The Billionaire and the Nanny (Book Three) Read online

  The Billionaire and the Nanny (Book Three)

  Paige North

  Favor Ford Publishing

  C opyright © 2017 by Favor Ford Publishing

  All rights reserved .

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review .

  Contents

  Want To Be In The Know?

  The Billionaire and the Nanny (Book Three) by Paige North

  1. Paisley

  2. Logan

  3. Paisley

  4. Logan

  5. Paisley

  6. Logan

  7. Paisley

  8. Logan

  9. Paisley

  10. Logan

  11. Paisley

  12. Logan

  13. Paisley

  14. Logan

  15. Paisley

  16. Logan

  17. Paisley

  18. Logan

  19. Paisley

  20. Logan

  21. Paisley

  22. Logan

  Epilogue - Paisley

  Excerpt: BENTLEY (Rogue Billionaires, Book One) by Olivia Chase

  1. Samantha

  2. Bentley

  3. Samantha

  4. Bentley

  5. Samantha

  6. Bentley

  Want To Be In The Know?

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  The Billionaire and the Nanny (Book Three) by Paige North

  Paisley

  B arfing before any big interview sucks .

  Barfing on the doorstep of the ultra-fancy penthouse belonging to Logan Raider, the hot billionaire who owns this building, who’ll be letting me into his home in a minute and staring at me with his famous silver eyes, would be tragic .

  I suck in a deep breath. “You can do this, Paisley. Be chipper. Be pleasant. Be brilliant .”

  When I moved to New York City six months ago with my bestie, Caitlyn Summers, I agreed to work for Le Nanny as an intermediary while planning domination in the world of accounting. It’d be a good way to save money for my own apartment while starting a small business. I expected my first client to be a yoga-pant wearing rich mother. I expected a cozy home, Pinterest-perfect wreath on the door .

  I never expected a cold, steely door at the top of a skyscraper in the Financial District .

  But two days ago, Logan Raider, billionaire architect and CEO of L.R. Group—the L.R. Group—looked at a line-up of head shots my agent sent him and chose me. Me! Why? Why not Caitlyn who always got picked? Caitlyn, with her long blonde hair and perfect physical aptitude. Caitlyn, who’s never had a problem getting hired by horny dads in need of eye candy .

  I’m no eye candy .

  I’m as plain as it gets .

  In the brains department, I’m all set. I graduated from Syracuse with top honors, plus I have a nice list of small jobs and activities on my résumé. I’ve never worked as a nanny before, but my babysitting references are as solid as they come .

  According to my agent, however, Mr. Raider never even looked at my references. He pointed to my photo and said, “This one. Send her Wednesday .”

  So, now it’s Wednesday, I’m inside a swanky glass building outside Battery Park and my stomach’s about to lurch. I won’t ring the doorbell until I can speak without losing my breakfast .

  I’ll just say it—I’m terrified of Logan Raider .

  I’ve spent the last two days researching and studying him to a large degree, and holy shit—he’s swoony and scary at the same time. The man is a self-made billionaire at twenty-eight who also happens to look like every hot movie star you’ve ever seen rolled into one superhunk. As handsome as he is, owning the world’s largest collaborative architectural design firm, you’d think he’d be a playboy surrounded by women at all times. But he stays out of the public eye. From what I’ve read, the man is embroiled in the middle of a nasty divorce and custody case. His ex, Miriam Dange-Raider, can be seen on TV making allegations about him in tearful interviews, and the whole thing reeks of revenge and dirty money .

  Problem is, I can’t tell who’s the victim and who’s the jerk in that breakup. And there’s always a true jerk in divorce. Some people say “there’s two sides to every story.” Um, no. My dad’s a divorce lawyer. I can tell you—there’s always a victim and always an asshole. Always .

  Not that his divorce matters. I’m only here for the job. If Logan Raider is the asshole, cheater, abusive father, or any of the things his ex-wife says about him, I’ll just keep my distance. All I have to do is take care of his two-year-old fraternal twins, Becca and Price, smile, and save my paycheck. Done .

  I blow out another deep breath. Ring the fucking bell already. He’s a person like anybody else. Fine. I ring .

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to make sure it’s not a text from Le Nanny asking me to abort mission and come back to home base, though part of me wishes it were. Instead, it’s from Caitlyn: SO JEALOUS .

  “Yeah? If you’re so jealous, come and take my place,” I mutter just as the frosty glass door opens .

  An elegant, older woman with pale skin and old lady cleavage stands there watching me talk to myself. “What’s that ?”

  “Nothing.” I smile, relieved it’s not the man I came to see. I need a few more minutes to collect myself. “Hi, I’m Paisley Carrington. From Le Nanny? I’m here for the interview with Mr. Raider.” I extend my hand, and it slips into the woman’s .

  Her hand feels soft and boneless. “Oh, I thought you weren’t coming. I’ll let Logan know. Just a minute .”

  “I apologize for being a few minutes late,” I say .

  “No worries. Though you should know, he’s a stickler for punctuality and details. A Virgo…” She mutters behind her hand, like Mr. Raider might be upset to know she’s discussing his astrological sign. From her amazing cheekbones to match his in all the internet images I’ve seen of him, and the way she calls him Logan, so informally, I’m going to assume this is his mother taking care of the children while he works .

  She steps aside to let me in .

  My feet slide into the most amazing living space of futuristic style and beauty I have ever seen in my entire life. It’s like I’ve stepped into the home of an ambassador on a peaceful, earth-like planet. Glossy white, silver, and pewter tones everywhere, and just beyond, a couple of housekeepers wander about cleaning and carrying things .

  Yes, Mr. Raider is, in fact, is a stickler for details. And precision, perfection, and he’s very—very rich. I think I’m going to be sick again .

  “Have a seat. I’ll go get him.” She gestures to an all-white living room with furniture I don’t want to get dirty with my simple woman’s clothing and hands. I’m too nervous to sit, so I opt for standing awkwardly next to a sculpture of what appears to be a smooth ebony vagina. The taller of the two housekeepers smiles at me. She wears the classic black dress with white apron. I’m grateful she’s older and not a Playboy bunny .

  “Welcome,” she says .

  “Thank you.” My heartbeat picks up again. I suck in another calming breath but it’s no use. I was wrong—this man is not like anybody else. He’s in a class all by himself or else the world wouldn’t be so obsessed with him like they are the British Royal Family. He’s like a prince. A prince of New York .

  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 .

  I hate my brain. My dad may be a lawyer, but he’s small time in a small town. My parents always told me and my brothers that they’d pay for college, but then we’d be on our own. While I might come from a middle-class family with a quaint house in upstate New York, it’s not my house nor my money. I’m nobody now .

  A nobody with nothing .

  “Are we clear, Miss Carrington? If I hire you, you need to be up front with me on everything you do. That means anything I care to know, at any time .”

  I could walk out. I could tell him I’m not cut out for these bizarre invasions of my privacy and ask the agency to send Caitlyn instead. She’s more confident and better suited for this. I’d much prefer a quiet, older couple who work a lot of hours and expect the norm from their nanny .

  But I need this job. It will easily pay five times more than the others. What I earn from this gig could be enough to start my small accounting firm in Brooklyn or back home. So, shut up and acquiesce to everything he says, Paisley .

  I swallow slowly. “Yes, Mr. Raider. I understand .”

  “Good.”

  “Where are the children?” I ask .

  “Excuse me ?”

  Did he expect me not to ask questions? “Your twins. Where are they?” I may as well focus my energies on the real reason I’m here .

  “With their mother. I wanted your first day to be just us, so I could show you around and explain the way I work before the kids take up all your time. Have you ever dealt with twins before, Miss Carrington ?”

  “My brothers are twins .”

  “Ah, well, that’s a plus .”

  “Yeah, I helped raise them. I know how crazy they can get .”

  He narrows his eyes. “Toddlers are a challenge all by themselves. Twin toddlers will test you, as your mother would be able to tell you .”

  “I understand, and I’m ready .”

  “Miss Carrington, I don’t think you are. Nobody can understand how important my children are to me. Not sure how much you’ve read online about my divorce case, but it’s not true what you hear. I care deeply about my children. But I also work full-time, so I’ll be spending time with them before and after work, sleeping very few hours to make sure I see them as much as possible. Every hour in between, they’ll be with you .”

  “When are they with their mother ?”

  Mr. Raider bristles at the question, like the mere thought of their mother brings him physical and emotional pain. “Miriam takes them every three days, then we switch. We share them equally, though she’s trying to change that now .”

  I can see why. I mean, he’s clearly an emotionally unavailable dick. I think I’m right, and Logan Raider is definitely the jerk in this divorce. Case closed .

  He taps on his phone impatiently, ignoring me, while he continues to talk. “I will monitor everything you do, keep tabs of where you are with my children at all times. Are we clear ?”

  Surely, he doesn’t mean he’s implanting a microchip under my skin and tracking me on his phone app, does he? I guess he has the right to know where his kids are, but what I do after hours is my business. “Tracking ?”

  “Yes, tracking. You watch my children, so I watch you.” He looks up from his phone, and it’s almost like he’s surprised to see me still standing here. “Will you be taking the position, or do I save my breath for the next applicant ?”

  I can’t let this paycheck go to someone else. I should be grateful that he selected me and not let his short demeanor get to me. Besides, soon, I’ll be working with the kids only. He’ll barely be home the rest of the time. This is probably the most I’ll ever have to deal with him .

  “Sure,” I say with a thin smile. I don’t know what I’m getting into, but no matter—it’s done. “I’ll take the job .”

  Logan

  H ere I thought choosing the most average-looking girl presented by the nanny agency would keep me safe. Not that I’m apt to bed every hot woman I see—I mean, I used to be that way up until I met Miriam—but ever since my divorce began, the last thing I want is to be attracted to any woman .