The Billionaire's Valentine Vixen

“He called about an hour ago. He needs someone to watch his niece. He was supposed to head out to catch a flight but his nanny can’t get there because of the weather. He’s in a pinch. You’re only about five miles away. Trust me, he could use the help. He’ll pay you well, I’ll be sure of it.”

Bria’s voice comes through. “Sounds like win-win. We wanted you guys to meet anyway so this is perfect! Roan’s great. A little grouchy sometimes, but I’m sure he would be super grateful. He was pretty panicked when he called Martel to see if we could come, but the roads between here and there would take us hours to make the trip. It’s kismet! I’ll text you his address, okay? You just drive slow and message when you get there.”

“Okay,” I answer, my heart not entirely on board but, as they say, any port in a storm…

“Oh, and remember, if there’s a baby monitor or whatever, turn it all the way up. You sleep like the dead…”

“True.” I grin, thinking about that, then reply. “Bria…” I swallow hard. “Is Martel still on?” I hear the soft click again, then Bria’s voice is clearer.

“No. He’s calling Roan right now.”

“Okay, it’s just…”

“What?”

“Just, well, you promised not to tell Martel about my job. Did you tell him?”

“No. I mean, I can’t keep it a secret forever, but I’m trying to keep my promise. He’d probably go burn the place down if he knew what it’s been like for you all since that Corncob guy took over. Then he’d give you whatever money you needed…”

“Popcorn not Corncob... Never mind. I told you, I’m not taking any money. No way. I hope I’ll be able to quit soon. I just don’t want him to tell Roan, I’m sure he wouldn’t want a stripper babysitting his niece.”

“You’re a pre-med student with a scholarship. That’s what he knows. It’s not a lie.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Drive safe.”

2

Roan

Who knew a four-year-old could be such a terrorist?

Guilt envelops me at the thought. My niece Linnie runs up the main staircase wearing a turquoise bathing suit dotted with little yellow bananas, looking like a ghost. When I told her I didn’t have time to take her to the pool for a swim, she painted herself from head to toe in raw eggs and flour.

“Linnie.” I keep my voice steady. For all my years of mergers and acquisitions and killer negotiations, nothing has come close to preparing me to step in and raise my niece. “Please.”

She stops on the top step as I look up, fisting her hands on her little hips. Her youth and impish nature are totally in contrast to the surroundings. The dark wood walls are lined with ornate gold-leaf frames around oil paintings that rival any museum collection. This monster of a home has been in my family three generations. Thirteen bedrooms and fourteen bathrooms in the main house are complemented by three smaller guest quarters on the three-hundred-and-twenty-acre property.

My great, great grandfather was Scottish and fought for the British army during the war. My grandmother lived in Spain and that’s where they met, so he built the house with a Spanish influence as a gift to her after he made his fortune.

He started as a mill hand in a local lumber mill, but by 1929 he was one of the biggest lumber barons in Michigan, setting up his own son, then my father, to exponentially expand the family’s wealth over the years. My grandparents left their estate to me and my sister, but I had my life in New York and my own house south of here in Oakland Hills. But, things changed and here I am, back in the family monstrosity of a home, my formerly orderly life upended by tragedy and a rebellious four-year-old.

Linnie sits down on the top step and begins to move her hands and fingers in a fury and I grab my temples and squeeze.

“Sweetheart, you know I don’t know sign language.”

It doesn’t help that at four years old, she’s already reading at the level of a high-school student and her IQ has tested off the charts. In the last two weeks, she’s been watching YouTube videos of sign language and is now using it when it suits her.

And frustrates me.

Her hands move faster, her little eyebrows pulling tight as she continues signing. Her usually silky waves of brunette hair are caked with the egg and flour and the thought of having to get her into a bath right now has my eye twitching.

“Uncle Roan will be right back,” I say, taking a long breath and forcing a smile. “Stay right there, okay? Please? I’m begging you, just sit there for a minute.” I hate the desperation in my voice but I’m out of my depth and if begging works, then so be it because I’m the one that needs a time out.