There were three rules Nora Evans lived by:
1. Never trust Craigslist.
2. Always read the fine print.
3. If something looks too good to be true, it probably comes with handcuffs.
Yet here she was, standing outside a luxury penthouse on the fifty-ninth floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, clutching a knockoff leather purse and wondering how she'd ended up in a situation that smelled like designer cologne and very expensive regret.
"Miss Evans?"
The voice startled her. Deep, gravelly, and not particularly friendly.
She turned to find a man built like a refrigerator in a black suit, standing in the open doorway. His eyes were hidden behind tinted glasses even though they were indoors. Red flag number one.
"Yeah, that's me," she replied, trying to sound like she belonged here and not like someone who had eaten a gas station tuna sandwich for breakfast.
"This way."
He stepped aside with military precision. Nora hesitated. The hallway behind him was sleek, silent, and suspiciously free of any baby-related mess. No toys. No pacifiers. No art made of spaghetti and tears.
Definitely no crying.
She stepped inside anyway, because she was desperate, jobless, and possibly stupid.
The apartment was… insane. Floor-to-ceiling windows, black marble countertops, leather furniture that screamed "don't sit here if you're wearing jeans with rivets," and a view that overlooked Central Park like it belonged to it.
So this was how billionaires lived. Cold, sleek, and spotless. Like their hearts.
Before she could comment on how a "nanny" job didn't usually require a biometric scanner at the entrance, a voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.
"You're late."
Nora jumped.
Adrian Black stood across the room, framed by the New York skyline like a villain in a movie—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a suit so sharp it could cut glass. His dark hair was slicked back, his jawline looked like it had been carved from stone, and his eyes… God, those eyes. A cool, stormy gray that assessed her like she was either a threat or a problem.
Maybe both.
"I got stuck behind a crosstown garbage truck," she said. "Also, your doorman made me go through a metal detector. Twice."
He didn't blink. "Necessary precautions."
"For a baby?"
That got a flicker of something. Amusement? Annoyance?
"You think this job is about a child?" he asked, walking toward her with the kind of slow, deliberate pace that made her want to back up—and also maybe sit down.
Nora crossed her arms. "Well, the ad said you needed a full-time live-in nanny."
Adrian stopped just a foot away from her, tall enough that she had to tilt her chin to hold eye contact.
"There is no child," he said smoothly. "You're here for me."
For a moment, her brain stuttered. Then rebooted.
"I'm sorry—are you saying you're the baby?"
One of his eyebrows lifted slightly. "Not quite. But you'll be cooking for me. Cleaning. Organizing my schedule. Keeping up appearances. Sometimes smiling when the press takes pictures. And on occasion…" He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "...dodging bullets."
Nora stared at him.
He wasn't joking.
"I thought this was a nanny job," she said faintly.
"It is," he said. "Just not the kind you're used to."
"And you posted this on Craigslist?"
"My assistant did. We needed someone expendable. And invisible."
Nora blinked. "Wow. That's the warmest job description I've ever heard."
Adrian smirked, the first crack in his frosty exterior. "And yet, here you are."
"Desperate people do desperate things."
"Yes," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "They do."
He gestured to the sleek black coffee table, where a thick manila folder sat. Nora walked over and opened it hesitantly. Inside were surveillance photos. License plates. Maps with red circles. Notes written in a code she didn't understand.
"What… is this?"
"People who want me dead," Adrian said casually. "People I need you to help me distract."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she flipped through more pages. One name jumped out at her—FBI. Another—Interpol.
"You're on the blacklist," she whispered.
"Several," he confirmed. "Including one created just for me."
She slowly closed the folder.
"This is insane."
"It's lucrative," he countered. "Ten thousand dollars a week. In cash. Tax-free. All you have to do is pretend you're my live-in assistant. Someone normal. Domestic. Harmless."
Nora looked around the penthouse again. Her fingers still smelled like instant noodles. Her bank account had less than $40. And her last real job had been as a part-time barista at a vegan cat café.
Harmless was probably the only thing she had going for her.
Still, something didn't add up.
"If this is so dangerous," she said, "why not hire a trained professional?"
Adrian's jaw tightened.
"I've hired professionals," he said darkly. "They've either turned on me, disappeared, or failed."
He leaned in slightly, and suddenly the room felt too small. Too hot.
"I need someone who looks like a nobody. Who can be underestimated. Someone they won't see coming."
"And you think that's me?"
"I know it is."
It was ridiculous. Reckless. Possibly suicidal.
But $10,000 a week.
Nora did the math in her head. That was $40,000 a month. Almost half a million a year. Enough to pay off her loans, buy a new identity, and disappear to Bali.
Also… there was something about Adrian Black. Something sharp beneath the surface. Like he could kill with a look but would apologize for ruining your dress afterward.
"I have one condition," she said finally.
His eyebrow rose again. "And that is?"
"I don't do diapers. Not even metaphorically."
His lips curved—barely—but it was there. The ghost of a smirk.
"Noted."
He extended his hand. She hesitated, then shook it.
His palm was warm. Firm. Dangerous.
Just like the deal she'd just made.
"Welcome to your new life, Miss Evans," Adrian said smoothly. "Try not to get killed."