let him take the lead. This one looked him square in the eye.
But only for a moment. Then her brown gaze slewed from his and he knew she stifled anxiety.
Of course she’s anxious. She’s applying for a job. She must know her qualifications aren’t impressive.
Yet his sixth sense tickled, telling him this was more than interview nerves.
‘Please, Ms Rivage, take a seat.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Maynard.’
Her voice was deeper than he’d expected, with a husky resonance that teased an altogether earthier part of his consciousness. Perhaps it was the hint of an accent colouring her perfect English. But Jake had never been swayed by a sexy accent. Not unless it was accompanied by an equally sexy body.
Caro Rivage’s body was hard to define behind the boxy jacket and skirt. She was tall in those heels, just half a head shorter than he, and her long legs were slender. She subsided into the chair with a grace that seemed at odds with the sombre suit. Brown clothes, brown eyes, dark, dull brown hair. She should look forgettable yet Jake found it hard to drag his gaze away.
Maybe it was the neat way she angled her ankles beneath her, accentuating an innate femininity that plain suit belied. Or the creamy skin that contrasted so startlingly with the dark suit.
Not completely pale. His gaze traversed her small, lush mouth and high cheekbones, both tinted the palest pink. Not, he’d swear, from make-up. This looked like the genuine article, a peaches and cream complexion, unblemished by the years of sun exposure he was used to seeing in his fellow Australians.
She shifted, her eyes lifting almost to his, then away, making Jake aware he was staring. The knowledge disturbed him. He wasn’t interested in Ms Rivage’s skin. Even if it looked as soft as a petal.
He pulled out his chair and sank into it, sprawling comfortably. Again that swift almost-stare from his guest before she looked down and smoothed her skirt.
Was she afraid of men?
But then she lifted her chin and their gazes collided. He felt the impact as a wave of heat.
Jake stared back, intrigued. What was this sensation? Attraction? Surely not for such a sparrow, even if she did have nice legs and an intriguing face. Suspicion?
Something about her made him cautious.
‘Tell me about yourself, Ms Rivage.’ He leaned back, elbows on the chair arms, and steepled his fingers under his chin.
Jake Maynard’s voice was a delicious rumble that she felt like a burr of pleasure in her veins. Caro blinked, ordering herself not to be fanciful. She was immune to male charm—once bitten, twice shy. Yet even as the thought surfaced, she knew this man wasn’t trying to charm. Despite the gesture of welcome and the barest hint of a welcoming smile, she sensed an intensity of purpose that made her pulse quicken.
Or maybe it was the laser-sharp keenness of his grey eyes beneath coal-black eyebrows. It made his eyes seem diamond bright and knowing, as if he saw beyond her carefully constructed appearance to those secrets she hoarded close.
It took everything she had not to shift in her seat or betray any other sign of weakness. Or break away from that glittering stare.
She drew a deep breath, conscious of the unfamiliar new suit, the pantyhose and heeled shoes that felt so different from the comfortable jeans, skirts and flat shoes she’d worn for the past few years.
The very act of putting on these clothes made her simultaneously grateful for the camouflage and unsettled by the reminder of her other life.
One black eyebrow climbed his broad forehead towards thick, ebony hair, reminding her he was waiting. With that hard but handsome face, powerful physique and enormous fortune Jake Maynard probably wasn’t used to women making him wait.
The thought dampened the worst of Caro’s nerves, helping her focus. She’d been distracted by the aura of strength emanating from him, courtesy of broad shoulders. By even features and that slash of a dimple in one cheek when he offered his half-smile. By his air of strength and dependability.
As if any man could be relied on!
She folded her hands and began. ‘My application speaks for itself. I love working with children and I’m very good at it. As you’ll see from my references.’
Her chin lifted as if anticipating an argument. Even now her father’s habit of squashing her self-confidence had its effect. She expected Jake Maynard to disagree with her claim, though it was true.
For too long those cool eyes held hers, then his gaze fell to the papers before him. Caro’s breath rushed out in relief. She’d have to do better than this if she were to convince him and win the job.
The possibility of being rejected was unthinkable. She bit her lip as he looked up, brows contracting as he read her features.
‘You don’t have formal qualifications.’
‘A degree in early childhood education?’ She shook her head. ‘My experience is all hands on. But you’ll see I’ve done a number of short courses on specific early learning issues.’
He didn’t bother to check her application again, letting it fall to the desk. Caro’s heart plunged with it. Surely that wasn’t it? He wouldn’t write her off so easily, not when he’d decided to interview her!
‘I have to tell you the other short-listed applicants have both practical experience, years of it, plus excellent formal qualifications.’
There it was, the brush-off she’d feared. Nausea churned at the idea of being given her marching orders.
‘Have you read my references? I believe you’ll find them persuasive.’
He sat back further in his chair, as if getting comfortable while he watched her squirm. He didn’t bother glancing at her application.
Maybe the contrast between his bronzed skin and the dark jacket he wore teased her imagination, or perhaps it was his almost insulting air of indolence, but for a second Caro fancied something demonic in the knowing slant of those dark brows. Something fierce and compelling and totally at odds with this comfortable room full of old, leather-bound books.
‘I’m supposed to be awed because one of your referees is a countess?’ Had he memorised her application? Caro was surprised he recalled that level of detail. ‘Unfortunately for you, Ms Rivage, I’m not swayed by an aristocratic title.’
His sneer rankled. Stephanie was a dear friend as well as a client. She’d given her reference in good faith. Caro sat taller, fixing her slouching interviewer with a stare.
‘The key part of the reference is the description of my work, Mr Maynard, not my employer’s title.’
Those straight eyebrows rose as if he was surprised at her response. Did he expect her to sit silently while he picked her application and her friends apart?
‘Her son faced a range of difficulties when
