meant she would have to deliver her castigation right there and then. She would prefer more time to plot a more fitting retribution but only by her acceptance as the Helliars’ temporary nanny could she get that.
She would just have to keep her fingers crossed and hope that the gods of retribution were fighting her corner!
After paying off the driver she faced the hotel, straightening. She would have expected Finn Helliar, hot-shot financier, chief executive of an aweinspiringly successful international merchant bank, to choose something ultra-modern, trendily sophisticated. But maybe his wife had insisted on somewhere like this—restrained, comfortable, old-fashioned, even.
Caroline shrugged. It wasn’t important. And the niggle of anxiety she had been trying to suppress bubbled up to the surface of her mind, making her frown and sink her teeth into her full lower lip.
The trouble with knee-jerk reactions, as her impulse to present herself as a temporary nanny had been, was a built-in, fatal lack of forward planning. She was uncomfortable with that.
So far she had planned her life meticulously; she had known where she was going, what she wanted. And if, as was a distinct possibility, she was shown the door as soon as her lack of credentials became known she could only hope that Finn Helliar himself would show her to that door and not leave the chore to his wife.
If the worst came to the worst and she was asked to leave she would say she needed a few moments alone with him. No way would she say what needed to be said in front of his wife. Fleur Helliar wasn’t the guilty one.
She stiffly approached the revolving doors with their solid mahogany and brass fittings. It would work out. Fate had obligingly delivered the callous brute into her hands—it wouldn’t let her down at this last minute.
The sitting room of the suite she was shown into had all the comfortable, relaxed charm of an English country home and the receptionist she had announced herself to, and who had spoken for a few seconds into the house phone, now said, ‘Make yourself comfortable. Mr Helliar asked me to give you his apologies. He won’t be more than a few minutes.’
It was, however, much less than that. Just a few seconds, but time enough to note two silver-framed photographs of his wife, the French singer who had briefly blazed to stardom before marriage and imminent motherhood had taken her to apparent obscurity.
His sudden, silent emergence into the room was a shock. It shouldn’t have been, but it was. His appearance took her by the throat and shook her, dislodging all her famed composure, depriving her of her wits so that she could only stand and stare at six feet something of honed male power.
His soft dark hair was appealingly rumpled, sticking up in wayward tufts, making him look younger than his thirty-four years. The front of the white shirt he wore above narrow black trousers was decidedly damp, the sleeves rolled up to expose the tanned skin of strong forearms. And his hands, the hands that held the child so gently and held her unwillingly fascinated stare for longer than was sensible, were beautifully made, strong-boned yet sensitive.
‘Please excuse the delay, Miss Farr. Sophie got more lunch outside her than in. She and I both agreed—didn’t we, my pet?—that she’d look more presentable after a bath, though the same can’t be said for me! Won’t you sit down?’
The intent silver-grey, black-fringed eyes were bright with enquiry, yet they held a hint of mischief, too. Caroline didn’t like that because that, and his rumpled appearance, the loving way he held the baby, made him seem human.
Reminding herself that he wasn’t—only a coldhearted, selfish, inhuman brute could have done what he’d done to her young sister, Katie—she sat, feet neatly together, her features carefully blank.
As the interview progressed, Caroline realised he was more interested in what made her tick, as a person, than in references and credentials. He didn’t mention either and she found herself enjoying the experience of re-inventing herself, presenting him with a dedicated lover of children whose hobbies were knitting, making model castles out of matchsticks, collecting wild flowers and recipes for fairy cakes.
The twitching of his mobile, sexy mouth brought her back to reality with a thump. Aborting her flights of fantasy, she asked herself tartly what she thought she was playing at. She should be taking advantage of what fate had handed her and giving him a piece of her mind.
No sign of Fleur, his wife. She wouldn’t be out shopping or lunching with friends while something as important as an interview for a nanny was going on.
So she was probably back in her native France, recording an album, or whatever pop stars did when they wanted to make a come-back. Nothing had been heard of the singer since her short but meteoric rise to fame had been grounded by marriage and motherhood. No doubt she was re-launching her career—hence the need for a nanny.
But something held her back—the memory of what he’d done to poor sweet Katie...
Wait and see. If he offered her the job she’d have more time at her disposal to think up something more fitting than a mere tongue-lashing.
As yet she had no idea of what that something might be. But she’d get there. Hadn’t her formidable old grandmother repeatedly praised her for being strong and resourceful, a chip off the old Farr block?
‘Of course, if you enjoy the situation, if Sophie takes to you, and you don’t object to living out of town, then the situation could be permanent.’
It wasn’t a statement. More like a question, a probing question at that. Caroline shook her head and did her best to look regretful. No way. No way! This was a one-off. She was no nanny, she was simply the business brain behind the agency. She wouldn’t need long to find a way to pay him back and after that he wouldn’t see her for the jet-stream!
‘I’m afraid I only ever take temporary work, Mr Helliar.’ Earnestly said, with a tiny smile.
‘Can you tell me why?’ One sable brow slanted towards his hairline, the slight alteration in expression suddenly reminding her that he wasn’t the pussy-cat his relaxed pose, with the child perched on his knee, suggested. This was a formidable man.
Pulling an answer out of the air, she invented, ‘I get far too fond of my charges if I stay around for longer than a few weeks. It’s easier for all concerned if I take on temporary situations only.’
But he didn’t believe her. She could see he didn’t. The silver eyes had gone hard and flat. She could almost hear the scornful words, calling her a liar, clicking around in his brain.
She knew she’d been telling fibs, but she couldn’t bear that this...this wretch who had hurt and betrayed her sister should know it, too.
He was the one in the wrong, he was the one who had walked away, uncaring of the misery he left in his wake, not giving his broken-hearted victim a second thought. And the way he was looking at her, as if he knew she was telling a pack of lies, put her down on his contemptible level.
She couldn’t bear that, either. It made her feel squirmy inside, nauseous, even, and she was on the point of beating a dignified retreat, forgetting the reason for her being here in the first place, when he unexpectedly and mildly defused the situation.
‘Why don’t you and Sophie get to know each other?’ Gently but firmly, he put the little girl on her bare pink feet. Caroline huffed out her pent-up breath and relaxed her rigid shoulders. She
