Picnics in Hyde Park

Taking the two sets of spiral staircases in large leaps, up from the ground floor and past his and the kids’ rooms on the first floor, he strode down the top floor corridor and swung into the doorway of Zoe’s living space. Not in the white and beige lounge area. She must be in the bedroom. If the door was closed he’d knock, but it was open, so he walked straight in, impatient to get it over with.

The greeting he’d planned died on his lips, breath unexpectedly clogging in his throat. There was a knee-jerk response in his lower body, his jeans going uncomfortably tight.

Bloody hell.

Of all the beautiful women he’d worked with over the years—the singers and divas with their glamorous designer outfits and fashionable haircuts, manicures and pedicures, their gym-perfect toned bodies and fake tans—she was by far the sexiest he’d ever seen.

Sitting on the plush blue bedroom carpet, she was leaning against the ivory wall-paper, head tipped back as she gulped thirstily from a can of coke. Her creamy skin was flushed and her shapely but slightly too slim bare legs were on display, stunningly shown off by a pair of ultra-high black heels and some nearly non-existent cut-offs. A white vest-top outlined generous breasts and a tiny waist, the plain top a contrast against her black hair, dark brows and lashes.

Tamara Drewe eat your heart out, he thought, recalling the scene in the film where the intrepid journalist had made an all too memorable picture striding through a Dorset country field in tiny denim shorts.

When interviewing Zoe, of course he’d noticed she was attractive. Okay, striking, with a lovely face and athletic body. But he was surrounded by good-looking women most of the time. For a start, his recording artists were almost always easy on the eye. Not fair maybe that looks should be as important as talent, but the paying public invariably preferred something appealing to look at with the music. It was part of why Taylor, Rihanna and Rita had done so well.

He’d never had a problem keeping his hands off his artists, never had an issue keeping the relationships strictly professional. When Helen had been alive, he’d believed in being faithful and sticking to his marriage vows, even if, as it turned out, she hadn’t felt the same. Since she’d been gone, he’d had two small children to worry about, a successful business to keep afloat and an income to bring in if he wasn’t going to rely on the family inheritance the way his brother did. Was it any wonder he’d avoided getting close to women over the last few years? The complete opposite to what the press thought, the flames of publicity fanned by his PR Officer to give him and his clients maximum exposure.

Whatever, Zoe had been the best candidate for the job by far and it had been an easy and pragmatic decision to offer her the post. He’d had no expectation that moving her in would be an issue, but now wasn’t so sure. She was absolutely gorgeous, though a little on the thin side; her upper arms were a bit too defined and the slight ridges of her ribs were visible through the top. Nonetheless in this outfit she had an earthy sexiness that was going to make it hard for him to be around her without being in physical discomfort.

The thought brought back his earlier irritation. The last thing he needed was a complication, especially after everything that had happened with his last nanny. Getting involved with Zoe would be inappropriate. She was an employee. Look what had happened with Melody and Stephen, how that had turned out. Thinking about it brought on new waves of anger and disappointment. He’d thought Melody was such a sweet girl. So caring, so selfless. Wrong.

Frustration edged his voice as he stepped further into Zoe’s bedroom. ‘What’s going on? I didn’t realise you were moving your worldly possessions in. It’s like a jumble sale in here!’

Zoe looked up at him, then at the devastation around the room, flushing. ‘Oh. Well, I’m not finished yet, and wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’

‘Obviously.’

Jumping to her feet, rocking on the high heels, her black hair trailing down her back in its loose ponytail, her eyes flashed. Great, the view’s even better up close.Focus on talking Matt, look her in the eyes, not anywhere else.Definitely do not drop your gaze to those eye-popping breasts.

‘I didn’t realise there was a limit on the number of items I was allowed when I took the job,’ she said defensively, tucking her hands in her shorts pockets. ‘Sorry, did I miss something in the contract?’

‘No, of course not. Don’t be silly—’ he clicked his teeth together, seeing from her scowling face how well the comment had gone down. Deep breath, try again. Maybe if he didn’t look into those massive baby blues he’d be okay, so he stared at her collarbone instead. ‘I’m sorry, what I meant to say is, no. There’s no limit. I was just, er, it’s just that—’ his gaze dropped a few inches, and he frowned, fighting an overwhelming urge to grab her and bury his face in her cleavage. You’re acting like a schoolboy, sad and needy. Get a grip.

‘Just that what?’ she crossed her arms.

Shit, it just made the cleavage thing worse. Eyes up.

‘I was just a bit surprised by the mess,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not in that great a mood either. My version of a bad day at the office. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you though, so I apologise. I’m sure you’ll have it all put away soon.’

‘Yeah,’ she hitched her chin up a few centimetres but didn’t look very confident. ‘I hope so.’ Giving him an uncertain smile. ‘What time are the kids back again?’

‘Just under two hours. Let me help,’ he said instinctively. Why had he done that? He’d never offered to help Melody in that way. He also had loads to do. The cold shower, the emails, phone calls to return. This was a bad idea, a stupid one. He should leave her to it. Instead, to his surprise, he stepped further into the bedroom.

A funny feeling swirled in Zoe’s stomach as Matt came closer. He lifted a hand, rubbing a long finger over the scar that ran into his top lip. If it were anyone else she might have thought he was nervous, but he was so confident she knew that couldn’t be it.

‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine.’ She edged away, aware of his body heat and how big he was, towering over her. ‘You don’t want to help unpack a load of clothes and shoes, surely? I hardly think that it’s part of your job description as my boss.’

He shrugged muscular shoulders in the clinging grey t-shirt he wore so ridiculously well.

‘I want you to feel at home here,’ he wandered around the room with an easy grace for such a tall, well-built guy. ‘If you do, the kids will feel it. So whatever it takes. Where do you want me to start?’ Frowning, and looking at the tottering piles of shoes in three different parts of the room. ‘I take it you’ve seen there’s shelving for shoes? Although,’ he glanced at her, ‘I’m not sure you’ll fit them all in.’ He bent over and plucked up a patent red stiletto, letting it dangle from one finger, raising one eyebrow.

She blushed and bit her bottom lip. The shoe looked tiny in his hands. It was a strangely personal feeling as he ran assessing fingers over the curve of the arch and turned the heel over. He might as well be delving into her lingerie drawer. Something about the confident way he handled the shoe sent a ping of lust zipping through her pelvis. Plus he smelled incredible and looked sexily rumpled with his hair in tufts, presumably from where he’d raked through it with stress, and she couldn’t help noticing again the way his t-shirt stretched over his well-defined chest.

She was mortified to realise as he looked over that she was staring.

What? No, no, no! Stop salivating over him. He’s a pig, remember? Remember why you’re here.

‘So, is this it or is there still more to come?’

His question threw her, given the battle she was fighting against rebellious hormones and the need to hang onto some brain power.

‘No, that’s it. Anyway, does it matter?’ she asked, clearing her throat when realising how breathy she sounded. ‘Because you’ve said I’ve no limit on the amount of stuff I can have, I mean.’

‘It’ll matter if this only scratches the surface and we end up with a house so full we can’t move,’ he grinned disarmingly. Then he looked down at the shoe. ‘You’ve got expensive tastes, haven’t you? Got a rich guy secreted in the States somewhere who keeps you in the good stuff?’

‘Sorry, but that’s not really any of your business, Matt,’ she said stiffly. He was only joking but the comments hurt. Yes, she’d had a guy in the States, but contrary to what he might think she couldn’t be bought by pretty things, wouldn’t be blinded by them.

Temper flared in his eyes at her tone, but he didn’t respond straight away, instead gathering up the matching red shoe and disappearing into the cupboard, presumably to put the pair in the rack. ‘Fair enough,’ he said casually as he came back out, picking up a silk top from a pile on the side, ‘as long you’re not going to have some guy turning up out of the blue.’ He glanced at the king-sized bed behind her, and something in his expression tumbled her stomach, along with the way he was running his fingers absent-mindedly over the lace of the top’s neckline. ‘I don’t allow sleepovers in this house. That is in your contract.’

She turned to stare at the bed. Her eyes closed on a rush of heat, her skin prickling with awareness and she suddenly felt tongue-tied. Get it together. Anyone would think you were a teenage girl alone in your room with a boy for the first time. As much as she was aware of his astonishing hotness in her weaker moments, she wouldn’t act on it, mainly because of the whole Plan Nannygate and not liking him thing, but also because she wasn’t ready for anything after Greg’s betrayal. But back to the issue at hand, his comment on overnight guests. ‘That won’t be a problem.’ She met his gaze. ‘I’m single, and happy to stay that way.’ But she mustn’t be too adamant about it. At some point she needed to try and build a relationship between them, or at least the appearance of one. Which meant humour, trust, affection. Yuck.

‘Great! Good.’ He looked completely wrong-footed by the words flying out of his mouth. ‘I mean, that’s easier for everyone. I just don’t like the thought of strange men wandering around my house with the children here—’

‘No. One strange man is more than enough,’ she joked, crossing the room and easing the silky top from his hand, raising her eyebrows. ‘Could you please kindly stop feeling up my pyjamas?’

His eyes shot to hers, then down at the fabric. ‘Oh. I, ah…sorry, I thought that it was a top. That you wear out, I mean. I-I’d better go, I have a lot of work to do.’

‘You’re not going to stay and help after all?’ She couldn’t resist teasing him, seeing his discomfort.

‘I think its best you sort it out,’ he started backing toward the door. ‘If you can get the room straight and then get changed into something more suitable before Jasper and Aimee get home, that would be appreciated.’

She frowned. ‘Something more suitable?’

He took a few more steps back. ‘You’re the other responsible adult in this house at the moment and need to set a good example. I’d rather not be confronted by my seven year-old daughter trying to wear shorts that go up to—’ he paused before nodding at her bare legs, ‘well, you know what I mean.’

Turning, he headed off downstairs before she could respond, leaving her standing in the messy room, face turning a slow bright red. Lovely. He’d just practically accused her of looking like a prostitute. What an ass. So much for Melody saying he could be kind of charming. Although he hadn’t been doing too badly at first. Maybe Melody was right. Maybe this was a mistake.

She had to get out of here, get some fresh air, figure out what she was doing. She wasn’t officially on duty until the morning, but had planned on spending some time with the children before their bedtime. So she’d unpack, shower and change into something Mr Clothing Police might approve of, see Aimee and Jasper for half an hour, and then she was escaping for the evening.

Matt was sitting at the breakfast counter in tight blue Levi’s and a navy t-shirt watching the news when Zoe sloped into the kitchen early the next morning.

She murmured a quick greeting and looked around the room, admiring again the luxurious black and silver flecked marble counter tops, chrome equipment and spotlights set against the white walls and cabinets. Moving behind Matt to fiddle with the coffee machine, she placed a porcelain cup under the spout, frowning at the variety of buttons and levers. It looked more like a dashboard from a spaceship than something for making hot drinks. If she got desperate enough she’d ask him for help, but she’d give it a darned good try on her own first.

She poked at a black button, waiting for the chrome machine to do something. The orange ON light was lit up, and there was steam coming from somewhere, but nothing happened. Come on, she needed coffee.

They’d not spoken since Matt’s comment about her shorts the previous day. He’d been in his office and she’d been with Aimee and Jasper in their playroom after they’d come back from his mother-in-law’s and once they’d gone to bed she’d headed out, mooching around a few still open shops before trekking down towards Sloane Square and along Chelsea Bridge Road to take a walk beside the sluggish River Thames. The evening was balmy and bright, cars rushing past with beeps of horns, stressed commuters and cheerful locals streaming past her on the way to their next destination. She’d always loved London at this time of year. The sounds and smells of summer and the sense of endless possibilities. After her stroll she’d gone to see a late night comedy at the cinema.

She’d felt better and calmer on returning to Matt’s. As much as he’d embarrassed her, reflecting on his behaviour she’d realised it was unintentional rather than trying to piss her off. Also, for the plan to work she had to get Matt on side. Which meant not sending waves of palpable dislike his way every time he moved or spoke. So the only sensible thing was to temporarily put aside what he’d done to Melody and concentrate on being nice and becoming part of the household. She also didn’t want to live in a house filled with tension. It wouldn’t be good for any of them, least of all the kids. They mustn’t be hurt by all this. It wouldn’t be fair.

Muttering under her breath, she stabbed at a different button on the machine.