The Billionaire's Super Nanny (A BWWM Romance) Read online

  He seemed proud. Taylor had been overwhelmed with his life for some time. With his failing marriage and his business ventures, he had been letting parenting responsibilities shift onto others or ignoring things entirely. Now that he was engaged in the process, he was finding that it wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be.

  “I really thought Tara was going to fight me harder than she did.”

  “I did too, but kids just want boundaries. They want to know how far they can push before you push back. You answered that for her tonight in a firm but loving way. That’s all she ever wanted from her father.”

  “I can’t believe how easy it is when you lay it out like that.”

  I had to laugh.

  “Don’t let today fool you,” I warned. “We’re not out of the woods yet. It’s going to get harder before it gets better.”

  “It is?”

  “Yep. Once the novelty of you stepping up and parenting consistently wears off, they’re going to push back even harder.”

  “That sounds awful. What am I supposed to do then?”

  “Same thing you did tonight; stay cool, calm, and collected. Take charge of your emotions and don’t let them get you worked up. If you can do that, you’ll sail through these next few weeks unscathed.”

  “That sounds like something that’s easier said than done.”

  If he only knew.

  Chapter 7

  Zeya

  The next two days were pretty uneventful, with the children pushing boundaries now and then, and Taylor stepping up to the plate each time. I kept an eye on the rest of the adults, making sure they stuck with the program. Sonja—the maid and the head of the household staff—struggled with this. About fifty, she preferred to take a more grandmotherly role with the children. I explained to her more than once that this was a bad idea, since she lived with them. Despite her misgivings, she did her best to follow the rules. After speaking with Taylor, we decided that a treat or a blind eye every now and then wouldn’t hurt anything. But we didn’t tell Sonja.

  I woke up early Friday morning, getting ready for my day in the studio. Since I was going to be out for so long—we were recording six-one hour shows today—it was up to Taylor to keep the house in order while I was away.

  It was as much a break for me as it was a test for him. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for families to do really well while I was around and then fall apart the minute I left. Taylor had taken the day off, leaving his office to handle work until Monday so he could focus his efforts on the kids. He woke up early with me, sitting at the intimate table in the breakfast nook and chatting with me over coffee.

  “Are you sure you won’t consider another ride into the city?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll be to work on time and I’ll be finished with my day long before rush hour starts. I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

  His smile was a little unnerving. He looked pleased with himself, and I wondered what I’d said to get that reaction out of him.

  “I like it when you call this place home.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You know what I meant. This place is nice, but my home is in The Village.”

  Taylor smiled again, but sipped his coffee rather than responding. I had the sneaking suspicion he’d just told me “whatever” in his head and went on like I hadn’t corrected him. He could believe what he wanted, but it didn’t matter. He was my boss, and nothing more would come of this relationship.

  I looked at my watch and stood.

  “It’s getting late. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  He chuckled at my choice of words, gathered up my laptop and walked me to the door. I turned around, reaching out to grab my things and leave for the day.

  Taylor held onto my laptop case, my hand pressed against him as our hands fought for space on the handle. I gave it a little tug, furrowing my brow at him. What was he doing?

  He pulled back and I lost my footing, stumbling so that I was against him. Before I could right myself, he wrapped his free arm around me and pulled me close. His face was mere inches from mine and my stomach was tying itself in knots.

  He smelled divine.

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll be back before six.”

  “That’s more than twelve hours. I don’t think I can last that long.”

  I laughed nervously. He was so close. His eyes were on my lips, and my heart was in my throat. I wiggled a little, trying to break free of his embrace before I did something I might regret later.

  But he held me tightly, leaning forward and brushing his lips across mine so tenderly I thought for a moment that I’d imagined it.

  He released me, a sheepish smile settling on his lips.

  “Until next time, Zeya. I hope you have a wonderful day.”

  He let go of my laptop and I walked out the door without responding. What was I supposed to say? That if he wasn’t my client, I would have kissed him right back?

  I didn’t know what to say, so I settled for an awkward walk of shame to my car, knowing full well that his eyes were on my back as I went.

  I got into the car and risked a look at the house. He was standing in the doorway, watching me. I raised a hand to wave, my stomach fluttering like a middle-school girl. What was wrong with me? Sure he was handsome and rich, but so were a lot of other guys.

  I pulled onto the road and headed for work.

  Get it together, Zeya, I told myself, trying to find balance in a world that had been flipped completely upside down.

  It was going to take more than a pep talk to fix this mess if I let myself fall for Taylor Stephens.

  ***

  I pulled into the station parking lot, taking the stairs up to the second floor. Ted met me at the door.

  “Zeya. Boy, am I glad to see you.”

  “Thanks, Ted. I missed you, too.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, indicating the stack of papers in his hands.

  “These are all the people who called Wednesday and Thursday that you’re going to call back.”

  I wanted to groan but I held back. As daunting as the list was, it was actually a good thing. With Ted running a rerun again today, and I would be in the studio recording enough calls to fill next week. Having a list of calls to return was much more efficient. Add into that recording a few segues into sponsor ads, and I might get out of the studio sooner than I had anticipated.

  He had a burlap style sack in his other hand, but I didn’t have to ask what that was. Fan mail—or hate mail—was something I was used to getting. I took the bag from him, noting that it wasn’t too heavy. Thank God for small favors.

  I tried to answer fan mail as often as I could, either giving a short line of advice or dropping a postcard in the mail with a short thank-you. My business thrived on having fans, and I tried to treat them well. I wasn’t so popular that I needed an assistant to help with these things, so I did them on my own. Someday, I hoped to be popular enough that I could farm this out to other people. Until then, my job wasn’t going to do itself.

  I sat at my desk in the studio, putting my headset on and dialing the first number while I opened mail. The phone was answered on the second ring, and I briefly explained who I was and why I was calling.

  There was a piercing squeal in my ear, followed by the woman thanking me profusely for calling back.

  “You can’t believe how much I need your help.”

  I bet I can.

  “It’s my pleasure. Now, just so you know, Natalia, we’re doing this as a prerecorded show, so it won’t be on the air until next week. I’m going to turn on the recording equipment and when I say ‘caller, you’re on the air’, that’s your cue to introduce yourself. Got it?”

  “Got it!”

  She was a little excited, but I understood. When you’re in dire need of help and the one person you feel has all the answers calls you, of course you’re going to be a little excitable.

  I spent the morning going through the same motions, calling back
exasperated parents and opening fan mail. I’d just hung up on a particularly emotional call when Ted slipped into the booth with a turkey wrap and a can of my favorite tea fusion.

  “That was a rough one,” he said, pulling up a chair and biting into his own wrap while I ate.

  “It was. That poor woman. I couldn’t imagine going through what she went through and still having to take care of a family.”

  “So how are things with Taylor Stephens?”

  Ted didn’t take long to get to the point of his visit, that was for sure.

  “It’s going well. There’s been so much upheaval at that home it’s unreal. Throw in a few well-meaning house staff and you have a recipe for disaster. But they’re off to a good start.”

  “Do you think you’re going to get them straightened out in six weeks?”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “Reggie. He was excited about some big payday if you finished early.”

  I hadn’t really considered that Reggie would also get a bonus if I finished early. He hadn’t mentioned anything about a finder’s fee.

  “I know that look. You have something planned.”

  “I do. If you talk to Reggie, don’t tell him I told you it was going well. Let’s make him sweat it out.”

  Ted threw back his head and laughed.

  “Zeya, you’re such a pill. But you’re right. It will be good for Reggie to get a little antsy wondering if you’re going to finish in time.”

  “Exactly. In truth, I’m not sure I’m going to need more than two more weeks, three tops.”

  “What are you going to use the money for?”

  “I’m going to look into a private adoption.”

  “So you’re giving up on the foster child adoption?”

  “Not giving up, but they wrote me off again. I can believe in myself and my motivation all I want, but if the state doesn’t, then I’m wasting my time. I’m twenty-seven. I’m not getting any younger. I would like to have at least two children, if not more. If I wait too long to adopt, I’ll either be raising children until I’m fifty, or I’ll have to get twins or triplets. And I don’t want that.”

  Ted cast me a sidelong glance. His wife had given birth to twins, and more than once he’d complained about the girls being terror times two in the toddler years. Now that they were a little older, he enjoyed having two at once.

  “You know I’m just joking with you, Teddy. Twins are wonderful.”

  “Not always,” he chuckled.

  I finished my wrap and took a long swig of my drink. It was green tea with mango, my favorite.

  “You sure know how to make a girl feel special, Ted. Now, get out of here so I can get back to work.”

  I handed him my trash and all but shoved him on his way.

  “You’re not going to take a break?”

  “No, sir. The sooner I get done, the sooner I can go home.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What do you mean, ‘hmm’?”

  “Just hmm. As in, ‘hmm, I wonder if there’s more than just the job between the two of you’.”

  “Get out, Teddy.”

  I had to laugh. He was only teasing and would be surprised at how close I came to throwing myself at Taylor just that morning. He wouldn’t blame me if I told him, but I wasn’t about to. Giving voice to what had happened would make it all too real.

  No. It was better to sweep it under the rug and pretend it had never happened. I had a few more weeks to go, then I could get back to reality and the life that I led. The fantasy of life with Taylor was a nice one. But as his bitter divorce illustrated, money didn’t guarantee a fairytale existence.

  Chapter 8

  Zeya

  My voice was starting to feel a little raspy as my day wound to a close. I’d recorded more than five hours of material. Ted popped his head into the booth and gave me a smile.

  “That’s enough if you want to call it a day.”

  “I will,” I croaked. “I just want to get through this fan mail while I have time.”

  “It can wait, Zeya.”

  “It can, but then there will be three times as much when I come back next Friday. This is only two days’ worth of mail.”

  Ted shrugged.

  “Suit yourself. You promised me another hour anyway, so spend it answering mail if you’d like.”

  “Thanks, Ted.”

  He wandered off down the hall, and I went to work on the pile in front of me.

  The first few envelopes were what I would consider typical mail for me, ranging anywhere from “you ruined my family and my children hate me” to “you saved my marriage and my sanity with your advice to such-and-such caller.” I answered the mail thanking me for my help with a short paragraph of encouragement on the back of a pre-stamped postcard and filled in their address before dropping it into the outgoing mail box.

  I picked up the next envelope in line and immediately labeled it hate mail. It was an easy designation. Like all hate mail, there was no return address listed. I shrugged, opening it up and preparing for a laugh. The things that people thought appropriate were baffling, but also good for a laugh.

  I hope they didn’t think I thought about them once their letter hit the shredder.

  I unfolded the single sheet of paper and went to reading the neatly typed message. This one was different than what I was used to, and a small chill ran up my spine when I read it a second and third time just to make sure that I didn’t misread it.

  Zeya Sparks,

  You bitch. You think you’re so smart, but I’m smarter. You try to run people’s lives, but you’re nothing but a poser and a fraud. I will expose you for what you are and I will destroy you. You talk a big game, but you’re nothing but a childless whore trying to make other people feel bad for their choices. You’ll get what’s coming to you soon enough.

  There was no signature.

  I’d gotten mail like this before, with a violent undertone that threatened my life and livelihood. But this one was different. It wasn’t common knowledge that I was childless. In fact, both my agent and producer had advised against revealing that fact. My promo posters featured one of Arika’s children standing beside me, turned slightly away from the camera so only her profile was visible. People naturally assumed that she was my child, which was the intention.

  It was hard to sell parenting advice from a twenty-seven-year-old single woman without children to most people.

  But it wasn’t just that bit of knowledge that the letter had. The letter just didn’t make sense. The thoughts were disjointed and illogical. I guess that was to be expected, though. Whoever had written the letter was either trying to appear crazy or actually was. It was probably the former, but there was something about this letter that seriously unnerved me.

  I set it aside, digging through the bag and pulling out a small package. It was covered with heart stickers and smiley faces.

  “At least some people like me,” I said aloud to the empty room.

  I pulled the tape off, wrinkling my nose at the odd smell. People sent me food all the time. More than once, I’d had to throw away a handmade baked good from a well-meaning fan. In this crazy world, it wasn’t safe to accept food as gifts from anyone. Even a fan that seemed adoring could have an ulterior motive. Some of the cookies and cupcakes I’d received over the years were obviously made by someone’s child. I hated to throw those away. Children gave of themselves so freely and beautifully. It was a shame the world was the kind of place where we couldn’t just trust that.

  I finally got the tape off the box and peered inside. A pair of glassy eyes peered back at me and I screamed. A note with the same font as the first floated to the floor landing face up.

  You’re next, Bitch!

  ***

  It took almost an hour for the police to arrive. I sat in the breakroom across from the booth, trying to make sense of what I’d seen. I’d left both notes where they lay. Ted had come bursting through the door, face pale when he’d heard me scream.<
br />
  He took one look at the contents of the box clutched in my hands and had gently removed it, setting it on the desk and leading me out of the room to call the cops.

  I was still shaking.

  One of the officers came out of the booth and pulled up a chair across from me to sit down. He flipped open a pad and selected a pen from the collection shoved in his shirt pocket.

  “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  I nodded. I didn’t know what I was supposed to tell him, but I was willing to try. If they could figure out who did this and stop them just from what I told them, more power to them.

  “When did you receive the rat?”

  Was it a rat? I hadn’t been able to identify the decapitated animal that had been slashed to bits inside the box.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been out of the office for a few days.”

  “Have you received anything like it before?”

  “You mean do I normally get dead rats in the mail? No. This is a first for me, thanks.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Sparks. I know this is hard for you.”

  “You have no idea.”

  He smiled sympathetically at me, but it didn’t matter. Someone had sent me a mutilated, decapitated rat in the mail, and this officer wasn’t appalled in the least. That said this kind of thing wasn’t shocking to him at all. What the hell was this world coming to that this was so commonplace?

  “What about the other note? The one that seems to be from the same sender? Do you often get hate mail?”

  “I get hate mail, but nothing like that. And nothing with such private information on it.”

  “What private information was that?”

  “No one knows I’m childless.”

  “No one?”

  “My best friend does. It’s her child in my ad campaign on the sides of buses and in cafes. Who is going to take parenting advice from a childless woman? No one. So I did the publicity photos with my friend’s child, and people assume that I just like to keep my own child out of the spotlight. It was a business decision I’m comfortable with.”

  “Could it have come from this friend?”

  “What?! No, of course not. Why are you asking me these questions? It’s not anyone I’m close with. Why can’t you just dust for prints and find whoever did it and put them in jail?”