The Billionaire's Nanny

by Lexi Aurora

  “Are you here for the opening?” he asked.

  “Opening?”

  “The opening of the Clara Dancy exhibit?”

  “No, I’m part of the cleaning crew. My first night.”

  “Oh?” The middle-aged man’s voice went up as if somehow his prospects had just improved. “So you’ll be working nights? With me?”

  Kim looked him over. Obviously Italian. Obviously middle-aged. And obviously married. What was it with men? Why did they think every woman was interested in being hit on?

  She ignored his question. “Where’s Sonya Lando?”

  Sonya was Kim’s friend from high school. While Kim had gone off to her disastrous marriage with Bruce, Sonya got straight to work. Though she only had a high school diploma, she’d done well for herself. She was already a manager at Rive Gauche and had helped Kim get this new cleaning job.

  “She’s at the party in gallery one, down that hall.” The security guard pointed to the left, and Kim set off in that direction.

  “I didn’t get your name,” he called after her.

  “Because I didn’t give it to you,” Kim said, walking away.

  Kim knew which room it was because she heard the music and talking from quite some distance. At the entrance, she saw that she was underdressed in her jeans and blouse, so was reluctant to get inside of the room. Most of the men were in suits and many of the women in long evening gowns. Kim’s gaze was drawn to the paintings on the walls, big bold colors in purples, dark blues, splashes of red. And everywhere on the wall, figures of women, their beautiful bodies draped across beds, entangled in the arms of their lovers, gently holding their children. The paintings were so gorgeous Kim was swept away and didn’t notice when Sonya came up to her.

  “I remember in high school you were a beautiful painter,” Sonya said.

  “It feels like a million years ago.” Kim smiled at her friend, who looked sophisticated in a long black sheath with a massive silver necklace and strappy silver sandals to match.

  The memory of how she used to love painting made Kim sad. She was suddenly being reminded of her life before Bruce. Her life when it had so many possibilities, when she was going to be a painter— the time when every day brought a new dream. The time before he crushed her aspirations with his constant talk: telling her she was nothing, telling her she could never do anything with her life. And now here she was, a single mother waiting tables and working as a janitor. Maybe he had been right about her. In any case, those dreams of becoming a famous painter seemed destined to never be fulfilled.

  She shook her head, attempting to shake those horrible memories back to where she kept them locked-up. She’d learned how to ignore the things that brought her down. Those were Bruce’s words anyway, not hers, just words with no meaning. She knew one day she’d be back on track and all of her still-to-be-discovered dreams would come true; they had to, not only for her, but for her son Derek too.

  “I’m here and ready to work,” Kim said. “That’s some security guard you got there, already trying to make his moves on me.”

  “Who? Frank?” Sonya laughed. “Ignore him. It’s just his way; he’s a nice enough guy.”

  “So where do I start?” Kim asked.

  “Wow, you’re an eager beaver! Chill. You can’t do much until the opening is over anyway. Do you want to vacuum around these people?” She laughed at her own joke. Kim smiled. What she really wanted was to finish as quickly as possible, get home, kiss her likely already sleeping son, and climb into her own bed. She didn’t say that to Sonya though.

  “Let’s go and get some champagne,” Sonya said, taking Kim’s arm to lead her inside.

  Kim stopped. “I don’t know. Maybe I can wait out with Frank until the party’s over.”

  “Don’t be silly! Why do you want to pass up free champagne? That’s not the Kim Davidson I used to know.”

  Kim knew she wasn’t the Kim Sonya used to know. But that was not the problem. “I don’t think I’m dressed appropriately.”

  Sonya looked her up and down. “Artists don’t care about such things. You should see what the woman who painted these paintings is wearing. I think it’s her smock she wears in her studio.”

  Kim still hesitated. Sonya pushed her around the corner. She took her necklace off and put it around Kim’s neck, pulling the collar of her white blouse up for effect. She took a bright red lipstick from her silver handbag and quickly swiped it across Kim’s full lips, then dabbed it with a tissue from her bag. Then she pulled the hair tie out of Kim’s long blonde hair and fluffed it up it so it fell around her shoulders in long golden waves.

  “Jesus!” Sonya said, standing back and looking at Kim. “You’re more beautiful than you were in high school, and in high school I was so jealous of you I could have bit your nose off if I got the chance.”

  They both laughed at that. Kim caught a reflection of herself in the shiny plating on the corner of the wall, and she was shocked. Was that her? She worked all of the time, and when she wasn’t working she was trying to spend time with Derek or sleeping. Taking care of herself had fallen off the radar. There was just no time for that anymore. Who was that woman? Kim thought when she looked at herself. Where had she gone?

  “I’m simply dying of thirst! I might collapse right here if I don’t get some champagne. Can we go into the party now? Please!” Sonya begged Kim.

  Kim laughed. “Always the drama queen, hey, Sonya? Okay, let’s go!”

  Chapter 2

  R OBERT LOOKED OUT AT the calm surface of Lake Michigan and wished he was somewhere else—anywhere else. Anyone looking at the scene would have thought he was crazy. A beautiful summer day, out on his own yacht, beautiful women at his beck and call, champagne, waiters to serve them—how could anything be wrong? It was everyone’s dream. Robert wondered what was wrong with him. He had everything, but he felt so empty, as if he had nothing.

  He had arrived at twenty-six, a billionaire with companies and properties all over the world. His legacy was well-established; he had nothing to prove anymore. Why was that not enough? Why did he feel so restless and unfulfilled? Why did this life he lived seem so pointless?

  A tall brunette in a bikini, with new breasts and a pouty mouth advertising that it was not all natural, passed by and took his hand. “Come on deck and dance with us, Robert.”

  “Later,” he said. He smiled at her, and she disappeared. Robert spotted Debra, his PA, near the door and waved her over. She was always where he was and absolutely loyal. She took care of everything for him, just as she’d always done.

  “Sir?” Debra said. She was old-school respectful, something Robert used to like, but even that annoyed him lately.

  “Call me Robert, Debra,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Robert gave up. “I’m sneaking downstairs to my bedroom. Tell people looking for me I’m sick. I want to be alone for a while.”

  “Yes, sir... I mean, Robert.” At least she was trying. It would take time.

  Robert lay on his bed in the spacious bedroom fitted out with oak wardrobes and dressing tables attached to the walls for the rough seas his yacht sometimes encountered. He’d traveled in it to Greece and South Africa, even to Australia a few times. It was his home when he was not in Chicago in his lakefront penthouse on the twenty-fifth floor of one of the buildings he owned in the city. The ground floor was his gallery, Rive Gauche, one of the more prestigious in the country. Art was one of Robert’s passions, and finding and promoting new artists he loved was one of the few things in his life that still gave him real joy. He kept to the background though. He didn’t like being seen as the owner or the benefactor. Few people knew what he actually did, and he liked it that way.

  He looked up to the ceiling, sighing. He was sick in a way. He had been for some time. What was wrong with him? Was he lonely? Could it be as simple as that? Lonely with people constantly around him.

  Of course he missed his parents, but the accident had been over three years ago now
. Surely he was over the initial shock of the loss. It was a tragedy when their private plane crashed in the Andes, but Robert sometimes thought it was better they died together. Theirs had been a love story like no other, one Robert could only dream of ever having, and he doubted either one of them would have survived happily on their own. Robert was an only child, so he often felt lost without them, but the way he felt lately was more than that. His life seemed so meaningless. Nothing really challenged him anymore. Everything was easy and unexciting. Living the playboy life had lost its fun.

  He rolled to his side. Soon the yacht would dock and the crowd would leave and he would be free of them, at least for a while. He had the opening of the Dancy show at the gallery tonight. He loved her paintings and would like to purchase one or two tonight for his house in Paris, but he didn’t look forward to seeing the same vacuous people that always attended such functions in Chicago. They were always there more for being seen than for appreciating the art. They would, as usual, be fawning over him in the insincere manner he’d come to loathe.

  But then he reminded himself of his plan, and a surge of excitement passed through his body. He’d thought of it some weeks before, and it had not left his mind since. He’d read a story about an employee at the Louvre who stole the Mona Lisa—Vincenzo Peruggia. Something about that stuck with him. He imagined himself stealing a painting; just the thought made his blood race with excitement, something he never felt nowadays. To plan and execute such a thing successfully began to fill his mind and, oddly, it gave him a reason for living, something beyond his normal life.

  Tonight he planned to implement what he’d laid out for himself. Tonight he intended to commit a perfect crime: to steal a painting from his own gallery and not get caught. He smiled thinking about it as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

  “S IR? SIR?”

  Robert opened his eyes, confused. Where was he?

  “Sir, sorry to disturb you, but we’ve been docked for three hours now, and I fear if you don’t get up soon you will miss this evening’s engagement.” Debra stood to the side, as if embarrassed, holding his tuxedo in one hand.

  Robert sat up on his bed and looked out the window. He was still on the yacht. It was dark, the city lights sparkling in the distance. He felt refreshed though; the long sleep had been exactly what he needed. He checked the clock and saw it was already 8:30. He’d be late for the opening—he’d better get going. He had a big night ahead of him.

  R OBERT COULDN’T KEEP his mind still. All he could think of was his plan. Once the party was over and the crowd cleared out, when all was quiet, he would sneak back in and do it. Which painting would he steal? He decided since this was really just a practice run to see if he could get away with it, he would steal the painting that he’d purchased shortly after he’d arrived. It was small and in a good position in the gallery. And it would harm no one. The painter would have been paid, and he would not claim from his insurance for the loss. It was the perfect choice for his first attempt.

  He milled around the crowd, trying to pay attention to the conversations about new business acquisitions or charities that were being started, gossip about who was sleeping with whom. He had interest in none of it.

  Mrs. Vallier stood far too close to him and ran her hands up and down Robert’s well-defined biceps, felt clearly through his jacket while she talked. “You know we only just returned from Cannes. It was amazing. We missed you this year, Robert.”

  She smiled at him, a smile meant to remind him of their rendezvous in a cheap hotel up the coast. Mrs. Vallier, though married and a few years old than Robert, was an energetic lover if little else.

  “Perhaps next year,” Robert said, moving off.

  He stood before the painting he’d purchased, the one chosen for the night’s escapade. It was a small painting, little bigger than two of his hands wide. The naked woman, for all of the paintings were of gorgeous naked women in all of their beauty, lay across a rumpled bed. A red blanket was pushed to the side, and one of her arms was thrown above her head, her long blonde hair spread around her like a halo, her other hand cupping between her legs, a slight smile on her face. He loved everything about the painting. The woman looked satiated after lovemaking of the long and luxurious kind. He would enjoy holding the painting in his hands; he got excited just imagining it. Art should move a person, and this painting moved him.

  He turned looking away from the painting, and there she was.

  Across the room, a woman, with the same spectacular blonde hair as the woman in the painting. She was dressed casually, as if clothes were nothing to her, that her real substance was herself— who she was— not the accoutrements that money could buy. So unlike the other women that filled up the room. It was such a new and refreshing manner, Robert could not look away from her. She wore a white blouse with a bold silver necklace and little makeup except for a slash of bright red lipstick on her perfect, natural lips. She looked directly at him. She noticed he was staring at her, but she did not look away. Nor did she move toward him, as most of the women in the room would have done, the hunt begun. She stayed where she was.

  The gallery was packed with people. Robert pushed through them to get nearer to this extraordinary woman. He was finally next to her, though she was facing away from him. The crowd pushed him into her, his body against her back, and he bent his face slightly toward her golden hair and thought how it smelled of sunshine and summer and fields of green grass. His body, against his will, was filling with adrenaline, the excitement moving through him just being near her. He could not remember ever being so affected by a woman. He felt lost in her somehow.

  She turned to him, and she was more beautiful up close than she was from across the room.

  “Hello,” she said. “I thought I saw you looking at me from over there in the corner. Did you want something?”

  “No,” he said. “Only to meet you, I guess.” He held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Robert.”

  She smiled at him and her face lit up, and his breath caught in his throat. Had he ever met such a beautiful woman before? So beautiful and yet she seemed completely unconcerned about it and the effect she was having on him.

  “Hi, Robert. I’m Kim. Kim Davidson.”

  Keep reading Bound By The Billionaire – it is available online, check Lexi Aurora’s author page for its availability.

  PREVIEW: The Big Billionaire by Lexi Aurora

  S ure, he doesn’t own me, but if you saw how much money he just invested into my idea, you wouldn’t think that.

  All I ever wanted was to work for myself and run my own restaurant, but then Allan Dane walked in and made me an offer I couldn’t resist. I tried to fight, but I didn’t try very hard, or for very long...

  What was there to lose? My boss was a monster, my love life wasn’t exactly setting the world on fire, and I was always on the verge of losing the crappy apartment.

  But I had an idea and Allan heard it. Suddenly he was whisking me all over town, promising me the world, as long as I could follow orders. I followed, and Allan led me straight into his dark past. Now the only thing that scares me more than being burned is the thought of never feeling his touch again...

  “Big Investor: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance” contains adult language and situations. It is intended for a mature audience. HEA is guaranteed.

  Chapter 1

  Will this day ever end?

  Just as I’m about to finally beeline out of the stuffy, overfilled room, someone grabs my hand.

  “Not so fast, Blondie.”

  At the sound of Geno’s slightly mocking tone, I suppress my urge to sigh. Instead, I turn around with the best smile I can muster.

  “Yes?”

  Geno’s grinning as if we hadn’t just spent ten straight hours teaching a bunch of unwilling amateurs how to cut carrots properly.

  “There’s a customer who wants to speak to you.”

  My smile hangs, but I glide over without a word to where his tanned finger is pointing. I know
all too well how long a customer just wanting to “speak to me” can drag on—whether it’s a three-part fable of their cooking woes until they stumbled across Geno and me, or some compliments and picking my brain for every cooking tidbit I have, there really is no bounds to trying to get out of it, especially not while Geno’s hovering by like a delighted vulture. He doesn’t care how long after my shift I stick around, nor whether I like it. All he cares about is that we baby our customers to the point of ridiculousness so that we get a five-star review online and in all the famous cooking magazines. After all, “the customer is always right.”

  This time, thankfully, it’s just a table of delighted tourists, who all clap their hands in glee and thank me profusely. And yet, every time I’m about to successfully escape, another one of them pipes in about their favorite part of the class, how they almost burned themselves, ha-ha, he-he, etc. All the while I stay dutifully frozen in place, with my smile plastered on, half hoping they can see how eager I am to leave so they will let me go in peace—it’s 5:15 p.m. now, and I don’t get paid for the extra time. But the whole group is delightedly oblivious, chattering on and on, not really including me—I’m just a symbol really. God, I can’t wait until I get my app developed; then I won’t have to deal with this nonsense anymore.

  When I finally do tear myself away, I’m almost at the back of the restaurant when someone grabs my arm. I freeze. I twist around to see Geno. Closer to the back of the restaurant now, away from most of the patrons, Geno’s fake smile contorts into a scowl.

  “What were you doing?”

  I avoid his angry gaze.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Those people at that table at the front over there—those customers . You weren’t even pretending to be interested in what they were saying. You were rude, unconvincing, ungrateful.”