The Billionaire's Nanny

Eyes wide, the flight attendant drew back. Her at-your-service smile faltered. She lifted the carrier away from her body as if radioactive waste filled the inside, then tipped her head to her left. “AJ’s in the cabin.”

“Thank you.”

Emma passed between two forward-facing leather-covered captain’s chairs. Each seat contained a television screen and game controller. The understated look was more luxurious man cave than flashy flaunt of wealth.

The next row faced backward. Someone with a head of thick brown hair occupied the seat to her left.

Attila. Atticus. AJ. This had to be him.

Libby thought the world of her boss, when she wasn’t complaining about AJ. She described him as exacting. “Workaholic” was how Emma imagined him, based on how many hours he kept Libby working. And prompt. Libby said he would fire a manager if a project went over schedule, break up with a woman if she arrived late for a date and eviscerate a chef if forced to wait between courses.

Not everything Emma had heard about AJ Cole was awful. He paid employees well, was a philanthropist and doted on his grandmother, who visited him in Seattle at least once a month. The guy couldn’t be all bad if he was throwing his grandma an eightieth birthday party—make that a soiree.

Voices sounded. Three or four.

Emma didn’t see anyone else on board. She stepped closer.

The brown-haired man sat with a tablet in front of him. Three other faces appeared on the screen. One, a woman, spoke about branding.

Emma glanced from the tablet to her temporary boss. Whoa. A six-foot-plus mass of male hotness sat in the seat. A guy with no beard.

She blinked. Refocused. Still hot. Definitely AJ. She recognized his intense green eyes from the photographs.

Yum. Libby called her boss a nice piece of eye candy, but now that Emma was standing next to AJ Cole, he seemed more like a five-pound box of gourmet chocolates. Mouthwateringly delicious.

His gray suit jacket, expertly tailored, accentuated straight, wide shoulders. Unruly brown hair, curly at the ends, fringed the starched collar of his white dress shirt. His ruggedly handsome features fit perfectly together, making her heart accelerate like a car on a racetrack.

His smoldering gaze met hers.

Her throat tightened. She wished he hadn’t shaved his beard so she wouldn’t find him attractive. Then again, she still might. A photograph couldn’t capture the 3-D version of the living, breathing man.

He motioned with his finger to the seat facing him. A small table separated the two chairs.

Emma removed the tote bag strap from her shoulder and sat. She ignored the conversation from the conference chat, not wanting to eavesdrop. She pressed each button to see what it did. Peering inside the pouch on the side of her seat, she saw a barf bag. She hoped she wouldn’t need it.

The decibel level of the conference call rose. Voices talked over one another. Not quite a debate, but a lively discussion.

Her gaze fell on AJ’s face. Talk about stunning. He laughed at a joke, softening the planes, angles and lines of his face. She focused on his mouth, zeroed in on his lips. Bet he was a good kisser.

What in the world was she doing? Thinking? AJ wasn’t only her boss. He was also Libby’s boss.

Emma looked at her lap. The seat belt ends lay on either side of her. She fastened the buckle and tightened the strap, as if the pressure could squeeze out her nonsensical thoughts before she embarrassed Libby and herself.

So what if the real-life AJ Cole was more attractive than his photographs? He was her boss, not a random guy she could flirt with at Starbucks then breeze out the door without a look back. Besides, he wasn’t her type. She preferred a family man. Not a guy who, according to Libby, hadn’t visited his family in ten years.

“Don’t do that.” AJ’s hard tone made Emma jump. “If any of you disturb Libby while I’m away, you won’t have a job when I return. Understood?”

Not so bad. Emma hadn’t expected him to stick up for Libby.

“See you on Monday,” he added.

The words Don’t bother me were implied.

He tucked his tablet into the side pocket of his seat. “Emma Markwell.”

His deep voice flowed through her veins like warm maple syrup. She fought the urge to melt into her seat. “Hello, Mr. Cole. It’s nice to meet you.”

His critical gaze ran the length of her, scrutinizing, as if she were a line of bad computer code wreaking havoc with his program. This was the man she expected minus the gorgeous face and athletic physique.

“Libby tells me you’re a Martha Stewart–Mary Poppins mash-up, able to master home, hearth and heathen children.”

“I don’t have anything magical to pull out of my tote bag, but I do have a few modern-day equivalents for tricks and can spell supercalifragilisticexpialidocious backward.” Something she’d learned being the nanny of a gifted child one summer.

“So you have no magic, but you brought a homeless cat.”

His eyes were flat, no glint of humor or spark of amusement. Was this the intimidator Libby told Emma to ignore?

“Libby assured me that bringing Blossom was acceptable.” Emma’s voice sounded hoarse. She cleared her throat.

“If it was a problem I would have hired you a cat sitter.” He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossed it onto the seat across the aisle, then buckled his seat belt. “My niece, nephew and cousins’ children will play with the cat. Just keep the beast away from me.”

“Allergic?”

“No.”

Camille picked up the jacket, glanced at the seat belts fastened across their laps, then headed to the front of the jet.

The silence made Emma bristle, reminding her of the impending takeoff. She needed to distract herself. “Not a fan of cats?”

His lips narrowed, reducing their kissability factor by 70 percent. Not that she would ever kiss him.

“If you must know, they’re pampered, vile creatures. I don’t see the appeal.”

His good looks had sparked an initial attraction, but his fire-extinguishing personality was making sure no flames erupted. She, as his employee, should let his words drop and discuss what her job responsibilities would be. But the cat lover in her couldn’t do that. Nor could the friend in her, either. His lack of warmth and understanding he displayed with the cat probably also translated to his overworking Libby to the point of her almost dying.

“Blossom is not a pampered cat, Mr. Cole. Her owner died. The family didn’t want to be bothered so surrendered the cat to an animal control facility in California. She ended up on a kill list. The shelter I volunteer for in Portland stepped in to rescue her. Blossom lived with thirty-five other cats until the space flooded yesterday. She had to come with me as a foster or spend the next week in a metal cage at a vet’s office.”

“Not pampered.” He sounded more amused than irritated. “I stand corrected.”

“Thank you for admitting that.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

Libby had said AJ didn’t like being wrong. Emma didn’t want to annoy him or upset him, but she had more to say. She scraped her teeth across her lower lip. “I’ve said too much.”

“Perhaps, but I’d like to know.”

Libby had told Emma to do what he requested without asking too many questions. But this probably wasn’t what her friend meant.