Hollywood bad boy Brad Sinclair always gets his way, whether it’s the role he wants or the bikini-clad model he has to have. But when a bombshell gets dropped in his lap in the form of a dimpled five-year-old from a forgotten relationship, he knows his life is about to change forever.
Cara DuMont isn’t exactly thrilled when she gets assigned to be the nanny for the latest box-office king. She has one rule: no celebrity fathers, especially single ones with devilish good looks and rock-hard abs.
But as soon as Cara meets Brad and his adorable little girl, she knows she’s in for a world of trouble. Because there’s something about the way Brad looks at her that makes her believe that some rules are meant to be broken…
I’d done a French braid on Nicole for Blueberry’s party, which should have taken three minutes, but she fussed and pulled it out. Brad commented that his daughter’s hair was a mess before I could fix it.
He was trying. I kept telling myself he was trying.
In the hours before Blueberry’s party, the Greydons came by Chez Sinclair for a playdate. They brought their six kids, four nannies, and lunch.
If Brad Sinclair was an A-list actor—and he was—Michael Greydon rose above the alphabet. The A-lister’s A-list. He was such a star he could quit to adopt six children with his wife, a notorious paparazza. I was even a little starstruck, and I was never starstruck. But when he and his wife came for a pre-party iced tea, I noted his low-wattage glow and sane approachability. It was hard not to stare.
The ride to the party pulled up promptly at two. Kids and nannies herded into a shiny black bus lined with video screens and games. Brad, Michael, and Laine went in a separate car. Apparently, our destination didn’t have a helipad.
All four Greydon nannies were from West Side, so they were fit and attractive. Pleated khakis and a white polo couldn’t hide a thing, even in my case, with a shirt that was three sizes too big and a bra that was a cup size too small. The pleats in my chinos seemed designed specifically to create dual pouches over the crotch, and the legs were so long I had to cuff them.
“It’s a thirty-day job,” I said. “Then I’m leaving. So if you hear of anything—”
“You’re leaving? Why would you leave?” Helen interrupted in French. The children were engrossed in a highly anticipated movie that was still two weeks from release. “There’s no wife to judge you all the time. It’s perfect.”
Helen had come from France to au pair five years before and stayed for the sun and easy work. She held the Greydons’ six-month-old while the other nannies entertained the children or gossiped.
“It was always temporary,” I answered in French.
“The celebrity lifestyle isn’t for me.”
She tsked. “All the perks! Nice clothes, tags still on. Food from the best restaurants. All the people you meet. You can live the life without having the life. No?”
I just shook my head, but I didn’t tell her the other reason I had to run away as if my shoes were on fire.
I’d had another dream. And another. I was starting to blush whenever I was in the same
room with Brad Sinclair and he hadn’t even touched me.
About the Author
CD Reiss shot up the New York Times bestseller list with sizzling works like Hardball and Shuttergirl, but she still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God, but in the meantime, if you call and she doesn’t answer, she’s at the well hauling buckets.
Born in New York City, Reiss moved to Hollywood to get her master’s degree in screenwriting from the University of Southern California. Unfortunately, her screenwriting went nowhere, but it did give her enough confidence to write novels.
Today she’s adoringly referred to as the “Shakespeare of Smut,” which she thinks is flattering, but it hasn’t gotten her out of chopping a single piece of wood.