“We find out what the hell she’s doing here. Rambo's an electronics wizard, one of the reasons I hired him, so I expect it won’t be much of a job for him to tap the phones. I was going to do it anyway, because we’ve got bugger-all leverage on Barrett. But this is double the excuse and maybe ten times the payoff.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“She didn’t come all the way down here to shake Crocodile Dundee's hand, did she? Barrett paid for her trip, right?”
“Someone did.”
“If it was Barrett, he didn’t pay all that money just for the hell of it. They’re both writers. It's not hard to figure out what they’re doing when they’re not writing. Barrett’s probably boffing her six ways from Sunday every day of the week.”
“Well...”
“No well about it. I mean, she’s a widow. She’s used to getting her share, and it’s been a while. I bet she hardly got off the plane before she tripped him and beat him to the floor.”
“Okay, let’s assume she’s living in his house and they’re sleeping together. What advantage does that give us?”
Coolidge grinned, but there was no humor in it. “Want to bet Barrett doesn’t know who our girl really is? You’ll get no takers here. He can’t possibly know. He hates the old man even worse than I do, which is saying a lot. But Elizabeth has to know who Barrett is. She was the old man’s personal secretary. Wonder what she’d do to keep him from finding out about her?”
“And what if you’re off on some tangent somewhere? It sounds damned sketchy to me.”
“Trust me, Tom. It’s been a long, long time since I was wrong. If the girl I heard is Elizabeth, and I'm certain it is, we kidnap her. Then we ransom her back to Barrett for his agreement on the old man’s deal.”
“Then we kidnap her again and tote her back to her father?”
“Why not? It’s only what you were going to do anyway. Hell, Tom, what’s it going to cost us but a bit of extra time?”
“A lot of time, and most of it spent behind bars, although I suppose it couldn’t hurt to let your guy check out the situation. I’ll go along that far, for now.”
“Good. I like a man who makes decisions.”
Coolidge filled their glasses again. After all, a toast was in order. A toast to the old man, his daughter Elizabeth, and the bloody American dream.
CHAPTER FIVE
Geoff’s idea of collaboration went much more smoothly than Bess would ever have imagined. With the office carpet protected from the castors by the sheet of plywood, they skittered back and forth, editing each other’s contributions, entering their own, squabbling like children over some passages and issues, laughing like idiots at others.
“I think we should have a steamy bit,” Geoff said, sitting back in his chair.
“Isn't it too soon?”
“Bloody hell, my little possum, it's almost too late!”
Bess wondered why he'd called her a possum, then decided she liked it.
“We've spent pages and pages on the earthquake,” Geoff continued. “We've explained how Kate got separated from her family, her fiancé, and everybody else she knew intimately, even her bloody cat.”
“I didn't say intimately.”
“Yes, you did.” He scrolled back a few pages.
“Oh. But I meant familiar, chummy, not intimate in an amorous sense.”
“So did I.” He flashed Bess a grin. “She was chummy with her fiancé, eh?”
“Wipe that smirk off your face, Geoffrey Barrett. Back in the eighteen-sixties, Kate and Leonardo would have been chums, not lovers, and frankly I see nothing wrong with that. If more people today were friends first, lovers later—”
“Okay, okay, but it means we'll have to deflower Kate carefully.” He gave a small shrug. “For the record, Bess, my women protagonists have never been deprived of their virginity, at least not on the pages of my novels.”
“Mine have,” she said, and her tone of voice must have conveyed something because she saw his eyebrow slant upward. “It's no big deal, Geoff. One burst of incredible pain and then it's over.”
He wanted to refute her statement because in her books – and he'd read them all – she seemed to dwell on that pain. He had never “deflowered” a virgin, had never even asked his various partners how they'd felt at the moment of deflowerization...if that was a word. Suddenly, he wanted to ask Bess how she'd felt, but it was too personal, so he merely said, “We'll give Kate an 'intimate' moment with Leonardo, and bugger all Victorian morals. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure. She can blush furiously every time she thinks about it.”
“And while we're on the subject, Victorian morals I mean, do we really need one whole page devoted to Little Women?”
It took Bess a moment. “Oh, you mean the book.”
“Yes, the book. The bloody book Kate sneaks onto the ship by hiding it... the book, not the ship... under her wrap.”
“Most cloaks had pockets.”
“I have to admit it was poignant. I mean, Kate trying to read through the small slice of sunshine that leaks into her cell of a room. She really should have tried to hide a reading lamp beneath her cloak. Or, at the very least, candles and matches.”
Bess giggled. “Not to mention fish and chips. If we don't let her eat her moldy bread soon, she'll waste away to nothing. Look, Geoff, I only mentioned the book so that readers can date the scene. Little Women was published in 1868.”
“And no one will notice that Kate survived the 1868 earthquake, eh?” Geoff quirked his eyebrow again.
“You have a point, dar...” Bess paused to issue forth a fake cough. She'd almost said darling, and she knew the word would have sounded intimate rather than chummy. “You have a point,” she repeated. “Darkness would have kept Kate from reading, so we'll delete Little Women.”
“Good. Then we'll have more space for our spicy scene.”
“No problem.” Bess instinctively flexed her fingers. At the same time, she pushed against the plywood with her sneakers.
“Just a minute.” Geoff stopped her chair with one large, arrogant foot. “This is my area of expertise.”
“You're kidding. You're not kidding. I thought I was air-freighted to Tasmania because of my expertise. 'Given that it involves more romance than I am used to, I propose that we collaborate.' That's what you said, or close.”
“Close,” he replied with a grin. “But what I have in mind isn't romance, Bess. What I have in mind is sex.”
“What's the difference?”
Was she kidding? No, she wasn't. With an effort, Geoff kept his face impassive. “The difference,” he began, fumbling in his mind for words. “Okay, suppose we take one of your book heroines? If she's being ravaged by outlaws or revolutionaries, that's sex. When she... what's an American expression?”
“Gets it on?”
“When she gets it on with the hero, that's romance.”
“I beg to differ, Geoff. It's all sex. The romance is in the courting, the sex is in the consummation.”
“Well then,” he challenged, “let me prove you wrong.”
“Okay. And just to be fair, I'll go to the bathroom... I mean, the loo.”
Geoff's fingers attacked the keyboard. When she returned, he had completed two full pages. She sank into her chair, then maneuvered it toward the computer. She had always prided herself on her ability to construe a sex scene, be it ravishment by an evil Apache or “getting it on” with a handsome cowboy. She truly doubted Geoff could match her expertise, but she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Then, reading what he'd written, she had to stifle a giggle. It was all so very, very Victorian, even prudish. And because they'd been having such fun, when she spoke it was without the caution a saner Bess might have shown.
“For goodness sake, Geoff,” she jibed, not bothering to look at him, her entire attention on the computer screen. “What do you think this book is going to be? A Victorian melodrama? I’d hate to be the girl you
marry if this is what you consider steamy.”
She was already reaching for the keyboard when a long arm shot out to spin her chair around so that they faced each other like two people on an old-fashioned love seat.
“You would, would you?” he said in a voice that somehow managed to shout and whisper at the same time. Eyes like green sea ice flashed lightning into her own as his strong fingers reached out to gather the front of her ragged, ancient Denver Broncos football sweatshirt and yank her up and over into his lap, somehow without tearing the shirt into shreds.
Bess started to squeal, but no sound emerged because his mouth was already there to stop it, lips swooping to plunder her mouth as his left arm gathered round her to keep her in position. She was overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all, then by the taste of him, the sensation of his tongue as it leapt to dance with her own.
She shuddered, but it was not the shudder of fear that her mind tried vainly to demand of her. Her breasts were being crushed against his chest, her breath seemed to have deserted her entirely. And still his tongue danced with her own in a primitive, savage and yet somehow teasing, languid tempo that sent fluttering, pulsating messages to her tummy, then lower still.
Then he paused, gave back her mouth, and she thought she heard him whisper something... a single word that could have been a curse or a prayer. And his free hand lifted to touch her cheek, her throat, moving like moth wings as it explored and caressed, guided and directed. And when his mouth returned to claim her, it was in a kiss that was almost tentative, his mobile lips touching and retreating; another dance, but this one to a totally different melody.
His fingers spread so that he could caress her jaw line and the soft hollow behind her ear at the same time, stroking her neck and rousing, with no logic she could determine, her nipples. She felt them straining against her bra, against him. And so did he; she knew it, although he made no move to touch her there. Had no need to... he knew!
And he reacted. Against her bottom she could feel him throbbing, growing, expanding, his erection threatening to lift her from his lap entirely. And she knew, and knew that he knew, of the flood of desire that flowed from her in reply. Bess wriggled, couldn’t help it and didn’t want to, betrayed by a part of her body that craved only to get closer to his swollen groin, that wanted to use this sudden and unexpected flood of desire to engulf him, too.
“Nnnnoooo.” The sound emerged from her in a combined wail of agony and sigh of desire, and she flung her arm out wildly, defying fingers that wanted only to weave through his hair, thrill to the touch of his neck.
“Nnnnoooo!” And this time he listened. In a single gesture, he was on his feet, strong arms depositing her back into her own chair with an urgency that equaled that of his kisses. Eyes hot with passion and yet somehow tinged with sadness bored into her own, fighting their way through her tears, and she saw, rather than heard, his mouth saying “Sorry” before he turned away and stumbled from the room.
Bess slumped, elbows on her knees, her eyes, first closed, then open and staring at the floor, her fingers trembling. Her entire body shook with the aftermath of a physical reaction more intense than anything she had ever experienced, ever even dreamed of experiencing.
Her gaze strayed to her crotch, her mind certain that her jeans must be soaked to the knees. Not a sign. It didn’t seem possible, but then, was any of this possible? Could she really have climaxed just from the feel of his erection through their clothing and the intensity of her own response to him? How else, she wondered, could she be left with a tummy throbbing as if filled with dying butterflies? Why else did she still feel her sex muscles clenching and unclenching as if still reaching for him?
Was what she had experienced even a climax? Difficult to judge when you’ve never had one, and she never had. Even when her marriage was at its best, she had thrilled to Paul’s spurting releases, but faked her ultimate responses.
Hardly any wonder he’d called her the worst “wife” in the world, she found herself thinking. And then wondering what Geoff would have thought had she followed her instincts and allowed him to continue... helped him to continue.
Because that was what she had wanted, and Bess wasn’t fool enough to lie to herself about something so basic. As she had felt herself rise on the passionate lift of his erection, her every instinct had been to reach down and assist it, to dissolve into his embrace and allow him do whatever he wished.
And why not, she was thinking; at least there would be physical pleasure for both of them, even if their relationship couldn’t go anywhere, wouldn’t go anywhere beyond their book collaboration and perhaps Geoff’s bedroom. Why shouldn’t she take what pleasure she could? That concept was surging through her head and starting to re-heat her body when Geoff stuck his head through the office door.
“I think we both need some fresh air,” he said without bothering to further apologize. “Do you want to come and help me train my idiot of a dog? There’s a trial soon and she could use the work.”
Bess didn’t trust herself to speak. Just looking at Geoff right now was like staring into the sun; it made her light-headed and giddy and totally unsure of herself. And perhaps a little bit peeved, as well. Here she was, not sure if she dared get out of the chair, half-afraid her legs would collapse from under her, and here he was, all prepared to go dog training as if nothing had happened.
Still, she nodded her acceptance and forced herself to walk straight, without revealing the turmoil inside her.
They stopped first at a local store, where Geoff insisted upon buying her some rubber boots…gumboots they called them here. Bess found herself still reacting to him sexually as he knelt to help her try on the boots. Just the touch of his fingers on her ankle sent spasms straight to the core of her being.
“You’ll need gumboots,” he explained. “The place where I train is tidal. And if the tide happens to be in, there are parts of the track that get more than just a little damp.”
Then he drove to Hobler’s Bridge, where he parked and let the dog run free. They walked side by side along a well-constructed track that led for what seemed like miles along the North Esk River at almost the limit of tidal influence. As he had predicted, she was glad of the rubber boots, especially when she saw her first Australian snake slithering away into the waist-high undergrowth.
Fortunately, Lady never saw it. Geoff said that snakebite was a risk for dogs throughout Australia. “In February and March, when the tiger snakes get to mating, they can be fairly aggressive,” he said, “but mostly we trial in the winter, when there’s less risk.”
Lady, whose pedigreed name was Wrangham Ladybird, was what Geoff termed a working-bred English Springer Spaniel. She’d been bred by Rachel Greaves, considered the country’s leading breeder of working spaniels, and was significantly different from those English springers one might encounter in the show ring.
“If you tried to put her in a dog show you’d get laughed out the place,” he said with a grin. “But bring one of those poofter show spaniels into the field, and Lady would run him into the ground in no time. They’ve bred most of the working ability out of the show strain, although I do know a bloke who trialed Welshies...that’s Welsh springers...with a degree of success.”
They walked on several yards before Bess’s curiosity got the better of her, and she had to demand an explanation of his word “poofter.” Which made Geoff laugh the huge, friendly laugh she had come to associate with him.
“It's what you Yanks would call ‘sissy,’” he said,. “Often as not, it’s sort of an affectionate jibe used between friends. Like calling someone a bastard, which sounds horrible, but as often as not is a term of genuine endearment.”
Bess wanted to talk more; it was comforting to her, helping her past the surprising physical and emotional reaction she had experienced in his arms. But Geoff, it seemed, was through talking for now. Instead, he gave her a bag full of dummies, which looked like small canvas-covered boat bumpers, and sent her off about a hundred fi
fty yards down the paddock.
“When you see me point, you throw one as high in the air as you can, so it lands just on the edge of the heavy cover over there,” he said. “That’s the biggest problem with bloody spaniels. They’re bred to work at gun range, and getting them to go beyond it even to retrieve is the devil’s own job, sometimes.”
Bess did as she was told, and was pleased to see that Lady flowed across the space between them, moving so lightly and so quickly it was if the dog could fly. Then it all fell apart. Lady picked up the dummy, looked back at Geoff, then trotted over and sat facing Bess, lifting her face as if demanding that Bess accept some valuable present.
“Bloody dog! You want shooting, my little sausage,” Geoff grumbled as he stomped the entire distance between them, took the dummy from the dog’s mouth, and handed it to Bess before returning to his starting place. “You... heel!” he said to Lady, and to Bess, “When she gets down here, don’t look at her. Keep your eyes averted, pretend she isn’t there.”
Which, to Bess’s surprise, somehow worked. Lady did her job, apparently, to Geoff’s satisfaction, then they all wandered along the track for some distance as he put her through a series of other retrieving exercises. But it was when the dog was free to just run and enjoy herself that Bess could see what Geoff had meant about what Lady had been bred to do. She charged around, quartering back and forth in front of them, never getting more than about thirty yards away before turning and working slightly closer, or waiting impatiently for them to catch up. And her nose never stopped. She had to sniff everything, investigate every patch of cover.
Gradually, they covered the entire track, all the way to the Henry Street bridge, then worked their way back again to where Geoff had parked the Land Cruiser. In places, the track was covered by water, in which Lady gamboled with delight. Where the backwaters allowed for it, Geoff put her through a series of water retrieves that resulted in all three of them getting soaked. Lady brought back the dummy, delivered it, then shook herself, creating an instant shower.
Finding Bess Page 7
