Manhattan Billionaires Book 4: Big Bossy Surprise

IT’S WORSE THAN I THOUGHT. And I thought it would be bad.

I’m so not ready for this.

Craning my neck, I draw my gaze up, up, up the height of the Lusso apartment building. The penthouse sits at the top of the glass-and-steel giant, surveying Central Park and Manhattan from its perch at the pinnacle of the world.

My friend Leif’s company designed and built this building a few years ago. I saw pictures of the penthouse when it went up for sale. It’s beyond anything a mere mortal like me would ever gain access to in her puny little lifetime.

Until now.

My heart thuds.

Last time I was in one of these buildings, in an apartment just like the one towering fifteen hundred feet above my head, my career died a horrible, grisly death. My ego did too. Now I’m here. At the very bottom.

How fitting.

Is it too late to turn around and run away?

I touch the bag slung over my shoulder, where my phone lies dormant. My sister would kill me if I flaked on her newest client. Even worse, she’d be disappointed in me. For that matter, so would my bank account.

It’s been ten years since I last worked for Linda, and her business has exploded since then. Just look at this building, this client. The Delmar Nanny Agency has a platinum reputation, and that’s due to my sister’s efforts. I can’t let her down—especially not after everything she’s done for me.

The doorman nods as I enter through the tall glass doorway, its tinted panes reflecting the bustling street behind me. I step across the threshold and into a different world.

Geometric wood shelves separate the lobby into two distinct spaces. A café with bowtie-wearing baristas and hissing espresso machines takes up the far wall, with my side of the partition strewn with plush sofas and intimate conversation nooks. As soon as the door closes behind me, the noise of the outside world disappears, and I know I’ve entered a new realm. A woman in a silk top and camel-colored trousers sips a coffee and flicks the tablet on her lap, oozing wealth from the crown of her shiny hair to the very tip of her red-soled designer shoes.

Once upon a time, I lived in a place like this. Well, not like this, but it was this apartment building’s distant, less opulent second cousin twice removed. My home was a beautiful condo, a three-bedroom, three-bathroom paradise that made me feel like I’d made it. But that was before. Now, I know on what shaky a foundation my previous life was built. I know how easy it was for it all to crumble to dust.

I should have learned my lesson the first time, shouldn’t I? But I’ve learned it now. I need safety nets for my safety nets. I need to trust no one but myself, and maybe Linda. I need to stand on only two feet: my own.

This job will help me do that.

Clutching my bag to my side, I make my way to the reception area, give my name, and wait for the woman behind the gleaming black desk to contact the resident of the penthouse. She’s a tall, slim woman with black hair and red, red lips, and she gives me a nod as she hangs up the phone. Her beautifully manicured hand sweeps out in an elegant gesture. “Take the elevator up to the one hundred and twenty-ninth floor. Mr. Noble is expecting you.”

“Good thing I’m not afraid of heights,” I quip.

The woman gives me a polite smile but doesn’t laugh. My nerves ratchet tighter. A staff member by the elevator swipes his card and presses the number for me, then steps out of the elevator, giving me a short nod before disappearing behind the closing doors.

I shoot upward, feeling like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory about to burst through the roof and into space. Floating through the cosmos would be about as comfortable as the penthouse I’m about to step into.

The ride up the elevator gives me time to tuck in flyaway hairs as I check myself over in the mirrored doors. I’m wearing a white tee tucked into a calf-length pleated skirt that feels silky beneath my fingertips, my shoulders covered with a cropped leather biker jacket I got at a basement thrift store six years ago. When I left my house, I thought I looked cool and approachable. Now I feel frumpy and underdressed.

My palms begin to sweat. The elevator shoots up and up, and I feel like my stomach is going to splatter at my feet. Gripping the handrail, I take three deep breaths and curse my sister for doing this to me.

I could have found a job on my own. I had almost figured out a plan. I didn’t need this. Yes, my life had slid down a steep embankment and I was approaching the splat at the bottom, but I could have fixed it. I was going to fix it any minute. Linda just happened to walk into my roach-infested subleased apartment at the wrong moment. It was all under control.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

Another inhalation, and the elevator slows. I blink my eyes open and square my shoulders just in time to hear the faint ding before the doors slide open.

A woman is waiting for me on the other side. She’s blond, like me, but her hair is cut in a short, sharp, chin-length bob while mine hits me mid-back. Her eyes are shrewd, and she looks me up and down as if she can read every shortcoming written right there on my face. “Bonnie Delmar?” she asks.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Laura Mason, Mr. Noble’s household manager. I oversee all the staff on the premises. If you have any issues, please come to me first. Follow me.”

She’s wearing sharp, pressed pants in charcoal gray that hit her just above the ankle and show off her stylish sneakers. On top, she has a crisp white tee. An earpiece hangs from her ear, disappearing behind the collar of her top. I let out a small breath, happy I’m not entirely underdressed. Tees are acceptable.

I know nothing about Arlo Noble, other than his name and the fact that he has a five-year-old boy named William. Linda gave me his file to review this week, which I didn’t do. I glanced at it for four or five seconds on the subway this morning, because I’m a coward who doesn’t want to face the reality of her situation.

He’s a big-shot billionaire with a reputation as a shark. Big whoop. Before my career imploded, I used to rub shoulders with those men all the time, and I learned most of them walk around high on their own inflated egos. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t ever have to speak to a wealthy man again.

But the reality is this: Linda gave me a temp job as Arlo Noble’s fill-in nanny. It’s one month of work, after which I’ll have a bit of padding in my bank account. Enough to get out of the city and start over.

Could I ask Linda for money? Of course. But I also saw the bags under her eyes, and I heard her assistant talking about the length of the waitlist for new clients. She’s severely short-staffed, and Arlo Noble is one of her biggest clients. There’s a one-month gap in coverage that could lose Linda his patronage.

My sister is as desperate as I am.

But I still spent the week looking at the folder like it would explode if I opened it. It’s one month of work, but it’s also an admission of failure. Taking this job is me agreeing that my career is well and truly dead. I’ve exhausted my network. I’ve applied to every finance job posting in the five boroughs.

I am officially blacklisted.

So I’m here, entering a billionaire’s lair, doing my sister a favor, shining a light on all the ways I’ve failed.

Laura the household manager leads me down a hallway toward distant windows, where I can see a slice of green and the first peek of autumnal colors that must be Central Park. The floors are wood, arranged in a parquet pattern that looks stylish and upmarket rather than dated. We emerge into a living room filled with tasteful, contemporary furnishings and a gorgeous glass staircase in the corner. Behind the curving staircase, two walls of glass meet in the corner. Light bounces and reflects off of every surface, shattering across the room like an art installation all on its own.

I try to modulate my breath. This place is beautiful.

This was such a bad idea. I should not be here. My heart has already started to thud a bit harder. Memories lurk at the edges of my consciousness, searching for a crack in my shields. I shore up my mental defenses, trying not to think of the event that ruined my life.

That event occurred in a swanky place just like this one. It was the beginning of the end.

“This is the guest floor,” she explains. “This room is sometimes used as a reception room for more intimate events than the salon upstairs.”

Intimate. This room. Right.

We walk over plush rugs and step onto the staircase. Laura moves with sharp, efficient movements, as if she has no time to waste on anything but doing the best job she can. “You’ll stay in a bedroom down that hallway,” she tells me when we stop on the landing halfway up, pointing to the corridor in question. “Mr. Noble handles nights with his son, but you’ll be expected to be upstairs by six o’clock every morning. Your day ends when William is in bed. You’ll get every second Sunday off, as outlined in your contract.”

I nod. “Understood.” Light slices across her in a thousand different angles as we stand in this glass corner, like we’re caught in a prism. How is she not in awe of this place every single day?

I manage to actually look out the window as we stand on the landing, seeing the entire world at my feet. Central Park spreads out like a carpet below us, its curved pathways like knife slashes in a bed of green and orange and red. The concrete and steel and asphalt of the city loom at every edge of the park, like a tidal wave of mankind’s achievements stopped dead by the might of nature.

I feel like I could stretch my hand out and touch the edge of the world from up here. I’m so high up above the city, the horizon bends at the edges. Down on street level, it’s all car fumes and grime. It’s dark and dingy and chaotic. This…this is light and life and glory.

I was wrong. This place is nothing like my old apartment. This is another league. Another universe.

It’s terrifying.

“First, you’ll meet Mr. Noble and his son. The current nanny, Alexandra, will walk you through some of the rules and routines you’ll have to follow.”

“Sounds good.” My voice doesn’t tremble, but my heart takes off.

When my sister set this up for me, it sounded so logical. I was—am—broke. I’d lost my job and any prospects of finding another one. I was struggling to feed and house myself. She could retrain me and give me a temporary posting here, no problem. I’d worked for her all through college, from my bachelor’s degree to the end of my MBA. Getting prepared for this job was just a matter of redoing my CPR and first aid certificates and completing a new background check.

In Linda’s typical fashion, the facts were laid out one by one, in a way that couldn’t be argued with, like she was pulling cards out of a deck and placing them on the table in front of me. Yes, I needed help. Yes, I’d accept hers. Yes, I’d do the training and make sure I hit all the requirements to take the job. Yes, I’d show up at Mr. Noble’s house on the first available day, ready to nanny his kid. That’s how I ended up here on a Thursday, staring out at Manhattan like I’ve never seen it before.

But this residence cuts too close to the worst night of my life. And this Noble guy won’t be any better than the man who ruined my career. He’ll be another puffed-up peacock, high on his own power.

I shouldn’t be here. I should have done something—anything—to claw myself out of the hole I’d sunk into.

But my sublease is up at the end of this week, and after that I’ll be homeless. Linda might have been able to sense that I needed help, but she doesn’t know how close to ruin I really am.

“Come,” Laura says. She gives me a curt nod, then keeps walking up the art installation staircase, and I have no choice but to follow.

As I climb, my fluttery skirt dancing over my bare calves, I build my strength up, step by step. Brick by brick. It’s temporary. It’s just another season of my life. It’s just a job.

I need money, and Linda needs me to do my best. Once I have a safety net, I’ll be able to move on.

I can do this.

Then we emerge into an enormous room with soaring thirty-foot ceilings. More windows. More light. More two-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar views. The couches are low, the rugs are plush, and the cushions are arranged just so. A billionaire lives here. It’s an absolutely drop-dead gorgeous space.

Across the vast room, I spy a man in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm. Light from those massive windows glints off his hair, which is dark and speckled with silver. His skin is a burnished gold, and his beard hugs his strong jaw, sprinkled with more silver than his head. His profile is regal, commanding.

In his hands, he holds two ankles that belong to a wriggling, pajama-clad boy. He lifts his arms, and the dangling boy shrieks with delight, laughter bouncing off of every hard surface in the room. Mr. Noble’s lips split into a smile as the boy trails his fingers over the rug.

“Again!”

With a heave, my new boss swings his son up, then gently back down. His muscular arms press against the fabric of his shirt as he makes his son laugh harder. A low rumble of a laugh vibrates through the air, shivering over my skin. Mr. Noble gently drapes the boy onto the floor. William lies on the floor and laughs, and is immediately picked up and thrown over Mr. Noble’s shoulder like a sack of very squirmy potatoes.

Then he turns and notices Laura—and I see the rest of his face.

My heart stops. My legs wobble. I grip the top of the banister and stare, wide-eyed, not understanding what’s in front of me.

I know this man.

Motes of dust float in front of my face, illuminated by the sunlight streaming in behind me. For a few moments, I live in a dreamlike world, where nothing exists except my buzzing body, light, a few specks of dust, and this gorgeous man and his child. This gorgeous, familiar man.

This man that lived in the Before Times, in the mind palace I built just for him. Before everything collapsed. Before everything changed.

He hikes his kid up on his shoulder as Laura moves across the massive space toward him. Then he shifts his gaze to me.

Those eyes crash into me, exactly the way I remember they did almost three years ago. They’re a dark, unforgiving brown—almost black. His gaze hits me like a sledgehammer. I wobble.

My stomach finally drops all the way to my feet. My throat closes up. I freeze.

Because I don’t just know this man—I slept with this man. In one anonymous night, the billionaire standing on the other side of the room completely shattered everything I knew about sex. He rocked my world like no one else ever had, and probably ever will. He made me question everything I knew about pleasure, became the yardstick against which I judged every sexual experience that followed.

This man changed my life. One night of nameless sex three years ago made me pine and wish and hope. It made me fantasize about another conference, another business trip, another chance meeting. Every time I traveled for work or pleasure, I wondered if I’d run into him again.

That night—and the need that built in me after it—is what ultimately led to the biggest mistake of my life and the end of my career.

I’ve been in lust with this man for three entire years. I’ve been silly with it. Stupid with it.

And, judging by the blank look on his face as he rakes his gaze over my face and body…

He doesn’t even remember me.

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