The Bedroom Incident. Elizabeth Oldfield
would be sending out the message that, despite all his tough words about making the decisions, he was open to coercion. The proprietor might then attempt to impose his own rule. He swilled out his mouth with water. Over his dead body.
This was, of course, supposition. Whilst he had had many business meetings with Sir George when they had worked easily together, he did not know him well on a personal basis. He frowned. If he did, he would have a better idea of how the older man would react to him rejecting his protégée.
Walking into the bedroom, Matthew drew back the covers on the four-poster and climbed into bed. How should he play tomorrow’s interview? In saying she suspected he would ‘go through the motions’ before despatching a ‘no, thanks’ letter, Kristin had already called his bluff—so did he act as if he was intent on winning an Oscar, insist she might appeal and pretend to solemnly consider her application? Or did he turn her down fiat?
There was a third option; he could ring Angela Carr first thing tomorrow morning, offer her the position, and present the interviewee—and Sir George—with a fait accompli.
He pushed back the covers. He was too warm. The redoubtable Mrs Carr had experience, contacts and journalistic know-how on her side, he mused, though Kristin Blake scored in one area. As Rob had pointed out, she was far easier on the eye.
He recalled how she had looked earlier—elegant and yet oh, so sexy. Her dress had clung to her body like a second skin and there had been no sign of what his sister referred to as VPL—visible panty line. Did that mean she had not been wearing any panties? He gazed up at the canopy of the four-poster. The thought of her naked beneath the dress—all smooth curves and silky skin—was disturbing. And exciting.
Matthew rolled onto his side. Damp down the hormones and go to sleep, he instructed himself.
He was stretching out a hand to switch off the bedside lamp when someone tapped quietly at his door. Who could this be? he wondered.
As he levered himself up from the bed, his mouth curved into a grin. Sir George must have decided to speak to him again, and this time he had come to say that he had recognised his error in attempting to push Kristin Blake his way and wanted to apologise. Thank the Lord!
But as he opened the door his grin died. His visitor was a slender blonde in a brown satin dress. Her hair swung in loose buttery strands around her shoulders and her face had been cleaned of make-up—though this gave her an earthier appeal.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Kristin said, speaking softly because she was wary of disturbing the other guests.
A muscle knotted and unknotted in his jaw. To be confronted by her when he had just been thinking about her—naked—seemed like a dirty trick. It made him feel caught out and wrong-footed.
‘What do you want?’ he asked brusquely.
‘To see you for a moment, only a moment,’ she replied.
She had expected him to be dressed, but all he wore was a pair of navy boxer shorts. As her gaze took in his naked torso and tall barefoot stance, her heart began to thud. Matthew Lingard looked very male, very sexy and very annoyed.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said.
Kristin hesitated for a second or two, then walked inside. Emily’s mention of him having Spanish blood had surprised her. He was dark-haired, yet not that dark. But now she saw the olive tint of his skin and the curls of black hair which grew on his chest. All of a sudden, he seemed fiercely Latin.
‘I just wanted to leave my c.v. and these copies of Trend,’ she said, showing him the plastic bag which she carried. ‘I’d like you to look at them.’
He muttered an oath. ‘Now?’
‘No, tomorrow morning when you wake up. My column is at the front of the magazine, a page or two after the “Contents”.’
‘Forget junk mail—you are fast becoming my biggest irritation,’ Matthew said, and raked a tired hand back through his hair. ‘Do you never give up?’
‘One of the attributes of a good journalist is determination,’ she declared, with a smile. Crossing to a chest of drawers, she lifted the magazines from the bag and began to sort through them. ‘I realise you may not find time to read all the issues—’
‘I won’t,’ he said curtly.
‘But I’d be grateful if you’d look at this one and—’
As Kristin opened a magazine at the appropriate page and reached for another, he walked back to the four-poster.
‘I’m worn out,’ he said, and stretched out on top of the bed.
She looked rapidly through the magazines, opening and closing them until six of her columns were selected and set out, ready and waiting for his appraisal.
‘They’ll give you a good idea of my versatility,’ she said, taking a couple of steps towards the bed. ‘But please, would you bear in mind that I’m writing for a specific market? Which doesn’t—’
She stopped mid-sentence. Matthew looked so strong and virile and so...bare that she was suddenly conscious of being alone with him in his bedroom in the still of the night. She felt abruptly aware of how sexy and desirable he was.
He yawned. ‘Which doesn’t what?’ he asked.
‘Which doesn’t mean I can’t write for a national newspaper,’ she jabbered. ‘I don’t expect you to keel over with delight when you read my column—’
‘Thank God.’
‘But if you could take a little time to study it in the morning I’d be grateful.’ Spinning round, Kristin marched to the door. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Stop!’ he ordered as she reached out to press down on the handle.
She turned. ‘Sorry?’
Leaping up from the bed, Matthew strode rapidly across the room to grab hold of her arm and draw her back from the door.
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