“I’m supposed to sleep on the floor?” Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“I’m supposed to sleep on the floor?”

“You want me to sleep there? Sweetheart, it was you who didn’t listen to the warning about the burglar alarm. It was you who decided to knock on my bedroom door. However, I’ll be a gentleman. The bed’s king-size, so if we each keep to our own side there’ll be plenty of room between us.”

Kristin frowned at the four-poster and frowned at him. “And never the twain shall meet?”

“Got it in one,” he said, and lay down again on the bed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ravish you.”

Anything can happen behind closed doors! Do you dare find out...?

Over the following months, circumstances throw

four different couples together in a whirlwind of

unexpected attraction. Forced into each other’s

company whether they like it or not, they’re soon

in the grip of passion—and definitely don’t want

to be disturbed!

Four of your favorite Presents authors have explored this delicious fantasy in our sizzling, sensual new miniseries DO NOT DISTURB!

Look out next month for: #1996 The Bridal Bed by Helen Bianchin

The Bedroom Incident

Elizabeth Oldfield

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

MATTHEW LINGARD rolled the tension from his shoulders, rested back in the soft leather seat and stretched out his long legs. Rain had begun to fall in yet another capricious April shower, so he would remain in his car until it cleared.

As he waited, he smiled. He had been offered a great opportunity—and faced one heck of a challenge—but he could do it. He knew he could do it. He was going to revamp the ailing Ambassador—a newspaper which the pundits had vowed was destined to ‘corpse’ before Christmas—fill a gap in the market and achieve rip-roaring success. Given time, dedication and, no doubt, a goodly amount of blood, sweat and tears.

Matthew watched the raindrops which spattered down on the windscreen. After two months of gathering and assessing information, making a thousand and one decisions and thinking, thinking, thinking, there were just ten days to go before the paper’s relaunch. One outstanding item remained on his agenda: to find a replacement features editor. He released a weary breath. The features were a section of the paper which its new proprietor would insist on calling the women’s pages...

Some time later—what seemed like an appreciably long time later—a voice coming through the partly open car window penetrated his consciousness. It was a decisive female voice.

‘Sex is boring!’

Matthew yawned, blinked and struggled to come awake. He ground large fists into his eyes. There was no way he could agree with the statement, though had he heard right?

‘It is. Sex is dullsville,’ the voice declared, as if to provide him with personal confirmation.

Pushing back the sleeve of his jacket, he blearily inspected his stainless-steel watch. He muttered an oath. It had gone six. Returning his seat to its upright position, he looked out of the window. The rain had stopped, but the leaden grey clouds which hung low in the sky had created a premature twilight and the car park was murky.

Earlier his Aston Martin Volante had stood alone, but now an elderly Morris Minor was stopped several yards away. It had shiny resprayed purple bodywork, a beige canvas roof and a fluffy toy cat suctioned in a somewhat gymnastic pose to a side window. In front of the Morris, a tall, leggy, tawny-blonde in a cream wool trouser suit was pacing intently back and forth. She held a mobile phone close to her ear.

‘Jo, I understand the attraction, but we’ve had so much that, frankly, I’m sick to death of it,’ she said.

Lucky you, Matthew thought drily. It was a long time since he had made love. Far too long. He was thirty-seven, red-blooded and in his prime, yet he slept alone. But his career left him little time to devote to personal relationships. It had been the hours he spent at the newspaper offices which had riled his last girlfriend and brought about their split.

His brow furrowed. Be honest, he told himself. He had fast been losing interest and, in order to avoid a bombardment of inane chatter or being nagged, had stayed on at work later and later until the affair had simply expired.

‘I don’t care if everyone else does consider sex is an essential ingredient; for me it’s become monotonous,’ the young woman announced, grabbing back his attention. ‘I reckon we should forget all about—’

Kristin broke off and stopped dead. She had thought the black low-slung sports car was empty, but now she saw a man with rumpled dark hair sitting in the driver’s seat. He was looking at her, frowning and obviously listening in to her conversation. She glared at him through the gloom. Damned cheek!

‘Jo, I must go. I’ll talk to you again. Bye,’ she said abruptly, and ended the call.

As she went to reach into her car to slide the phone back into her shoulder bag, the eavesdropper opened his door and climbed out. He stretched, long arms bent then reaching up. She eyed him stonily across the soft-top roof of the Morris. He was tall, broad-shouldered and well-built. He wore a grey corduroy sports jacket over an open-necked pale blue shirt, denims and trainers.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ he said.

‘You couldn’t have closed your window?’ Kristin asked tartly.

He glanced down. ‘Yes, I guess I could, but I didn’t. Never thought.’ He smiled. ‘Will you please forgive me?’

His smile was lop-sided and his dark brows had slanted upwards in a small-boy appeal. She gazed coolly back. Whilst there seemed little doubt that most women would be turned to slobbering acquiescent mush, she refused to be so easily won over.

‘If you use a mobile in public, you must expect people to listen,’ he said. ‘It’s human nature.’

Kristin hesitated, then smiled back, relenting. His statement was true. ‘You’re forgiven.’

‘Thanks.’ Matthew said.

Her phone call had been intriguing. Whilst he accepted that appearances could deceive, there was something in the swing of her stride and her manner—like the way she had upbraided him just now—which spoke of spirit, zest and inner fire. She seemed eminently capable of passion. His eyes aickered down her slim, shapely figure. And was built accordingly.

Yet she had become bored with lovemaking? It was a sin and a shame. In his opinion, her boyfriend should not just be ousted post-haste, but deserved to be hung, drawn and quartered.

‘In a recent survey of life’s biggest irritations twenty-nine per cent reckoned it was folk talking on mobiles,’ Kristin told him.

‘That’s a nice piece of useless information.’

She grinned. ‘I’m full of it.’

‘What was the biggest biggest irritation?’ he enquired.

‘Sixty-five per cent claimed junk mail.’

‘I’d go along with that,’ Matthew said, thinking of the charity pleas, double-glazing offers and cheap insurance proposals which landed almost daily on his mat. ‘The ones I hate most are the letters which positively identify me as the mystery winner of ten million pounds.’

‘But there’s a catch.’

‘Always,’ he said, and turned to look beyond the visitors’ car park and wet-slicked landscaped gardens to where a yellow sandstone castle rose up against the leaden sky.

‘Are you here for the dinner this evening?’

‘I am,’ Kristin replied, following his gaze.

The castle was Flytes Keep, the home of Sir George Innes, a wealthy Scottish entrepreneur who had recently added ownership of The Ambassador to his portfolio of business interests. Built around an inner courtyard and surrounded by a moat, parts of the building dated from the fourteenth century. She smiled. With turrets, a drawbridge and comparatively small for a castle, Flytes Keep looked as if it came straight from the pages of a fairy tale.

‘And I’m staying overnight,’ she added, wondering if she sounded as amazed as she felt.

If anyone had told her, this time last week, that she would be interviewed for a fantastic new job and invited to stay at a private castle in Kent, she would have said they were nuts. But life was full of surprises.

‘I believe everyone is,’ he said.

‘As it’s Friday afternoon I had visions of getting snarled up in traffic and being late, so I left London early,’ Kristin went on. ‘Wadda y’know, the roads were clear.’

‘Sod’s law,’ he remarked. ‘And you put your foot down?’

‘I tooled along the motorway at eighty.’

‘You broke the speed limit? Tut-tut.’

Her hazel eyes sparkled. ‘Didn’t you?’

Matthew looked down at the thoroughbred vehicle which had purred along like a hungry tiger, eating up the miles. ‘Once or twice.’ He grinned. ‘And then some.’

‘So how long have you been here?’ she enquired.

‘I pulled in at around five, but on purpose because I wanted to speak to Sir George. However, when I arrived it was raining and as I didn’t fancy getting wet I decided to wait in the car for a few minutes until it stopped. I closed my eyes and—’

‘Zonk?’

‘I was out for the count for over an hour.’

‘You must’ve been tired,’ Kristin said, her smile sympathetic.

He nodded. ‘The past two months have been non-stop. Last week I decided to take a few days off and take things easy. I hoped to catch up on some sleep, but what with making notes until the early hours and Charlie creeping into my bed at the crack of dawn there wasn’t much chance.’

‘Charlie is your girlfriend, son, Labrador dog—who?’ she asked.

‘My nephew. I spent my so-called holiday with my sister and her husband and their son, Charlie, in Cheshire. I’ve driven down from there today. Charlie’s six and a super kid, but—’ he groaned ‘—he thinks I’m “cool” because I drive a sports car and he never left me alone. It was his Easter break from school and I was forever being inveigled into reading to him or going swimming or playing computer games until I damn near had double vision.’

Kristin laughed. ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’ll get worse, I have a brother who’s eight—a half-brother actually; my parents are divorced,’ she said, and a fleeting shadow darkened her eyes. ‘And when I stay I’m expected to take him and his friends on picnics and to collect frog spawn and to go roller-blading.’

He placed an anguished hand to his temple. ‘Save me.’

‘But you enjoyed being with Charlie?’

‘I did. He told me that I’m his favourite uncle and although I’m his only uncle I almost burst with pride,’ Matthew said, and paused.

He was not in the habit of regaling people with details from his private life—let alone such schmaltzy details—so why was he telling her all this?

‘I’m going in now,’ he said, becoming brisk. ‘And you?’

Kristin checked her wristwatch. ‘It’s half an hour until my suggested arrival time so maybe—’ she began hesitantly.

‘You’re going to sit alone in the car park twiddling your thumbs?’ He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘No,’ she agreed.

Matthew rolled up the window, removed the ignition key and shut the door. Opening the boot of his car, he lifted out a tan leather suitcase. The remote-control locking was activated and with a long stride which avoided a scattering of puddles left by the rain he walked over to the Morris.

The young woman was bent into the back. She held a couple of bulging plastic bags in one hand and was frowning at an assortment of others which, together with a dark green holdall, filled the rear seat.

‘May I help?’ he offered.

Kristin straightened to find her fellow guest standing beside her. She had already noted his broad brow, high cheekbones and strong features, but now she saw that his eyes were a clear blue, fringed with thick black lashes. He looked intelligent, self-assured and...steely. The kind of exciting, slightly dangerous stranger whom mothers were supposed to warn daughters about.

Her mouth curved. Job opportunity, visit to castle and now meeting Him of the Chiselled Jaw could be added to the list. There were ample reasons to be cheerful.

‘Yes, please,’ she said.

Chances were he would be working on the rejigged Ambassador, she thought as she bent into the car again, but in what capacity? Could his athletic physique indicate an interest in sports? Possible, and yet an inbuilt gravitas suggested he was a more serious journalist, perhaps specialising in politics or finance. Or did that steeliness mean he might be a war correspondent?

She lifted out two more carriers. Charlie’s favourite uncle looked vaguely familiar. Had she seen his photograph somewhere, perhaps over a byline? That would explain the nagging feeling she had of recognition.

‘Don’t you own a suitcase?’ Matthew enquired, taking the bags which she handed to him.

‘Of course I do, but I wasn’t aware until a couple of days ago that I’d be coming here and I’ve lent it to my flatmate, Beth, who’s away in Greece. I know that marching into a place like Flytes Keep weighed down with plastic supermarket bags isn’t exactly chic—’ she made a face ‘—but I didn’t have the inclination to fork out for a second case nor the spare cash.’

‘No one’s going to bother.’

‘I’m bothered,’ Kristin said, and felt a sudden twinge of nervousness.

The job for which she had been interviewed earlier in the week was not hers—not quite, not yet. But it offered a chance to prove herself which she desperately wanted and so she desperately wanted her stay at Flytes Keep to go smoothly.

‘When I was packing I persuaded myself that the bags would look zany,’ she told him, and sighed, ‘but now—now I feel like a fool.’

‘For no reason,’ he said, with such calm certainty that she felt reassured.

Matthew watched as she continued to extract plastic carriers containing shoes, sweatshirts, magazines and unidentifiable silky feminine scraps.

‘You’ve come well equipped for just one night,’ he observed wryly.

‘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.

‘Did you do it on purpose?’ Kristin asked warily.

‘Do what?’

‘Sit me in the water.’

He looked at her as if she had gone crazy. ‘You’re accusing me of putting you in the puddle deliberately? Lord, no! What kind of a guy do you think I am?’

‘Well, I—’

‘A pretty mean one, obviously. I hadn’t a clue the puddle was there. It was behind you and I never saw it,’ he said, his voice harsh with indignation and his blue eyes glittering. ‘OK, I smiled, but my sense of humour is not so warped that I go around looking for ways of—’

‘Calm down,’ she appealed. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. It was just—’ She moved her shoulders. ‘I made a mistake.’

‘You did,’ he rasped. ‘Believe me—’ He stopped. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Kristin Blake,’ she told him, and waited.

Did he know her name from the past? Her full name? Now that he had seen her again, would it ring bells? Her stomach muscles clenched. Might he declare that there was no way he would ever agree to employ such a wayward creature?

‘Believe me, Kristin, I’m sorry you got a wet backside and I apologise again for finding it funny, but—’

‘It was funny. Sort of,’ she acknowledged wryly.

His anger evaporated and he grinned. ‘Yep.’ He picked up his suitcase and his share of the plastic bags. ‘When you’re ready—’

She retrieved her load and went with him.

As they walked between a pair of stone lions and onto a path which led towards the castle drawbridge, she cast her escort a sideways look. He bad not recognised her from the past and perhaps he never would. Their meeting might have been dramatic, but it had been brief. A mere five minutes.

Also, as the intervening years had altered him—his face was leaner and he had crinkle lines at the corners of his eyes—they had changed her. She had abandoned the closecropped elfin style and wore her hair long now. The addition of ten pounds in weight had transformed her figure from stick-insect thin to shapely, plus she had gathered up a modicum of style, of poise.

Kristin grimaced. Though she would feel a dam sight more poised if plastic bags were not banging around her knees and her bottom was properly dry.

But if Matthew Lingard’s memory should be jolted—well, the episode had happened in the dim and distant past and he would have dismissed it as—OK, embarrassing—but inconsequential. He obviously possessed a healthy sense of humour so, in retrospect, he would consider it funny. Wouldn’t he? Yes. After all, it was her life which had been disrupted, not his. He would have also accepted that her action had been understandable and no more than he deserved.

She moistened her lips. Once she had been furiously angry with him, but now, whilst there were a few sparks of remembered resentment, she was prepared to let bygones be bygones. Time had healed and grievances had been mended. Besides, what had seemed like a disaster had, in fact, inspired a change of direction for which she was eternally grateful. She had forgiven him—and he would have forgiven her.

‘Are you friendly with Emily?’ Matthew enquired.

Sir George had told him he planned to ask some business associates to join the newspaper guests and said that Emily, his teenage daughter, would also be present. Kristin Blake’s talk of a flatmate and—his eyes dipped to her left hand—lack of wedding ring indicated she was not a business wife, so he assumed she must have been invited to keep the girl company.

‘Sorry? Oh, yes,’ she said absently, and returned to her thoughts.

As Matthew Lingard had not recognised her name from the past, neither had he recognised her as a possible future member of his staff. At her interview, Sir George had explained the editor was away and yet she had thought that, in the meantime, he would have told him all about her in glowing terms.

Perhaps the proprietor had not wished to disturb his editor’s holiday. Or perhaps Matthew had been told, but in the hustle-bustle of organising the new-style Ambassador he had forgotten. She looked at her escort again. Whilst he must be under all kinds of pressure, his lapse was not exactly flattering. Nor encouraging.

Kristin was wondering whether she should refer to her interview when a man in late middle age appeared from beneath the portcullis, followed by a youth who was pushing a luggage trolley. The man wore a black jacket, pinstriped trousers and starched white shirt. His thinning hair was brilliantined back, his carriage was stiff and his smile gracious. As he started towards them along the drawbridge, she felt a bubble of delight.

‘Oh, gee,’ she whispered. ‘A butler.’

‘You haven’t come across a real live butler before?’ Matthew enquired.

‘Never.’

‘It’s a first for me, too,’ he said, sotto voce, and their eyes met in shared amusement.

‘But essential if you live in a castle,’ she said, out of the corner of her mouth.

‘As oxygen,’ he declared.

‘Miss, sir, may we take your bags?’ the man said, in a plummy voice. ‘Sir George is dealing with a business crisis and looks like being tied up for at least the next hour, but please allow me—Rimmer, the butler—to welcome you.’

Although it was generated mostly by nerves, Kristin needed to swallow down a rising giggle. As real Frenchmen often spoke and gesticulated like comic Frenchmen, and as Italian waiters invariably flirted, so he was the perfect English butler stereotype and beyond invention.

She slid her companion another glance and saw from the gleam in his eyes that he was thinking what she was thinking.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and was relieved when the youth stashed her plastic bags onto the trolley with as much solemn care and aplomb as if they had been a set of matching antique leather suitcases.

‘Our pleasure, Miss Blake. I know you must be Miss Blake because Sir George described you in the most flattering terms,’ the butler said, and smiled. He spoke to her companion. ‘Good evening, Mr Lingard.’

‘Good evening, Rimmer,’ Matthew replied, and arched a brow. ‘Sir George described me in flattering terms, too?’

The older man chuckled. ‘What he said, sir, was that you were a tall, dark-haired gentleman who was bound to be wearing jeans.’

‘Is there something wrong with jeans?’ he enquired.

‘Sir George considers them to be a little...casual, sir. Though that’s only his view.’ The butler turned to Kristin. ‘What is your opinion, miss?’

‘I think they’re entirely acceptable so long as they’re well-cut and—’ she gave a wicked smile ‘—you have a pert and infinitely pattable backside, like Mr Lingard.’

Matthew burst out laughing. The retaliation was welltimed and he liked her sense of fun.

‘The biter bit,’ he said.

‘Drinks will be served in the drawing room from seventhirty, with dinner at eight-fifteen,’ Rimmer informed them. ‘Now if you would kindly follow me.’

Kristin turned, studying herself in the full length mirror. One of the perks of working for a women’s magazine was that you came into contact with fashion designers who, on occasion, were willing to let you borrow a creation. So she was wearing a chocolate-brown satin evening dress with a scoop neck, narrow shoulder straps and lace panel down the back. Brown was, she had been gravely informed, the new black and a touch of lace was de rigueur this season.

She frowned at the curves of her breasts. Although the lace panel excluded the wearing of a bra, the bodice was as painstakingly engineered as a motorway bridge. Yet the neckline did dip alarmingly low—lower than anything she had ever worn before. Should she play safe and change into the white beaded tunic and palazzo pants which she had brought? Rimmer had advised that their host expected the ladies to dress for dinner.

Her reflection kicked out a high-heel-sandalled foot

‘Strut your funky stuff, baby,’ it said, by way of a pep talk.

This evening she wanted to be visible and make an impact, and in this dress—boy, oh, boy—she would.

On being shown to her room, she had first unpacked. She had marvelled at the carved four-poster bed with its silver-pink drapes and matching coverlet, gazed out at the formal gardens and the rolling Kent countryside which unfurled beyond, then gone through to the luxurious en-suite bathroom.

Filling the tub, she had tipped in a generous helping of the lavender bath grains which were provided, stripped and carefully skewered her hair onto the top of her head. After enjoying a long soothing soak, she had dried herself, dressed and fashioned her hair into a sophisticated tawny twist.

Kristin headed back into the bathroom to fix her make-up. A bronze eyeshadow was finger-tipped onto her lids and a line of kohl applied. The more she thought about it, the more certain she felt that Sir George had not told his . editor about her interview. And although he had assured her he would be delighted with his choice, he had also mentioned that Matthew Lingard had the final say.

She cast an anxious look at herself in the mirror. He would say yes to her appointment. Wouldn’t he? He must. Her track record was good. She had shown herself to be imaginative and hard-working, and had enthusiastic references to prove it. The paper’s proprietor had been impressed and, surely, Matthew would be impressed, too? She gave a decisive bob of her head. She was worrying unnecessarily.

She had always imagined her long-ago victim to be a cold, arrogant, loutish man, Kristin reflected, but he had seemed surprisingly warm and unassuming and pleasant. Wielding a wand of brown-black mascara, she brushed at her lashes. He was also a first-rate journalist. She could remember reading articles which he had written about politics and world events, and they were always a beat or two ahead of the others.

As she sprayed on a light floral perfume, her thoughts switched to her own writing. Before she went to join the other guests for drinks—and to wow Matthew Lingard—she wanted to jot down a few notes. Notes describing how it felt to be greeted by a butler, and about the excitement of staying in the splendour of a castle, and—she wrinkled her nose—about her plastic bags. She might never use the notes, but over the last few years scribbling down the events of her day had proved to be a worthwhile habit.

Standing beneath the jet of the high-velocity shower, Matthew massaged shampoo into his hair. He felt the thickness at the nape of his neck. He had meant to get his hair cut when he was up north, he thought ruefully, but he had not managed to find the time—thanks to Charlie.

As he rinsed away the bubbling foam, he frowned. Every time he saw his family—his parents also lived in Cheshire—he was faced with the same old demand. When was he going to settle down?

‘You love Charlie, so why don’t you get married and have kids of your own?’ Susan, his sister, had asked, a couple of days ago. ‘In a few years you’ll be forty and then—’

Her shrug had indicated that once he reached the big Four-O he would be past his sell-by date. He did not agree. He ran a hand over his chest, down to the flat plane of his stomach and along a firm, muscled flank. He was in good shape and he planned to stay that way.

Switching off the water, he reached for a towel. He fully intended to marry, but it would be at a time of his choosing—which meant, as his career was currently so demanding and so absorbing, not for the next year or two. Or three.

Though he had yet to meet a woman,who attracted him enough to want to love and live with her for the rest of his life. He had thought he was close on a couple of occasions, but had realised his mistake and sidestepped.

Matthew rubbed at the dark hair on his chest. Perhaps he was becoming choosy in his old age, but it was rare now that he met anyone he fancied, seriously fancied—though he had done today.

Dry, he ran a comb through his hair and walked back into the bedroom. Taking a pale pink shirt and a charcoal-grey suit from the wardrobe, he began to dress. When he met an attractive woman, he noticed the eyes first, then her breasts and next her legs.

Kristin Blake’s eyes were large and light hazel, encircled with lush lashes. The breasts beneath the cream jacket had been high, not too small, not too heavy, and her legs were long. Add fine bone structure, the dusting of freckles over her nose, that wide, soft mouth and everything met his criteria. He had known more classically beautiful women, but there was a freshness about her—combined with a certain vulnerability—which stirred something inside him. She had been instantly and gesiuinely likeable.

Forget Kristin Blake and think about finding an editor for The Ambassador’s features section, he told himself. He had hired a journalist whose work he admired, but she had discovered she was pregnant and had been forced to pull out at the last minute. However, he now had someone else in mind.

There was a knock at his door.

‘Coming,’ Matthew called and, pulling on his jacket, he went to answer it. He smiled. ‘Good evening.’

His visitor was a short, conspicuously substantial man in his early sixties, with apple cheeks and a corona of grey hair. He wore a dark, rather old-fashioned three-piece suit with a snowy white shirt and gold watch chain.

‘Good evening, Matt,’ Sir George said, in his rolling Scottish accent ‘Sorry I was unable to welcome you, but there’s a major breakdown at my bottling plant in Perthshire and the phone’s been humming. Settled in OK?’

‘Perfectly, thanks.’

‘Did you enjoy your holiday?’

‘Very much,’ he said, ushering his visitor into the room. ‘It’s a while since I last saw my folks and it was good to see them again.’

‘You should see them regularly. Families are what life is about, and all work and no play—’ Sir George wagged a reproving finger. ‘I wanted to have a wee word before we go into dinner. You know you need to recruit someone else to run the women’s pages?’

Inwardly wincing at the phrase, Matthew nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of Angela Carr? She’s a good solid journalist who’s worked on several dailies in her time. She went freelance a while back, but—’

‘I’ve interviewed someone,’ Sir George cut in.

His brows lifted. ‘You have?’

‘Someone young, bright and with plenty of fizz.’

Matthew felt a stab of irritation. Before agreeing to take on the role of editor, he had made it clear that his acceptance would be on the strict understanding that he had full control over the editorial content of the paper—which included the hiring of staff. He had insisted he must be allowed to run things his way. He made the decisions, not the proprietor.

‘I realise I was overstepping the mark,’ the older man said, with a smile, ‘but this is a special case and I won’t do it again. I promise. I consider the young lady’s ideal for the job and so will you.’

He was not so sure about that, he thought grimly. Sir George might have made a fortune out of bottling spring water, selling stationery, manufacturing industrial varnishes et cetera, but he knew damn-all about how to run a newspaper. And damn-all about journalists.

‘What did you say to the woman?’ Matthew enquired, wondering if a rash commitment might have been made.

In their dealings, the businessman had shown himself to be hard-headed, thoughtful and conservative, yet with the occasional flash of flamboyance. If his flamboyance had had him offering the job, the offer would be withdrawn, smartish. He refused to be landed with some ‘fizzing’ female.

‘That you’d like her and you will.’ Sir George shepherded him towards the door. ‘I’ll introduce you.’

‘She’s here?’ he protested.

The dinner was a ‘welcome on board’ to the journalists who had been newly appointed and to those who were continuing on The Ambassador’s staff. A muscle tightened in his jaw. The woman was not being welcomed on board. Far from it. Yet her presence signalled an expectation on Sir George’s part and thus put pressure on him.

‘I thought I’d keep her as a pleasant surprise. She’s in the room next door to yours, though she may well have gone to the drawing room by now,’ his host said, but as they stepped out onto the wide, thick-carpeted corridor he smiled. ‘Perfect timing.’

Kristin slipped the key into her brown satin evening bag and turned. She had become so absorbed in making her notes that time had sped by and she had suddenly realised she was in danger of being late.

‘Hello,’ she said, surprised to find her host beaming at her from a few yards away.

Matthew Lingard was standing beside him, though his expression was grave.

‘Kristin, I’d like to introduce Matthew Lingard,’ Sir George said. ‘Matt, this is Kristin Blake, the young lady I interviewed for the women’s pages.’

His smile was slight, without mirth. ‘We’ve already met,’ he said.

CHAPTER TWO

KRISTIN’S gaze travelled across walls of beautiful inlaid panelling, oil paintings and crystal chandeliers. Flytes Keep might be a castle with all the adornments of a stately home, yet it felt warm and lived in. A place of good vibrations. This was due to the bowls of fragrant white narcissi which were spread around, family photographs on the mantelpiece, but, most of all, to the easygoing affability of their host.

Her gaze stopped at the head of the long, white-damask-clothed table where Sir George laughed over a joke. In providing a delicious meal, permanently flowing drinks and giving the whole party overnight accommodation, he was a most generous host.

When inviting her, he had asked if she would care to bring a boyfriend along and she had said no; but the dozen or so business and newspaper men who were present this evening were accompanied by their wives or partners. Only Matthew Lingard and a man she had been introduced to as the arts editor, and whom she suspected could be gay, had come alone.

‘Splendid wine. You need some more,’ declared the man seated on her right, and before she could protest he gestured to a waiter who instantly stepped forward and refilled her glass.

The man ran one of Sir George’s companies which manufactured industrial varnishes, and his name was Freddie. Earlier, as Matthew had told their host that they had met, a door had opened down the hallway and a middle-aged couple had stepped out. Sir George had introduced them and had immediately been called away to the telephone—and Freddie had begun to chat

He had dominated the conversation over drinks. Clearly aware of this trait, his wife had taken the first opportunity to drift away, then Matthew had excused himself and gone to talk with members of his staff. Thus Kristin had been left alone with the balding wordsmith, and it had seemed impolite for her also to depart. She had hoped that when the party moved into the dining room she would be able to escape, but no such luck.

‘We’re sitting together!’ Freddie had exclaimed delightedly, inspecting the place names.

Kristin took a sip of wine. An hour ago she had not known industrial varnishes existed, yet after being told at length about types, consistency and application she felt as if she could pass examinations on the subject. But now, in the pause after the main course of fresh poached salmon, her companion had begun to regale a man sitting opposite with the same numbing screed.

Freddie’s enthusiasm meant she had barely managed to exchange two words with Matthew Lingard, who was seated on her left, let alone attempt to charm him. Though as soon as they had taken their places a matronly brunette who was on his other side had claimed his attention and she had been talking to him—at him—ever since.

Kristin ran her fingers pensively up and down the stem of her glass. The vibrations which came from Matthew were not so good. He had plainly been shocked to discover she was in line for a job on the newspaper—and his anger was thinly veiled. But it was not her fault if Sir George had kept quiet about her interview, she thought rebelliously. Her brow crimped. Though it could be her problem.

‘How long have you known Emily?’ a low male voice asked, and she turned to find that the subject of her thoughts had been released from his verbal barracking, too.

She smiled. ‘Since Wednesday.’

‘Wednesday?’ Matthew repeated, and frowned. He had decided to do some probing to discover how serious the proprietor’s promotion of Kristin Blake was likely to be—which would enable him to mount an appropriate offensive. ‘But I thought you said the two of you were friends.’

Kristin looked along to the other end of the table where a dark-haired girl in a demure white broderie anglaise dress was chatting with guests. Chatting gamely, she noticed.

‘I said I was friendly with her and I am. When we met at the interview on Wednesday—’

‘Emily was there?’ he enquired, in astonishment.

‘Yes. She was eager to meet me—’

‘Hang on,’ Matthew instructed, cutting in again. ‘If you didn’t know his daughter, how come Sir George decided to interview you?’

‘Serendipity.’

‘You mean it was your lucky day at the job centre?’ he asked sardonically.

‘I mean he interviewed me because Emily reads my column, likes it and she’d suggested to him that I might be a suitable applicant for—’

‘Emily suggested you?’ he said, incredulity written all over his face.

‘Correct. And when we met at the interview we immediately hit it off,’ Kristin said, finally managing to complete at least one sentence.

‘So this is what makes you a special case,’ he muttered.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Which paper do you work for?’ he enquired, lifting up his glass.

‘I don’t work for a newspaper, I work for Trend.’

‘T-Trend?’ he spluttered. He had taken a mouthful of wine and suddenly seemed in danger of choking.

‘It’s a women’s magazine.’

Matthew swallowed. ‘I know, I’ve seen it on the newsstands. Trend?’ he repeated. ‘Sweet mercy.’

Kristin’s hackles rose. Typical male response, she thought. He was casually mocking her work—as it had been mocked by men before. She reminded herself of the hundreds of thousands of women who read and enjoyed the magazine, and tried not to care, but she did. The mockery hurt—and irritated.

Keep calm, she told herself. No matter how tempted you are to retaliate—and a high-heeled jab at his shins would be immensely satisfying—you want to charm him, so a smile has to be the wisest option.

‘Poke fun if you must,’ Kristin said, her tone light, then stopped as a young waitress appeared at her shoulder.

‘Are you taking the pudding, miss, or the cheeseboard?’ the girl enquired.

‘Pudding, please,’ she replied, and a cut-crystal dish of chocolate mousse in a coffee sauce was placed before her.

She eyed it with rueful delight, thinking of the calories it must contain and the extra miles she would need to cycle on the bike at the gym.

‘For you, sir?’

‘The cheeseboard,’ Matthew said.

‘Have you ever opened a copy of Trend?’ Kristin enquired, after he had made his selection and the waitress had moved on.

‘No.’

‘Have you ever read anything I’ve written?’

‘So far as I’m aware, I haven’t had the pleasure.’

‘Then why such knee-jerk horror?’ she asked, with a smile.

He slung her an impatient look. ‘Writing a column for a women’s weekly magazine is a little different to running the features section of a national daily newspaper. A quality daily newspaper.’

‘I do realise that.’

‘Alleluia,’ he muttered.

Her smile became forced. He did a good line in sarcasm.

‘However, I don’t just write a column,’ she went on determinedly. ‘I also—’

‘I’m in the throes of offering the job to someone else,’ Matthew declared.

He was bending the truth. He had yet to contact Angela Carr, but he would, he vowed, speak to her the minute he got back to London.

Kristin frowned. ‘Sir George told me about the first woman you’d hired pulling out, but he never said another person had been approached.’

‘Sir George didn’t know. But—’ his eyes met hers in a cool look which contained a warning ‘—I’m the one who makes the choices.’

‘Obviously,’ she murmured.

‘Excuse me,’ said a sandy-haired man who was sitting across from them, ‘but did I hear you say you work on Trend magazine?’

Kristin nodded. ‘That’s right.’

As they had taken their seats, the man had introduced himself to her as ‘getting ready to head the foreign news desk’. She had smiled, said her name, and been claimed by the garrulous Freddie again.

‘My wife reads Trend,’ he said, indicating a bespectacled woman further down the table. ‘She reckons it’s a cut above the other weeklies and there’s a column in it which always has her chuckling. It describes events in the life of the writer, a rather madcap girl.’ He grinned. ‘That wouldn’t be you?’

Kristin hesitated. Because she occasionally mentioned her family and did not wish them to be identified, she wrote under the initials KB. As far as the public at large were concerned, she was anonymous and she wanted to stay that way. She glanced at Matthew. Neither did she wish to be labelled in his mind as ‘madcap’. But her questioner was another journalist and if she worked alongside him—when she worked alongside him—concealing the truth might be tricky.

‘It is,’ she acknowledged, then added, ‘Though the column isn’t always funny. I do write about serious matters.’

‘Maybe, but I often hear chuckling. Hey, Bea,’ he called, and his wife turned in their direction. ‘This young lady writes the column in Trend that you think is so terrific.’

‘You do?’ the woman said, smiling. ‘I just love your wicked streak.’

Matthew raised a thick dark brow. ‘Wicked streak?’ he enquired.

Kristin’s heart sank. The couple were making her sound frivolous, wacky and faintly troublesome, but this was not the kind of image which she wanted to put across.

‘When I was younger, much younger,’ she emphasised, ‘there was a time when I rebelled and went a little... haywire. I’ve referred to that period in my column.’

‘Perhaps you’d tell me something I’ve always wanted to know,’ said the bespectacled woman. ‘Is everything which you write true?’

‘Most of it,’ she replied, ‘though sometimes I use a little poetic licence to give an extra punch.’

‘Like when?’ the woman enquired.

‘Well, for example, I once wrote about—’

As Kristin leaned forward to speak past him, Matthew was aware of the closeness of her body and smelled the faint fragrance of her perfume. His eyes followed the line of her profile—smooth brow, lightly freckled straight nose, determined chin—and travelled down the line of her throat to her bare shoulders. His gaze dipped deeper, to the neckline of her dress where her breasts nestled as smooth and succulent as two ripe peaches.

She was the most striking woman in the room, he thought, by far. Know-it-all Freddie had spent the evening drooling and trying frantically to impress her, though she did not appear to have noticed.

‘Was changing into a suit very painful?’ Kristin enquired.

Matthew’s head shot up and, lifting his knife, he concentrated on dissecting a piece of Brie. He had, he realised, been staring at her and could be accused of drooling, too. Had she noticed his interest? Heaven forbid!

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

‘I wondered whether being unable to wear your Levis this evening had had you in tears?’

Matthew grinned. ‘There was a slight watering of the eyes, but I gritted my teeth, stiffened my lip and sallied forth.’

‘In style,’ she said, thinking how dignified he looked in his charcoal-grey suit.

‘You’re looking pretty stylish yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ Kristin said, and took a belated mouthful of the chocolate mousse.

His grin, the first of the evening, together with the compliment, seemed to signify a softening of his mood which, in turn, seemed to offer an opportunity to tell him more about the asset he would gain by employing her.

‘In addition to writing my column, I’ve been involved in many other aspects of the magazine,’ she said, putting down her spoon. ‘We run on a shoestring and everyone mucks in where needed, so I’m an all-rounder. I’ve compiled fashion pages, organised surveys, researched and written articles on such subjects as green issues, prison visiting, impotence.’

‘Impotence?’ he queried.

‘I know all about it—’ she tilted him a smile ‘—so if you require any advice?’

‘Thanks,’ Matthew said. ‘I don’t.’

‘I’ve interviewed people from all walks of life.’

‘Movie stars?’

She frowned. ‘Yes, amongst others, though—’

‘Whilst you may have gone down a storm with Sir George,’ he said, ‘I have my doubts about whether dishing the dirt on the latest screen idol fits you to be editor of The Ambassador’s features section. We aim to be popular, but, like I said before, The Ambassador is a quality paper and it’s my intention to maintain that quality.’

‘Aren’t you being just the weeniest bit stuffy?’ Kristin enquired, restraining herself from stretching her vocabulary and saying something really impolite.

‘Stuffy? Me? I’m not,’ he protested.

‘Yes, you are. People like to have an insight into what makes the rich and famous tick.’

‘Maybe, but—’

‘And you’re being bloody-minded.’ She shone him a smile which was somewhere between merry and murderous. ‘I told you I write about serious subjects, but you ignore that and focus on movie stars instead.’

‘Look, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do,’ Matthew said placatingly.

‘You’re patronising, too!’ she flared.

‘Stuffy, bloody-minded and patronising. If I ever need a character reference, I know where to come. However,’ he carried on grittily, ‘I shall have enough problems getting the new Ambassador off the ground without worrying about you messing up.’

‘I won’t mess up,’ Kristin declared. ‘I’m a professional.’

‘So am I,’ he shot back, ‘and it wouldn’t be professional of me to hire someone because their column happens to appeal to Sir George’s teenage daughter. Anyway you’d be way out of your depth.’

Her hazel eyes flashed. ‘How do you know? You don’t. You have entirely the wrong perception of me, a perception which is based on complete and utter ignorance!’

Matthew swung a look around the table. The increasing heat of their exchange had started to turn heads and draw glances.

‘We should drop this discussion,’ he stated.

Kristin nodded and reined in her temper. It was not the time or the place to argue—and, indeed, she had never meant to argue. She had intended to be sweetness and light and to ooze charm, but he was so frustrating.

‘For now,’ she said.

She finished her pudding and a few minutes later their host announced that coffee and liqueurs would be served in the drawing room. People began to move. As the mumsy brunette skewered Matthew in conversation again, Freddie sidled close. She gave a silent groan. A glint in his eye warned he intended to stick to her like glue for the rest of the evening and bore her rigid. And she wished he would stop ogling her breasts.

‘Krisdn!’ someone called, and she looked round to see Emily waving and weaving her way towards her through the guests.

‘I must go. Nice speaking to you. Please excuse me,’ she rattled off, and swiftly made her exit.

‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ Emily said, smiling and hugging her.

She hugged her back. ‘And you.’

When they had met earlier in the week there had been an instant rapport and immediate friendship. The girl, who was shy and a little awkward, reminded her of how she had been at eighteen. An innocent, Kristin thought wryly.

‘I wanted to sit near you at dinner,’ Emily confided as they walked through to the drawing room, ‘but Daddy’s a stickler for protocol and he insisted I must act as hostess at the end of the table.’ She turned down her mouth. ‘I hate making polite conversation to strangers. Are you having coffee?’

‘Please,’ Kristin replied, and they went to help themselves from a buffet table.

At another table, waiters dispensed a selection of liqueurs.

Guests filled the drawing room, some sitting on the pale green couches which were strewn with silk oriental cushions, others admiring the paintings and sculptures, more standing together chatting.

‘You were lucky, you sat next to Matthew Lingard,’ Emily said, looking through the crowd to where the editor was talking to one of the newspapermen. ‘I’ve never met him, but Daddy said I’d think he was a hunk and I do. He’s gorgeous.’ She sighed. ‘He makes my toes curl.’

‘Mine, too,’ Kristin said, though her irony went unnoticed.

‘Has he given you the all clear?’

She shook her head. ‘We haven’t had time to properly discuss my appointment.’

‘I love the way his hair waves down to his collar,’ the girl declared, gazing dreamily at Matthew as they continued to drink their coffees.

‘It needs cutting,’ Kristin said.

‘I think it makes him look dashing and romantic, like a pirate,’ Emily said, and giggled. ‘A Spanish pirate. Did you know he has some Spanish blood?’

‘No.’

‘Apparently one of his grandmothers came from Barcelona.’ The girl eyed her idol again. ‘Let’s go and talk to him.’

‘You go. I’ve talked to him enough already.’

‘I don’t like to go over on my own. Please, Kristin, come with me and introduce me. Please. Daddy’s busy and I’m dying to meet him and this is the perfect chance and—’

‘All right,’ she agreed reluctantly.

She had decided it would be wise to steer clear of the editor for the remainder of the evening. A tactical withdrawal would allow him to cool down, rethink and realise how prejudiced he was being. It would also enable her to adopt a resolutely less inflammable manner.

Kristin frowned. Even if he did have someone else in mind to head the features section, she was not about to give up. Not yet. She had been offered a chance to become a mainstream journalist and it was a chance which she intended to cling onto, albeit by her fingertips.

Dispensing with their coffee cups, she and Emily cut a path between the groups of laughing, talking people. As they approached, Matthew and his companion abruptly broke off from their conversation and turned to greet them.

‘Your father’s told me how well you’re doing at school. Congratulations,’ Matthew said, introducing himself and shaking hands with Emily, who blushed scarlet.

‘My name is Rob Talbot; I’m the about-to-be home news editor of The Ambassador,’ said the other man, who had fair hair, a thick moustache and was in his mid-forties. ‘I’ve come with Matt from his previous paper. We’ve been buddies for years.’ He grinned at Kristin. ‘You don’t seem so madcap to me.’

She darted a sideways look at Matthew. ‘I’m the soul of sanity,’ she declared.

‘I hear you’ve been giving boyo here a hard time. Good for you; most women go so weak at the knees it’s “yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir”. Uh-uh, I’m being summoned,’ Rob said, eyeing a plump blonde woman in another group who was beckoning to him. ‘That’s my other half so I’d better obey or I’ll be in trouble. Hope to catch up with you both again. Bye.’

‘Is the lady his wife?’ Emily enquired as the home news editor disappeared.

‘For the past twenty years,’ Matthew said. ‘Why?’

‘There’re a couple of newspapermen here who came with their “partners”’ the girl said, lowering her voice and glancing round, ‘and Daddy doesn’t approve. Each time he was introduced to a “partner”—’ she enclosed the word with breathless inverted commas ‘—he became uptight I’ve told him he’s stuck in a time warp, but he’s very prim and proper about things like that.’

‘So he wouldn’t be thrilled if you decided to shack up with some dream man when you’re older?’ Matthew enquired, in a wryly teasing manner.

Emily giggled. ‘He’d go bananas, though I suppose he just might accept it if he knew we were going to be married. Daddy doesn’t approve of what he calls “philanderers” either,’ she continued. ‘Once he was all set to employ a man to run one of his companies, but then he discovered he, um—’ she blushed again ‘—slept around, and the whole thing was off.’ She paused. ‘When are you going to talk to Kristin about her job?’

He stiffened. The position of features editor was not ‘her job’. He objected to the assumption—and he resented the increasing feeling he had of being manoeuvred. He took a mouthful of brandy from the goblet which he held. But rather than offending Sir George by refusing outright to employ his protégée, perhaps he should pretend to consider the idea? It would be what was laughingly called diplomacy.

‘I’ll squeeze it in some time tomorrow. OK?’ he said, and Kristin nodded.

‘Emily, my sweet, can you spare a few minutes?’ Sir George called, and they turned to see him smiling from the other side of the room.

The girl sighed. ‘I’ll be back,’ she said, flashing a grin at Matthew, and sped away.

‘You were complaining to Rob about me?’ Kristin enquired.

He hesitated, slowly swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He could fudge, but she had asked a direct question so he would give her a direct answer.

‘Yes.’

She frowned. This afternoon she had thought him relaxed and friendly—but not tonight. Whilst he had treated Emily, with gentle consideration, he was becoming progressively more hostile towards her. It was no more Mr Nice Guy.

‘I’m sorry to interfere with your game plan,’ she said, with a smile. ‘However, when the red mist clears—’

‘You think I’m angry?’

‘I know you’re furious. But—’

‘We’ll deal with this in the morning. You can fill me in on your experience and if I should decide you’re suitable—’

‘You expect me to spend the night dreaming the impossible dream?’ Kristin enquired.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Tomorrow, as a courtesy to Sir George, you intend to go through the motions of an interview. You’ll say you will consider my application and in a few days’ time you’ll send me a letter announcing that, sorry, I don’t quite meet your requirements.’

Raising his glass to his lips, Matthew took another slug of brandy. Whilst he admired a brain, and it helped if it was attractively packaged, Kristin Blake was proving to be a little too sharp for comfort.

‘My job is to reverse the fortunes of The Ambassador and make it pay,’ he said heavily. ‘Not provide a free ride for someone whom Emily’s taken a shine to.’

‘You can’t resist the pathetic fallacy,’ she declared.

‘Which is?’

‘You think that because I’m blonde I must be a bimbo. An airbead who intends to busk it. I’m not.’

‘One thing I do think,’ he said, ‘is that you’re young to head the features section.’

‘I think you’re young to be the editor of a national daily newspaper,’ Kristin responded. ‘Most of them are in their fifties, whereas you—’

‘I’m old enough.’

‘Ditto. And, as we’re talking age, one of the reasons why The Ambassador has become duller than a lawnmower manual is because many of its staff are as old as Methuselah, have been there for years and are set in a groove.’

‘True,’ Matthew agreed, ‘though the worst offenders are being despatched into retirement with a golden handshake.’

She nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Sir George told you this at your interview?’

‘No, I read it in the papers.’ Kristin shone a sweet smile. ‘This may come as a big surprise, but I do read the serious papers. I’ve read about you, too.’

‘What about me?’ he enquired.

His appointment and the restyling of The Ambassador had created a considerable amount of interest and he had been interviewed both by newspaper journalists and on television. His brow creased. Whilst he was keen to publicise the paper, he was not into the cult of personality. He preferred to keep his private life private and his fifteen minutes of fame had been enough.

‘I read that you have a reputation for cool, shrewd judgement, clear focus and having a will of iron. Also that you’re six foot four and live in a mansion block in Kensington. Plus I read how you’re the “Golden Catch of the Year”.’ She looked him coolly up and down. ‘Or so one of the more sensational tabloids bizarrely claimed.’

‘You don’t agree?’ Matthew said, finding himself amused. ‘No, you wouldn’t. After all, I’m stuffy and bloody-minded and—’

He broke off to look towards the doorway of the room where Sir George was clapping his hands for attention.

‘Someone has asked if they could hear something about the history of Flytes Keep and take a look around,’ the businessman said, when the group fell silent. ‘I’m happy to lead a conducted tour. Would anyone else care to come along?’

As hands were raised and there was a general chorus of ‘Me, please’ their host beamed. He was proud of his home and loved to show off its treasures.

‘We are in what was originally called the Withdrawing Room,’ he declared, starting on a talk which he had given many times before, ‘because after eating the company withdrew to this room.’

Sir George talked about the portrait of a bewigged haughty-looking individual which hung over the fireplace where a log fire blazed and crackled, then gestured for the group to follow him out. As they set off en masse along the main hall, Emily returned to Kristin’s side.

‘See you later,’ Matthew said, taking advantage of the chance to leave, and went ahead to join Rob and his wife.

If the circumstances had been different he would have enjoyed Kristin Blake’s company—she had an appealing personality—but he was damned if he would be bamboozled into employing her.

‘In the mid-seventeen hundreds the Flytes, the aristocratic owners, fell upon hard times and the house fell into disrepair,’ Sir George stated, leading the way into the library which had walls of leather-bound books and stainedglass windows.

‘Then, towards the end of the last century, a wealthy American trader bought it. He embarked on a programme of painstaking renovation which was continued by his son and grandson. A few years ago, the grandson died, a bachelor without an heir, and—’ he smiled ‘—I became the new owner.’

‘Did you need to do any work on the castle?’ one of his guests enquired.

‘I updated the central heating and put in a fire-fighting system and the computer-controlled burglar alarm. As you’ll appreciate, many of the contents are extremely valuable.’

‘I’ve just bought the latest Trend and your column reminded me of the good times I’d had with Mummy,’ Emily whispered.

Absorbed in what her host was saying, Kristin glanced round. ‘I beg your pardon?’

The girl put a hand on her arm, holding her still and letting others go by until they were at the tail-end of the group. Kristin looked wistfully ahead. She would have liked to hear more about the castle, but Emily seemed eager for her attention.

‘You wrote of how you’d gone shopping with your mother. Mummy and I used to go shopping together and—’

As the tour of the house continued, Emily talked—first about how much she missed her mother who had died the previous year, then about Kristin’s column—most of which she appeared to have committed to memory. The girl’s interest in her work was flattering, she thought, and frowned at where Matthew Lingard’s dark head was visible amongst the crowd. It made a sharp contrast to his attitude.

By the time Sir George delivered everyone back to the drawing room, it had gone eleven o’clock. Some guests accepted the offer of another drink, while others professed a readiness to turn in. Matthew, she noticed—she seemed to be continually aware of him—had begun to look weary. He and Rob were standing to one side, each nursing a last brandy and talking.

‘At first I used to cry whenever I spoke to anyone about Mummy, but it’s getting easier,’ Emily said. “Though I don’t think Daddy will ever recover. They were very close. I remember how—’

As the girl reminisced about her parents’ happiness, Kristin heard the words ‘features section’. She cocked an ear. Once again, it seemed, Matthew was talking about the post which she so much wanted.

‘Don’t bust a gut,’ she heard Rob protest. ‘OK, Sir George likes her, but that doesn’t mean you have to hire the woman.’

There was a pause during which Matthew, whose voice was lower and frustratingly inaudible, spoke, then his friend started up again.

‘Matt, I’m sure you can rise to the task of finding some way to persuade her to exit, without any fuss and while keeping her sweet.’

Matthew said something which, again, she could not hear.

A moment or two later, the two men moved away.

Kristin cleaned off her eyeshadow in swift smooth strokes. For Matthew Lingard to have marked her down as useless without knowing anything about her or reading a word which she had written was unjust. Unreasonable. And so maddening! She had brought a stack of magazines with her which she had intended to show him at her interview, but she knew that when he ‘squeezed her in’ tomorrow he would leaf cursorily through.

Loosening the glossy twist of hair, she began to brush. The editor was in the room next door, so why didn’t she slip along and deliver the magazines to him now? she thought suddenly. That would enable him to take a longer look at her column and a longer look might make him realise that she possessed credible writing talent.

The evening was a little late, but he would not be asleep. When she had left the party he had been waiting with other guests to say goodnight to their host, so chances were he had yet to get as far as shucking off his jacket.

Matthew squeezed a ribbon of white paste onto his toothbrush and began to clean his teeth. He had a clear vision of how he intended to run The Ambassador—the spectrum the paper would cover, the downfalls to be avoided, the qualities he required in his journalists—and the vision did not include Kristin Blake. She might be the proprietor’s dream come true, but he had no place on his staff for an enfant terrible from a women’s magazine.

Spitting into the basin, he brushed his teeth again. Even if she had possessed a writing history which merited serious attention, he would hesitate to hire her because, if he did, he would be allowing Sir George to set a precedent. A dangerous precedent. He 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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