Читать книгу The Bedroom Incident - Elizabeth Oldfield - Страница 7

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.