by Kris Pearson
A tiny twinge of jealousy threatened to spoil Meg’s euphoria. “I can’t imagine a lovely man like you having any trouble finding a woman. What about all these bars and places? Aren’t they supposed to be full of single people on the prowl?”
“Yeah, right. And they’re mostly not much older than Michael, with bits of metal through their eyebrows and tongues.”
“I thought everyone met up on the internet these days, anyway?”
“The internet sites are full of very fat ladies who lie about their age. They sound wonderful until you actually set eyes on them.”
“So I suppose the men lie too?”
“Wouldn’t know, Meg. Why would I know that?”
“How about that dinner scheme, then? Eight strangers in a nice restaurant and you see what happens?”
“I’ll tell you what happens—nothing good. So how about it?”
“Are you asking me, Al?” She sat there gob-smacked. “I mean are you seriously asking me?”
“Would you seriously think about it?”
“But...I’m really not looking for another partner.”
“An escort? A couple of outings each week, and a bit of a cuddle?” He sent her a roguish smile.
“We had a bit of a cuddle last night, didn’t we…?”
“And very nice it was, too. Perhaps I’m hoping for a bit more than just a cuddle?”
“I thought you probably were, Al.” She played for time, still somewhat overcome. “A couple of outings a week? Hmmm...” She gazed at him, head on one side, considering. Bed would be no problem—she’d been expecting that. Looking forward to it, to be honest. It was at least six months since she’d last been propositioned, and what a fizzer he’d been.
Al held her gaze across the table. Not begging, but hoping.
“You could have your pick of women—you know you could. I don’t believe this,” she finally said.
“The glossy dollies? The trophy wives?”
“Why not? You’re a real catch. Surely there are women tripping over each other to make off with you... “
He had the good manners to look abashed. “Not what I’m looking for. I don’t want the complications of another wife. Just someone to have a laugh with. Talk to. Feel comfortable with. Someone who can cope with a teenage son and his moods. A friend, Meg—a bloody good friend.”
“And a lover?”
He nodded. “That’s the deal.”
She sat there, still surprised, but still not turning him down. “Okay, we’ll try it then,” she said, amazing herself with her temerity. “But I don’t want it eating into my writing time.”
He sipped his wine. “Ben and I have a scheme to help with that.”
“What...? How...?”
“Wait and see. I’ll spoil his birthday surprise for you if I say any more.”
Meg’s glance sharpened. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll have to be patient for another week or so. That’s all. We were working on things last night.”
She sighed. “It’s not ideal right now. Ben needs the computer for school projects, so I’m fitting in around him.”
“So how about you try fitting in around me?”
“Starting tonight?”
Al nodded.
“Well, I put my best undies on, in case...”
He threw back his head and laughed—a rich deep chuckle that made her flesh tingle. She’d have to go on a serious diet, now. And somehow keep the lights low until she’d peeled off a few pounds.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Meg. You’re a proper woman. What color?”
“Cabernet.”
He reached across the small table and tweaked her jersey aside until a line of wine-red lace was visible.
“Very nice. I’ll enjoy investigating further.”
She sent him a conspirator’s grin.
Lord—I must be tipsy to let him do this in a restaurant.
“So one movie and one dinner each week. My shout.”
She shook her head. “Not all the time—I have my pride.”
“You could have us around for the odd meal, if you like.”
“Odder than last night’s?”
“Nothing wrong with it. The custard was a triumph.”
“I can do better than that with a bit of notice.”
“Ah well, the boys and us—at your place sometimes. Otherwise it’s an evening out and then a bit of bed.”
“At your place, Al, if that’s all right? Michael might think it’s fine for his Dad to enjoy a bit of nookie, but I don’t know Ben would feel the same way about his Mom.”
“Nookie, Meg? What a lovely old-fashioned word...”
“And I can’t stay the whole night. I wouldn’t do that to Ben.”
Al nodded. “Nor me to Michael. Dessert?”
So that was it—settled?
She thought of her hips, and her resolution to start losing weight. “Well, just something fruity, maybe.”
He consulted the menu. “Raspberry cheesecake? Peach and almond gateaux? Kiwi and passion-fruit Pavlova?”
“I sort of had fresh fruit salad in mind.” Then she added far too fast, “But that raspberry cheesecake does sound good. I make a nice lemon one sometimes.”
“We’ll try it one of these days, then. So, you cook, you work in the library, and in your spare time you write? You’re the complete woman, eh?”
“What spare time? Honestly, Al, by the time I drive home, get dinner together, catch up with Ben, keep the house vaguely clean and the garden half way tidy, there’s not a minute left. Sometimes I get up really early and do an hour’s writing before breakfast.”
“Dedicated of you.”
“Oh, I love it. Can’t wait to escape into it. Although I have to fit around Ben, of course. But he sleeps through anything, as teenagers can. Sometimes I write for an hour right beside him and he never wakes up.”
Al stayed silent, smiling at her across the table. “I seem to have the opposite problem,” he said after a minute or two. “Not enough to do. I bought an apartment when Diana and I split. Easier to maintain, and Michael doesn’t need a big lawn to run around on these days. Winkling him away from the computer is a major hassle.”
“Ben’s the same. But he’s a good football player, and keen on cricket right now, so that gets him outside.”
They sat on, each regarding the other with amusement and approval.
“We must be mad,” Meg said.
“Yup, thank God!” He signaled for the waiter and ordered their desserts.
The apartment enticed her in. Concealed lighting flooded over a large smudgy painting and a piece of dark sculpture...cast a pool of gold onto the chocolate-edged cream rug in the front foyer. It was more impressive than Meg expected, and curiously impersonal.
“It’s very smart, Al,” she said, gazing from side to side.
Smart but cold, she thought. There was no sign of the people who lived there. The artwork was placed with care. No clutter disturbed the perfection; no magazine dared to lurk on the floor beside the sofas; no books lay half read and turned over on the long glass-topped coffee table; no unwashed mugs or empty bottles marched along the gleaming white kitchen bench.
“Tidier than mine,” she observed.
“Thank the cleaner. It was her day today.” He checked under a glass cube on top of the fridge. “Money’s gone—looks as though she earned it.” He turned to a shining coffee maker and busied himself with the process of turning out two small cups of delicious dark brew.
“I won’t sleep,” Meg said.
“More or less the idea.”
She slapped his arm in amused protest and he grinned as he led her to one of the soft leather sofas in the big sitting area.
“Or would you rather go straight up?”
“Bed right away?” she asked, slightly alarmed.
And wished she’d kept her cool and raised an eyebrow instead.
“Your call, Meg.”
“Coffee here to start with the
n,” she said, buying time. She settled down. Nervous tremors skittered over her upper arms.
She easily imagined the sleek apartment as the home of a drug baron or some other sleazy low-life. With money from dubious sources, parties with dishes of cocaine, young hard women in skin tight black leather trousers and barely-there tops.
Angelo snapped his hairy fingers. “More, babe,” he commanded. His lethal black eyes glittered. The livid white scar that ran from his jaw up to his straight left eyebrow twitched with impatience.
Domenica sighed. There were too many people there. She worked undercover (and under covers if need be) but this was getting dangerous. She could be recognized at any moment.
But Angelo persisted, his dark eyes boring into hers. “I said more, babe.”
He smiled. Splendid teeth. Beautifully shaped lips. And as much warmth as a hungry tiger.
Domenica ran her fingers over his chest, pausing to slip the little buttons through their holes all the way down to his belt buckle. She slid her hand underneath the shirt fabric, running over his warm olive skin, locating a smooth nipple, and scratching until it stood hard and hot in the thick curling hair.
He growled with satisfaction. “Now lower.”
“Not here,” she protested, glancing at the other guests. But they now seemed to be likewise occupied on the sleek leather furniture, and the chances of being sprung had definitely diminished.
“Bed right away then,” Angelo rasped. He reached over, and long brown fingers fastened around her wrist in a cruel grip. She caught her breath as he tugged.
“What’s wrong?” Al asked as he set the coffees down and joined her on the sofa.
“Mmm?”
“You jumped and gasped. So what’s wrong?”
“Nothing...nothing,” she murmured.
“You weren’t undressing some woman again, were you?”
She shook herself back to the current moment. “No, I was imagining I was an undercover cop in an apartment a lot like this one, Al. With a dangerous hood called Angelo, who looked rather like you.”
She lifted a hand to his left eyebrow. Al tensed. She smiled, and began to whisper.
“His lethal black eyes glittered.
Do you think you have lethal eyes, Al?” She smoothed a hand down his face.
“The livid white scar slashing from his jaw up to his eyebrow twitched with impatience.”
She traced the imaginary path of it. Al sat transfixed.
“Domenica sighed. There were too many people there. She worked undercover, and under covers, if need be.”
Meg sent him a suggestive grin. “I’ll be under covers with you soon, won’t I?” She paused, trying to remember the words. Al gulped some coffee.
“But this was getting dangerous. She could be recognized at any moment.
Angelo persisted, his dark eyes boring into hers. ‘I said more, babe’. He smiled. Splendid teeth...beautifully chiseled lips.”
Meg’s fingertip traced across to Al’s mouth. You do have lovely lips, Al. Don’t be offended by this next bit—it’s only fiction...
“And as much warmth as a hungry tiger.”
Al produced a growl, low in his throat.
“Domenica ran her fingers over his chest.”
Meg did the same, fingering the crisp white shirt.
“She paused to slip the little buttons through their holes...”
Impossible to do with one hand she found, so she brought both into the act. “Ummm—oh, that’s right—
all the way down to his belt buckle.”
As she wrestled the buttons undone, she noticed the pulse thumping in Al’s throat. He was enjoying this. Quite excited by it.
She undid the shirt button nearest to his waistline. Oh yes—quite excited. The end of his cock had pushed up damn close to his belt buckle. His tented summer weight trousers bulged with invitation. Cruelly she ignored them.
“She slid her hand underneath the shirt fabric, running over his warm olive skin...”
Al exhaled as Meg’s fingers explored.
“...locating a smooth nipple and scratching until it stood hard and hot in the thick curling hair.”
She let her hand slide over his flesh, taking her time before she did any nipple-scratching. He leaned back against the cushions, smiled, and closed his eyes. Meg eased his shirt fabric aside and admired his impressive chest and its dusting of soft dark hair. The tufts she’d seen above his cycling shirt the evening before were just the start of it. She ran her fingertips back and forth before bringing her fingernails into play.
He jumped as she scratched over one nipple and then bent to lick and suck at the other. She smelled cinnamon or sandalwood on his skin...some sort of spicy masculine soap.
He growled with satisfaction. “Bed right away,” he rasped, opening his eyes. His long fingers fastened around Meg’s wrist in a firm grip. She caught her breath as he tugged her to her feet. “I can do the rest without a script,” he added, drawing her close. His mouth took hers in a searing kiss before he hustled her toward the stairs.
CHAPTER 20 - ELOISE JUMPS ON JOHNNO
In the week since the writers’ meeting, Eloise had managed thirty-seven pages. About six pages a day. Not too bad, really. But it was also a reflection of the acting work she wasn’t getting.
Three radio commercials for air freshener, or ‘home fragrancer’ as it now seemed to be called.
And one audition yesterday for a very nice role in a locally written stage play for which she was a little too old. The short skirt, the ‘young’ make-up, and Tigger’s outrageous shoes would all have helped, but were they enough? She rather feared not.
And although she’d set her heart on playing Mrs. Robinson in the New Year production of “The Graduate,” she’d heard nothing back from the producer after several weeks.
So Duchess Davinia was making hay with the stable lad again as Eloise tried to bring her book to a climax in more ways than one.
Should the old Duke discover his wife being pleasured by someone half her age?
Could there be a blackmail attempt by the faithful retainer? The Duchess might be ‘persuaded’ to part with some of her jewelry in return for Wilkin’s silence and speedy departure from the family estate.
Would it be better to give the lusty Davinia a new lover? Someone wealthy and titled who could steal her away from the doddering old Duke and treat her in a manner she’d really enjoy? (Eloise’s eyes drooped shut as she imagined Hugh Jackman tearing at the frogging on his jacket so he could expose his gorgeous chest and give the Duchess, and the readers, a thrill.)
She jumped as Tigger put her head around the door and held out two mugs.
“Coffee, Mom? Or is it a bit close to dinner time?”
“Lovely, darling. Thank you,” she said, clearing a space for her drink.
“How’s it going?”
“So many options, dear. My poor Duchess is spoiled for choice. I’ve got her banging Jamie again, because that seemed to go down well with the group. But she could also take up with a wealthy officer, and then we’d have the uniform and medals to play around with. Not to mention his very phallic sword.” She watched as Tigger tipped her head on one side and considered.
“I rather like the idea of the toy-boy in the stables, Mom. But of course in those days they were never able to live happily ever after together, were they? I’ve got something like that happening in my novel now. My university lecturer has a young student she finds irresistible. I don’t know whether to have them flout convention and live together, or do a big angst and shock-horror number. She could lose her job, and then find she’s pregnant.”
“Write a really tragic termination scene for her,” Eloise suggested.
(Before Johnno, Eloise had fallen pregnant to a young film director who’d hot-footed it to Canada, leaving her very much in the lurch. The vacuum sucker occasionally still turned up in nightmares.)
Tigger waggled her hand in a maybe/maybe not motion. “Or she might have the bab
y, and her student could grow up a bit and become a responsible young father?”
“But where’s the drama and conflict in that?”
“You’re right—maybe the termination and angst is better,” Tigger agreed, dreadlocks bouncing.
“How’s Dad’s book going?” Eloise asked, trying to look as though she didn’t give a damn.
“Oh, fine, fine...I think he’s set it in Noumea where you had that holiday.”
Eloise had to be content with that tiny morsel because Tigger trotted toward the door, burying her nose in the other mug.
Noumea? So was it a spy story, or a travel thing, or what? Johnno writing half a novel without ever mentioning it really rankled. She’d slide it into the dinner conversation and see what he’d tell her.
And where was Tigger disappearing to each evening after she’d eaten? Not movies every night—she’d have seen everything in Hastings twice over by now.
She didn’t need money for it, whatever it was. She hoped her daughter had found a young man with the cash to treat her. A man with a more suitable name than ‘Tank’. She’d been shown many photos of Tank on Tigger’s cell-phone a few days ago, and not been too impressed. A drummer in a pop band. Plainly he’d encouraged the dreadlocks. At least Tigger didn’t have any obvious bits of herself tattooed or pierced with spikes or rings, so that was a relief. Tank!
The front door creaked open and banged shut. Johnno’s steady steps advanced along the polished floorboards in the hallway. “Anyone about?” he called.
Eloise pressed Save and went to greet him with an unexpected peck on the cheek.
