April

The address was only a short walk from the Knightsbridge tube station. The sun was shining as I took the little path that led to the private square called Little Sion. In no time I was standing in front of a large set of wrought iron electric gates adorned on either side by stone lions. Before I could press the intercom button, a voice with a foreign accent brusquely instructed me to go through the small side gate.

Okay.

As I got to the gate it clicked open. I pushed it, and walked through. Standing on the asphalt driveway for a second, I looked up at the mansion. Wow! Painted brilliant white, it practically glinted in the sun. As if it was some ice palace from a fairy tale. Who’d have thought such a massive palace existed right in the heart of Knightsbridge.

A huge bald man wearing an earpiece and a black suit that was a size too small for him was making his way towards me. The guy was so big the top of my head came up to his tree-trunk biceps. Of course, as basic human interaction demanded, I smiled politely at him. He did not smile back as he let his eyes dart over me suspiciously.

Okay. Be like that then.

“I’ve come about the job. I have an appointment with Mr. Volkov,” I said.

He grunted. “I know. Come with me.”

He turned on his heel and I fell into step beside him. Actually, it was more like a jog, or to be even more accurate, a fast-paced sprint. Damn him.

“My name is April Winters, what’s yours?” I gasped, in an effort to be civil and pretend the speed we were travelling at was my normal pace.

He grunted again, before his eyes slid down to me. The expression on his face did not change. “Brain,” he said.

I mean, I could have said, ‘what’, or laughed outright, or if I wanted to carry on being polite and civil, ‘pardon me’, but I kinda knew I’d heard right. Somehow the name suited him to a T. Of course, he would be called Brain.

I gave up any pretense civility at that point, and silently followed him up to the house.

Two more ‘brains’ in black suits watched us from the entrance of the house. They wore the same expressions of extreme distrust. For the first time, I wondered what the hell I had got myself into.

Who was my employer?

Obviously, the first thing I did when I was told I had been selected to apply for this job was Google Yuri Volkov. All I found were images of an extraordinarily handsome businessman escorting beautiful women to high society parties. No mention of a palace in Knightsbridge, or goons that behaved as if they belonged in a bad Mafia movie.

Come to think of it now, in every photo I found he was unsmiling, giving me the impression of a cold, aloof man. Not that that bothered me any.

I would be in charge of his niece and report her progress to him. And that was all I would be doing. Since I was extremely good at my job, I didn’t foresee needing to take shit from Mr. Volkov.

There was one picture of him though, playing polo in Windsor, which caught my attention. Something about the expression in his eyes as he leaned down to swing his mallet. Here was a man who got what he wanted. An implacable man. A man you did not antagonize.

A man you allowed into your body.

Did I just go there?

I crushed the thought.

I was a professional, and I had no intention of ever being anything else. Under no circumstances was I exchanging my good reputation for any man. No matter how hot he was. Besides, as if a man like that was going to give a woman like me even a second look. All those beautiful women swarming around him like flies to shit. Not a chance.

Which obviously was a good thing.

The last thing I needed was temptation.

Not that I was saying I was tempted.

The man opened the grand doors and my jaw dropped. Jesus! Mr. Volkov must be a very, very, very, very successful businessman. The interior of his abode made me feel like I had just stepped into an episode of The Secret Lives of Billionaires. It had one of those foyers with a spiral staircase. From the glass ceiling four floors up, hung the biggest chandelier I had ever seen in my life. It seemed to have millions of crystal pieces that caught the sunlight streaming in from the top and practically blazed like it was on fire.

Our shoes rang on the marble floors. Some poor minion had polished them so hard I was afraid Brain would be able to see up my skirt. Fortunately, he kept his eyes ahead. We turned into a room, which I suppose could be called a music room, since there was a gleaming grand piano in it.

“Wait here until you are called,” Brain said.

There were two women sitting on the fine chairs in the room. I recognized one of them. Mary Sedgewick from Caring Nannies. She was generally accepted as their best asset. She looked at me with a smug expression. The other woman, I didn’t know, but I guessed she must be from Sarah Bright’s agency, because she was holding a file with their logo on it. She nodded at me formally.

I smiled at them both and took a seat on one of the armchairs. It was upholstered in sunshine yellow and was incredibly comfortable. Funny thing. I was suddenly nervous. I took a mint out of my handbag and popped it into my mouth.

A middle-aged woman in a severe navy-blue suit came into the room. “Ms. Sedgewick, please come with me.”

Mary stood and with a confident smile walked up to her. The door closed behind them, and I turned my attention to the French windows. Outside stone steps led to a formal garden that seemed to stretch endlessly. There was a fountain. I stared at it blankly. Ten minutes later the woman in the navy-blue suit was back, which surprised me. Maybe Mary didn’t get the job, after all.

“Miss Winters,” she said with a smile.

I smiled back, stood up, smoothed my skirt over my thighs, and walked towards her. She introduced herself as, Mrs. Misha Gorev. She was Mr. Volkov’s personal assistant.

If this job was not Mary’s, I felt confident it was mine.

I was good at my job. They called me the child whisperer back at the agency. I had tamed spoilt, rich kids; brats with behavioral problems; sick kids. So far, no kid had defeated me. I straightened my back as Mrs. Gorev’s hand closed over the intricately carved, gold door handle. The door opened and the wind left my lungs.

Good Lord! It must be the devil himself sitting behind the desk, because only the devil could be that darkly handsome.