He thwacked the axe down on the log with such force that the blade scythed through the wood like a hot knife through butter and lodged in the stump.
Something hard and tight settled in the pit of his stomach. Couldn’t they leave him alone for one measly second?
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Ignoring the stinging in his muscles and the sweat trickling down his back, he bent down, picked up the two halves of the log and hurled them onto the pile.
One last weekend of peace. That was all he wanted. One lousy weekend of privacy before he embarked on a role he wasn’t sure he was entirely prepared for, and life as he knew it turned upside down.
Matt grabbed the bottle lying in the grass, sloshed water over his head and flinched when the ice-cold liquid hit his burning skin.
Hadn’t he provided the press with enough stories recently? They’d been hounding him for weeks, ever since it had been announced he was the long-lost heir to the newly restored Sassanian throne. They’d been camping outside his London house and tailing him wherever he went. Shoving tape recorders and cameras in his face at every opportunity and demanding responses to questions about his private life he had no intention of ever answering.
By and large he’d played his part. Given interviews. Posed for photographs. And borne it with remarkable, if grim, tolerance. But by following him here, to the house in the Cotswolds he’d almost forgotten he owned, they’d crossed the line.
As irritation escalated into anger, Matt shoved his hands through his hair and pulled his T-shirt over his head.
Enough was enough. No way was he just sitting back and letting some miserable lowlife hack gawk at him all weekend. To hell with the consequences. He was going to go round, grab that pair of binoculars and wind the strap round their scrawny neck.
Ah, that was a shame, thought Laura, biting her lip as she watched that magnificent chest disappear beneath a swathe of navy cotton.
If she had control of the world, a man like that would be consigned to a life of naked-from-the-waist-up log-chopping. On permanent display. As a gift to the nation or something. And if she had control of the world, she’d rewind time and hit the pause button at the exact moment he’d taken that impromptu little shower.
Despite the heat simmering in her veins, Laura shivered as the image slammed into her head. Utterly transfixed, she’d followed the rivulets of water trickling down his chest and hadn’t been able to stop herself trembling with longing. The powerful lenses of her binoculars had picked out every glistening drop clinging lovingly to his skin and her breath had evaporated all over again.
Even now, when he was all covered up and striding across the lawn towards the house, as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels, she felt as if she were on fire. Tiny flames of heat licked along her veins. Her skin sizzled. Her stomach churned.
He disappeared inside the house and Laura blinked and felt a sharp pang of loss.
The unsettling shock of such an intense reaction snapped her back to her senses. She blinked. Rubbed her eyes and pulled herself together.
Right, she decided, unwinding herself from the curtain and setting the binoculars on her dressing table. That was quite enough of that. She’d indulged for far longer than was wise and she had things to do.
So no more thumping hearts and trembling limbs. No more tingling in inappropriate places and erratic breathing. And definitely no more fantasising.
Tucking a notebook and pencil in the back pocket of her shorts and slinging her camera over her shoulder, Laura pulled her shoulders back and headed downstairs.
If she was going to wangle an invitation inside what appeared to be a near perfect example of early seventeenth century architecture, she had to be charming, determined and above all, strong of knee.
One of the first things Matt had planned to do once installed on the throne of Sassania was open up the press and grant the country’s journalists more access to information.
Now, he thought grimly, eyes down as he strode along the path in the direction of the binocular-toting hack, he wasn’t so sure. Now he’d like to abolish it altogether and string up the entire lot of them. Starting with the one he was about to tear a strip off.
‘Good morning.’
At the sound of the voice a few feet in front of him, Matt skidded to a halt and his head snapped up. His gaze rested on the woman blocking his path smiling blindingly at him and for a second his mind went blank. All thoughts of journalists and Mediterranean island kingdoms evaporated; if someone had asked his name he’d have been stumped.
As his gaze automatically ran over her he felt the ground tilt beneath his feet. Blood roared in his ears and fire surged through his veins. His chest contracted as if he’d been walloped in the solar plexus, and for one horrible moment Matt wondered if he was having a heart attack.
But then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The ground settled, his head cleared, his lungs started pumping and his heart rate steadied.
Keeping his extraordinary reaction firmly behind the neutral expression that had helped him make billions, Matt shoved a hand through his hair and forced himself to relax.
No doubt it was the unexpectedness of her that had caused his violent reaction. The sudden interruption to his train of thought. That was all. It couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the mass of blond hair, the big cornflower-blue eyes or the wide smile. Or, for that matter, the set of killer curves encased in the skimpiest shorts and tightest T-shirt he’d ever seen.
Because that would be as disconcerting as it would have been unusual. He’d never been distracted by a woman, however beautiful and however well packaged, and he didn’t intend to start now.
Reminding himself what he was supposed to be doing, he gave her a brief nod and the flash of an impersonal smile. ‘Good morning,’ he said, taking a step to the right to weave past her.