The Billionaire's Nanny

The cat responded with a banshee yowl. Three men in business suits glared. A woman pressed her lips together and narrowed her gaze.

Emma rubbed her fingertips along the strand of fake pearls hanging over the neckline of her pink short-sleeved sweater set. She leaned closer to the crate’s door. “You might not agree, but traveling with me is your best option. Otherwise, you’d be stuck in a metal cage at a vet’s office while they repair the shelter. Kitten season means foster homes are full of little ones. I called each and every person on the foster list to see if they had room.”

None did. With such short notice, no pet sitter was available. That meant Blossom was coming along with Emma.

Traveling was difficult for animals, but especially cats. Still, the shelter director thought flying by a private jet and staying with Emma, who Blossom tolerated unlike the other shelter volunteers, would be less stressful than being crated at a clinic.

A name sounded over the PA system. Not Emma’s. Her relief was palpable.

A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a black messenger bag swung over his shoulder walked toward the door.

“Not our turn, Blossom.”

Thank goodness. Emma glanced around the waiting area full of orange upholstered chairs. People sat, working on tablets or laptops. Others stood, talking or texting on cell phones. No one looked nervous about flying. She hoped she didn’t. She crossed her fingers.

Always appear cool and confident even if you’re not, an instructor had told the class at the Rose City Nanny Academy. Emma lived by those words whether she was rushing bleeding or sick kids to the ER, speaking about a child’s behavior on behalf of a parent with a school principal or giving statements in custody battles. Today should be no different. Not should, would.

A security guard passed in front of her. A chain jiggled from his belt loop.

Blossom hissed.

“Stupid cat,” he muttered, walking away with a disapproving look.

“Stop acting like a grumpy diva,” Emma said to the cat. Blossom’s antisocial behavior had kept her from being shown at any of the Portland Paws Rescue’s adoption events. However, the cat did better one-on-one. “No one wants an unfriendly kitty. And you don’t want to spend the rest of your life at the cattery. Being in a forever home with a loving family would be so much better for you.”

She dreamed of owning a home and having a family herself. She would take care of her own house and children, not be an employee who never quite fit in or belonged. Someday...

Libby Hansen’s catchy ringtone sounded.

Emma grabbed her phone and hit Answer, eager to talk to her best friend recovering in a New York hospital. “How are you?”

“I could be better.”

Her pulse accelerated. “Complications from the ruptured appendix?”

“I wish.” Libby’s voice sounded dry, scratchy. “A smokin’ hot resident made rounds today. He didn’t give me a second glance. All he cared about was reading my chart.”

Emma released the breath she’d been holding. “He was wowed speechless by your beauty.”

“I look like a zombie from a high school kid’s horror movie project. Enough about me. You’re at the airport, right?”

“I’m here with Blossom.” Libby and her parents were Emma’s final foster family, the closest thing she had to living relatives. She would take Libby’s place as a personal assistant for the next five days, even fly, to give her friend the rest and recovery time she needed. “Attila hasn’t arrived yet.”

Libby sucked in a breath. “Don’t you dare call AJ that to his face.”

Emma hadn’t met Libby’s boss, but the nickname fit the photographs she’d seen of AJ. Over six feet with a beard, he looked more like a conquering warrior than computer geek turned billionaire. Libby described her boss as gorgeous. The guy might be attractive with a hot body, but Emma had never been a fan of tall, dark and dangerous men with facial hair. “You call him Attila.”

“Only when I’m hungry or PMSing or overworked.”

Libby sounded exhausted. But recovering from emergency surgery while on a business trip to the East Coast would wear a person out. “So that leaves what? Two days a month?”

“Ha. Ha. AJ’s a good boss who pays me extremely well.”

“A good boss does not wake you up in the middle of the night to order flowers for his woman du jour. Or make you spend Christmas on an airplane instead of with your family. Or put his interview on CNBC ahead of your abdominal pains. All that money he pays you is worthless if you’re dead.”

“Hey, I’m very much alive.”

No thanks to Mr. Atticus Jackson Cole. The what-ifs surrounding Libby’s appendix turned Emma’s stomach into enough knots to make a Boy Scout proud. “I’m thankful you’re alive.”

“I’m thankful you’re filling in for me on such short notice.” Libby, who focused on what her boss might need before he realized he needed something, didn’t miss a beat. Even when connected to an IV and on painkillers. “Did you have a shot of tequila?”

“It’s still morning.”

“Remember what happened when we flew to Mexico?”

“Of course.” Flying for the first time on a spring break trip to Puerto Vallarta had nearly turned into a one-way trip. Boarding a plane...no big deal. Accelerating along the runway...no big deal. Feeling weightless when the wheels lifted off the tarmac... Emma tapped her toe, a race-walk patter catching up to her marathon-run pulse. “Well, except for the flight home. You got me so drunk I passed out before the plane left the gate.”

“I did that on purpose, and my plan worked. You didn’t throw up. Go down a shot. For medicinal purposes. You need to settle your nerves for the flight.”

Getting drunk at ten in the morning on the first day of a new job wasn’t an option today. Emma would have to tough out the flight without alcohol. She’d survived worse, right? “My nerves are fine.”

“Your voice sounds an octave higher.”

“Bad connection.”

“I hope so, because AJ’s jet just landed.”

The phone slid from Emma’s sweat-slicked hand. She tightened her grip. “How do you know that?”

“I’m paid to know these things.” Libby’s words had a sharp edge, the way she sounded when handling a rare mishap. “But don’t worry. The majority of your work will be party planning. But you might have to remind AJ that he’s on vacation.”

Libby’s new tone and her old tales told Emma that caring for a dozen kids in training pants running with open pots of finger paints might be easier than assisting one billionaire while he tried to relax on a trip to his hometown. “I can’t believe I’m going to be doing your job.”

“You’re perfect. You’ve dealt with angst-ridden teens, tweens with horrible attitudes, tantrum-throwing kindergartners, pampered preschoolers and toddlers with death wishes. You can handle anything, including AJ.”

“I don’t know about that.” Emma watched a little girl carrying a stuffed dog and her mother talking into a cell phone walk into the restroom. “A bachelor billionaire with no kids doesn’t need me.”

“AJ needs you.” Certainty filled Libby’s voice. “Don’t let his type A personality get to you. Billionaires aren’t that different from toddlers except they know how to use silverware and occasional manners. Sometimes. Trust me, they need direction and supervision.”

“You’d think he could pull together his grandmother’s birthday party.”

“AJ doesn’t make his own dinner reservations,” Libby said matter-of-factly. “Arranging his grandmother’s soiree on his own is out of the question.”

Emma’s insides twisted. “Soiree sounds fancier than a party.”

“Semantics. Stop worrying. You threw a spectacular birthday party for the twins.”

Abbie and Annie. Cute six-year-old twins Emma had cared for the past year.