Page 18 of Hired For the Billionaire's Secret Son

She hadn’t asked him to pay, but he would. He couldn’t expect her to fund an outfit suitable for the very lavish function. And, if he never worked again, he had enough money to last several lifetimes. He wouldn’t notice the cost of her designer dress or shoes. ‘That’s not an issue. If you give me your sizes, I will arrange for my stylist to bring over several outfits for your consideration.’

‘You have a stylist?’ Ollie asked before sighing. ‘Of course you do.’

She bit her bottom lip and Bo had to stop himself from crossing the room to her and soothing the bite mark with his tongue. She was as sexy as sin in her skimpy exercise clothes, and he knew she’d look stunning in a ball gown and high heels. Resisting her was a losing battle. It was a good thing that he’d decided to surrender.

‘Of course she’s going to go,’ Greta told him. He’d forgotten that she’d been listening in, that she was still holding Mat. What was it about Ollie? She made the world around him fade away until she was all that remained. Bo rubbed his lower jaw with his hand. He’d thought that Mat dropping into his life had been a life-changing event, and it was, but Ollie’s arrival was also causing waves in his previously still-as-a-pond life. He felt as if he were standing in an unsteady bucket in the middle of the Bering Sea.

It was terrifying, exciting and, weirdly, thrilling.

Greta looked at Ollie, pursing her lips. ‘She’s an eight, foot size UK seven.’

Bo looked at Ollie, waiting for her confirmation. ‘She’s not wrong,’ she reluctantly admitted. Throwing her hands up into the air, she nodded. ‘If you can arrange a suitable dress and shoes, Cinderella will accompany you to the ball.’

Eight and seven, clothes and shoes. Do not mix them up or you’ll never hear the end of it.‘I think it would be pushing it to call me Prince Charming,’ he told Ollie.

She handed him an impertinent smile. ‘I didn’t,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re more of anisse—or do you call him atomte?’

Anisseortomtewas a short-tempered troll common in Danish folklore. Bo didn’t know whether to be amused at her quick wit, impressed that she’d been reading up on Denmark or offended by the reference.

Unable to decide, he shook his head and picked up his phone to call the stylist and make her very happy indeed.

The stylist brought ten dresses for Ollie to try and in the end she settled for a fluid, sleeveless, blindingly white evening gown with a low neckline and a far too high ruffled slit that exposed her right thigh. A bright-red silk rose rested on her hip and it gave the gown a hint of fun and colour.

Ollie looked at her reflection in the freestanding mirror. The make-up-artist-slash-hairdresser who’d accompanied the stylist had pulled her hair back into a complicated twist and she found it hard to recognise her reflection. She looked sophisticated and stunning, nothing like the down-to-earth nanny she prided herself on being. Her skin glowed and her make-up was light but her lips were the exact colour of the rose on her hip. She looked like someone who would be at home attending a ball hosted by an influential family at one of Denmark’s oldest houses, on the arm of the country’s most eligible bachelor.

She didn’t feel as if she belonged anywhere—not at the ball, not as a nanny and definitely not in London as an accountant. She felt like a fish out of water and had no idea where to find her pond. And what was she thinking, accepting the invitation to accompany Bo to this ball? It was highly unprofessional and she was breaking the cardinal rule of being a good nanny: do not blur the line between the professional and the personal. The problem was that she wanted to get very personal with Bo, as soon as possible.

Ollie glared at her reflection, upset with herself. Yes, Bo was a very good-looking guy—male magazine-cover sexy—and he was smart and successful. But he was her boss...

Normally she wasn’t a slave to her libido, and she wasn’t someone who galloped into relationships. She took her time and made clever decisions. It took her a while to open up and allow someone behind her walls. It had taken her three months to agree to date Fred, and another two months before she’d slept with him. Agreeing to marry him had required a lot of thought. After a few weeks and many sleepless nights, Ollie had eventually decided they could make their marriage work.

After loving and losing Becca, and realising that Fred was not only an unsympathetic jerk but also a cheat, she’d built her barriers higher and retreated further into herself. She rarely dated and she hadn’t had a lover since Fred.

But Bo made her feel things she shouldn’t. He made her want, he made her burn and, yes, he made her yearn. He made her feel unsettled and off-balance and she knew she should put more space between them. Because she was fantasising about her boss, because thoughts of him naked bombarded her—him sliding into her and making her sigh and scream—she knew she should be even more professional than she normally was.

So what was she doing, accompanying Bo to this function, allowing him to pay for her dress, her make-up, her hair and the silver three-inch heels on her feet? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about how good they’d be in bed? Why couldn’t she stop wishing for a repeat, and more, of their fire-hot kiss? She wasn’t a woman who lost her head, but he could make hers spin.

If she was clever, she’d pull off this dress, wash her face and tell him that he was going alone, that she was pretty sure the world wouldn’t stop turning if he didn’t arrive with a woman on his arm. But tonight she didn’t want to be Ollie the nanny, she wanted to be Ollie his date, the woman he looked at with masculine appreciation. For the first time in years, she wanted to be an object of desire.

Yes, it was a very bad idea, but she was going to the ball. She hoped she wouldn’t end up regretting it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

INTHESOPHISTICATED,double-height hallway of the Møllers’ wonderful house, Bo placed his hand low on Ollie’s bare back and thanked the waiter for their champagne. Ollie took hers and lifted the glass to her lovely red lips, and he noticed the fine tremble in her hand.

Around them, elegantly dressed couples mingled in the enormous hallway, caught up in conversation before entering the massive reception room on the right of the hallway. He smiled at an acquaintance and looked down at Ollie’s lovely face. Despite her heels, he still had a few inches on her, and he could see the trepidation in her eyes and knew she was feeling out of her depth.

She shouldn’t—she looked utterly ravishing. He’d expected his stylist to come up with something nice for her to wear but the ice-white dress against her light-brown skin was stunning and showed off her slim but strong body to perfection. Occasionally the ruffles of her dress would part, drawing attention to a long and shapely leg. She looked ravishing and, yes, ravishing her was something he couldn’t wait to do.

Man, he was in a world of trouble here.

Ollie looked at her champagne glass and a smile curved her lips. ‘This is great champagne,’ she told him. He grinned. It should be: it was a one of the best champagnes in the world. ‘You do look lovely, Olivia.’

Ollie tipped her head to the side and lifted her thin, arched eyebrows. ‘Olivia?’

He shrugged. Her full name was strong and lovely, gracious even. ‘Ollie’ didn’t suit her, not tonight. ‘How did you come to be called Ollie?’ he asked, steering her towards the reception area.

‘I have four brothers, so I got lumped with a boy’s name,’ she explained. ‘My ex-fiancé called me Olivia sometimes.’

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