CHAPTER TWO

Ridge

I’ve come a long way from the housing projects, and I’m damn proud of everything I’ve achieved. However, all I’ve built and worked for is worth nothing unless I can give Lydia the life she deserves.

I saved her once, when she was only a year old. I came home at lunch to surprise the girls, and Cynthia was not surprisingly passed out on the couch from whatever pills she’d taken that day. It makes me shudder to think that Lydia could have swallowed the pills on the coffee table.

I know Cynthia needed help, and it was that one truth that warranted to stand by that woman through three stints in rehab—but when she left our baby girl alone again, so she could sleep with her drug dealer, I was officially done. She didn’t care about Lydia—just the ridiculous unhealthy addictions she insisted on pursuing.

Fuck that.

My baby deserves better. I’ll be damned if my daughter grows up with a junkie for a mother, neglected and scared all the time. I grew up that way and there’s no way in hell I’m letting anything like that near my child.

The way I see it, she’s better off with a full-time nanny. The Montessori program was great, and Lydia loved it, but the building safety was an issue, by my standards, which I knew were ludicrous by most people’s standards, but I didn’t give a damn.

Now that the Rativan mob has me in their crosshairs, I’m not taking any risks. Lydia is going to have the best care with the most trustworthy guards.

I switched her to St. Agnes for kindergarten because it’s small and the perimeter is easy to monitor. The administration was more than cooperative about my private security for Lydia. They have a couple of high profile government officials’ kids there so they’re no stranger to security detail. I also vetted the entire faculty with a deep background check, and everyone came up clean. I’m comfortable with her new school. It’s the child care after school that’s been a concern.

The idea of an in-home nanny is perfect. I can control the environment. Lydia will get undivided attention, plenty of creative activities and reading time. Too bad the first nanny was an idiot; she posted a selfie with Lydia online. I made her sign a nondisclosure agreement that included no photographing or recording Lydia at any time unless I expressly requested it, after which the image was to be deleted immediately. Using filters to put fake dog ears on my five-year-old and putting the picture online for the world to see was obviously a terminating offense. She cried a lot when I fired her. It didn’t do anything but annoy me and prove she was even more immature for the position. I don’t want someone careless and stupid with Lydia. That’s not the role model I want for her either.

I’ve got two more interviews from the agency before I decide. I was hoping for a Mary Poppins type; hyper-capable and professional, that kind of thing.

Judging by the red head that just walked in, Mary Poppins isn’t on the menu. I’m pretty sure Julie Andrews never wore high heeled boots with a skirt so short while on the job with the Banks children. The middle-aged woman crosses her legs high on the thigh, and the hem of her skirt creeps up even more. If I tilt my head, I’m positive I’ll be able to see if she’s wearing underwear. I’m also positive she’s not.

“Mr. Carter, I’m so happy to meet you. I can’t believe you’re taking time to interview me personally, a man as busy as you are,” she says, exaggerating her sentences to attempt to seduce me. “I’m Poppy.”

“Like the troll?” I say idly.

“What?” She looks really insulted.

“It’s my daughter’s favorite movie. Poppy is the princess in the troll movie,” I tell her, wondering why the hell a nanny doesn’t know anything about what’s popular with children.

“Oh. I thought you were calling me a troll. I guess that’s okay then, if it’s a princess. My favorite princess is Merida because she has red hair like mine,” Poppy said.

“How nice,” I say, wondering why the agency would send this person my way.

“I’m really good with hair. I was in cosmetology school for a while, but all the teachers were jealous of me and gave me bad grades. But I can give your daughter highlights or cut her hair or dye it pink or whatever for free. Or your son. If it’s a boy, he can have pink hair, I’m not prejudice,” she smiled.

“I have a daughter. The one who likes Poppy in Trolls. Remember?” I say, even more annoyed.

“Oh yeah. Well, does she like pink hair?”

“Probably, but no one will be coloring her hair as she is only five years old. There isn’t a lot of conclusive data that hair processing chemicals aren’t harmful neurologically—”

“Oh, they’re safe! I’ve been coloring my hair since I was ten, and I’m totally fine! Now, the agency said I should check your policy on sleepovers.”

“Lydia has never been to a sleepover. She’s too young,” I claim.

“Not for her. For me maybe! I mean, unless I’m spending my nights with you….” She looks me up and down in a way that makes me want to show her the exit. I shake my head in aversion.

“The position of nanny reports to me, but serves only my daughter. I assure you, if I may speak frankly, that I’m specifically looking for household help, not a mistress or concubine.”

“Then I’ll want to have my boyfriend stay over,” she discloses.

I shake my head grimly, unsure why I haven’t dismissed her yet. “No. The residential portion of the position does not allow for it. It would be unacceptable for my five-year-old to walk in on you and your boyfriend doing God knows what…”

“Okay, I get it. You seem really tense. I learned massage techniques when I was in cosmetology as well. Want a rubdown?” She offers.

She gets up out of her chair and comes around the desk to my side. I want nothing but for her to go away. She puts her hands on my shoulders. I bolt up immediately out of my chair, brushing her off.

“No thank you. I think we’re done here.”

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” she says, pushing her ample cleavage up against my chest. I back away.

“Please go. Someone will be in touch with you regarding the job,” I say, taking two more steps back from her. I don’t want her to climb all over me. I make a mental note to call the agency and ask who the utter moron was that sent Sleazy the Troll my way.

I then spend an hour on the phone with my contact at the FBI. Drake informs me that even though the surveillance we conducted as contractors was instrumental in putting away Sam Rativan and his lead enforcer, the crime family still has influence on the outside. I already know this, but thank him for informing me. No threats have been made specifically toward my security firm, but I briefed my staff two days ago on taking extra precautions anyway. Better to be safe than sorry, I have learned. The syndicate is more likely to go after the judge’s family or the federal prosecutor than the local security firm that got the audio recordings, but I wasn’t going to let my guard down when my daughter’s safety was on the line.

The next candidate comes for her interview. She’s early. She’s young, although her work history was strong. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. She slumps in her chair and doesn’t say anything. I give her the iPad and instruct her to take the test, but stops every couple of questions to get a tissue and wipe her eyes and blow her nose. When she finishes the test, I want to disinfect the tablet, but hold myself back. I look at her results and ask if she’s feeling ill.

“No. I’m—I’m fine. Please. Let’s do the interview. I need—I need a new place to live.”

She starts sobbing. A lot. It’s high pitched and quite uncomfortable to watch. I would much rather she quit doing that. Instead, I hold out the tissue box. She can’t see it to take one because she’s got her head in her hands. I get up and set the box on the floor by her foot because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to touch her or pat her shoulder. She might think it sexual assault or worse cry all over me. I don’t know this woman. She’s clearly unstable. Any sane person would have rescheduled if they couldn’t pull themselves together. Sanity was too much to ask apparently.

I wait for her to gather herself enough to answer questions. I check my email. I go over my notes from the previous interviews, looking for anything to pass the awkward time. She’s making a sharp hiccup sound now every few seconds that’s possibly worse than the loud sobs. I was not trained for this. I was a Marine security guard, not a chaplain or a counselor.

“Miss,” I say finally, “Is there someone should call to come get you?”

“No. He LEFT ME this morning,” she shouts before lapsing into sobs again.

So that’s the problem. Some guy dumped her. I feel bad, but she’s a total mess. It’s not like I’d leave my child in her care. Showing up for the interview in this condition was irresponsible, and I don’t have room in my daughter’s life for irresponsible people.

“That’s unfortunate. I wish you better luck in the future. My secretary will call you a car and—”

“No. I want to stay. I want this job. It’s a girl, right? The kid?” she says.

Out of courtesy, I nod yes, I have a daughter.

No way is this woman getting near Lydia.

“Good. I can teach her everything I know. Like to never trust a man. Fuckers are all out for what they can get. One minute they love you, and then the next minute they throw you out so they can fuck the girl they said was just a friend from work. Friend my ass! I knew he wasn’t just comforting her when I saw them. She was just humping his leg. I told myself, you have to trust him. You made a commitment. What’s a little dry humping at work? But no, he couldn’t leave it at that…he had to kick me out so he can move her in. I hope she has herpes. I hope she gives him herpes—”

I interrupt her, holding up my hand.

“I’m afraid that won’t be suitable. I don’t consider five to be an appropriate age to discuss the pitfalls of relationships or the possibility of sexually transmitted infections. We’re done here.”

“You didn’t even give me a chance to tell you my experience—” she protests.

“I think I know more than enough about your personal life. There are no further questions necessary. “

“Look, it isn’t my fault I fell in love with a bastard who can’t keep his dick in his pants at his bus boy job. I have to get a place to live, pay rent. Your kid could really learn a lot from me. How to be a strong woman and start over on your own and—”

If she doesn’t stop, I’m going to lose my professionalism. I keep hearing her saying ‘herpes’ like it echoes. I can just hear my innocent, sweet little girl asking me what that means. I’m infuriated by the thought and feel a migraine slowly arising. I buzz Caroline and tell her to escort the applicant out to the lobby and get her a ride.

I’m relieved when my secretary takes her away. I drop my head into my hands. This day has been a shit show. I have to find the right person to care for Lydia. I wish I could be with her all the time, but in my absence, she needs a warm and protective caregiver. I rushed in with the last nanny who sounded too good to be true, so I’m going to be sure this time. For right now, Mrs. Whitman, the housekeeper, is minding her after school, which means that Lydia has to watch the Food Network with her—not the enriching environment I want for my kid.

My daughter doesn’t have a mother. I feel the weight of that and think about it every day; the fact that I chose the wrong wife and had to find a way to keep Lydia from her before she could damage my little girl. I know about damage. About never really trusting anyone. Only counting on myself. Knowing deep down in myself the icy truth that everyone’s just out for themselves. Except me—I’m out for my daughter to have the best, safest life possible. The childhood I never had.

So, like it or not, she needs a strong female role model. Someone kind and smart and confident. Not confident in the thrust-your-cleavage-out-and-offer-a-massage way. Confident in the didn’t-take-any-crap-from-anyone way. I think back to the infuriating blonde with the kickboxing background. The runner who thought she knew it all about taking care of kids. She was arrogant. She didn’t say ‘call the father’ immediately for all the scenarios I gave her. Surely, that was the only correct answer.

What did I want Lydia to be like? Crushed and bitter? Flaky and sexually aggressive? Or proud but strong? I know the answer. It just pisses me off.

Not to mention that blonde was about to be the death of me right there in the hallway. She bit her lips, and I instantly got hard. I could imagine that supple pair of lips on me. Those pink cheeks flushed with pleasure. The whole time she was calmly taking the MMPI, I was trying to sit in my chair in a way that would relieve the sudden tightness of my trousers. I was rock hard watching her cross her legs, watching the crinkle between her eyebrows when she concentrated, seeing the pulse throbbing at her throat when she was irritated by me or disagreed. She was actually making me ache for her, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

I go into work focused and not easily distracted. I don’t usually have that kind of physical reaction to women who walk in the office. I was so turned on that it rattled me. I’m pretty sure I barked at her like I was her superior officer. Perhaps unconsciously wishing I could order her around in my bedroom or, better yet, in my office while she’s leaning over my desk.

I only want what’s best for my daughter and don’t doubt for a second that a fierce firecracker like Reva Sloan would let anything happen to Lydia. That’s not what I’m afraid of; what I’m afraid of is my attraction to her. I won’t let anything stand in the way of what’s best for my little girl and definitely not her sleazy cheating junkie mother nor the entire Rativan crime family and certainly not a little thing like the perfect, unforgettable curve of that blonde’s ass. Physical attraction, no matter how strong, is nothing compared to the purpose of my entire life, which is keeping my daughter safe.

I instruct Caroline to offer Reva Sloan the job tomorrow. I also block out a half day to conduct her orientation personally while Lydia’s at school. I can only assume Reva will undoubtedly accept, considering her shocking debt that came to my attention in her background check files.

During the orientation I want the rules and routine to be perfectly clear. No matter how distracting my attraction to her, I’ll hold her to the same standards and expectations I held my men to in the armed forces.

Reva Sloan, I sure hope you’re ready for the force that’s headed your way.