‘Not bad.’
‘Not bad?’
‘Well, you haven’t actually apologised yet.’
‘Good point.’ He frowned and shifted in the seat. ‘I’m sorry.’
Laura couldn’t help grinning at his obvious discomfort. ‘Not a fan of apologising?’
Matt grimaced. ‘I haven’t had a huge amount of practice.’
Lucky him. She’d had years of practice. Often apologising for things that hadn’t been her fault. God, she’d been pathetic. ‘I dare say you’ll get better at it.’
He winced. ‘I don’t plan on having to.’
‘No, well, I doubt kings generally have much to apologise for.’
Didn’t they? Any more of those sexy little smiles, thought Matt, and he’d be apologising for a whole lot more than a misunderstanding and an overreaction.
Because despite the shapeless mass of beige cotton covering Laura from head to toe, the imprint of her lying there on the grass in just her bra burned in his head and she might as well be naked. Every time she tucked her hair behind her ears or reached for her glass and lifted it to her mouth the thick cotton rustled and reminded him of exactly what lay beneath.
His head swam for a second and his hands curled into fists. Oh, for God’s sake. He really had to get a grip.
Right. Conversation. That had been the plan. Food might not be a bad idea, either, he thought, taking out a couple of plates, cutlery and a number of small plastic boxes. He pushed a plate across the table to Laura but she shook her head. He opened the boxes and piled a selection of things on his plate.
‘So how’s the accommodation?’ he asked.
See. He could do conversation.
‘Very comfortable, thank you. Who could complain about a four-poster bed and marble en-suite?’
The image of Laura hot and naked and wet in the shower slammed into his head and his mouth went dry as the heavy beat of desire began to pound through him. Perhaps best to steer clear of accommodation as a conversational avenue in the future.
‘And the work?’
‘Really great,’ she said, giving him a dazzling smile that nearly blinded him.
‘You’re very dedicated.’ Neither his culture minister nor his secretary could stop singing her praises. It had been driving him insane.
‘I love my job.’
‘So why the sabbatical?’
Her glass froze halfway to her mouth and she carefully set it back down on the table. ‘What do you mean?’ she said warily.
‘Well, you’re clearly good at your job, and you said yourself you love it. So why the sabbatical?’
‘Oh, well, you know.’ She shrugged and nibbled on her lip in that way that he was discovering meant that she was nervous. Excellent. When he’d thought t
hat something didn’t add up he’d been right.
‘I needed some time out. Stress. Boredom. That sort of thing.’
Matt didn’t believe that for a second. Her whole demeanour had changed and if pushed he’d have said she looked downright shifty. ‘You don’t seem the type to suffer from stress or boredom.’
‘Then I guess it’s working.’
Hmm. Never mind. He’d get to the bottom of her sabbatical soon enough. ‘How long have you lived in Little Somerford?’