“I do have some actual good news for you,” Marcus says. “I found Mrs. Dalton’s perfect replacement.”
My brow lifts. “Oh, yeah?”
“Thought a different strategy might work this time. I’m hoping someone so desperate won’t run away.”
“Let’s hope so,” I grunt. “Your current strategy is fucking abysmal.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “My job isn’t just to find a nanny for you, boss. The last one you made cry, and Teagan made the one before that burst into tears.”
I shoot him a dark stare. He’s lucky he’s worked for me for ten years.
“You can meet the new one on Sunday. You’ll like her; she’s Irish. She’ll be a great influence on Teagan. We’ve run the background checks. No drugs, illnesses, STDs. Scabies. No record of terrorism.” His grin widens. “Cleaner than an Irish nun.”
This sounds promising.
“Should I be concerned about your priority order?” I ask dryly. “Sounds like you’ve found me the Irish Mary Poppins.”
“I couldn’t have described her better myself. It’s like you’ve already met her.”
“Send me her resume and vetting results.” I’m not comfortable with someone moving in so quickly, but I’ve got very few options. Mrs. Dalton’s absence was last minute. And my security team is prepared for any scenario-scabies, terrorism, or otherwise.
He pauses, swirling his coffee. “She’s younger than Mrs. Dalton.”
I give him a questioning look. “And?”
He shrugs. “And nothing. That’s it. I’m just giving you all the facts.”
I study him suspiciously.
Clodagh
I gaze at the Fifth Avenue brownstone, counting six stories to the top. I have to crane my neck to take it all in. I bet they have a breathtaking view of Central Park from up there.
I left Orla brooding, with promises to return, and got in the car with Mr. Quinn’s driver, Sam-a black SUV with blacked-out windows, reinforced with bulletproof glass, which Sam confirmed to my delight.
Thanks to Uncle Sean’s dead wife, Kathy, I’m dressed in a long, floral skirt and white blouse covering my arm tattoos. I wipe a sweaty palm over my skirt. It’s hideous, God rest poor Kathy’s soul. I’m usually in yoga pants and a T-shirt, not dressed like Nanny McPhee.
It took all of ten minutes to shove my belongings in a backpack. Clothes, tweezers, razors, cold sore cream, hair products to tame my red frizz, and some adult toys I haven’t been able to use knowing Uncle Sean and Aunt Kathy’s ghost are in the house.
I scale the steps until I reach the double door. This must be what Alice felt like when she drank the shrinking potion.
Two stone lion statues with their mouths open stand guard on either side of the door.
My stomach lurches with nerves and excited energy. Am I really moving in here?
I give my armpits a quick sniff. I could fry an egg between my breasts. We Irish like to complain about the weather a lot.
It must be thirty-five degrees Celsius outside or, as the Americans say, a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Something like that; maths was never my strong suit. Not like the owner of this tank of a mansion. You don’t get to be a billionaire without being good at maths and other subjects.
I suck in a deep breath and press the doorbell.
“State your full name,” a male voice says before I take my finger off the button.
That’s unnerving. Is his butler waiting on the other side?
“Clodagh Kelly,” I say each name slowly, unsure where to direct my voice.
“Look directly at the camera.” There’s a long pause. “Clodagh.”
Wow. Impressive accuracy in pronunciation.
My eyes widen, and I search for the camera. There it is-a shiny round object above the doorbell. It moves until it’s focusing directly on my face.
In the movies, this is when I’d get nuked.
With a tight-lipped smile, I stand rigidly facing the camera, unsure if I’m speaking to a human or an electronic device. For a doorbell, it learned my name quickly. It could even be Killian Quinn himself; I don’t know what he sounds like.
“Retinal scan initiated,” the male monotone informs me.
I hold my forced smile, wondering if I’m being watched. This is worse than JFK passport control.
“Retina scan complete,” the voice announces.
I wait. Now what?
My stomach tightens as footsteps come toward the door from the inside.
The double doors pull open and…
It’s him.
Of course, it’s fucking him.
Our eyes lock as his brows join in a deep frown. I see his brain ticking over… trying to remember… trying to place me.
I wait.
The moment recognition flares in those arctic eyes, my skin prickles like it’s been jagged by a thousand icebergs, slowly freezing me to death.
He folds his arms across his chest as his scowl deepens.
God help me. I thought the Manhattans clouded my vision; that Killian Quinn couldn’t be as unnerving as I remember. Jesus Christ, he’s worse.
He’s massive, excessively masculine, and absolutely fucking terrifying. Has he grown taller since I saw him at the hotel?
His heavy gaze roams over me, making his way over every inch of my body. An inspection I’m flunking with a capital F. By the time he lands on my face, I feel like I’ve been stripped of Kathy’s floral skirt and frilly blouse.
Yup, he remembers me.
I resist the urge to bolt back down the street.
“Mr. Quinn?” I swallow thickly. “I’m Clodagh Kelly.”
“You,” he says at last, his jaw visibly tensing.
“Me. Eh, sorry about that little incident at the hotel. I-”
“I was expecting you to be older,” he cuts in, his voice as cold as his eyes.
“Oh.” I blink, unsure of how to rectify that issue. “I apologize?”