The Bonk Squad

by Kris Pearson

He shook his head.

  “So why the singlet? It wrecks the line of your clothes. See how nice and streamlined you are now?”

  He preened a little. The man in the mirror looked almost worth knowing. The hairy white arms and brown hands were ridiculous, but the rest of him really did seem younger, sleeker, dare he add, sexier?

  He wished with the benefit of hindsight he’d had the black jeans in time for the recent Iris Convention. There’d been a woman who’d sat with him on the garden-visit bus. And he’d managed to meet up with her the following day as they tucked into packed lunches and over-strong tea at the sports pavilion where the main flower show had been held. She wasn’t Liz, but she wasn’t bad.

  She might have taken more notice of him if she’d seen what he looked like now. They’d sort of sniffed around each other like frisky dogs. If he’d had the jeans he’d have found the courage to grab her and go for it. Maybe.

  “Right, you’ll buy those,” Liz said. “Try the black T-shirt now.” She watched as he peeled the gray off and struggled into the next one. The neckline was cut lower, and the shirt was definitely tighter. She smiled, and reached up to tug at a tuft of hair sprouting over the neck-band. “The tan’ll do wonders.”

  “The shirt’s too tight though.”

  “Nahhh....” she murmured, running her hands over his chest and down his abs. “You’ve got it—flaunt it. That really shows your shape off. It’s not uncomfortable, is it?” She tweaked at the armholes as though checking her son’s school uniform. “Put your shirt on. Leave the buttons undone.”

  As soon as he did, she pushed the cuffs back and rolled them over a couple of casual turns. “Almost like a summer jacket, see? Try the khaki pants with the leather strips next.”

  Modestly he pulled the curtain across. There was no way he was letting her see how much he’d stretched the boxers.

  CHAPTER 23 - THREE LADIES LUNCHING

  Ben had been secretive.

  Al had been mysterious.

  When they’d asked what she wanted for her birthday, she’d heaved a huge sigh and suggested, “Lots of Sunday at the computer with no interruptions?”

  They’d nodded, and Al added, “And a nice dinner of course.”

  “Of course.” Meg sighed, kissing goodbye to several hours’ writing time. She was nowhere near to finishing the first three sample chapters she wanted to post off to the publisher. Her ‘partial’. Very partial indeed still. She’d advanced only a few pages since getting the nanny wet and Carlo interested. That had been more than a fortnight ago.

  “Where do you fancy eating?”

  “You choose, Al. Somewhere for all four of us? Maybe the boys could catch a movie later?” She knew there’d be bed to follow.

  “I might be—er—busy,” Ben said.

  “But you’ll come out for my birthday dinner?”

  “Course, Mom. Are you going shopping or anything?”

  “Romy and Liz asked me to lunch on Saturday.”

  “Cool.”

  He and Al had definitely exchanged glances. They wanted her out of the house. What were they up to?

  Saturday morning dawned too bright to face without sunglasses. The super-fine day heralded months of glorious southern hemisphere summer. All around the small provincial city apples expanded, grapes swelled, peaches grew heavy.

  Meg changed her cream trousers for dark olive ones and inspected herself in the mirror again. Yes—better. All those fancy dinners with Al weren’t helping her hips, but she looked healthy, tended-to, relaxed.

  Amazing what a good regular seeing-to did for a person, she thought, cramming a slightly raffish straw sunhat onto her fair wavy hair. Liz and Romy might want to sit at one of the outdoor cafes. Meg wasn’t about to risk the lobster look on her birthday.

  Ben sauntered off with a cricket bat, yelling, “Bye, Mom.” She locked the front door and reversed the old Toyota out into the Saturday traffic, looking forward to discussing writing, and to finalizing the group’s Christmas lunch.

  “Hiyah!” Liz called as she trotted up to the corner where they’d agreed to meet.

  “How do you manage it?” Meg asked. As usual, Liz looked slinky, sexy, available, yet totally aloof. Meg could manage the sexy/available bit but never the slinky/aloof.

  “You should see the looks she’s been getting,” Romy said. “She could have any toy-boy in town.”

  “Yeah—until they find out I’m a mother of two,” Liz added, compressing her pretty lips. Her jeans, as ever, seemed about to fall off. The smooth golden skin over her hipbones, cheekbones, and shoulders glowed with a discreet dusting of metallic bronzer, and her hair poured down in a thick chestnut torrent. Meg shook her head in admiration.

  “And how’s the mother of three?” she asked. Romy looked festive in a red T-shirt with a band of green and gold beading around the neckline. Her dark curls danced around her lively face.

  “Full of the joys of impending Christmas. I thought I’d get some gift shopping done this afternoon. Natasha wants the new “Samara Sleuthhound.”

  “Oh good—bookshops.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of books?” Romy asked, leading the way toward a cafe.

  “Working in the library? Never. Makes me enjoy them even more.”

  “And how’s Carlo coming on?”

  “He’s not. He got the nanny undressed. She got him interested. And then Al arrived on the scene and my life just isn’t my own any more. One dinner and one movie a week he said. But he manages to ‘just pop by’ and ‘just be passing’ all the time.

  “Tell him to get lost,” Liz muttered.

  “Can’t. He’s the nicest man I’ve met in ages. Good body, good looking, money no problem.”

  “Good in bed, too?” Romy enquired.

  “Um...yes, seeing you ask.”

  “Oh, we always ask.”

  “I don’t always answer,” Meg said, amused. “But I saw him and fancied him before I ever met him, so that was a bit of a bonus.”

  “The leg-shaver with the great bum?”

  “The bike racer?”

  “We have a little arrangement,” Meg said. “I don’t know who’s enjoying it most. He seems to want company, and I’m enjoying being spoiled, so there we are.”

  She turned to Liz. “How’s Marcy going?”

  “Bitchier than ever. She’s got The Bastard’s secretary tied up in a deserted building. Will here do?” She indicated a table under a big cream market umbrella. “I’ve decided she’s my steam-valve. I can let the pressure off by having Marcy do something terrible to someone who’s upset me.”

  “So what did The Bastard’s secretary do?”

  The three of them sat, scraping the chairs on the rough paving, stowing their bags out of the way underneath.

  “Became his latest girlfriend,” Liz said once she was settled.

  Meg and Romy stayed silent for a moment.

  “You’re sure?” Romy finally asked.

  “Positeevo... she was sitting out in the car when he picked the kids up last weekend. I could see there was someone there so I ‘forgot’ to give Brett his bag and then dashed out with it. It was her, all right. Bloody Ingrid.”

  “Well, at least you had the mysterious man in the shower to even the stakes with,” Meg said. “How did Paul react?”

  “Not pleased. The car and the shirt were great. But I’d love to have an actual hunk saunter out next time.”

  “I could loan you Al.”

  “In his bike shorts?”

  “In a bath towel.”

  “I might take you up on that.”

  “He’d probably do it if I asked him to.”

  The waiter arrived and made a great show of handing around menus. “Drinks while you decide, ladies?”

  “Three house reds,” Liz snapped. “My shout.”

  Meg and Romy thought it unwise to disagree; Liz seemed somewhat on edge. They turned their eyes down to the menus.

  “Hey, looky-looky,” Romy breathed seconds later. The
others glanced up. It was worth it.

  “Shame on you, with your lovely Neill,” Meg said.

  “Oh, he is something,” Liz agreed.

  “Mmm—not bad at all.” This from Meg.

  He was thirty-ish. Taller than any of the other men in the street. Lounging against the trunk of one of the trees that cast dappled shade onto the shop-fronts. Khaki chinos...white cotton shirt...glossy black hair that shone almost blue as the sun danced across it.

  “Yum,” said Liz.

  “Is the suntan real?” Meg wondered.

  “Who cares? The mouth is.”

  “Imagine kissing lips like that.”

  “A lovely mouth,” Romy agreed.

  “Curly,” said Meg.

  “And look at the shoulders! God, he’s gorgeous. That’s quite a body. I’ll bet he works out.”

  “A nice treat for my birthday.”

  “A little game for us all,” Romy suggested. “Turn him into a hero by the time you’ve finished your wine.”

  They continued to enjoy the dark stranger as they sipped.

  “O...kay...” Liz said, leaning over so she could speak quietly.

  “Francisco waited, every sense on edge. He paced around the small clearing in the jungle, ears alert for her approach. His khaki shirt lay plastered to his skin with sweat. He wrenched the buttons undone and pulled it off. His muscular brown back shimmered in the boiling air. He turned to toss the shirt over some...er...palm-fronds so it would dry.”

  “Nice way to get his gear off,” Romy interrupted.

  Liz raised an eyebrow, and continued.

  “Marcy eyed him from the undergrowth. His taut abs and flat belly glistened in the heat. It would be a waste of a beautiful body if she carried out her mission. But she had to believe he was dangerous—all her information had led her in that direction.

  She wriggled nearer, careful to make no sound to alert him. Somewhere a twig snapped.

  Francisco swung towards the small noise and dropped low to the ground. Marcy flinched. So there were three of them out here for the showdown?

  “It’s only me,” she called, rising until she was visible.

  He relaxed and stood tall again, lithe as a great golden tiger.

  Marcy stepped toward him, shining auburn hair pulled back into a high ponytail to keep the heat of it off her neck. Her T-shirt stretched across the damp valley between her breasts.

  He watched her in silence, dark eyes intent on the curves of her body. She knew she excited him. Would it be enough to distract him so that she (or Hawkins—for surely he was the twig-breaker?) could get close enough for the kill?”

  Liz dropped her voice to a whisper. Meg and Romy leaned even closer, wine-glasses ignored.

  “Marcy stepped nearer to touch him. She ran a hand across his belly, trailing her long fingernails over his glossy skin.

  “My little pussycat,” he said, attention diverted just long enough for her to grasp the knife from the back of her belt.

  The blade flashed in the equatorial sun. With a lightning-fast lunge he twisted her aside, holding her with impressive steely strength.

  “Pretend!” he hissed.

  But no pretence was needed. A sharp gasp of pain ripped from her throat.

  Hawkins made his move, about as subtly as a charging elephant. He burst from his cover, rifle raised.

  In an instant Francisco tore the knife from Marcy’s grasp and arrowed it across the clearing.

  Hawkins crumpled. His blood spurted onto the steaming ground.

  Marcy stared, open mouthed, at the killer who had wrested her weapon away with such ease.

  He laughed. “So, my pretty puss, you have claws and more. Let’s see what else you’re hiding.” He ran expert hands around her ribs and waist, over her hips, down her long legs. “No more knives under your clothes? Or little pistols?” He continued his slow and intoxicating search of her body. All its crevices and hiding places. Marcy allowed the intrusion until his attention was sufficiently diverted.

  Then she filched his knife from its sheath and raised it. Again he was too fast for her.

  He forced her to the ground and tossed the knife away. Took her lips with his and growled, “For that, you pay.”

  Liz sat back and drained her glass in triumph. “Generally Marcy’s a much better fighter than that,” she said. “But he’s fairly gorgeous, isn’t he? I thought she might enjoy him for a while before she tries again.”

  “That was great for something so fast,” Romy said.

  “Amazing,” Meg added. “Your turn—I’m still thinking about what to do with him.”

  As they looked, tall-dark-and-handsome checked his watch. Someone was keeping him waiting. An expression of annoyance flared on his fabulous face.

  Romy grinned. “I was wondering about something like this...

  “Jed Anderson reined his foaming black quarter-horse to a spectacular sliding halt. The dust in the old main street hung in the hazy air. Jed swung down from the saddle and moseyed across to the saloon, tying his horse close to the water trough before punching the doors aside.

  He stood silhouetted for an instant against the bright Montana light—long, lean and lethal.

  “Donovan?” he demanded.

  But the saloon was empty, apart from Carolina Madison polishing the wide mirror behind the bar.

  Jed stepped closer. Carolina knelt on the sturdy timber counter below the mirror. Her breasts, always framed by a froth of lace, became temptingly displayed as she leaned forward. Jed drank in the view. Not just of her breasts, but of her neatly booted ankles and slender calves, for she’d hitched her long skirt out of the way for safety.

  Carolina admired his reflection. Damn but he was beautiful. Tall and darkly handsome, and with a temper as fast as his trigger finger. She knew quite well he enjoyed the unaccustomed view of her body. Let him look! He was the eldest of the Anderson boys, heir to the Lazy F, and so unobtainable it was laughable even to think about him. But Carolina often inspected him from under her lashes, and dreamed...

  Of all the men she poured drinks for, he was the one who intrigued her the most. He wore nothing but black, drank nothing but bourbon, swore like the devil, and had eyes that smoked with desire.

  “Donovan hasn’t been here since yesterday,” she said in her husky drawl, holding his gaze in the mirror.

  “Thanks for that, Miz Madison,” he replied, stepping closer—too close for comfort, Carolina decided.

  There was a sudden commotion outside and the saloon doors burst open again.

  “Anderson!” came the frenzied roar, followed by the shocking sound of Donovan’s revolver, deafening in the quiet room.

  The mirror shattered, and Carolina disappeared under a shower of glittering shards.

  Jed whirled and returned the fire. Donovan fell. Carolina collapsed onto the counter, and would have fallen to the floor except that Jed gathered her up and lifted her in his steely arms. He laid her on the bar’s polished surface and grimaced as he plucked several splinters from her face and shoulders.

  She was so shocked by the noise and blood she felt no pain. But she saw his face unnervingly close as his black eyes searched her body for damage. And felt his strong but gentle hands moving over her skin. She thrilled as he pushed her bodice aside, caressing her breasts, searching for the spear of glass that had spattered blood onto the froth of lace there.

  He withdrew the shining splinter with an oath, and pressed a strong finger over the tiny puncture. Their eyes locked. Their lips met. Carolina trembled ...”

  “Hey—great way to get his hands on her body,” Liz said. Romy leaned back in her chair with a giggle. She raised her wine and sipped.

  “Well, that’s two rather vicious versions,” Meg said. “I might pretend he’s my Italian billionaire.”

  She cast another admiring look towards the lean lounging figure. “He’s pretty much the same, really. Tall, dark and gorgeous. Wavy hair, tanned skin, great body. I suppose Carlo must have a private gym
built into the palazzo somewhere...maybe next to the luxurious swimming pool out on the terrace. It’s one of those where the water comes right up and spills over the front edge so it kind of joins onto the view.”

  Romy raised an eyebrow at Liz, who winked back.

  Meg took a deep breath. “You all know Carlo lost his wife six months back, and the two children just won’t behave for their grandmother, so he’s got an English nanny to look after them. She’s a sort of governess, too, I suppose. The children are quite young. Paolo is six and Elizavetta is not quite five.”

  She took a sip of her wine. “I got the nanny into her undies by having her squirt the children with a garden hose, and they turned it on her and made her sopping wet.”

  “Would they be playing with a garden hose if they had a swimming pool?” Liz asked.

  “I thought it would be fun for them,” Meg replied, frowning a little. “Doesn’t it ring true?”

  “I think it’s fine,” Romy assured her. “They might find the garden hose quite exotic by comparison. A bit different.”

  “Okay,” Meg said, leaning forward to start her story. “Carlo is a snobby aristocrat of course. And he thinks the nanny is rather common and has to work for a living. But what he doesn’t know is that she’s from a good family and has chosen to work to demonstrate her independence to her somewhat awful father. So she’s suitable for Carlo after all.”

  “But he won’t discover that for ages?”

  “Not until about chapter fifteen. And I’m only at the start of chapter three.” She closed her eyes.

  “Carlo pushed the ancient door shut with a solid thud. He trembled. He—Giancarlo Giorgio Calligiani—shook with lust for a servant, a hired helper. He ran his long fingers through his hair in a frenzy of confusion. Again and again he pushed his hands through the silky dark strands, wishing it could be her small capable hands caressing him, massaging him, pleasuring him. He pictured her pale fingers with their pearly nails running over his own darker skin. He wanted the sweet torture of her timid untutored touch. For surely she was a virgin?