Page 10 of Wicked Heat

“What the hell?” I snap, done in by the gentleness of his voice. “I don’t want to have coffee with you, and that must mean my world is off kilter? I’m in a hurry. Just like I told you. I don’t owe you a dissertation on my life.”

I don’t mean to, but as I speak, I meet his eyes.

And that’s when I realize what it is, this unexpected sensation that is coursing through me, firing my senses, igniting that fight or flight response.

It’s not confusion or fear or irritation, though I wish it were.

Instead, it’s anticipation. And, so help me, it’s desire.

Four

Sixteen months Ago—Bree (Las Vegas)

“This is exactly what I needed,” I say, leaning back on the cushioned chaise. I’m snug as a bug in one of the roomy poolside cabanas on the VIP deck at the Stark Century Hotel & Casino in Vegas, surrounded by a flurry of beautiful people and even a few Hollywood A-listers. Best of all, my lifelong BFF came with me on this vacation, and she’s snuggled in right along with me.

“I get it now,” Aria says. “The allure of your job,” she explains, when I roll on my side and shoot her a questioning glance. “It’s the perks.”

I prop myself up on my elbow—the better to swat her with one of the cushions—then flop back down. “Yup. This is what all nannies do during the day. Lounge about drinking fruity cocktails and gossiping. And when the kids get restless, I just order them a Manhattan from the live-in bartender.”

“Seriously?” She sits up, the black tips of her spiky red hair standing out against the delicate white drapes that make up the sides of the cabana. “Why the hell am I working my ass off in New York?”

“You’re not for much longer,” I tell her. Not if I have any say in it. I’ve been trying for ages to convince her to move to LA with me. And since I’m about to buy a fixer-upper in Burbank, I think I’ve pretty much convinced her.

She flashes a wicked grin. “If that very superior ass is one of the perks, I’m moving tomorrow.” She nods toward a cluster of loungers on the far side of the pool where Bryan Raine, a mega-star on the way to going super nova, is holding court.

“He’s a total prick,” I say, careful to keep my voice low. “But you’re dead-on right about the nice ass.”

Ari’s eyes widen. “You’ve met him?”

“Once,” I say, “and he was perfectly polite. Total smiling for the fans moment. But I’ve heard stories. Several stories.” Technically, I’ve overheard stories, but I don’t mention that. That’s one of the perks—and dangers—of my job.

I’ve been working on and off as a nanny for Damien Stark’s family for years, ever since their littlest girl was only one. She’s going on eight now, and to say it’s been a roller-coaster ride would be the understatement of the millennium. I love them, though. And not just the kids, but Nikki and Damien—and omg, how long did it take me to get comfortable using their first names?

It had been weird at first, working for the most well-known and respected billionaire in the universe. And scary, too. Especially since there’d been a time when I wasn’t sure they liked or trusted me—a terrifying, painful time after the kidnapping that I make a point of not thinking of because—shit.

Not. Thinking. Of. That.

Bottom line, being in a household like that, you see and hear all sorts of things that could screw up a business deal, be sold to some horrible gossip rag, or get loose on social media and totally blow up. And, yeah, there’d been a rocky period when I was afraid they were looking at me like a time-bomb. But now I know with absolute certainty that they not only like me, they trust me.

Best of all, they truly think of me like family.

How do I know?

Partly, because they tell me. But also because they do sweet things like letting me pivot to part-time and live in their guest house so I can focus on writing my second book. And things like this—sending the kids to relatives so that I can have a relaxing long weekend in Vegas with my BFF at one of Damien’s hotels while he and Nikki are off to Europe.

“Now I really want to meet him,” Aria says, her eyes shooting once again toward Bryan Raine. “Asshole actor? Might be that’s just his Hollywood persona. Get me close and I can check out his aura.”

I force myself not to roll my eyes. There are times when Aria’s a little too woo for my taste. But at the same time, her first impressions are usually right.

“There will be no aura-checking today,” I tell her.

“Party pooper.”

“That’s me.”

“Pretty please?” She makes prayer hands. “We’ll just wander over to that side of the pool. I’ll be your bestie.”

“You already are.”