“Yes.” Some of them appear in magazines like Forbes and Wired, in articles about his company, about the new age of tech business, and how it’s revolutionizing the old guard of shipping.

And then there were the tabloids. Apparently making a shit-ton of money made him a celebrity. He appeared at clubs in LA with starlets and singers on his arm. There are still a few articles here and there wondering what happened to him.

“They don’t know where you went. Or why you stopped making appearances.”

“If I fire you, you could make decent money selling a story to them.”

“That would violate the terms of my nondisclosure agreement with the agency.”

His voice is mocking. “And that would be unethical.”

I nod my head yes, realizing that somehow I’ve gotten backed against the wall.

There was only one recent article, a small piece in a local Maine newspaper stating that Rhys and Emily Rochester passed away on their yacht when they were caught by a storm. It doesn’t go into details about the accident, which seems strange. Don’t newspapers love gory details? Maybe they were staying quiet out of respect for the family. Or maybe they somehow couldn’t get details the way they did for other families. Maybe Beau hushed it up.

They’re survived by their daughter, Paige Rochester. Her guardian, Beau Rochester, a favorite of venture capitalists in California, declined to comment.

He’s in front of me, only inches away. Heat from his body seeps into mine. We’re standing in a wood-floor hallway in Maine. I have no sweater, no socks. I should be freezing, but instead I’m burning up. Like there’s fire inside him, and it’s making me warm.

I look up at him, searching, searching. For what?

“Your eyes,” he mutters, sounding almost angry about it.

“What about them?”

“They’re alight. I could drown in them.”

“Like the man in the song?”

He leans on the wall, hand by my head. His other hand traces my arm, the curve of a forearm, the dimple of my elbow. The goose bumps rising on my shoulder. I lift my chin as if to shrink away from his touch. No, as if to give him access. And he takes it. The backs of his knuckles run over my chest. It’s a strange place, those few inches. Not overtly sexual, but neither are they someplace a man like him should ever touch.

It awakens me. I feel like what he said I was—alight. His thumb moves to the hollow at the base of my throat, and I suck in a breath. “You shouldn’t be—you shouldn’t—”

“I shouldn’t touch you,” he murmurs.

“You’re my boss.”

“And you’re the nanny.”

His thumb continues its rhythm. “Why don’t you stop?”

“I told you, sweetheart. Life is unethical.”