Redeem Me (Beckett Brothers #2)

4. Ivy

Chapter Four

IVY

‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’ Dermot loads my suitcase into the boot of the private hire car. ‘Stay with me for as long as you like. You don’t have to take this job. Why don’t you take the summer to make a five-year plan? You could start college in September. Think about it’

‘You sound like our parents. Did they put you up to this?’ I rock back on my heels and fold my arms across my chest.

The sun beats down on my face and I can literally feel more freckles sprouting on my nose and across my cheekbones. I was told throughout my entire childhood they would fade as I got older, but every summer they come back with a bang. In the States, I had to carry my ID everywhere or risk being refused entry to bars and nightclubs. Here, I just have to say I’m Ivy Winters and there isn’t an establishment in the country that would refuse me. My father is a famous judge, my mother one of the country’s top paediatricians, and my brother has made millions on some sort of state-of-the-art IT software.

And me? Well, I’m a nanny.

My family wants more for me. A high-flying career. A big house and an even bigger bank balance. And not because they want something to brag about at the golf club, but because they love me–in their own way. But that doesn’t stop the irritation flaring in my chest.

The truth is, I like being a nanny. I’m brilliant at it. Kids are so much simpler than adults. If they think something they say it. Want something, then they ask. Spending time with them doesn’t feel like work, it feels like fun. And the longer I do it, the less I want to do anything else. Even if admitting it to my overachieving family makes me a pariah.

‘I love my job. I love kids.’ I squint up at Dermot, shielding my face from the sun with my hand.

‘So, why not follow Mother’s footsteps and become a paediatrician?’ He shuffles from foot to foot, indicating to the driver that we’ll be another minute.

‘Because I love kids. Not sick kids. I don’t want to be a hero. I want to be the fun one who bakes cookies and bounces on the trampoline.’

‘You could be so much more.’ Dermot sighs.

‘Am I not enough as I am?’ It was supposed to be a joke, but the words come out sounding more serious than I intended.

Does not having a college degree, or a five-year plan make me less of a person?

Dermot pulls me against his chest and ruffles my hair. ‘Course you’re enough. We just want you to be fulfilled. Happy. Being a nanny was supposed to be a stopgap. Do you seriously see yourself in the same job at fifty?’

Truthfully, I want my own kids one day, but Dermot doesn’t need to hear that right now. The thought of someone impregnating his baby sister is not one he’s comfortable with. Or having sex with me at all. Which is why it’s a damn good job he didn’t walk into the bar five minutes earlier the other night .

The entire decadent scenario lasted about six minutes, but I’ve replayed it in my head six million times since.

It was wrong on so many levels, but it was hot AF.

His poor wife.

I tried my best to milk Dermot for information after Caelon left the other night, but he refused to tell me anything other than that his friend’s had a rough couple of years. Ha, as if his tortured face and entire demeanour didn’t already give that away.

‘I haven’t given it much thought.’ I step away from my brother and turn to the car.

‘Well, I’m asking you to think about it now, Ivy. Do you even know anything about this family? You’re literally moving in with strangers. Again.’ Dermot winces, throwing an exasperated hand into the air.

The only family that makes me feel like a stranger is my own. Not that I voice it out loud. I had a twin, Katie. She died of an asthma attack when we were five. Since then, my parents prefer to love me from a distance. It’s almost like looking at me is too painful. Unfortunately, my brother went the other way, smothering me. The eleven-year age gap between us means I’ll always be a baby to him, which is one of the reasons I put an ocean between us the second I turned eighteen.

‘It’s a job, Dermot. One I’ve been doing pretty damn well for years. It’s perfectly safe. The agency does all the checks. Stop worrying about me.’

‘You have a knack for attracting trouble.’ Dermot shakes his head.

What I have is a knack for attracting troublesome men, unfortunately. Which is why my last position didn’t work out. My previous employer’s husband thought his wife was paying me to take care of his dick, as well as his children. It got ugly when I refused his advances. Which is when I got this mad notion about coming back to Ireland.

I’m regretting it already.

‘How much trouble can I get into nannying in a mansion in Malahide?’ I open the car door and hop in.

‘Call me later. Let me know you’re okay,’ he urges.

‘I’ll call you at the weekend. Stop mollycoddling me.’ I swat my hand in front of his face. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you too.’ He smooths out the frown on his face. ‘Be careful.’

I exhale a sigh of relief as the driver starts the engine.

Forty minutes later, we pull up outside my new home. High sand-coloured stone walls surround the property. A motorised gate prevents us from entering, but a security guard, wearing a smart black suit and stoic expression, approaches the car. He’s in his thirties. Not bad looking. He’s no Tall, Dark and Tortured, but he might be up for the craic.

The driver winds down the window.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m the new nanny.’ I pluck my phone from my pocket and tap into the email from the agency, holding the phone out to him.

‘Nice to meet you. I’m Damon, head of security. He’s expecting you.’ His nostrils flare. ‘Good luck.’ He nods and steps back from the car.

He?

Does he have a name?

The agency sent me the kids’ names, ages, and said the father works away a lot. I scanned the details all too quickly in my rush to escape Dermot’s eagle eyes.

And good luck? Something in Damon’s voice makes me think I’m going to need it. A shiver of apprehension streaks down my spine.

Who even has security in Dublin?

I don’t have time to contemplate it as we crawl up the tree-lined driveway and the house comes into view. It is breathtaking. Built out of the same sand-coloured stone as the wall, it’s modern, luxurious, with ginormous floor-to-ceiling windows that scream sophistication.

There’s an elaborate water feature, row upon row of colourful planters lining the perimeter, an industrial-sized firepit, and best of all, a huge outdoor pool with thick, plush cushioned sunloungers flanking it. I’ve worked for some wealthy families, but this is something else.

The driver slows to a stop at the front steps. A solid sage-coloured front door swings open and a man appears. I’d put him in his mid-forties. His dark hair is peppered grey and he’s wearing a suit almost identical to the guy at the gate. He descends the steps with speed and stealth.

He doesn’t seem too intimidating. The apprehension eases a fraction as his thin lips stretch into a smile. ‘Miss Winters, welcome.’ He shakes my hand firmly, then heads to the trunk to fetch my luggage. ‘I’m Samuel. It’s a pleasure.’

My new boss is a gentleman.

Phew. Despite my bravado in front of Dermot, after my last boss put his hands on me, I admit, I was slightly apprehensive coming here today.

‘I can do that.’ I motion to my tightly packed suitcase. It contains pretty much everything I own, which is why it’s almost ready to burst at the seams.

‘It’s my job,’ Samuel says.

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.