help feeling relieved that she gets it, “And when the new Taylor Swift album dropped midweek, I was surprised Amnesty International didn’t show up at my door to find out why I was torturing a political prisoner. She was that loud and that damned determined to get the whole ten-dollar album right that second even though she’d already blown seven bucks that week. She carried on like I was truly evil and unjust.”
“At one point did you wonder what it would hurt to give her the ten bucks just to make her stop?” she says.
“No, of course not. Forming her character and teaching her to budget and delay gratification is far more—”
“Tell the truth,” she says soberly and I crack.
“Hell yes. I would’ve given a thousand dollars to get her to let it go and go take her damn bath. But I didn’t cave. It wasn’t about the ten dollars.”
“Yeah, but the temptation was there to give in. I had a student who always wanted to fill his water bottle. Well, we did that twice a day—once at eight and once after lunch. But he asked all the time. Every time, I told him the rules. He just kept asking, like six times a day whether the damn thing was empty or not. I wanted to move his seat out in the hall by the water fountain and make him sit there and be quiet! But I didn’t. I calmly told him no and repeated the rule even though it made me insane. I kept telling myself that someday he’ll be a really good human rights advocate or something and never give up. I have to believe that.” She reminisces.
“Yeah, exactly that,” I agree.
I’m comfortable having her here. It’s okay that she’s in our home and she’s moving in. I don’t feel like she’s an intruder, that she’s invading Lydia’s space and mine. The last nanny, the idiot with the selfie issue, seemed like an outsider. I can see Reva with Lydia. I don’t mind the idea of her because she doesn’t feel like a stranger, which is stupid because she’s a stranger. I trust my gut; if I know one thing, it’s that my instincts are right. The Rativans are a danger. The school change was necessary. This is the right nanny for my daughter.
“So do you consider the threat against your family to be immediate?” she says.
“No. I think it’s coming. I know the security measures I have in place are unusual and extensive, but it’s worthwhile to guard against the potential threat.”
“I taught kickboxing in college, as you know.”
“Yes. Your athleticism and your firearms certification were factors in your hiring,” I say, “Not that I expect you to use a gun or be armed around my daughter. The only guns in this house are inaccessible to her. I’ll give you the combination to the gun safe, of course. Your experience with self-defense is—” I say, but she interrupts me, surprising me.
I’m not used to being interrupted.
“Yes, but what you don’t’ know is that I taught Benny how to take care of himself when kids were picking on him. I could’ve just dealt with them myself—kicked their asses,” she looks sheepish, like she’s embarrassed she said ‘ass’ to her employer.
“Go on. It’s fine,” I say.
“It was important to me, and to him, that he be able to handle himself. That he didn’t need someone to fight his battles when kids called him a retard or made fun of the way he walked. I taught him things to say to them, role-played with him a lot so he wouldn’t be caught off guard. Then when that didn’t back them off, I showed him how to get out of holds if someone jumped him or grabbed him, how to get away. I showed him how to throw a punch, one good one that would get him out of most situations in a schoolyard. He didn’t have the strength or agility of other kids his age because of his disabilities, but he worked hard at it. He was so proud the first time he got on the bus with his pants so filthy, and I asked what happened and he told me. He got a good kick in and got away from the boys who were bullying him. He didn’t have to go tell on them or get reduced to tears because they were so hateful. God, I hated those kids! But I was so proud of him. I can help Lydia learn to take care of herself too.”
She’s beaming. She just glows when she talks about her brother—that generosity and compassion shining in her eyes. Yes, her, is what my gut is telling me. She was protective, but she wanted her brother to be independent. She loved him enough to want him to be able to take care of himself. It moves me somehow, that she’s letting me see this. That she isn’t hiding behind professional reserve, but showing her true self to me and sharing private things.
Every moment I’m more confident that I made the right choice by hiring her.
“You seem uncomfortable. Did I overshare?” she questions lightly.
Reva touches my hand, just a friendly touch the way one would do to reassure a friend. I need her to never touch me again. I want what’s best for Lydia. And what’s best for Lydia is this nanny, which means I keep my hands off the woman. She just has to keep her hands to herself. She’s welcome to be warm and friendly but just with my kid. I jerk my hand back from her like she’s scalded me. In a way, she has. I haven’t felt anything like that in a long time. It wasn’t just the sizzle of attraction. It was a wildfire. One that was quickly spreading.
CHAPTER FIVE
Reva
I should never have touched him. I know that. He’s my boss, not my friend. I just felt so comfortable here—which is unexpected because I’ve never been at ease around wealthy people. I forgot myself for a minute. He looked so different after I told him about Benny. I wondered if I’d shocked him or said too much, so I tried to normalize the situation and touch his hand the way I’d soothe someone if they were upset.
I cannot touch this man. I can never touch Ridge Carter again. If I do, the entire house will catch fire, I think. It seemed like a possibility that I’d go up in flames just from brushing his hand with mine. Instantly, attraction flooded my body like a live wire whipping around loose. I licked my lips, felt myself flush as my skin heated from the slight contact with his. His hand was strong and firm, the wiry hairs on the back of it springy against my palm. Oh, I want him. I want him in the desperate, dry-mouthed way I wanted Slade Winslow my freshman year in college the first time I saw him dive off the block at a swim meet. My palms itch and my toes curl inside my shoes with wanting him. I glance up at his face from where I’m looking at our hands. He looks stricken, pale even.
He jerks his hand away from mine like I did something terrible, which I think I just did. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’m sorry and that it won’t happen again, but the door swings open and a flurry of dark hair and glittery purple backpack storms in and launches itself at him.
Ridge Carter is immediately transformed.
It’s as astounding as that time in the Harry Potter movie where the teacher turns herself into a cat. It’s that dramatic. Only instead of becoming feline, he becomes human all at once. He’s smiling and the grin is heart stopping and gorgeous. His eyes crinkle up at the corners as he hugs his child. Every stern, paranoid expression I’ve seen on his face just disappears until he’s no longer made of uncompromising granite. He’s flesh and blood and pure joy. He shuts his eyes when he hugs her like this is all the world to him. My heart clenches. It makes my chest hurt, and I rub it a little absently and blink to stop the tears that swim into my eyes. This is what he’s so desperate to protect.
The little girl tumbles off his lap and onto the couch between us. I knew she’d be pretty. I’d seen her pictures all over the walls, but now that she is right in front of me she’s even more beautiful. I guess with a father like that, the DNA was on the side of angels. She has the sweet round cheeks and wide eyes of a child who would be in fashion ads or commercials. She slides her eyes toward me and gives a half smile that’s all mischief.
“No more Food Network, huh?” she says.
“We haven’t even talked about screen time,” he says, “so watch your step, Noodle.”
She giggles. It’s every bit as arresting and bubbly as a little kid’s giggle can be.
“I’m Reva,” I say, “I’m new here. Maybe you can show me around.”
“Daddy already showed you everything. That’s why he’s home from work. He tells me stuff,” she says a little importantly.
“Good. That explains why you didn’t scream and panic when you saw me,” I say. She gives me a good impression of his stony glare. I half expect her to tell me this is no laughing matter—she’s that good.
“So, he probably told you about the shoes,” she sighs heavil
y, looking down at the spot by the couch where she’s kicked off a pair of purple rainboots.
“Yeah. They go in the closet. Every time,” I say.
She wriggles away from her dad, picks up her shoes and proceeds to dump her sequined backpack on the floor as she runs the shoes to her room. I want to hoot with laughter, but I don’t think he’d appreciate that.
I look at him, “She’s definitely yours,” I say. She looks just like him, and more than that, she has the hardcore look meant to intimidate. “First kindergartener I ever met who could stare me down. You’ve taught her well.”
“If I’d taught her well, that backpack would be on the hook. The one by the door hung at exactly her level so she can reach it,” he says.
“But where’s the challenge in that?” I tease.
“I’m staying through lunch to get the two of you acclimated to each other and teach you all the codes.”
“Can’t you text them to me?”
“No digital record of the access codes. Ever,” he says stonily. Just like that, he’s back to commanding officer.
“Right,” I affirm.
He takes me to a panel hidden improbably in the laundry room and scans my thumbprint into the system, tells me a series of numbers and letters that make up the front door and garage access codes. I repeat them back to him and he quizzes me. Lydia finally comes back from her room by the time we finish.
“Backpack,” he says. She heaves a sigh so huge that her shoulders droop visibly.
“I take it she came with the drama built right in,” I say.
“I didn’t add it as an option package,” he deadpans back to me. I smile. I feel like we had a moment. I’m less scared of him than I was, if that makes sense.
When the little girl comes back, she smiles obediently, “I’m Lydia Carter,” she says, “It was nice to meet you Reva.” She looks expectantly at her dad who nods his approval.
