The Bonk Squad (16 page)

“
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
then,” 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.

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.)