Picnics in Hyde Park

‘Shall we get started?’ he asked, frowning.

‘Of course,’ she straightened in her seat, trying to reassert her professionalism.

His phone pinged. ‘For the love of—’ putting the pad aside, he checked his mobile, reading something and scowling like it was telling him the end of the world was nigh. ‘The sooner my assistant is better, the sooner my sanity will return,’ he muttered absent-mindedly, touching the screen and typing a reply message.

The deadpan delivery was unwittingly amusing and made him seem less grumpy. Zoe couldn’t help chuckling under her breath as she stared at him. A tingling awareness ran through her, a purely sexual heat beating between her legs and tightening her skin, raising bumps along it.

No. You detest him. He hurt Melody.

A pretty face and a toned body mean nothing.

Men aren’t to be trusted.

Get over it.

It was easy to clamp a lid on her unruly hormones as she reminded herself of those facts. Plus the intense physical reaction was ridiculous and just too much. It had to be down to the jet lag and fury, as well as her spinning, conflicted emotions about coming home.

Then she sighed, studying him as he tapped away on the phone. Damn. One thing she didn’t usually do was lie to herself and the truth was she’d never had such an overwhelming and immediate attraction to someone before. Fancied them, sure. Had flings, a few. Longer term boyfriends, yes…which unhappily lead her thoughts to Greg. What an awful waste of five years he’d turned out to be.

Why didn’t I see it coming? Why didn’t I know?

Rage swamped her, despair pulling her down. She was obviously no judge of character where men were concerned. She’d virtually abandoned Melody to follow Greg across the ocean, and in return he’d betrayed her.

She straightened her shoulders, setting her jaw.

No. No man was ever going to come before her family again. She owed her sister more than that…and she owed the Reilly brothers revenge.

2 (#ulink_b962b61c-4d04-57eb-a2be-2afbd5eeb57e)

‘I’m sorry,’ Matt silenced his phone and placed it face down on the glass table. ‘Today’s been nightmarish,’ he ran a hand distractedly through his hair, ‘to say I’m short-staffed is an understatement.’

If part of the reason for his stress hadn’t been down to him throwing her sister out on her arse, Zoe might have felt sorry for him. He looked genuinely pained. But it was his own stupid fault.

‘That’s okay,’ she said politely, wondering how much of the interview to go through with before sharing the real reason for turning up on his doorstep. She felt like she needed to know more about him first. What if she started accusing him of what he’d done to Melody and he denied it all, or threw her out too? No, that wasn’t good enough. She had to think about this strategically. It was just a shame that dragging tiredness and anger were befuddling her brain.

‘Right, the phone is being ignored and I’m not going to answer the door if the bell goes,’ he declared. ‘Let’s get on with this.’ Leaning forward to grab the notepad again, the movement showed off strong chest muscles shifting under the cotton of his top.

Her eyes flew up, noticing the petal pattern in his forest green irises, and how focused his gaze was.

‘So, tell me more about why you wanted the agency to send you over for this job in particular?’ he asked, pen poised over the paper.

‘Er…um,’ she stuttered. It was an easy warm-up question, but her brain couldn’t seem to come up with an answer. What the heck had she said earlier? She couldn’t remember clearly, she’d been so intent on getting through the door.

‘Well?’ he raised both eyebrows.

Glancing out of one of the French doors, Zoe caught sight of a flowering indigo plant and a section of deck railing. It looked pretty out there, idyllic. Which nudged her memory. ‘Like I said, it’s a lovely place to live,’ she mumbled.

‘That’s it?’

‘Yeah,’ she said lamely. God, this was awful. She was acting like a space cadet. Get it together.

Matt twisted his wrist and checked his battered but expensive looking watch. ‘Are you sure you’re actually here for an interview? To be frank, I’m really busy, so…’ he started unfolding his tall body from the sofa.

It was enough to shake her from the fog. What was she doing? She was here for a reason, couldn’t blow it. ‘N-no,’ she squeaked, and then cleared her throat before speaking with more confidence. ‘I mean, no.’

Shooting up and stalking around the coffee table, he jerked her from the sofa by one elbow. ‘Why the hell are you here then?’

She stumbled against him, letting out an oof as their bodies clashed awkwardly. Typically, his muscles were as solid and defined as they looked and her face bloomed pink as scorching sexual awareness ran through her, hardening her nipples. She glanced down quickly to check he couldn’t see them through her top. Luckily he was more focused on other things, like drilling her for information. He didn’t seem to notice how close they were or how tight his grip was.

‘Are you with the press?’ he demanded softly, the tone somehow scarier than if he’d shouted.

‘No! Absolutely not! I’m not part of that lot.’ She hoped her tone was suitably scathing and convincing, given that one of her best friends was a journalist. ‘And can you let go of me please? That’s way too tight.’ The determined shake of her arm must have convinced him of something, even if it was only that she wouldn’t put up with any high-handed crap.

He let go immediately. ‘Sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you?’

To his credit he looked sincere. It was the perfect opportunity to make him feel bad, but he hadn’t actually hurt her. Plus, if she went on the attack, it might make him defensive, which would get her nowhere. ‘You didn’t,’ she shrugged, ‘don’t worry.’

‘Good. So now you can explain yourself.’ He crossed his arms across his chest, shoulders tense.

‘Sure. Okay. When I said no, I only meant that no, I didn’t want to leave. You were getting up and I thought you were going to say it was over before it had even begun. I don’t usually perform this badly at interviews, I swear. I wasn’t talking much because I’m jetlagged and feeling a bit funny from the sun.’ She fanned herself to illustrate the point. Did she look as stupid and fake as she felt? But hey, she was committed now, and might as well go for it. ‘I only landed a couple of hours ago, it’s really hot outside and I burn easily. I mean look at this rubbish pale skin.’ She pointed to her face. ‘I may have a bit of heatstroke, but I feel better now I’m inside.’ She mustered her best acting skills and smiled brightly. ‘So perhaps you could offer me a glass of water and a minute to compose myself then we can start again? I’m not from the press, honestly.’ It was easy to hold his gaze, given it was the truth.

There was a long pause as he stared at her. ‘Fine,’ he said, expression guarded. ‘I suppose.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I know journalists. If you were one you would either come clean and bombard me with questions or maybe try to tempt me with something,’ his eyes flickered over her body, ‘in exchange for an exclusive story.’

Her spine stiffened and she smiled coldly. He was either deadly serious and an absolute pig, or was testing her.

‘Luckily neither of those applies. Anyway, what would someone from the press want with you at the moment?’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘Nope.’

Now she was fibbing, having read about a supposed broken engagement in a trashy celeb magazine on the seven hour flight home. The break-up was allegedly because his pop star fiancée had set up a cosy photo shoot with his kids without permission, prompting him to storm into a conference room to collect them, followed by hustling them out of the private entrance at the back of the hotel. As well as leaving with his children, he’d also apparently left with the massive diamond rock he’d proposed with six weeks before.

He shook his head. ‘Never mind then. It doesn’t matter.’

Was he embarrassed? Ashamed? Hurt? None of the above, surely. He didn’t look particularly heartbroken.

‘Hang on. I think it matters. If you gave me the job would I have to live with the papers breathing down my neck all the time? For instance, do your children get followed?’

‘Getting a bit ahead of yourself based on your input so far, aren’t you?’ he asked dryly. ‘Talking yourself into the job. A bit over confident, maybe?’

Arrogant was the unspoken word hanging in the air. From the glint in his eye, he wanted to see how she would react when provoked. But he wasn’t going to see that side of her. At least, not yet.

‘Over confident? No.’ She shrugged. ‘Over qualified? Maybe. I got a CACHE level three Diploma in Home-based Child Care when I left school before it was replaced with the QCF framework, and worked in a nursery for a few years. I progressed to a degree in Psychology with a view to specialising with children, but hated the job itself when I did my placement year at an independent school. So I left uni early, got a Paediatric First Aid award, did basic health and safety training, undertook a food hygiene certificate and became a nanny. My plan tomorrow is to apply to get onto the OFSTED Childcare Register so I can care for under eight year olds…’ She continued talking, reeling off her experience and skills, taking great pleasure in shutting him up. By the time she was done, his eyebrows were so high they’d almost disappeared into his dark hair.