Laura’s mouth opened. Then closed. And then to her dismay she felt her cheeks begin to burn. ‘What makes you think anyone was watching you?’ she said, aiming for a blank look in the hope that it would counteract the blush. If asked, she’d attribute that to the heat.
Matt raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, let me see,’ he said dryly. ‘How about a pair of binoculars glinting in the sun and pointing straight in my direction?’
Oh, rats. Laura’s heart plummeted. So much for thinking she’d been discreet. She shouldn’t have pushed her luck and indulged for so long.
Her brain raced through her options and she realised depressingly that she had no choice but to confess. Since she’d already told him she’d come looking for him she couldn’t even bluff her way out of it.
She ran a hand through her hair and straightened her spine. ‘OK, fine. But technically I wasn’t actually—’
‘I’ll ask you one more time,’ he said flatly, his eyes narrowing. ‘Which scurrilous rag do you work for?’
Which scurrilous rag? Laura’s hand fell to her side and she blinked in confusion. What on earth was he talking about? Perhaps she ought to suggest he get out of the heat. What with all that bending and twisting while log-chopping, the sun must have gone to his head. Something had certainly gone to hers and she hadn’t even been in the sun. ‘I don’t work for a rag, scurrilous or otherwise,’ she said. ‘I’m an architect.’
A flicker of surprise flashed across his face and then vanished. ‘That’s one I haven’t heard before.’
Laura’s hackles shot up. ‘It’s not a joke.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’
‘Why would you think I was a journalist?’
‘I don’t think, I know you’re a journalist.’
Her mouth dropped open at the scorn in his voice and she had to dig deep and drum up the techniques to Embrace Confrontation to fight back the temptation to quail. ‘You’re insane.’
A muscle in his jaw hammered. ‘So explain the binoculars.’
Laura planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘I was about to when you interrupted me.’
Matt’s expression took on a ‘this’ll be good’ kind of look and indignation simmered in her veins. Why the hell was she bothering? Oh, yes, the house.
Laura tightened her grip on her manners. ‘I was going to clarify that I wasn’t actually watching you.’ Much. ‘I was really eyeing up your house.’
He stared at her. ‘My house?’ he said, his brows snapping together. ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s the best example of seventeenth century architecture I’ve ever seen. Certainly round here.’
‘That’s not uncommon knowledge,’ he drawled.
Laura couldn’t help bristling at his sceptical tone. ‘Undoubtedly,’ she said tightly. ‘However I have more than a passing interest. I specialise in the restoration and conservation of ancient buildings, and I’ve been coveting yours for weeks.’
‘Is that so?’
Matt folded his arms across his chest and stared at her. For so long and so intently that she began to drown in the heat of his gaze. She might be churning with indignation, but that didn’t stop her head swimming, her knees turning watery and her stomach fluttering. Laura silently cursed her treacherous body and hoped to God he couldn’t see the effect he was having on her. ‘Absolutely,’ she said with a coolness that came from who knew where.
Matt tilted his head. Raised an eyebrow. Gave her a lazily lethal smile that zoomed down the entire length of her body and curled her toes, and quite suddenly her skin began to prickle.
‘If you’re an architect as you say you are,’ he said, leaning forwards a fraction and lowering his voice, ‘prove it.’
Prove it? Prove it?
For a moment, all Laura could hear was what sounded like the faint hum of a tractor somewhere in the distance. But that could well have been the blood rushing in her ears.
‘What?’ she said, giving her head a quick shake. Presumably she’d been so distracted by the muscles of Matt’s arms flexing as he crossed them she must have misheard. Been hypnotised by his eyes or something. Or maybe he just had a truly warped sense of humour and was joking. Because what kind of man went round accusing random strangers of being something they weren’t and then demanding they prove it?
‘If you expect me to believe you’re an architect and want nothing more than access to my house, prove it.’
Laura blinked and stared at him. Nope. Gorgeous forearms and mesmerising eyes aside, she hadn’t misheard. And he wasn’t joking. That he meant what he said was etched into the stony expression on his face.
Her pulse raced. What exactly was his problem? Was he on some sort of lord-of-the-manor power trip? Was he completely paranoid? And frankly, did she even want to venture inside his house when he was obviously one pane short of a window?
The rational side of her, the one that was seething with indignation, pointed out that she had no need to continue this idiotic conversation. It was a balmy Saturday morning. She had plenty of things to be getting on with. Like finding a job and sorting out her catastrophe of a life. She really didn’t need this kind of headache, and no mansion was worth this amount of hassle.
However, the professional part of her, the one that had recently been so ruthlessly dismissed, so flatly rejected by the company she’d worked for, clamoured for the opportunity to justify her abilities.
The two sides battled for a nanosecond but the sting of rejection was still so fresh, the wound still so raw, there was no contest.
Laura pulled her shoulders back and stuck her chin up. He wanted proof? Then he’d get it. More of it than anyone not fascinated with old buildings could possibly want.
‘Fine,’ she said, hauling out her notebook and studying the notes she’d made over the past six weeks. ‘From my preliminary investigations I’d say your house was probably built some time between the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. The main structure has two storeys and, I believe, an attic.’
Possibly with a mad relative in occupancy to accompany the one who inhabited the rest.
‘It’s built out of squared and dressed limestone,’ she continued, ‘and has a stone slate roof. I believe it used to be a quadrangle, but it’s now “h” shaped with wings projecting forwards right and left of the central gabled porch. The right hand wing has been substantially rebuilt at the back. I’d say in the mid-nineteenth century.’
She paused to take a breath and glanced up from the pages to find Matt staring at her, a slightly stunned expression on his handsome face.
Good. That would teach him to leap to absurd conclusions and engage in all that sceptical eyebrow raising. And she had plenty more where that came from. She hadn’t even begun on the windows.
She
