by Kris Pearson
Still she sprawled across the locker. Still her hands grasped the ropes for safety. Her long legs were spread-eagled to maintain her balance, but the water had now calmed a little.
Ian pressed against her, his tattered trousers no barrier between them. His hot flesh invaded hers, and the waves rocked them ever closer to their precipice of pleasure.
The van tire scraped against Meg’s curb, and Ian wrenched himself back to reality.
Dammit! He’d entirely lost the sensation. He groaned with frustration. Liz had attracted him from the first moment he’d met her. She was so far out of his league he wouldn’t consider attempting to chat her up. But a good brain-fuck—that was a different matter. He was quite accomplished at those.
Was she already inside the house? Her blue SUV wasn’t parked in the street, but she sometimes got a ride with Romy.
It seemed only decent to stay in the van for a few minutes until he was feeling less randy. Sighing, he reached for his synopsis. One final read through might do the trick.
CHAPTER 6 - ELOISE SMOKES AND STEAMS
What could you do with a twenty-two-year-old daughter? Leave her at home so she’d waste hours on the phone to her boyfriend half a world away in London?
Send her out with local friends and a pocket full of your own hard earned money—because the girl wasn’t looking prosperous.
Or take her along to the meeting?
Eloise Thomas sighed with displeasure. Of course it was lovely to see her. But it would have been good to get some notice, instead of having a dreadlocked stranger arriving on the doormat at dinner time, shouting ‘surprise!’
She was a dear girl, really. But the hair was a shock. Her glorious tumble of curls had been reduced to a collection of frizzy matted sausages. And she wore the oddest shoes, claiming they were the latest thing. Working for the Royal Mail, if you please—out in all weathers delivering letters into suburban letterboxes. So much for the brave words about big money in the computer world of London...
No, she could come to the meeting, like it or lump it. Eloise’s bank balance was at an all-time low. If Tigger had spent her postman’s wages on a fancy laptop and airfares home, with no thought to supporting herself during her holiday in New Zealand, well that was her look-out.
Another gusty sigh followed the first one. Did she think her long-suffering mother was made of money? Plum parts were thin on the ground once an actress hit forty. Of course Eloise had her regular radio commercials with Baz and Pamela. But no juicy TV roles so far this year. And the stage work paid nothing—nothing!
She stubbed out her cigarette next to the plughole in the kitchen sink, wrinkled her nose at the smell, and turned the water on hard to swill the ash away.
If only she could sell a novel or two—with huge print runs, foreign language translations, heaps of royalties—she’d be happy at last. Johnno’s wages as a woodwork teacher hardly kept them in luxury.
And he gave her no encouragement at all.
Other husbands were helpful when the computer played up.
And consoling when rejection slips arrived.
Not to mention physically inspirational.
Liz’s ex was an absolute hunk. If someone like The Bastard wandered about the house semi clad and sleepy eyed she’d have no trouble inventing sexy stable boys and lusty lords and delightful dukes. Johnno Thomas was five foot nine and fifteen stone these days. But she had to admit he was okay in the dark—still had that heart-stopping deep suggestive voice that had snared her in the first place. With the soft Welsh persuasiveness. And the wicked sense of fun.
But instead of being the short, intense, edgy ball of energy that she’d first known, he was...a lethargic, cuddly teddy bear.
“Are you ready, Tig?” she called.
Unwisely she’d named her first and only child Antigone. An-tiggo-nee. Greek—daughter of Oedipus. A beautifully dramatic name, she’d felt at the time. Ideal for the daughter of a successful actress who’d appeared in both a TV drama series and on the cover of the Woman’s Weekly.
Johnno had resisted, of course. “I’ll call her Tigger then,” he’d confirmed in his husky Welsh lilt. He’d been hoping for Myfanwy, or even better, a son.
“Okay if I bring something I’ve written?” Tigger asked.
“Something you’ve done for the meeting?”
“No—months ago. It’s a sort of try-out for a novel. Just the first chapter. I’ve got a bit bogged down. I thought maybe your group could get me going again.”
“Darling, this is very exciting! Two writers in the family. Well, well.” (She was secretly quite miffed. How dare the girl just announce it casually like this?)
“Three,” Tigger said. “What about Dad?”
“What about Dad?” Eloise asked with narrowed eyes.
“His book. The island thing.”
“Ohhh...” Eloise sighed, flapping a hand as she tried to recollect anything Johnno had ever said about writing a book. Surely not. Trying to outshine her, was he? “I don’t think that’s a very serious project, darling.”
“Mom, he’s steaming along these days. Over half way through.”
“But Tigs, he never goes near the computer. I think perhaps he’s having you on.”
Antigone shook her head. The dreadful dreadlocks bounced over her shoulders. “He’s doing it at school. Starts the kids going on their woodwork project and leaves them to get on with it, unless they want to ask him something. Uses the classroom computer. He’s got the manuscript on a flash drive in his briefcase.”
“News to me dear. He’s never mentioned it. And he’s no use when my computer plays up here. With you on the other side of the world I have to ring up Meg’s boy to help sort things out if I really mess up. Young Ben. He’s very helpful.”
“Dad stays on after school, too.”
“No dear—that’s preparation time. School teachers work horrendous hours these days. For no extra money, I might point out.”
“Preparation time? For woodwork? Get off the grass, Mom.”
“Are you sure Johnno’s not teasing you? Trying to impress his little girl because her Mommy writes?”
Tigger pressed her lips together. Her mother always wanted to be the star. How had her father put up with Eloise all these years?
She shrugged. “Is it all right if I bring my stuff today?” she asked again, deciding she couldn’t be bothered with a full-scale argument.
“Lovely, darling. Wonderful.” The hint of frost was not quite hidden by the honeyed words. “Have you something prettier to wear?”
Tigger regarded herself in the long mirror her father had fixed to the back of the kitchen door. Eloise liked to practice her lines whenever inspiration struck. There were mirrors all over the house so she could preen and posture, declaiming vigorously.
Prettier than what? Jeans and a somewhat faded black and white zebra-zig-zagged T-shirt? She was rather fond of it.
“Not really,” she said. “I need to do some washing. But you look very nice, Mom.” Long practice had taught her that turning the topic back toward her mother tended to pay dividends.
“Kind of you to notice, darling. Yes—I think this has a certain je ne sais quoi.”
Eloise twirled in the mirror, admiring her long rust and gold peasant skirt and top with the complacent gaze of a contented cat. Tigger hid a smile behind her hand, and watched as her mother’s gaze took on that strange blankness indicating she’d gone far away.
The Duchess fluttered her fan, eyeing their host’s niece with displeasure. How radiant her skin. How lustrous her hair. How bright her eyes. Youth was undeniably wasted on the young. They had no social strategy, no conversation, and no sense of their own mortality. It would do this smooth skinned maid good to learn what a speck of dust she was in the scheme of things.
“Miss Woodsedge,” the lavender scented Duchess rasped. “I have a message for you from Wainsborough. Though I scarcely feel it proper to pass it on.”
The younger woman was instantly a
ll attention.
“But, if it please you, Your Grace?” she begged. She bowed her head in hopeful supplication and then resumed her blue-eyed plea.
The Duchess relented a little.
“‘Tis most irregular, to be sure,” she muttered. “But should you decide to take the air by Castleton Bridge around sunset, then a certain person is desirous of speaking with you.” She snapped her fan shut and turned away.
Castleton Bridge, Chloe murmured.
She’d be thrilled to see the Earl of Wainsborough again. She’d caught sight of him twice now at musical gatherings, and been intrigued and impressed by the tall fair nobleman.
But what a rum way to arrange a meeting. No chaperone. No politely penned note in his own hand, delivered by his faithful close-mouthed servant.
Desire warred with caution in Chloe’s eager heart.
The late afternoon sun kissed her shoulders as she strolled around the grounds of the great estate, stooping to capture deep red roses and immersing her face in their heavenly fragrance...wandering into the little byways of the garden until she was out of sight of the other guests and the huge house. She was free—and Castleton Bridge was an easy walk away.
Chloe released her breath with a shivering sigh. In truth she should not be doing this. It was imprudent in the extreme. No young woman of good family ever risked being compromised by meeting a man unsupervised. But the Earl of Wainsborough was a gentleman, surely? She could come to no harm...
She leaned against the warm stone of the bridge, idly toying with her reticule as the long minutes passed.
Then she heard it—the thrilling thrum of hoof-beats. Out of the golden sunset a galloping silhouette drew ever nearer. Chloe straightened, shading her eyes to try and confirm the identity of the horseman.
Each thud of the hooves raised a small puff of dust from the country road. And then he was upon her, reaching low, swinging her up onto his mount, holding her fast against his broad chest. He had barely slowed.
Chloe gasped in disbelief as she twisted to look up into his face. This was not the Earl of Wainsborough, but his dark-complexioned younger brother!
She struggled in consternation. He overcame her without apparent effort, growling a warning that if she did not accede to his dominance he would pitch her off his steed at the next high bluff. Death would be certain. Chloe blanched—and clung to him, whimpering.
Minutes later he slowed, and turned in beside an old barn a little distance from the road. It was near dark now, but a huge golden moon floated up over the horizon.
He released her, and Chloe stumbled to the ground, still restrained by the steely grip of one warm hand.
He dismounted, fixing his prey with deep-set black eyes. She quailed before him as he looped the halter around a handy branch. His foaming horse shuddered and snorted. It had been a frantic ride.
“So, my beauty,” he said with indolent amusement. “Not the brother you were expecting?”
“Indeed, no Sir,” Chloe snapped, finding spirit from somewhere. “I would be much obliged if you would return me to Lancaster House forthwith.”
“And not enjoy my pretty prize?”
He caught hold of her other hand and pulled her toward his rangy frame. She stumbled on a tree root and pitched against him. His musky masculine scent surrounded her, and she trembled with fear—and something else. For he was so tall and broad. So warm and strong. Her face flushed with confusion where only outrage should be.
Now his arms pinned her close to his hard hot body. Chloe chanced a look upward to judge his intent, and found herself snared by his dark haunted eyes.
“My brother has boasted he will have you,” he muttered. “Even now he is planning to approach your father to negotiate betrothal terms. But you are meant for me.”
She gasped, but could not tear her eyes away. He took instant advantage of her parted lips and kissed her passionately, sliding his tongue over hers.
She shuddered at the delicious intrusion, frantic to escape, desperate to stay. With shy determination she returned the pressure of his firm lips. This was no cousinly peck on the cheek, and that was all she’d so far experienced in her sheltered seventeen years.
God, he was beautiful! With great daring she slipped her own tongue between his lips, drowning in the taste and feel and smell of him.
He flinched away from her and her heart contracted.
“No more, my beauty,” he said in a voice husky with desire and regret. “I came to take you as mine, to ruin you for him. But I find I would rather forego such base pleasure and pursue you with honor for myself.”
Chloe gazed at him in rapture, blue eyes brimming with unshed tears of joy.
“I am only the younger son,” he muttered. “I shall not inherit a fortune as large as Edward.”
He kissed her again, more gently this time. She raised a hand to his face and her fingers rasped against the darkness of his early-evening stubble.
“Could you be happy with me?” he demanded.
“I could never be happy without you, now,” she whispered, pressing her body once more against his. “Let Edward keep his fortune, for we have our love to sustain us.”
Eloise drew a deep breath and shook herself back to the present day.
Tigger reached up and ran her fingers over her dreadlocks, wondering if the afternoon would be the least bit bearable. “I’ll just grab my stuff, Mom,” she said.
CHAPTER 7 - BOBBIE LINES UP A LOVER
Sooner or later I’ll have to read something to them, Bobbie thought as she sat chewing the inside of her cheek in the cane chair in the corner.
Well, she wouldn’t do the actual reading. She’d turn that over to Eloise, like some of the others did. Meg wasn’t comfortable reading her own stuff. Vi liked to hear someone else reading her words, too—said it gave her a new perspective on them.
Liz always read out her own manuscripts. And you couldn’t stop Nurse Mandy.
Eloise had such a beautiful actress’s voice she could make anything sound good. Well, better than it probably was. She could even make Nurse Mandy’s rubbish sound reasonable, given half a chance.
But Mandy had elected to read her own today, and she was rattling away, full of enthusiasm, with this month’s medical misadventure.
“I’ll do the synopsis first,” she’d said. “Nurse Adelaide Carter—”
“Adelaide???” several of the others chorused in horror.
“Well, she’s called Addy for short. I think that’s very nice and modern, don’t you?” Nurse Mandy’s eyes sparkled behind her spectacles. “Anyway, Nurse Adelaide Carter is appointed as temporary ward sister in a new town and is pitched headlong into conflict with handsome and charismatic Doctor Brad Harding.”
“That’s a better name,” Liz drawled. “So what’s the conflict?”
“They hate each other on sight. Just hate each other. You wonder how they’re ever going to see eye to eye.”
“Yes—but what’s the conflict?” Meg asked patiently. It sounded as though this was going to be very similar to all the other Mandy efforts. New name for the doctor and nurse, new illness for the main patient, nothing else changed, and no story at all. No wonder the publishers always turned her down. Nurse Mandy probably had more rejection slips than the rest of the group put together.
“Well the conflict is just constant,” Mandy beamed. “You see—the main patient has Ankylosing Spondylitis and they just can’t agree on his treatment.”
“That’s an even better name than Adelaide,” Liz said, sotto voce.
“Whatever is it?” Vi wondered.
“It’s a sort of arthritis you get in your spine,” Mandy explained. “Very debilitating. They argue about it a lot. You wonder how they’re ever going to reach a resolution.”
“But that’s not conflict, Mandy,” Liz snapped, patience finally deserting her. (How many times had she tried to explain this?) “Conflict is something like...they’re closing the public hospital down, and she disapproves and decides
to fight for its survival because she’s come from an impoverished background, and he has a rich father who’s planning to build a private clinic on the same site to take over the business and make heaps more money. And she goes on protest marches and he calls the police to break up the crowd. See—their points of view are miles apart—that’s conflict. External conflict anyway.”
“And she could get injured in the chaos,” Romy added helpfully.
“And he puts a splint on her broken leg and carries her in his arms into the hospital,” Vi suggested.
“And he can’t help kissing her while he has her at his mercy,” Meg contributed. “But she gets offended of course, and that’s another thing he has to overcome.”
Mandy dashed down notes as the new plot unfolded. The light bounced off her lenses as she nodded and hummed.
Bobbie slumped further and further into her chair. It really wasn’t possible to write a synopsis for her own novels. There was sex, followed by sex. And then there was more sex. And after that she inserted a sex scene. And then maybe the two main characters would have sex. Or perhaps there were three of them by now. And then there’d be some sex.
Bobbie had read months ago that there was a thriving market for erotica. She’d decided that would be her genre, but it wasn’t easy. It seemed to consist mainly of bedroom scenes, and in truth Bobbie wasn’t all that good at bedroom scenes. Or living-room-rug romps. Or spa-pool pokes. Or kidnappings to kinky caves. Or back-seat-of-the-car seductions. But she soldiered manfully on, trying to get enough sex together to make a saleable novel.
Other people seemed able to invent the strangest things to do to each other’s bodies. She’d read about the girl who’d sewn herself huge woolly sheepskin trousers with a strategic hole so desperate Kiwi farmers could have a shag without being prosecuted for animal cruelty.
And the man who wanted his partners to safety-pin a nappy on him—through his actual flesh—and sprinkle him with baby talcum. Then all he needed was a nipple and he was away.