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“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
Look out next month for: #1996 The Bridal Bed by Helen Bianchin
The Bedroom Incident
Elizabeth Oldfield
MILLS & BOON
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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