The Playboy Billionaire's Nanny

Amy Hart had officially had it.

Standing in the middle of her empty studio apartment with the eviction notice still taped to the door like a scarlet letter, she let out a laugh - a brittle, hysterical sound that ricocheted off of her four bare walls.

At twenty-six, she had a graphic design degree sitting around like a dusty paper weight and only $47.82 left to her name.

And then, her phone vibrated.

Aunt Clara's name lit up her screen and she picked up on the second ring as if it were a lifeline.

"Baby girl," her aunt answered without preamble, her voice businesslike, as it always was when she was fixing something,

"I just got off the phone with Mr. Ross and the position is yours if you want it. Live-in nanny to his eight-month-old son. He lives in a penthouse on Central Park West. The starting salary is two hundred and fifty thousand a year, with a full benefits package that includes a private suite, and a car service to get you wherever you need to go. You start Monday."

Amy actually wobbled.

"Two hundred and... Fifty? Aunt Clara, I have no experience with children; I can barely keep a plant alive."

"You are bright, you are patient, and you need this more than anyone I know. Listen, he's desperate - all three nannies previously hired only stayed for a month. But you are family, and I vouched for you. All I want you to do is keep your head down and do your job, but do not for the life of you fall for the charm. I mean it, Amy. Damien Ross is not someone you ever want to play games with."

Amy knew the stories just like everyone else knew. The tabloids called him the Playboy Billionaire - a force whose name was synonymous with heartbreaker. It was a known fact that he had no problem with women throwing themselves at him; he never had to do any chasing.

He had built an empire in his late twenties and was worth a billion dollars by thirty-two. He ended his relationship with his pregnant ex seven months into her pregnancy after he decided he didn't want to be trapped in a relationship by starting a family.

And now, Amy was to play the part of his live-in nanny.

But... Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

She closed her eyes.

"I'll take it."

Three days later, she was standing in the marble foyer of Ross's penthouse apartment with a duffel bag at her feet, trying to resist staring at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, which looked like a Renaissance painting, and the smell of expensive cologne and baby powder that clung to the air.

A tiny cry echoed down the hallway that was quickly followed by a deep baritone.

"Theo, buddy, come on. Daddy's trying here."

Amy's stomach turned a flip. And then, he appeared.

Damien Ross in the flesh was devastatingly and unfairly controlled. Six-three, shoulders broad with a perfectly unbuttoned black shirt that stopped exactly at his hip. His dark hair was still damp from a recent shower, and his stormy whiskey-colored eyes met hers and bored holes right through her as if the air between them had suddenly been charged with electricity.

He shifted a kicking baby Theo onto his hip, and Amy's first impression was that his baby had to be the most adorable creature on earth, with the chubbiest cheeks, and he certainly shared the same dark, messy hair as his father.

"You're the new nanny," he said, his voice like aged, smooth whiskey.

"Amy, right? Clara's niece."

Amy, who felt entirely out of place in her faded, stretched-out band t-shirt and beat-up jeans, swallowed.

"Yes, Mr. Ross."

"Damien."

His gaze slid over her one last time, but not in an appraising or predatory way. More in a calculative one. Most women in his penthouse acted like sex kittens the moment they met him - making suggestive statements and asking endless questions.

Amy only stood up straight, clasping her hands in front of her, trying not to seem like she was begging.

"Call me Damien. We are going to be living in very close quarters, and there is no need for all the formal shit."

He then looked up at Amy's face, and he squinted.

"You don't really strike me as someone who needs rescuing and therefore would be seeking out this kind of opportunity. That is... Interesting."

Amy refused to yield to his subtle charm, tilting her chin up slightly.

"I am only here for Theo."

His eyes narrowed in obvious irritation and then smoothed over again. He walked further towards her and then unceremoniously dropped Theo into her arms without asking.

Their fingers brushed, and she felt a shock jolt up her arm. Theo immediately buried his face in her shoulder, clinging on to her and gumming at her hair with his gum-chomping little mouth.

Damien Ross didn't step back. He stood there watching his baby cling to her with an impassive expression plastered on his face but his gaze softened just a tiny bit while he was looking at his baby as the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Amy noticed this and felt her heart twist.

Then, the moment was gone.

"You are trying very hard not to look me in the eye, Amy," he said in a low, almost whispered tone. "That's a first for me, from a woman."

Her face burned. She forced herself to look at him.

"I'm not any other woman."

He allowed a ghost of a smile to dance on his lips. It wasn't one filled with any happiness or cockiness; it was that sort of devilish, knowing look.

"No, you are not. And that might be a problem."

Amy swallowed hard. The weight of his son on her hip felt both comforting and overwhelming.

Keep your head down. Only take the paycheck. Never, ever fall for Damien Ross.

Even though it felt as though that resolve had begun to crack even before it had been fully formed.