Chapter 2: Fifth Avenue Fling: Chapter 2

“Nice to meet you, Marcus.” I take his extended hand, eyeing him guardedly, and plop my bum down on the seat opposite him. “Cloh-dah. Like Yoda with a cl.” If only I had a dollar for every time I said it. “A job? What type of job?”

He reclines in his chair, smoothing out his tie before aiming a leisurely smile in my direction. “Good to meet you, Clodagh. Tell me a little about yourself.”

My jaw hardens. I want him to cut to the chase. I sure as hell don’t want to give out personal information, but if there’s a sliver of a chance that he might have a job offer… I need to know more.

I glance over at the guys and Orla, who is now back behind the bar, pretending not to listen. Liam glares at me, face like thunder.

I turn my attention back to Mr. Suit. Marcus.

Well, Marcus, I’m nearly twenty-five and can list a failed business, a criminal record, and zero penetrative sex orgasms on my résumé.

“Uh, there’s not that much to know.” I never was good at interviews, especially ones I didn’t sign up for. “I’m working in the bar until I find my feet in New York. I’m actually a trained carpenter back home. I worked for a furniture store before moving to New York.”

His brows lift in surprise. “Carpenter, huh? I would never have guessed.”

I give him a strained smile. I may not be a doctor or a lawyer or have a job that requires a graduation cap, but I’m proud of my trade. And I have the best builder’s bum. Or plumber’s crack, as the Americans say. “No one’s going to sponsor me to make furniture. You have enough carpenters in the country.”

“But I overheard you talking about an au pair position here.”

“That’s right.” I nod. “American families often get au pairs from Europe, particularly if the family have some European background. It’s a way to get sponsored.” I exhale a weary sigh. “I can’t just pick any job I want here.”

“You must be good with kids if you’re applying to be an au pair?”

“I think so.” I shrug. Not that the agency did much due diligence. “I have three younger brothers, and they were a handful growing up. My mum was always working, and my dad skipped town, so I helped raise them.”

He likes this answer. “Can you cook?”

“I’m okay. I’m no Michelin-star chef, but I can boil an egg.”

He doesn’t like that answer as much.

“Do you take drugs?”

My eyes narrow. “No.”

“How much do you drink a week?”

A huff escapes me. Is this guy fucking with me? “Enough with the questions. What’s the job?”

My new friend Marcus smiles. “My employer needs a domestic assistant with some nannying duties thrown in.”

My brows squish together. “What does that entail?”

“Looking after his daughter when he’s not there. Cooking. Running errands. Cleaning. Doing his laundry. It’s a temporary position for the next few months that we need to fill urgently.”

That’s got fuck all to do with making furniture. “Like a maid?” I ask. “A nanny maid?”

He gives a nonchalant shrug. “In a way.”

I shake my head at him dubiously. “What makes you think I’m a good fit for this? You don’t know anything about my experience.”

His smile widens, undaunted by my resistance. “Because you’ll take the job seriously. I have a feeling about you.”

Translation: I overheard that you’re desperate. You’ll do anything to stay in the country.

I let out a skeptical hum.

“Besides, he has a soft spot for the Irish. He’s Irish-American.” He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment. “In fact, that might be his only soft spot.” Gee, great.

He glances at the lads. “And you seem to be able to keep people in line.”

“Everything okay, Clodagh?” Liam calls gruffly from the bar.

“Yeah, Liam.” I tilt my head around to appease him with a nod.

When I turn back, Marcus is taking out a small notepad from his jacket. He scribbles something on the pad and slides it toward me on the table.

I stare at the paper. Mild panic rises in me, as it always does when I have to read something under pressure. The joys of dyslexia. “What’s this?”

“The salary per month.”

My breath hitches as I do a double take. “Is the dot in the wrong place?”

He chuckles and takes a sip of his Guinness. “It’s a live-in position in Manhattan, with unsocial hours. My employer wants to compensate for that.”

“Absolutely not.” I slide the paper back to him in disgust. “I’m not servicing some rich, old perv.”

“You’re right to be apprehensive, I understand. But there’s nothing inappropriate about the position. You’ll be a nanny…” He pauses. “An assistant in his house and nothing more.”

“A naked nanny,” I scoff. Visions of me cradling a man in diapers while he suckles my breasts flood my mind.

He fights a smile and repeats my words back to me. “Absolutely not. You’re a cynical one, I see.”

I narrow my eyes at him, unconvinced. Maybe his rich employer has an Irish fetish. My duties will include murmuring ‘top o’ the mornin’ to ya’ as I rock some old fella to sleep.

My suited fairy godfather Marcus leans in, his hands interlocked on the table. “If you take this opportunity,”—he smirks at me—“and you’d be a fool not to, given your circumstances, you’d be working for the Quinn & Wolfe Group. You can ask the HR team any questions you need to feel reassured. Just be ready to go into the office to sign the contract and fill in the visa forms.”

“Visa?” I repeat breathlessly. My new friend is playing a cruel joke on me.

“Yes, Clodagh,” he says, tilting his head down to write something else on his pad. He knows he’s got me, hook, line, and sinker. “HR will contact you to arrange a time tomorrow.”

With my jaw hanging open, I watch him scribble down a phone number.

My brow furrows deeper as my heart races.

I so, so, so want to believe this story but…

“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “You’re telling me that you’re willing to give a random barmaid in Queens a visa, accommodation in Manhattan, and an obscene amount of money to work as a fancy nanny maid for your rich boss?” I pause, searching his face. “All because you have a feeling about me?”

This earns me a chuckle. He relaxes back in his chair again. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. My employer is paying someone to be at his beck and call in his home. Believe me, it’s a tough job. I need someone who can start right away and has no commitments.” He gives me what I can only call a wolfish smile. “Frankly, I know you’re desperate enough that you’ll try to stick it out.”

I swallow hard. “Why is it urgent now? What happened to the last nanny maid? Did he murder them?”

Another chuckle. “You’re cute. He might like you. His full-time domestic assistant had to go out of state to look after her daughter. It was unexpected, and he needs a fill-in pronto. There were a few other nannies after, but…”

“But?” I raise my voice. They’re in the attic. Dead.

He waves his hand as if the information is irrelevant.

Hmm.

I’m living in my own damn fairy tale. Except…

“My visa runs out in seven days.” I blow out through my cheeks. “Even if this is legit, it’s too late.”

He dismisses that with another wave. “We’ll expedite your visa.”

My pulse spikes. Money skips the queue. Just as easy as that.

“We’ll need to vet you, of course. Medical examinations, etc.”

“Vet me?” I try to keep my expression neutral. “Vetting… like a criminal record check?”

“Yes.” He scans my face. “Does that concern you?”

Fuck.

“Of course not.”

Whether he believes me or not, he moves on, tapping his finger against the notepad. “Write down your full name, email, and telephone number. Be ready to go to our headquarters tomorrow.”

I nod slowly, my brain ticking over, searching for danger. He’s not asking for my address. “Who’s the employer?”

His lips twitch for reasons unknown to me. “Killian Quinn.”

The dude who owns the hotels.

I take out my phone and do a search as Marcus watches me.

Killian Quinn is top of the results.

Oh.

The guy isn’t in his eighties. He must be in his thirties and, unless the photos are filtered, cream-your-pants gorgeous. Dark hair. Arctic-blue eyes. Perhaps I would allow him to suckle on my breast.

But Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was an attractive guy, too. And I can’t find a single picture of Killian Quinn smiling. It only takes one wrong decision to end up in an attic.

“Is it him, his wife, and his daughter?” I ask.

“No, he’s a single father. Teagan’s mom died when she was only two. She’s twelve now, going on thirteen.”

A new teenager. That makes things interesting. Teenagers are terrifying people.

No mother. That’s sad. I wonder whether it was always just her and her father.

“It’s an opportunity.” Marcus breaks my thoughts. “Take it or leave it, Clodagh.”

Take it or leave the country, more like.

But if they vet me, I’ll fail, so what do I have to lose?

Right now, it’s the only option I have.

Marcus knows it too, judging by the smirk on his face. He taps his fingers against the numbers on the pad.

This must be how people end up working for the Irish Mafia.