Redeem Me (Beckett Brothers #2)

5. Caelon

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.

‘Come here, sweetie,’ Ivy coos. ‘You and I are going to be great friends. We’re going to have so much fun together.’

Actually, you’re not.

There’s no way she can stay. No way in hell. It’s implausible. Nanny or not.

I rake my nails over my scalp and blow out an indignant breath as she continues her attempt to win over my daughter.

‘Come over here and let me wipe those tears away,’ Ivy singsongs.

To my utmost surprise, Orla wiggles free from my arms and darts across the hallway, hovering in front of Ivy, hopping from foot to foot in her favourite pink Nike runners.

Unbelievable.

Ivy scoops her into her arms as if she’s a six-month-old, instead of a six-year-old, and kisses her forehead. The air whooshes from my lungs.

‘I’m Ivy. I’ve been so excited about meeting you.’ She straightens her spine and runs a thumb over Orla’s tear-streaked cheek. ‘What happened, honey?’

‘Jasmine died.’ Orla hiccups another sob.

Ivy frowns at me, rubbing soothing circles on Orla’s back. ‘Who’s Jasmine?’

‘My fish,’ Orla says, before I have the chance to intervene. ‘It’s the tenth one I’ve killed.’

‘Ah, I’m so sorry, sweetie. Fish don’t live long, I’m afraid. Not like humans,’ Ivy continues .

I stiffen, bracing myself for what I already know Orla is going to say.

‘Neither do humans,’ she sniffs. ‘Jasmine died and now she’s with my Mammy and the other fish in Heaven. And it’s not fair. I want to see them. But Daddy says I’m not going to Heaven for a very long time.’

Ivy’s palm slows to a stop on Orla’s back. Her eyes drift to my wedding ring. Realisation, then pity, clouds her eyes.

I don’t need her pity.

I need a nanny.

Preferably not one I’ve finger-fucked in a bar.

The colour drains from Ivy’s rose-hued cheeks and her smile fades into a sympathetic grimace. Thankfully, she keeps her focus on Orla. ‘Oh, Orla, I’m so sorry. It must be so hard for you. I can only imagine.’ She shifts my daughter from her right hip to her left. ‘You know Heaven isn’t that far away, though. I’m so sure your mammy is watching over you. I bet she’s so proud of what a big girl you’re growing into.’

Orla buries her face in Ivy’s hair and lets out another heart-wrenching sob.

She’s coped exceptionally well with her mother’s death, with the help of an excellent play therapist, but every time one of those damn fish dies, it triggers her again, which naturally triggers me.

There’s nothing worse than seeing your child in pain.

And as much as I hate to admit it, Ivy’s soothing murmurs and gentle rocking motion are doing a surprisingly stellar job of easing Orla’s pain or, at the very least, distracting her from it.

But that doesn’t mean she’s staying.

No way.

Samuel stalks in the front door laden down with a green leather suitcase that’s about three stitches away from bursting all over the hall floor .

‘I’ll take this upstairs.’ Samuel starts towards the wide, winding staircase.

‘No need.’ I hold a hand up to halt him. ‘There’s been a mix up at the agency. Miss Winters isn’t staying.’

Ivy’s head snaps up and her blue eyes blaze like twin flames. She opens her mouth to speak, but Orla beats her to it.

‘What do you mean, Daddy? She just said she’s my new nanny.’ She sniffs again. ‘I like her. I don’t want her to go as well. Everyone dies or leaves.’

I flinch. Kids don’t lie.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I suck in a ragged breath.

Ivy can’t stay.

Not now the image of her face as she came undone on my hand is seared into my brain.

Not now I know what she tastes like.

Not now I’ve beaten myself off thinking of her six times in the shower since.

It’s too awkward.

Too weird.

It’s just wrong.

‘Why don’t I stay for a while, and we can talk about this mix up later.’ Ivy beams at Orla without sparing me a glance. ‘Do you have any dolls? Or teddies? Or are you a Polly Pocket type of girl?’

Huh. I know exactly what type of girl–woman–Ivy Winters is, and even though she’s doing a great job at calming my distraught daughter down, she’s no fucking Mary Poppins. Mary Poppins would never have let a stranger get her off in public.

‘I’ll show you the playroom,’ Orla exclaims. ‘We have everything. Barbies. Lego. Even a tent with fairy lights. You need to see it!’ She slides down Ivy’s tight white vest top and ass-sculpted jeans, slips her hand into hers and drags her down the wide corridor.

Samuel stands in the hallway with a quizzical expression on his face. ‘The luggage, Mr Beckett?’

‘Leave it there. She’s not staying,’ I repeat.

‘Very well.’ Samuel raises his bushy eyebrows but doesn’t linger.

My son, Owen, trundles down the stairs with his favourite stuffed animal, Patches, tucked under his arm. Patches is an oversized, tatty teddy bear who’s seen better days, like the rest of us. His stuffing is falling out, he’s lost an eye, and he’s in desperate need of a wash, but Owen won’t part with him for a second, let alone the hour it would take to put him through the washing machine.

‘New nanny?’ he scowls.

Owen has hated every nanny we’ve had. It’s not their fault they’re not Isabella. He was only three when she died, but he talks about her every day. Though he doesn’t have that many memories of her, he likes to go over the ones he does, which is endearing, but brutal, for me.

There’s no escaping the reminders of her. I know I don’t deserve to escape, but sometimes to do so is a relief.

Owen refuses to let another woman close to him. Is it possible that he feels the same sense of disloyalty I felt the first time I had sex with another woman?

‘Yep. But this one isn’t staying.’

‘Good.’ He reaches the bottom step. ‘Dad, I have to fess something.’ His huge chocolate eyes fall to the floor. Both kids inherited my colouring, but they both have their mother’s soft features.

‘What is it, buddy?’ I cross the hall and crouch to his level. The scent of pee clings to him and his ‘fession’ is suddenly obvious. He’s been bed-wetting most nights since Isabella’s death .

‘I — ’‘ He swallows thickly and tugs at Winnie’s one eye.

‘It’s okay, buddy.’ I pull him against my chest, feeling his heart thud against mine. ‘I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.’

We have a housekeeper, Liz, but Owen would rather I put his sheets in the wash than tell the staff about his accident. Liz is a firm but fair type of woman, but the kids find her a little intimidating.

‘Come on up. I’ll put you in the bath while I strip the bed.’ I hoist him up and carry him up the stairs.

I have a million things I need to do today, but at least I’d arranged to work from the home office this week. It usually takes a few days to get the new nanny settled. I should know. I’ve done it way too many times now.

And now Ivy showing up has tossed a brand-new spanner in the works.

I don’t have time to spend weeks settling in new nannies while trying to run the Beckett chain of boutique hotels. I’m bang in the middle of acquiring six more properties in several countries. Some of the older hotels are undergoing extensive refurbishment, and I’m busting my balls trying to help push through planning for a brand-new luxury flagship on a piece of land my brother, Sean, has acquired in Galway.

Time is money.

I run the bath, place Owen into it with plenty of toys, then strip his bed, all the while trying to work out what the fuck I’m going to do about the woman playing snakes and ladders with my daughter. My daughter, who is usually inconsolable for days when one of her fishes dies but is now laughing like a hyena on helium. The sound travels up the stairs and seeps through my sternum.

I pull my phone out of my jeans pocket and dial the agency that supplies the nannies.

‘Hello, Tatiana speaking, how may I help you?’ The manager always answers with the same cheery tone. Who are these people who can muster enthusiasm on a whim? Do they have coffee on an IV drip? A pocketful of Haribos? Two lines of cocaine with their breakfast? How can they always be so fucking cheerful?

‘It’s Caelon Beckett. You sent me the wrong nanny.’ I stalk towards the big window overlooking the pristine front lawn. Not that I can take any credit for it. It’s all down to my gardener, Jared, who comes four times a week. His man vests are tighter than mankinis, and he often reeks of weed, but he gets the job done.

‘Ah, Mr Beckett, give me a second.’ I hear the tap tapping of fingernails on a keyboard.

‘We sent Ivy Winters. Did she not arrive?’

‘Oh, she “arrived”.’ Right over my hand on Saturday night . ‘But there‘s been a mix up. She’s completely and utterly unsuitable for the position.’

‘Did she do something wrong?’ Tatiana’s voice hitches with surprise. ‘She came with excellent references.’

‘I specifically requested someone who has five years’ experience with children, is trained in CPR, and is a competent swimmer.’ And preferably someone who doesn’t look like a fucking supermodel would be really fucking helpful.

‘Miss Winters meets all the criteria. She has buckets of experience, excellent references, and her mother is one of the top paediatricians in the country,’ Tatiana boasts.

I know. Mainly because that top paediatrician also birthed my best friend too.

‘Look, she’s just not a fit for this family. Can you please send someone else?’ I lean against the door frame, watching as Orla and Ivy stroll across the grass hand in hand. Something sharp twists in my chest as they stop by the water fountain and peer at the lily pads. Ivy says something to Orla, and she laughs.

Tatiana clears her throat, ‘I’m afraid there isn’t anyone else. I lost four of my girls to a charity dig in Africa. Two have accepted “real jobs”, their words not mine, and the others are all settled with families. There’s a possibility I might have someone in a few weeks, but the background checks take a while, as you know.’

For fuck’s sake.

‘How about you keep Miss Winters for the summer and get back to me in September if things don’t settle?’ Tatiana suggests. ‘How does that sound?’

I could try another agency, but Tatiana’s is the best in the city.

I sigh sharply. We’re at the start of the summer holidays. Orla’s school has finished up for ten weeks. Owen’s just graduated from playschool and is about to start big school in September. I need someone now. I can’t be here all the time.

‘It sounds like I don’t have a choice.’