The Nanny (A Billionaire Romance)

by Naomi Niles

  It was a strange power that Tate had. He could be so kind, handsome, and charming, like a prince in a fairytale; but he had a dark side that was violent and unpredictable. I'd discovered he was capable of terrifying things that were as great as the pleasures he could bring. I wanted to run from him, but then he drew me in with his magical ability to bring me pleasure, and now I was captive, not by any rope or chain, but by my own desire for more. The pleasures he brought out of me were incredible, and I was addicted.

  I had to break free. This would be our last night together. In the morning, I would escape and never see or speak to him again. So, if this was to be my last night of passionate fucking with Tate, why not make it one to remember? I would give myself over to him fully in mind and body, enjoying his pleasure to the fullest for this, my last night of sin.

  "Please fuck me," I begged as my fingers tortured my nipples for Tate's twisted amusement and my erotic pleasure.

  "You're in too much of a hurry tonight. You need to slow things down," he said. "Here, have a drink."

  He held something hard to my lips, and I realized it was the bottle of wine from the ice-bucket. I opened my mouth and swallowed thirstily.

  "That's enough. Now lay down on your back," he instructed forcefully, and I obeyed willingly. He grabbed my legs and hips and pulled them up with his strong hands until my legs were hanging out of the tub and my hips were poised in the air, resting on the edge of the tub. My shoulder blades rested on the floor of the empty tub, so I was practically hanging upside down within it with the blindfold still covering my eyes.

  I felt his fingers tenderly massaging my pussy by gliding along the folds of my labia and then rubbing my swollen clit until I was writhing, moaning under his touch. Something starkly cold came splashing down, filling my insides and soaking my cunt. Wine, I realized. It is the cold wine from the ice bucket. Tate brought his mouth to me and slurped the wine back out. I could hear him swallowing it noisily as I felt my tunnel empty.

  Again, he repeated the sensation, driving me wild with desire. God, how I wanted to be fucked. I was so desperate now, I was whimpering and begging.

  "Please fuck me, please. I've got to feel you inside me," I cried.

  "You want something hard inside you?" Tate asked and I nodded my head yes.

  With rough hands, he pulled me from the tub. He dragged me to the sink and bent me over the countertop. Something hard and foreign entered me from behind, shoved up my wet slot by Tate's strong hands. What was it? I pulled the blindfold from my eyes to look. The wine bottle. He was fucking me with the long neck of the tall glass bottle.

  Suddenly, I felt an orgasm rising up within me. No! It is too dirty. It is too taboo. What kind of girl am I to get off on being fucked with a wine bottle? The shame and embarrassment I was feeling was no match for the raw pleasure, and I gripped the rim of the sink as I threw back my head and screamed with ecstasy.

  "I'm coming," I cried aloud, my voice echoing off the tile.

  "That's my good girl," Tate praised. He turned me around in his arms and hoisted me up on the marble countertop so I was facing me and pulled me right up to the edge. He circled his arms around my body and caressed me tenderly. In a soft whisper, he told me, "You're so beautiful when you orgasm, I want you to keep coming for me all night long."

  He put his lips on mine then, kissing me passionately as his hard dick entered me. I wrapped my legs around his waist and wound my arms around his muscular torso, entangling him in my limbs as we kissed. His hands slid down my body, cupping my buttocks as he began to thrust. It felt so good; this was what I had been waiting for.

  Lifting me off the counter and into the air, he thrust deep into me. I arched my back and undulated my hips, matching him thrust for thrust. His mouth was on my neck, kissing down my throat, nibbling my breasts.

  We were walking, still fucking, as he carried me from the bathroom counter into his bedroom, all the way to his bed.

  "Don't stop fucking me," I moaned as he deposited me on his giant bed.

  "I won't stop until you can't come anymore," Tate said and climbed on top of me on the mattress.

  We did it all night long, in every position. One minute he was on top of me, then I was on top of him, bracing against his chest as I cried out in rapture. Then he was doing it to me from behind, gripping my hair in one hand while his other hand wrapped around my throat; the resulting orgasm made me think I had died and gone to heaven.

  As we lay side by side in his bed, his lips found my nipples and gently suckled. His hands stroked my back and squeezed my buttocks, and my thighs parted for him. My pussy was still wet from the many orgasms he'd given to me already. He entered me slowly, penetrating deeply as our arms wound around each other in a passionate embrace. A quiet moan of pleasure escaped my lips before he covered my mouth with his and kissed me lovingly.

  This was the Tate I could so easily fall in love with – the tender one that sucked me with gentle touches and gazed at me with those gorgeous hazel green eyes. It was a trick to get me to keep from leaving in the morning. As my body trembled with the throes of my orgasm and every cell in my body burst with pleasure, I wanted to succumb to it all. I wanted to stay there in his arms, in this mansion forever – but I couldn't.

  This wasn't the real Tate Holland. This was an illusion. This was the trap he laid for me to trick me into staying until the moment that he killed me like he had Rose.

  Afterwards, he lifted me carefully from his bed and carried me to my room. He laid me down in my own bed and tucked my blankets lovingly around me.

  "Have sweet dreams, and I'll see in the morning." A single tear slipped from my eye and ran down my cheek as he kissed me goodbye.

  "Are you alright?" Tate wiped it away with his finger.

  I couldn't tell him we'd never see each other again or he'd never let me leave. Our night of passionate lovemaking had been the perfect way for us to say goodbye, so I just smiled up at him and said, "Yes, I'm fine. Everything between us was perfect."

  "I wish I could believe you," he said, and he turned his back on me and strode away.

  Chapter Forty: Rachelle

  "Goodbye, sweet girl. I hope you know how special you are and how much I care about you." I squeezed my eyes shut tight to hold in the tears as I hugged Halle tight.

  "I know." She squirmed in my arms. "Hey, you're squishing me."

  "Sorry." I let her go. Just then, Missy came into the room. She looked as trashy as ever in a skintight red dress made of cheap polyester and four-inch heels. Halle's face lit up, and she ran into her arms, crying out, "Mommy! You're still here!"

  "Of course, I'm still here. I'll be staying for a while." She squeezed Halle's cheeks while giving me a meaningful look, as if to say, Tate is mine now. Fine, she could have him and the mansion, too. I was escaping while I still had my life. My biggest regret was abandoning Halle, and a small part of me knew I would miss Tate, too. Okay, maybe more than just a small part.

  "I'm hungry. Let's get breakfast. Mommy can hold this hand and Rachelle can hold this one." Halle held out her two hands with a happy look on her naive face.

  "Why don't you go with your mother down to breakfast? I'm not hungry this morning." Missy took advantage of my offer.

  Snatching up the little girl, she said to Halle, "That's right. We don't need her. Let's have breakfast just the two of us: me and you. Maybe we'll find your father at the dining table, and we can be one happy family, like we should be."

  "Yeah! The three of us, Mommy, Daddy, and Halle," the child said, and Missy beamed. But as they walked down the hall, I heard her say, "And Rachelle, too. She's my mommy most of the time because you're not here. You're only my mommy a little bit, but Rachelle's my mommy always."

  It broke my heart to think what it would do to her when I left. I wished more than anything that I could explain things to her, but she was too young to understand such complexities. I could barely understand, and I was twenty-four; Halle was just three.

  My only hope
was that one day I could make things right for her. Maybe I could convince Detective Miller without any evidence. Maybe my statement alone would be enough for him to get a warrant and put Tate Holland in prison for good. For Halle's sake, I hoped so.

  With Missy and Halle gone down to breakfast, I went to my room and hurriedly started packing. I needed to be out of the house before they were done, or it would be all the harder to leave.

  "What the hell is going on?" an angry voice said. I turned to see Tate standing in the doorway.

  "I thought you would be at breakfast," I stammered.

  "So did I. When Halle said you weren't hungry, I came up to check on you. It looks like you're feeling better."

  "My mother is doing worse, so I need to see her."

  "Bullshit.” He was furious with me. He stormed forward and started tossing clothes out of my suitcase back onto the bed. "I checked with her nurse myself. I wanted to make sure your family didn't need anything. I was going to give you another bonus if they did. So, where are you really going?"

  His words shocked me, but I refused to be lulled back into a false sense of safety. He didn't really care about me; his kindness was a front for his murderous soul.

  "Anyplace that's away from you," I cried out. I slammed my suitcase shut, nearly catching his fingers in the process. I pulled it off the bed and headed for the door, but Tate caught me by the arm. His strong fingers dug painfully into my flesh as he glared at me.

  "Why? What the hell is going on with you? You've been acting strangely for days, like you've got some secret you're hiding. Tell me what it is," he demanded fiercely.

  There was no point in hiding the truth any longer. I'd been caught, and there was no way I was escaping now, so I might as well confess. Wrenching my arm free, I faced him squarely. I wanted to look in his eyes when I told him the truth.

  "I know it was you," I stated bravely, even though my knees were shaking. "I saw the spots of the blood in that secret room you hid from the police, but you already know that. That's why you tried to kill me that night – just like you did to Rose – but you failed. You just gave me a concussion, instead, and thought you could get away with it to try again some other day.

  “You thought you were safe to take your time and keep fucking me for pleasure until then, but I found out. I found out it was you who assaulted me that night."

  Tate just stared at with a blank expression on his face. "What the hell are you talking about?" he finally said in a confused voice.

  "The shoes. The black leather athletic shoes with the red leather number twenty-two stitched on the side. The next time you assault someone, don't wear one-of-a-kind sneakers."

  "I didn't assault you. How could think it was me?" He looked so shocked and wounded, I almost believed he was innocent – except I had seen the evidence with my own two eyes.

  "I saw them in your closet. Stop pretending like you didn't do it!" I shouted at him. His denial was making me even more furious than his attempt on my life had.

  "Show me," said he said, continuing his act. So, I stormed down the hall to his bedroom suite, straight to his closet, and threw open the doors. There they were, still stuffed in a plastic bag hidden in the corner.

  I pointed at them accusingly. "There. Right there."

  Tate's expression melded into one of surprised recognition. He picked up the plastic bag and stared at the shoes within. In a soft whisper, he said, "Rose gave me these shoes last Christmas at the party I threw for all the employees."

  "And you wore them to kill me?" I was horrified. "Were you wearing them when you killed her, too? Is that part of your sick game?"

  "No. You don't understand." He sighed sadly. The pain in his eyes looked genuine and my heart nearly went out to him. "I never wore them. I just put them in here and forgot about them. Look, the seal on the bag hasn't been broken and the tags are still on the shoes. The soles are completely unscuffed. They've never been worn. See for yourself."

  I scrutinized the bag, trying to find any tear or scuff, but there were none. He was right. These shoes had never been worn.

  "I'm so sorry," I cried with heartfelt remorse. I felt so humiliated. How could I have accused this incredible man of such awful crimes after he'd been so good to me? He must hate me, and I don't blame him.

  "I wrongfully accused you, and I'm sorry. I guess those shoes are more common than I thought. I looked them up online, and the site said they were a limited edition and only a few were made. It must have been a hoax to get more money."

  "No, it wasn't a hoax. Rose used her Christmas bonus to buy two identical pairs of the shoes. There are no others in existence."

  "So, whoever has the other pair that she bought is the person who assaulted me – and probably killed Rose." I felt a shiver run down spine.

  Tate wrapped his arms around me and held me close. I could hear his heart pounding in his chest, beating so fast I thought it might explode. Gazing up at him I asked, "What's wrong?"

  He looked down at me with wide eyes. "I was there when she gave both gifts. I know who has the other pair."

  Chapter Forty-One: Rachelle

  I just stood there in shocked silence, hardly able to believe what I was hearing. I'd been so sure Tate was the one who had murdered Rose and then tried to kill me. It was a huge relief to learn that he was innocent after all. I'd never been so happy to be wrong in my entire life, but then who was to blame?

  "She knew him first," Tate said, his voice hollow. "In fact, he was the one who introduced me to Rose. He knew I was in need of a new nanny. Halle was very young then, still in diapers. The old nanny, Kristie, had disappeared. She just didn't show up for work one day, and when I called her house trying to find her, her parents told me she had eloped over the weekend and run off to Mexico with her new husband."

  I'd heard tales that Tate had killed her, too, just like Rose. This dispelled that rumor, and I waited anxiously for him to tell me who the real murderer was.

  "I asked him if he knew any experienced nannies," Tate continued. "He told me he knew a young woman looking for work. She didn't have any nanny experience, but she had done some babysitting and could start immediately. He told me he'd been friends with her for years, and she was dependable and hard working. I trusted him, so I hired her. It looks like he was the one I shouldn't have trusted."

  "Who was it?" I couldn't stand not knowing any longer, but there was no way to be prepared for the answer he gave.

  "Stuart," Tate said simply, and my heart fell to the pit of my stomach like a stone. Stuart did have a key to the house, and he would have known that Tate was out of the house the night I was attacked, but why would have killed Rose?

  I just couldn't believe it. It didn't make sense. Stuart Haynes was Tate's chef, dietician, and personal fitness trainer. Although we'd had our differences when I first came to work at the mansion, I felt like we'd become friends of sorts. He had made me feel like he had my best interests at heart when he warned me not to sleep with Tate, like he was trying to protect me from danger, and I had almost listened to him.

  Stuart had a certain charm, with his strong athletic physique and Californian good looks, blond hair, and green eyes. He was almost as tall as Tate, and almost as old, at thirty-five; but he could never match up to Tate's welcoming friendliness. There was something about Stuart that was always a little guarded and a hardness behind his eyes that was nearly imperceptible, but there nonetheless. Still, I never would have imagined he was capable of murder.

  "Why would he do such a thing?" I asked aloud.

  "Stuart and Rose had known each other for years before he ever introduced me to her. He said they were friends, but I think they were more than that."

  "You mean, they were a couple? Was she sleeping with him at the same time she was having sex with you? "

  I was aghast. Stuart and Emma had given me so much crap over sleeping with Tate, telling me how inappropriate it was and making me feel like a slut. Then it turns out, Stuart had been sleeping with Rose. H
e was probably just jealous of Tate, and that's why he had wanted to paint him in such a bad light. Stuart had implied that Tate was dangerous, when really it was him, as her boyfriend.

  "No," Tate said in answer to my question. "I asked Rose if she was fucking Stuart one night, and she promised me she wasn't; but the way she said it made me think that at one time they had been lovers, like they had broken up."

  "So, she was pining for him, and that's why she gave him such expensive shoes for a Christmas present," I said with a gasp. It made perfect sense; she gave the man who dumped her the same gift as the man she was having sex with as a way of wining him back, but Tate shook his head.

  "I got more of a feeling that she was the one who broke up with him. Stuart never gave any indication he was in a relationship with her, at all. He's either very good at masking his emotions, or she made the whole thing up."

  "So, why would she give you both a pair of identical shoes, especially ones that are so expensive and rare?"

  "That's just the type of person Rose was. She loved giving things to others, and since she lived here rent free and didn't have any expenses, she could use her entire salary to go shopping on her days off. She was always buying things for her family and friends. When Christmas came, she gave extravagant gifts to everyone in the entire house."

  "So, it wasn't just a gift for her lovers, then."

  "No. She gave Halle that tricycle up in her room, and Emma and Scott each got a really nice camera. When she handed Stuart and I identical boxes wrapped in red and gold paper, she said to us, ‘For the two men I know who are always running towards their goals.’ We opened them together, and Emma took a picture with her new camera. That night, I put the shoes in my closet and never even opened them. A few months later when Rose died, I had forgotten about them."

  "You're sure there aren't more of these shoes and that Stuart doesn't have the only other pair?" I asked, desperately hoping against hope that he was wrong.

  "Dead sure." His poor choice of words hung in the air like a suffocating cloud.