by Kris Pearson
“The back courtyard.” Maybe there was another?
“Yep—the back courtyard. New pool and fountain.”
“No! That’s my job. She’s paid a deposit.”
“Too late, sorry. I’ve already done most of it. What the hell is Gran playing at?”
“Gran? Mrs. Banks is your grandmother?”
“Dad’s Mom. Did she strike you as senile?” His scowl had softened. Leah now saw genuine concern in his very blue eyes.
“Not at all. Quite the opposite. Seemed to know exactly what she was doing.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’ve already bought the fountain she chose,” Leah added.
“Got it here? I can give you a lift up with it.”
“I hope she still wants it. It won’t be too bad to carry. It’s copper, not concrete.”
“Ric Banks,” he said, pulling off a dirt-encrusted leather gardening glove, and reaching out to shake her hand. She saw long fingers and well-tended nails.
“That’s not a landscaper’s hand,” she said, enjoying the scent of his warm skin and a hint of cologne on the frisky breeze.
“Guitar.” His sudden grin was gorgeous. “Have to look after them a bit.”
It was Leah’s turn to say ‘Hmmm.’ She wouldn’t mind being looked after by those hands. Or nibbled on by those even white teeth...
Ric dragged the big piece of Magnolia further away and sawed it up while she unlocked the van for the boxes containing the fancy French fountain.
“So she went for the three tiers with the cherub on top?” he said, inspecting the photo on the packing. “She was still dithering about it last time we talked.”
“That’s strange. She told me she wanted this design right from the start. I think it set her off on the whole scheme.”
He sent her a disbelieving look.
“Truly,” she added, beeping the van locked and hefting one of the boxes. He followed with the other.
She scooted up the steps in front of him, acutely aware her jeans were on the snug side. Thank heavens there weren’t many steps.
She sighed when she saw Ric’s work. The pavers were beautifully laid, the brick herb-boxes built, and he’d started on the lily pond.
“You’re right, there’s no job left for me. You’ve nearly finished.”
“Good heavens no,” Mrs. Banks said briskly, trotting through a gate from the property next door. “I thought we should get my grandson to do all heavy work because he’s nice and fit, and very good at this sort of thing.”
Ric rolled his eyes and struck an ironic body-builder’s pose. Leah took this as an invitation—checking him out was no chore at all.
Mrs. Banks smiled. “And I want your help with the pretty plants, dear,” she said to Leah. “You did some lovely borders for my friend Evelyn Mitchell, and I’d like something similar.”
Leah reluctantly turned away from her excellent view and tried to remember the Mitchell job. Buxus edging and clumps of raspberry-colored Heuchera and white Flower Carpet roses? Delphiniums? Impatiens to fill the gaps?
“It doesn’t really work that way, Gran,” Ric objected. “You can’t employ two people to do one job.”
“Why ever not?” Mrs Banks asked, raising her neat gray eyebrows and looking slightly too innocent. “You each have different talents, so I’m sensibly making use of them.”
Leah tried to stifle her laugh but a small puff of mirth still burst out. Ric heard, and grinned across at her.
“A set-up, ya reckon?”
“She’s very good at it.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting this.” He turned back to his grandmother. “You’re a sneaky old schemer, Gran. How’s Cecily now? On the mend?”
Mrs. Banks managed to look reasonably contrite. “Better than she was yesterday. We’ve just had a cuppa and a nice chat.”
“And spied on us with the binoculars she keeps for the boats on the harbor, I daresay?”
His grandmother chuckled, plainly guilty. “Don’t be angry, darlings. You’ve each told me you need a partner because you’re too busy. Why can’t an old lady give things a nudge in the right direction?”
“Mrs. Banks!” Leah exclaimed, amused and embarrassed in equal measure. “You mustn’t play Cupid just because your new fountain has a boy with a bow and arrow on top of it.”
“But you’d be perfect together. Your names are just right. ‘Walls and Banks’. Doesn’t that sound like a landscaping company? Cecily and I thought it was inspired.”
This time Leah couldn’t contain her laughter. “So we just need to round up a Mr Bloom and—er—Ms Ponds and that’d cover all aspects of the business?”
“Why don’t you take Leah out for a nice dinner and discuss things, Ric?”
“What things would those be, Gran?”
His grandmother flapped her hands. “I’m sure you’ll manage very well without suggestions from me.”
“I might have managed okay without you in the first place,” he said, sending Leah a hopeful glance. “You thinking of branching out?”
“No, that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.” She flashed him a mischievous invitation.
Ric’s brilliant blue eyes narrowed and his expression intensified. His excellent chest expanded as he took a deep breath and turned to Mrs. Banks.
“Riiiiiight,” he said. “I’ll add the dinner to your bill, Gran—serve you right for interfering.” He turned back to Leah. “Italian? Turkish? Seafood? Where are we going?”
She tipped her head on one side while she considered. “Cafe Magnolia on the hill above Waterfall Bay?” she suggested. “That seems kind of appropriate for Walls and Banks, don’t you think?”
Vi covered the batch of pikelets with a tea-cloth to keep the moisture in. The landscaping story might be worth writing, but once again there were no arousals—peeking around tree trunks or swelling in khaki shorts. She set the mixing bowl to soak. Oh well, she could try another story later, after the meeting. She always enjoyed the Romance Writers’ get-togethers. What should she wear? Her new mauve cardigan and the pink pin-tucked pink blouse?
CHAPTER 4 – TOUR DE FRANCE
As usual, Vi arrived early, offering to help. As usual, Meg pointed out that everything was ready. And as usual, Vi took over the sunny blue kitchen to put the finishing touches to today’s gastronomic excess. Fresh pikelets. Raspberry jam. Whipped cream. Yum.
“Leave a couple without cream for Bobbie, seeing she’s a veggie,” Meg cautioned.
Vi nodded, and then looked worried. “I’ve buttered them all.”
“Tell her it’s margarine.”
“She might be dairy intolerant as well as a vegetarian.”
“She needs fattening up a bit, that girl.”
“I think it’s all the bicycling, dear. It’s very good for the body.”
Meg thought about Al’s body. His long muscular legs, and trim torso and tight butt. It had been very good for his body for sure. Perhaps she should buy a bike herself? Maybe they could go cycling together and follow the ride with a shared shower and a ride of an altogether different kind. She closed her eyes. His cologne teased her imagination. Obviously he’d found her attractive in return. So…
Veronique leaned against the smooth bark of the big plane tree, grateful for the shade from the fierce summer sun. Here in Saint-Paul-Trois-Chateaux, Tour de France fever was at full pitch. The famous caravan of floats and advertising vehicles had passed by in a riot of color and noise and good humor as people scrambled for the free gifts on offer.
But much more thrilling now were the teams of racers on their glittering cycles. The air hummed with excitement as they approached, then they swept past with that intoxicating swish of tires on hot paving, chains driving gears, lungs sucking breath down deep as streamlined men tortured their muscles for even better performance.
Helmets gleamed brilliant in the sun, shirts stretched tightly over beautiful taut bodies. Veronique’s panties moistened.
The crowd applauded until t
he very last man. Veronique turned away and started her walk home on slightly shaky legs. A few minutes later, she heard a strongly accented “Mam-zelle? Seel voo play?”
She swung around. Hobbling behind her was a tall American wheeling his racing cycle. Blood welled from a gash on his upper arm.
“Non!” she cried, anguished that such a gorgeous man was injured. Had he somehow become separated from the main bunch of riders?
She pointed to a patch of dense shade under a nearby olive tree where the grass grew soft and verdant. She dropped to her knees and encouraged him to do the same. He leaned his carbon-fiber cycle against the olive trunk and sank down beside her.
She inspected his arm. Such a bulging bicep...such a strong corded forearm...such long tanned fingers protruding suggestively from his cutaway cycling glove—all with that thin red trickle of gore.
“Merde,” she muttered, reaching for the hem of her white cotton blouse. A swift tug ripped a broad strip free. Broader than she’d intended. The summer air caressed her slender waist. His eyes caressed it too as she wiped up toward his wound and held the pad of fabric firmly against it. He flinched only slightly, seemingly distracted by the abundance of her creamy bosom above the French lace trim of her low-cut bra as she bent over him, trying to bind up his injury.
Chuck no longer felt any pain. The flimsy blouse outlined his pretty paramedic’s body in loving detail. And the unbuttoned neckline revealed more than he’d dared to expect. Her breasts were magnificent—full and heavy—as she leaned forward to comfort him.
Thanks to a sudden waft of cool breeze, he glimpsed the jut of her stiff nipples. His own body started to stiffen in response. Not a good look in tight shiny Lycra. It took all his concentration to reverse the process. Frantically he calculated the distance he’d raced today, the distance still to go, his average speed over the route so far covered. Tire pressure, (blood pressure!), time of expected arrival and time elapsed.
She was a magnet to his grasping hands. He imagined his fingers cupping up her over-spilling flesh, brown against cream, rough against smooth. Longed to insinuate himself closer to her and place a chaste kiss inside her gaping blouse. No doubt she’d make a small show of resistance, but surely he would overcome her reluctance with perseverance and patience. What a prize she’d be—vibrant, voluptuous and virginal...
The doorbell bonged imperiously.
Meg left Vi to the jam and cream. Damn, she’d been enjoying that. Hadn’t even got to the shared shower and the rollicking ride. She’d have to revisit the scene once the meeting was over.
“Hi,” she said, waving Bobbie in. “Do you know, I had a nine-thousand-dollar carbon fiber racing bike parked right there last night?” She pointed to the wallpaper with a flourish. As there was now nothing to see Bobbie looked puzzled. “Nice man,” Meg added. “Very nice man.” She took a deep breath, hoping the love-bite showed.
“I’ve chained mine to the side fence,” Bobbie said, ripping open the Velcro fastenings on her helmet strap. Her mop of frizzy black hair expanded to fill a vast amount of airspace, swamping her small pale face.
“No manuscript?” Meg asked, eyeing Bobbie’s empty hands. Bobby went everywhere on her bike, and seemed to live out of the sporty little bag strapped around her waist. Plainly no neatly printed sheaf of papers lurked in there.
“Oh—and I had it all ready to bring today, too,” she replied, reddening. She sloughed off her garish yellow visibility vest and produced a flat package from its pocket. “Muesli slice from the health shop,” she offered.
“Lovely. Thanks.” Meg took the seedy stuff to the kitchen and arranged it on a plate.
CHAPTER 5 - IAN GOES SENSUOUSLY SAILING
Ian had bought the chocolate biscuits yesterday (women always liked chocolate). He’d finished his synopsis and stashed it in the van. He’d rolled the brand new layout for next season’s Iris catalogue in plastic bubble wrap so the pages were ready for his ladies to admire.
He could talk forever about the beauties of chamaeiris and biflora and variegata and germanica and pallida and stylosa, and many more Iris varieties if given the chance.
Generally people didn’t give him the chance.
And he’d showered.
He regarded his long body with disfavor. The mirror in his bedroom was somewhat distorted, being a cheap one from the nearest hardware store. But Ian was willing to believe the slight bulge around his waist really did exist.
His legs certainly were that long and sinewy. His hair was a thick, brown, undisciplined mop. His skin was always pale. You couldn’t risk working outside as he did without covering up—the hole in the ozone layer was an ever present threat to a nurseryman and garden center owner.
And his tanned hands looked super-silly on the ends of his long, pale, hairy arms. Perhaps he should wear gardening gloves more often? He remembered Lady Chatterley watching her gamekeeper washing himself in a basin of water outside his cottage. She’d contrasted Mellors’ white shoulders with the ruddy brown skin of his neck.
Ian supposed he had a brown neck as well. He twisted to see it in the mirror. Ah well, it hadn’t put Lady Chatterley off. Great book, that. Really sensuous. He wished he could write anything half as good.
Now he was standing side-on to the mirror, his cock hung in profile. Like a disapproving nose poking out of a bearded face. Long, like the rest of him. Some woman ought to be making use of that, but where was she? Not at Haroldson’s Plant Center, that was for sure.
He climbed into clean white Y-fronts, dragged on a white singlet, a freshly ironed green shirt with long sleeves to hide his pale hairy arms, and roomy jeans. He added a wide leather belt to hold them up—liking his jeans loose because he had to bend and stretch a lot with his job. He hopped about as he pulled on his good black shoes to match the belt—a change from his gardening boots or filthy old sneakers.
Done. His haystack of hair would be dry by the time he arrived if he drove with the window open. He grabbed his phone, the chocolate biscuits, and the Iris catalogue, and loped out to his sign-written white van. Haroldson’s of Hastings—Iris Specialists.
Today he intended reading his updated synopsis to the group. His hero and heroine sounded fantastic. He knew the conflict between them was now a great deal more intense than when he’d first had the idea for the novel; Romy and Liz had set him straight on that. And the resolution was a stunner—if he could write it with enough emotion.
Ian kept his writing life entirely separate from his work. He didn’t see why Mrs. Purvis and young Lorraine and Jack Fulton should tease their boss about his ambition to be a novelist. There’d be time enough to tell them he was a writer once he had an actual book to wave in their direction.
He drove a little faster than usual along St Aubyn Street. The writing group was his treat for the month, and for once there were no plants in the van to sway about and get damaged. He tended to work seven days a week, living on the premises as he did. Not that he minded. What else would he do with his time? Might as well be making a buck or two.
But every fourth Saturday afternoon was his. He enjoyed the sense of shared purpose as the group read, and discussed, and hoped, and dreamed about the books they’d one day see in print.
And it wasn’t impossible—Romy had proved that. Her third historical novel would be in the shops any day now. She’d attached the design to the email she’d sent the group, and then brought the shiny printed version along to show them last time. They’d all fingered it with envy.
A spread-legged swashbuckling pirate type—shirt flowing backward off impressive shoulders—stood braced against the mast of a sailing ship.
Romy had been infuriated they’d used a model with a smooth chest. Her heroine enjoyed running her fingers through the crisp hair on her hero’s hard pecs and taut abdomen apparently, so that made mincemeat of her story.
Ian enjoyed the women’s chat and gossip. They were bitchy but bore no grudge longer than a few minutes. He found them intensely co-operative and helpful,
unlike any male groups he’d been part of. The aggression of his old football team and sailing crew were in stark contrast. Why was it so damned important to be the one giving orders all the time?
The boat lurched with a sickening roll. He reached out a muscular arm and enfolded her possessively.
“Lean on me, Liz. You’re safe now.”
She turned her huge aquamarine eyes toward him in silent thanks. The sea roared like thunder. It was far too noisy to attempt further speech.
She slipped from his grasp and cannoned against the thigh-high storage locker, anchoring herself with slender fingers thrust into the tangled ropes. Ian sheltered her with his body, desperate to bring warmth to her shivering frame.
She moaned his name, trembling with fear. He drew closer, enticed by her soft feminine neediness, and tightened his arm again, wishing she would accept more than mere body-heat from him. She twisted a little, and his hand enclosed the soft swell of her breast. He caressed the treasure gently, searching out the rosy peak that his lips yearned to suckle.
Liz drew a sharp breath and moaned his name again. He lowered his face to her creamy neck, nuzzling amongst her luxuriant hair until his hot breath warmed her chilled skin. He chanced a tiny kiss—the merest brush of his aching lips against her glorious flesh.
The boat pitched and yawed, and he was thrust hard against her. He was thrust against her, hard. He was hard—he thrust against her.
Make up your bloody mind, Ian!
Liz’s thin muslin dress had been ripped away by the raging waves. Her long sinuous back pressed against him, smooth and supple. The gentle undulation of her spine drew his lips downward. A kiss for this little bump...a lick for this pretty knob...a nibble here, a nip there. His mouth slid lower until it encountered a tiny strap of lavender lace traversing her hips.
He tore at it with his teeth, reveling in the sound of it ripping away from her body, leaving her most luscious flesh exposed for him.