The Billionaire and His Scandal (His Nanny Trilogy #2) Read Online Sadie S. Black

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: His Nanny Trilogy Series by Sadie S. Black
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Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72855 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
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When Abbie Montgomery arrived, I knew she would destroy me.
My best friend’s daughter, virginal and still harboring her childhood crush on me, was completely off-limits.
Of course, forbidden desires are always the sweetest. Watching her bond with my daughter during the day, giving into sweet, soft temptation at night… I always knew it couldn’t last. I always knew it would end badly. But I never expected the spark between us could explode my entire life.

Sadie Black’s all new world of cruel billionaires, naughty nannies, and angsty secrets continue in book two of His Nanny trilogy.

FULL BOOK START HERE:

Chapter One

Graham

There’s an old British phrase my father was particularly fond of: the cock-up. Its roots are deeply contested, though the Scottish king himself, Robert Burns, used it in flowery form. Cock up your hat, cock up your arms, cock up your gun, cock feathers. My father, the puritan he was, said it was meant as a warning: prepare yourself.

“Cock up, my boy. We’re going out,” he would say. “Cock up, lad, danger is coming.”

I can hear his warning echoing in my mind, thundering around the dome of my brain, stabbing its way down my spine.

Cock up, old boy. Trouble is brewing.

Where was his warning two weeks ago? A month ago? Should I have known better, my entire life a preparatory course for this very moment? His lessons remained in the background for most of my life, and only now—when it’s indubitably too late—do they come to the forefront again to provide guidance.

“Cock up, Graham,” I mutter, my voice taut.

I’m fucking furious. It’s all I can do to stand here with my features schooled into stoicism while Abbie sits frozen before me, a sheen of tears in her eyes. No doubt wallowing in self-pity.

As though this entire fucking fiasco impacted only her.

What the hell was I thinking? Every step of the way was littered with red flags and neon warning signs and yet I ignored all of them, and for what? To get my rocks off?

The rolled-up tabloids burn a hole in my clenched fist, but I can’t bring myself to set them down. Right now, they are my anchor. My tether. Without them clutched in my hand, I will fly apart. Ironically, it is their very existence that is threatening to undo me.

“Graham, please.” Abbie’s voice is soft and pathetic. It’s childish, it’s timid, lacking the fire I lusted after. It makes me wonder if the spark I saw in her was ever there at all. “I didn’t—”

Her words split the stone wall blocking off my fraught emotions and split them into countless fractals. Rage overtakes me, like fingers around my throat, my stomach, my balls, squeezing until I can see and feel nothing but the fury.

“You didn’t?” The words come roaring out like a tsunami. “You didn’t what, exactly? Because frankly, all of these?” I rip the first tabloid out of my hand and throw it down in front of her. She winces, which only stokes the fire inside me even further. I take the second one and slam it on my desk under my fist, a thunderclap against the heavy oak. “These say you did.”

“I don’t know wh—”

“Enough!” I slam another one down. And another. And another. Each one accompanied by another thud of my palm, hitting the oak surface with a force stronger than before. Framed photos of my daughter shake, just one more precious piece of my life impacted by her lies.

Meanwhile, all Abbie can manage is a look of shock. Which is undoubtedly an act—unless it’s that she’s somehow surprised by my reaction to her betrayal.

The magazine on top of the pile blares its ugly headline from the desk between us, the incriminating photo below it grainy from being enlarged, a scene from Jude’s recent riding exhibition. The angle makes it look like Abbie and I are clandestinely sharing lovers’ secrets while seated next to Natasha, painting my deceit as grotesque and furtive and palpable. In a series of smaller shots below, I’m merely handing Abbie a cup of lemonade, a rare smile on my face, but the act looks so much more despicable under the coarse lens of the paparazzi.

“Nanny Confesses All,” I read aloud. The words slide out cold and hard and as dangerous as I feel. “Does she, now?”

“Graham—”

“Don’t.” Another tabloid slams down, rattling a crystal bourbon glass on the desk. “Graham Ratliff Finding Relief in the Help?” I snarl. This one hits particularly hard, for reasons I can’t quite place.

I go on. “Nannygate—that’s clever, isn’t it?”

I slam the next one even harder, my fist starting to ache. “Billionaire Banker Seduces Teenage Nanny—The Scandal Explodes.” This particular photo is harder to place, darker and less clear than the others. It looks like the inside of a bar, but it can’t be, because she’s underage.

And then I remember that night, weeks ago, searching for her all over town, on the prowl, checking each bar for her instead of staying home to entertain my intended, more age-appropriate companion. I used to pride myself on being a man of level-headed thinking and sound rationale. All of that appears to have gone out the fucking window when it comes to this woman—no, this girl—seated before me.


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