The Nanny Contract (Silver Fox Daddies #1)

Chapter 1

AMALIE

Ishouldn’t be here.

Men like Roman Barinov don’t hire girls like me. They ruin them.

Good thing I’m not here to be ruined.

The Barinov mansion rises from Chicago’s Gold Coast like a threat carved from stone, all shadow, wealth, and quiet power. It looks like a castle and a prison had a beautiful, brutal child and dropped it in the middle of the city.

The epitome of every dark billionaire fantasy I’ve ever binged. Only this time, I’m not behind the screen. I’m the one stepping inside.

“Two months,” I whisper. “That’s all I need to get what I came for.”

Two months, and I’ll have Mom’s bills covered and the clean slate I so desperately need.

I clutch my tote to my side so hard the canvas bites into my palm. The late-winter wind cuts through my coat, sharp enough to sting.

The temp agency called it a simple nanny gig. Apparently they define simple very differently than I do.

They left out the part about the armed guards and the way the air feels charged, like the house is watching.

I've seen worse.

Okay, that's a lie. But I'm committed now.

I straighten my shoulders and take one last inhale that doesn’t help at all before stepping up the stone stairs anyway. The front doors loom overhead, arched and ornate, dripping luxury and intimidation.

The steel knocker is heavy, and cold against my fingers. The sound echoes through the mansion like an announcement: game on.

“Name?”

The voice slides through the air, smooth and authoritative, carrying an accent that sounds both expensive and dangerous. I scan the front, looking for whoever owns it, until I spot the black camera pointed straight at my face.

Well. That feels healthy.

Perfect. They’re already studying me.

“Amalie Denning,” I say, steady and loud enough to carry. “I’m here for the nanny interview with Mr. Barinov. I’m a little early, but”

The sound of a bolt sliding free cuts me off.

The heavy doors open with a groan that sounds centuries old.

Two men fill the entryway. Suits. Tattoos. Guns. Not hired muscle. Enforcers.

Men who look like they’ve done terrible things and never lost sleep over them.

My pulse jumps, but I don’t let it show. The trick is simple: look like you belong until everyone else believes it too.

“Hello,” I say. “I’m Amalie.”

And I fully intend to leave this place with all my organs exactly where they started.

They hold my gaze a moment too long.

Then one steps aside.

The other turns toward the shadows.

I take it as my cue, even though every crime documentary I’ve ever half-watched is screaming, “Don’t follow the scary men into the dark hallway.”

Still, I follow. Not because I trust them, but because I trust myself.

Which is not always a winning strategy, but it’s all I’ve got.

The entry hall is huge. I could fit my entire apartment in it and still have room to pace.

Every few steps, another man in a tailored suit, another weapon glinting under the light, another pair of eyes tracking me like I might be hiding a bomb instead of a résumé.

Who are these people, and what kind of nanny job requires an arsenal?

The men escort me down a long, arched hallway lined with portraits and too much silence. Guards stand at intervals like chess pieces waiting for a move. The air smells faintly of leather and power.

At the far end waits another set of double doors, darker and heavier than the rest. One of the men steps forward and knocks once, the sound sharp enough to echo.

“Come in,” a voice answers. Low, definite, and commanding enough to steal the air from my lungs.

The guard opens the door slowly, revealing a study so gorgeous it feels almost obscene.

Three tall windows frame a snow-dusted garden.

Shelves stretch floor to ceiling, packed with books that look too old and expensive to touch.

A fire glows behind an iron grate, throwing restless shadows across the room.

Behind the massive oak desk stands a man who radiates control.

Roman Barinov. The kind of man whose presence fills a room before he speaks, whose silence feels like a test you’re destined to fail.

The guards stop beside me, silent permission to step forward.

He turns, and the world seems to tilt around him.

Tall, easily over six foot, his frame built like authority carved in bone and muscle. His hair is black shot through with silver, not the kind that ages a man, but the kind that crowns him. The short beard is salt and pepper, precise and clean, sharpening the slash of his jaw.

The suit he wears is a dark pinstripe, tailored within an inch of his life, the black shirt beneath open at the collar. Silver cufflinks glint in the firelight. They look old, heirloom old, pieces that belonged to someone powerful before him.

He doesn’t just look wealthy. He looks inherited. Money, violence, and discipline passed down like a bloodline.

His eyes find me, and I can’t feel my legs beneath me.

It shouldn’t make my pulse jump, but my body didn’t get the memo.

Green, cold, assessing, with a heat beneath the surface that feels less like desire and more like a warning.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend.

Just studies me like I’m a question he already knows the answer to.

“You’re Amalie Denning.” The words are simple, but the certainty in them lands like a command.

His voice practically shakes me where I stand, his Russian accent making his words sound like a command.

I clear my throat and stand straighter. “I am. You must be Mr. Barinov.”

“Roman,” he says, leaning against the desk.

He dismisses the guards with a small nod. They disappear silently, like extremely muscular ghosts.

Now it’s just us.

My heart does a nervous little dance and my stomach tightens. The heat he seems to radiate grows more intense, but his expression remains cold, as if carved out of ice.

“I took a look at your résumé. It was thin.” His eyes sweep over me slowly, like he’s peeling away layers and peering right inside me.

Rude. Efficient, but rude.

“Some people fill their résumés. I prefer to let my results speak louder.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Interest? Annoyance? I can’t tell. Whatever it is, it pins me in place.

“Social work degree from City College of Chicago. Graduated a year and a half ago.” He rattles off my credentials like he’s committed them to memory.

There are things he doesn’t know.

My failed art career. How badly I need this job.

How much I need to make this work without asking Kyle for help.

But I’m not about to offer that up.

“That’s right,” I confirm.

“And you’ve worked with children but have never been employed as a nanny.”

“I babysat often in high school. And I worked with several children while getting my degree, mostly through art.”

He hums, low and skeptical. “You need money.”

“I need a job. The money comes with it.” My tone lands calmer than he probably expects.

His mouth curves slightly, not mocking, just acknowledging the honesty. “True enough. Some people are willing to work for it rather than expect it.”

His words have weight, not cruelty, and they leave a faint spark of challenge between us.

Roman pushes off the desk, moving toward me with quiet precision. His expression gives nothing away; I can’t tell if he’s about to hand me a drink or dismiss me entirely.

He circles slowly, deliberate, like a collector debating a piece of art he isn’t sure he wants to buy. When he stops behind me, the air itself feels heavier.

Roman straightens, the movement unhurried, powerful enough to make my skin prickle. He looks like a man who never rushes, because the world bends to his pace.

“Why do you want this job?”

“Because I’m good with children and enjoy being around them. And, like you said, I need the money.”

“Why do you need it?”

“The usual,” I say carefully. “Bills. Family.”

He studies me. Not coldly, but with a kind of curiosity that feels dangerous. It’s the look of a man who doesn’t believe in coincidences—or weakness.

“And your family?” His voice drops, the question quieter but heavier. “Where are they?”

“Around,” I say carefully.

He watches me like he already knows that isn’t the full answer. “Doing what?”

“Surviving,” I reply, soft but firm.

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t like evasive answers, yet there’s no impatience. Only the faintest trace of intrigue, like I’ve managed to surprise him.

“Are you hiding something, Miss Denning?”

“What would I be hiding?” I meet his gaze. “Everything relevant is on my résumé. My personal life doesn’t affect my work.”

His eyes hold mine for one long, silent beat. It feels like contact. Intimate in a way that words could never justify.

The phone buzzes.

He answers, voice switching fluidly to Russian.

I don’t understand the words, but his tone gives me goosebumps. The kind that live somewhere between fascination and trouble.

When he hangs up, he studies me again. The silence stretches to the point of awareness.

“Apologies,” he says, his tone smooth but unmistakably firm. “Work doesn’t wait.”

“I understand.”

Silence fills the space between us, heavy but alive. It feels like a contest neither of us agreed to play but both intend to win.

“So, you’ve worked with children and claim experience with art.”

“I didn’t claim it,” I say, refusing to look away. “It’s true.”

He takes a step closer, quiet and measured. His scent reaches me first, the blend of smoke and cedar that feels like control built into fragrance. His presence hums with restraint, and I can almost feel him watching the effect he has on me.

“My son, Sasha, loves art,” he says. “His drawings surpass his age.”

His gaze lingers, deliberate, curious, as if he is testing how close he can get before my confidence falters. It doesn’t.

“Would you like to see one?”

The question lands low and smooth, carrying weight that feels more personal than professional.

I nod, and he retrieves a sketch from his desk drawer. His movements are calm and deliberate, the kind of grace that belongs to a man accustomed to authority. The care he takes with the paper shows a kind of devotion that should not make my breath catch, yet it does.

“He did this?”

“Yes. That is Andrei, my bodyguard.”

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

“He is gifted,” Roman says quietly. “But gifts without control have a way of turning destructive.”

“Then he needs someone who can offer both,” I say.

His gaze drifts over my face. The approval there is faint but unmistakable.

“If you work for me, you will do what I say.”

I meet his eyes without flinching. “Not if it compromises the child’s growth.”

Something shifts in his expression. Interest sharpened by respect. The air between us feels heavier now, edged with challenge and something too charged to name.

“You don’t intimidate easily,” he observes.

“I get nervous like everyone else. I just stopped letting it make decisions for me,” I reply.

His expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a glimmer of amusement touching his mouth before it disappears. The tension between us shifts from static to magnetic, steady and deliberate.

“You have the job,” he says finally.

I blink. “Just like that?”

“Two month trial. Impress me, and it becomes permanent.”

The way he says it makes something low and restless twist in my chest.

“I will need a background check.”

His tone is mild, but the words carry intent. He will search, not to pry, but to understand. It should worry me. Instead, it thrills me.

“Of course,” I say quietly. My voice stays even, though my pulse refuses to.