Page 9 of Redeem Me

My stomach sinks. How many staff work here? I glance between the gate and the opulent entrance, contemplating bailing out.

A high-pitched wail comes from the open front door. ‘She’s dead! She’s dead! She’s dead!’ The voice belongs to a child. An inconsolable one.

My head yanks round, the hairs on my neck pricking despite the summer sun warming my skin.

‘It’s okay,’ a deep masculine voice booms from somewhere inside. ‘It’s okay, baby.’

‘It’s not okay. Everyone round here dies!’ The anguish in the child’s voice slices open my chest.

Instinctively, I stride towards the open door, following the sound of sobbing. I step inside the double-height hallway, barely taking in the opulent surroundings in my quest to find and console whoever is crying.

A broad-shouldered man crouches on the floor with his back to me. He’s wearing dark designer jeans and a fitted white polo neck, which hugs his broad chest and muscular arms in a way that should be illegal. His arms are wrapped around a little girl, hugging her tightly to his chest. She has stunning dark curly hair, olive skin, and big chestnut brown eyes. She stares at me over his shoulder, tears streaming down her cheeks.

I part my lips into a wide, reassuring smile, lift a hand and wave, lowering myself to her level as I scoot closer towards them.

‘Hi. You must be Orla.’ I muster my brightest tone.

Orla.

The name hadn’t meant anything to me when I read the email from the agency last week, but as it pops from my lips, something clicks. In the same heartbeat, the man crouching spins around.

Tall, Dark, and Tortured stares back at me with an expression of horror – one that mimics my own.

Chapter Five

CAELON

What the fuck is Ivy Winters doing in my hallway?

Her expression freezes, a picture of shock, but she recomposes herself in an instant, flashing that megawatt grin that’s just as blinding as on Saturday night.

Why is she smiling at my daughter like some sort of stalker psycho?

What the fuck is she playing at?

Did Dermot put her up to this?

Is it some sort of sick joke?

‘What the actual?—?’

Her sunny demeanour has no right being in my house. Neither do her sparkling blue eyes, her tempting curves, or her tousled sexy beach-wave hair, which I’d love to wrap around my hand and?—

She cuts me off before I can finish speaking and thinking.

‘I’m your new nanny.’ Ivy wiggles her fingers, coaxing Orla over, like it’s not the most fucked-up thing that she’s standing in my hallway right now.

The new nanny?

Fuck. My. Life.

It’s bad enough she’s Dermot’s sister. She can’t be the new nanny as well. Someone somewhere is trying to punish me. As if I haven’t endured enough in this lifetime.

‘What happened, sweetie?’ Ivy opens her arms to my daughter.

Orla won’t go to her.

She’s uncomfortable with strangers. With change. With anything and everything since Isabella died.

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