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The Bedroom Incident
Elizabeth Oldfield
DO NOT Disturb Incident #1-the deception Kristin Blake is horrified when she realizes that her potential new boss, Matthew Lingard, is the same man she publicly humiliated ten years before. So she has to keep her true identity a secret!Incident #2- the bedroom Forced to share a bedroom one night, Kristin and Matthew struggle to keep the arrangement strictly business - but it proves impossible!Incident #3- the engagement And the morning after, their night of passion is discovered. There's only one solution to avoid a scandal: pretend to be engaged!
“I’m supposed to sleep on the floor?” (#uf6dcc0b2-37b0-5e39-b4f6-86e3e04a252d)Title Page (#u48c545f3-cf11-58d7-b053-1537509370d1)CHAPTER ONE (#uf13ef748-85a8-5bb2-b692-de8c039a1baf)CHAPTER TWO (#u7a5cdb2a-840c-51d0-a764-485dee505b56)CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“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 (http://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.
