Nikki Moore - Picnics in Hyde Park

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.’