The Bedroom Incident

‘I wasn’t sure what to wear and, when in doubt, I tend to bring almost everything.’

He lifted a brow. ‘Only almost? You mean you’ve left the odd pair of wellingtons at home?’

‘Plus some luminous lime-green flip-flops decorated with rubber bananas.’

‘Big mistake.’

‘Could be, but it’s too late now.’ She reached into the Morris to retrieve her holdall. ‘That’s the lot,’ she said, turning to toss him a brilliant smile.

Matthew’s fingers tightened around the handle of his suitcase. Her smile had sent a thought hurtling through his mind: You, I would like to take to bed. Perhaps it was because he had first heard her talking about sex, or because she looked so appealing, or both—but he felt a sudden desire. An outrageous desire which made him want to drop down his load, haul her into his arms and fiercely kiss that full, tempting mouth.

And if he made love to her he could guarantee that she would not be bored. Though maybe he was deceiving himself, he thought, a moment later. Maybe she possessed a low sex drive which rendered the poor girl unmoved—and unmovable.

‘Did you put anything in the boot?’ he enquired, his tone businesslike.

The urgent tweaking of his libido had surprised him. Whilst he had his fair share of testosterone and raging hormones, he was usually in control. He preferred to be in control. He was no longer a callow youth, excited by any passing pretty girl. He was a mature male, dammit.

‘No. Or did I?’

Suddenly unsure, Kristin swung round towards the rear of the Morris, but. then swung back. ‘No,’ she decided.

As she swivelled the second time, the heel of her cream suede ankle boot skidded sideways on the wet Tarmac. She gasped, tottered and, as if in slow motion, felt herself start to fall. The holdall see-sawed, plastic bags flailed in the air, and a bundle of black silk slithered out.

‘Aaarrgh!’ she cried.

Ditching his cargo, Matthew reached forward. He made a grab for her arm and caught hold, but, with knees bent, she was swaying back. She continued to tilt and as she fell, shedding bags and unstoppably capsizing, she tugged him off balance. He swore, half straightened and, somehow, managed to stand firm. Holding her upper arm, he gently lowered her the last short inevitable distance down to the ground.

‘OK?’ he asked as he let go and stood upright.

‘No, I’m not. You big oaf!’

‘I tried to save you,’ he protested. Big oaf? He had expected her gratitude, not scathing condemnation. ‘If I hadn’t let you sit down, I’d have fallen down, too.’ He frowned. ‘And landed on top of you.’

‘But you’ve sat me in a puddle!’

‘A puddle?’ He peered down and caught the glimmer of liquid. ‘It’s a very small puddle.’

Kristin felt the water soaking into the seat of her trousers. ‘It’s large enough to give me a sopping wet backside!’

‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘The Goof Fairy strikes again.’

Her head jerked up. As well as the jokey comment, she had heard the rumble of amusement in his voice and now she saw that the corners of his mouth were twitching.

‘I’m glad you find it so hilarious,’ she said glacially.

Matthew readjusted his expression to one of sombre remorse. ‘No, no,’ he murmured.

‘Garbage!’

‘OK, maybe I do—a little.’

‘A lot.’

‘A lot,’ he conceded. ‘But you must agree—’

‘I don’t,’ she snapped.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, though he knew the words were useless. He held down a long-fingered hand. ‘Grab hold.’

Tempted to haughtily refuse his offer, Kristin hesitated, but then she linked her fingers with his. In one fluid movement, he drew her upright.

‘Thanks,’ she said, stony-faced.

Sliding a hand into the hip pocket of his jeans, he pulled out a clean white handkerchief. ‘Will you blot your rear end or—’ the amusement was playing around his mouth again ‘—would you like me to do it?’

She froze him with a look. ‘I can manage.’

As she got busy, Matthew gathered up the bundle of black silk from the ground and returned it to a bag. The bundle consisted of a lace-trimmed bra, suspender belt and pair of skimpy briefs. It was the kind of underwear of which fantasies were made. He could imagine the girl stretched out on white satin sheets with her long blonde hair spread loose across the pillow and the straps of the bra drooping—

Whoa, he told himself. After a year of celibacy, his hormones seemed to be kicking in with a vengeance.

‘I bought this suit and my boots yesterday, specially for coming here,’ Kristin said, mopping determinedly at her backside. ‘The thrown-together look is usually my style, but I opted for a more professional image. Though now—’ She lifted up her jacket and turned her back to him. ‘How does it look?’

‘Pert, well-rounded and infinitely pattable. You mean your trousers,’ he went on, not missing a beat. ‘They look fine and the water doesn’t seem as if it’s going to stain.’

She peered down. ‘No, thank goodness.’ She showed him his sodden handkerchief. ‘What shall I do with this?’

‘I’ll have it,’ he said, and pushed the handkerchief gingerly into his jacket pocket.

Taking a wad of tissues from her shoulder bag, Kristin continued to blot up the wet. She frowned. She had thought her companion looked familiar and, all of a sudden, she felt certain they had met before. Where? When?

She searched her mind. She sensed the meeting had happened a long time back, but why had they met? What was the connection? A moment later the answer came...like a punch which hit between the eyes. It had been in a London restaurant, around ten years ago. She had been young, impetuous and in a state of high agitation—and he had been her victim. She swallowed. A furious victim.

At that time he had worked for an up-market Sunday newspaper as a whizkid deputy editor in charge of the colour supplement, so what position would he hold at The Ambassador? Her stomach plunged. His calm air of confidence allied with the reference to wanting a word with Sir George told her that he might be...easily could be... probably was—me newly appointed editor.

‘Are—are you Matthew Lingard?’ she faltered.

‘That’s right’

‘The new head honcho of The Ambassador?’ she asked, needing to be doubly sure.

‘Right again.’

Kristin balled the tissues in her fist. When she had so publicly attacked him all those years ago she had not known his name, but she knew it now. She also knew that he was her prospective boss! Life was full of surprises, she thought—good and bad.

She sneaked him a look from beneath her lashes. Him putting her down, ever so carefully, slap bang into a puddle had seemed like an accident, but might he have recognised her and decided to get his own back? Matthew Lingard had shown himself to be a tricky individual in the past, so the idea was not too far-fetched. And if he bore a grudge she needed to know. It was important she be aware of where she stood with him right from the start.

Yet had he recognised her? He had shown no sign and the girl who had rushed to the attack had looked very different from the young woman who faced him today.