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.
‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ nodding his head, ‘we’ll get on with the set questions after I’ve got you that glass of water.’ He loped away, long legs carrying him quickly to the door.
Her eyes dropped to his deliciously muscular butt and she twisted away, swearing. She was almost twenty-eight, not a teenager. She should not be susceptible to crushes on the latest bit of man-candy in the media.
Think of Melody. What do I do about the indefensible way he treated her?
Matt was so self-assured that Zoe doubted simply taking her sister’s stuff and having a go at him would have the slightest affect, never mind making him feel bad enough to offer to make amends. Her hands curled into fists, picturing her sister’s pale face and bloodshot eyes. According to Jemima, Melody had hardly spoken or eaten since rolling up on her friend’s doorstep unexpectedly the previous day.
Matt walked back into the room and placed two blue glasses filled with sparkling water, ice and neat slices of lemon on the table. Zoe dropped onto the sofa and thanked him politely, hiding her churned up feelings behind a bland expression. As she sipped her drink, her hand was steady, a new determination burning a hole in her stomach. She wasn’t sure how she was going to get even with him yet, but would ignore his physical appeal if it killed her.
‘So,’ she put her water down and clasped her hand together in her lap, ‘what’s the next question?’
For the following half hour, Zoe answered his competency-based questions calmly, talking about educational standards, setting up routines, and how she handled behaviour management issues through shared partnership and agreed strategies with parents. She was candid with her professional opinion of what Matt’s children needed based on their ages, following up with questions about their likes, hobbies and extra-curricular activities to show her interest. At times she accidentally slipped into enjoying the challenge of the interview and as much as she hated the idea of thinking anything positive about Matt, it was obvious from his probing questions that he was bright, sharp and knew what he wanted for his kids. She was shocked to feel genuinely interested in the job when Matt gave an approving smile to her last answer and asked if she had any questions of her own.
‘I assume it’s a live-in position?’ she said after quizzing him about the hours, salary and next stages of the interview process.
‘Yes, you’d have your own bedroom, bathroom and a small lounge area on the top floor.’
‘Great. Could I see them please?’
‘Not today,’ he said brusquely.
No wonder. Melody’s things were probably still in her bedroom and he’d be unable to explain why. Because, after all, not many people would voluntarily leave their stuff behind, and he’d hardly want to admit to slinging a previous employee out so quickly he’d not let them pack up their belongings.
‘Okay, maybe next time, if I’m invited back.’ Sliding forward on the sofa, she leaned toward him with her head tilted to indicate interest and encourage honesty. It was basic psychology. ‘So, am I allowed to ask what happened to your last nanny?’
His lips tightened, a pulse beating in his stubbly jaw. ‘I’d rather not discuss it,’ he replied, shuffling his paperwork together on the table.
‘It’s important for me to know, given I’m applying to replace her,’ she said, peering at him so he had to meet her gaze or appear rude. ‘Did she leave for professional or personal reasons? Was she not happy here? What have you told the children? If I get the job I need to know what happened so