The Bonk Squad (27 page)

He worked with speed,
trying to capture the lines and shadows of her. The color could
wait.

With reluctance he closed
the pad, picked up the clothing, and cleared his throat. She
stirred, then drew her slender legs together.

At last he had a way to
raise the subject which had occupied his mind for the past several
days. He would ask her now.

He shook out the bundle of
clothes and passed her a crimson jacket, dry underskirts, a dress
of forest green.

“
My sister’s,” he said.
“She’s closer in size to you than I am.” He regarded the contents
of his over-large jersey with appreciation as she stepped into the
underskirts. Then he produced a flask of brandy and encouraged
Elizabeth to swallow a few mouthfuls for warmth. He left the
cottage so she could don the rest of the clothing in
privacy.

A minute or two later she
stood, bare-footed, in the doorway. “Were there no shoes, Sire?”
Her own had been sucked off by the mud.

He closed his eyes in
vexation. “Forgive me for neglecting such a necessity,” he said.
“You must ride on Prince Harry when we leave. But first I have a
business proposition for you.”

Her brows rose as she
opened her beautiful emerald eyes wide with enquiry.

“
My gilly tells me you
sell the heather.”

She nodded,
shamefaced.

“
I can’t believe you’ll
ever make a fortune from it.”

She shook her bowed
head.

A wry smile played about
his lips. “But you need money?”

“
Of
course
I need money,” she retorted,
stung into temper by his bald enquiry. “On a governess’s wage?” She
shrugged and stared him down. No further words were
needed.

“
So, Miss McKenzie...” he
said in a husky burr as he uncovered his sketch of her.

Elizabeth clutched her
hand over her mouth and almost gagged with shock. “No!” she gasped,
gazing in horror at her parted legs, her immodest bosom.

“
You’re
beautiful.”

“
And I’m a clean living
young woman with a reputation to guard,” she snapped.

“
Who is not the least
recognizable, except by you and me. I need a model. I’ll offer you
ten shillings a pose. A pound if you’ll remove your
clothing.”

The offer was so
unexpected, and the sums so huge, that Elizabeth appeared robbed of
her voice for a short time. Finally she croaked “You cannot show my
face...”

“
It’s your body I
want.”

“
Ten shillings?” she
whispered after a short silence.

“
Or a pound? I’d prefer
the pound.”

He watched as she debated
with herself. Saw the uncertainty flare in her green eyes. Almost
felt her small white teeth as they bit down on her bottom lip.
Heard her draw in a sharp breath of resolve.

“
Here?”

“
Here for today. In my
studio later if all goes well.”

He opened his sporran and
counted out coins. “Ten shillings for sleeping,” he said. “A pound
for disrobing.”

She lifted embarrassed
eyes to his and extended a trembling hand to take the money. He’d
given her a pound.

“
Kneeling on the sofa,
with your back to me, lassie.”

She swallowed, shrugged
the jacket off her shoulders, placed it on the floor, piled his
coins on top, and turned her back to him so he could undo those of
the tiny buttons she’d managed to fasten. This was a lady’s
dress—there would always be a maid to help her mistress into such a
garment.

His warm hands slid down
her spine, loosening the fabric, bringing her shame ever closer. He
eased the dress over her shoulders, down her arms, until it pooled
around her feet.

Then he turned her to face
him and began to unfasten her bodice as though she was a child. She
offered up silent thanks she’d embroidered it prettily and edged it
with a piece of old lace she’d salvaged from her last mistress’s
discarded tea-gown.

Neither looked at the
other now. Elizabeth kept her eyes closed and felt the inexorable
progress of his hands as they travelled down to her waist. Hugo
watched his fingers unthread the ribbons that bound her bodice
fronts together. Finally the fastenings were free. He smoothed the
garment aside and cradled a perfect breast in each hand.

“
Sire!” she moaned, eyes
flying open.

“
See how beautiful you
are,” he murmured, bending to each nipple in turn and sucking
hard.

Elizabeth gasped, but
something stopped her from pulling away from him. No man had ever
taken such liberties with her body. The sensation was extreme, and
wonderful.

“
On the sofa,” he
commanded. “Kneel. Undo those petticoats and slide them down to
make a frothy frame for your pretty bottom.”

She padded across the room
and knelt. His mouth still burned hot and wet on her flesh. When
she glanced down she saw his spittle shining there. And her nipples
were as long and hard as acorns.

“
Not eating?” Meg
asked.

Romy realized she’d been granted the
blessed distraction of a daydream. As she spooned Tabouleh and
salad greens and shaved peppered pork onto her plate, she made a
mental note to check out appropriate masculine undergarments. For
surely the Laird would be removing his kilt in the not too distant
future. She had no wish to add a passion-killing vest to hide his
impressive torso from Elizabeth. But did they really wear nothing
in the way of pants under those kilts in the chilly
highlands...?

“
I can tell you this now
Tigger’s not here,” Eloise said in her best stage whisper. Meg and
Nurse Mandy scented gossip and leaned closer.

“
You’ll never guess what my
silly Johnno’s gone and done. Written a book. Well, written half a
book, anyway.”

“
It runs in the family
then,” Meg said, nodding more enthusiastically than the news
deserved. It was the first she’d heard of Johnno being the least
bit literary. He was a woodwork teacher, surely? But the sparkling
wine on an empty stomach had relaxed her to a surprising degree,
and she was feeling magnanimous toward the whole world. “Half a
book is better than no loaf,” she added.

“
Half a
loaf
is better than no loaf,” Mandy
corrected, likewise tipsy.

“
No bread,” said Eloise.
“Better than no bread.”

They all nodded solemn
agreement.

“
And no bread is what he’ll
get for his book,” she continued. “He’s broken all the rules.
Nobody’s going to publish it. Do you know what he’s done?” She eyed
them with faint belligerence over her plate of pastrami and bean
salad—the same bean salad that Bobbie ate so much of.

“
Written it by hand?” Meg
hazarded.

“
No, not that bad,” Eloise
dismissed. Johnno might be a bit of a fool, but he was
her
fool, and she didn’t
want anyone thinking him that stupid. She reached around and
squirted herself another generous glassful from the cardboard cask
of dry red that Liz had brought as her contribution to their
Christmas lunch.

“
Forgotten his synopsis?”
Mandy suggested. (Synopsis proved a difficult word to pronounce
after several wines.)

“
Hasn’t even written one,
as far as I can tell,” Eloise sniffed. “No—he’s done a multiple
submission!”

The others drew deep breaths of alarm
and concern.

“
A multiple submission,”
Mandy murmured. “Oh
no
...”

“
That’ll really get up
their noses,” Meg agreed. “How many publishers?”

Eloise shook her head and managed a
dramatic pause while she tipped her glass up and swigged. “Don’t
know for sure. Six or seven? He went to the library and made a list
of the people who print Wilbur Smith and Stephen King and Robert
Ludlum and Jeffrey Archer and Dean Koon.”

“
Koontz,” Meg said with
care.

“
Koontz,” Eloise repeated.
“Funny name.”

“
He fancies himself in with
that lot, does he?” Mandy asked. Having just had a request for her
first full manuscript, she felt superior to someone trying their
luck indiscriminately.

“
And Dan Brown, if you
please,” Eloise continued. “And James Patterson and John
Grisham—you know the sort of people I mean?”

“
Real top sellers,” Meg
muttered. “He’s out of his depth, surely?”

(‘Depth, surely’ was another hard one
after several drinks. Worse than Mandy’s attempt at ‘synopsis’, she
decided.)

“
So he’s written straight
to all these publishers—didn’t even think about trying to get an
agent,” Eloise continued. “I happened to see his Query
Letter,
if
you
could call it that, and I thought ‘Johnno, you’re dead in the
water’, I really did.” She took another deep swallow and shook her
head. “I wish he’d told me what he was doing instead of just
barreling ahead. I would have said to him ‘Darling, one publisher
at a time.” She held up a bony finger tipped with a silver nail.
“Include a synopsis so they can see what happens in the rest of the
book.” She unfolded another finger beside the first. “And third,
for heaven’s sake grovel a bit.” The next finger stayed half bent
so she abandoned the attempt to raise it. “He’s let them all know
they’re competing against each other. And he’s actually said he has
no intention of sending them the rest of the book on spec in case
someone steals the whole thing.”

Meg and Mandy gasped. This was very
bad indeed. Everything they’d gleaned from the trade papers and
writing workshops, and Romy, who knew the ropes, had reinforced the
fact that publishers and editors were the most important beings in
the universe.

You Did Not Annoy Them.

“
Still, it’ll keep him out
of my hair,” Eloise said. “We’re in rehearsal for ‘The Graduate’
for the next four days. Then we knock off for Christmas. Darling
Ashton wants us all back by New Year. Very tight schedule. Inhuman
really. Some of the cast have to give up their holidays to take
part. Johnno intends lurking at school, making the most of the
computers for the second half of his bloody book.”

“
What’s it about?” Meg
asked.

“
Typical masculine
adventure thing. Lone yachtsman. New Caledonia. French love
interest.” Eloise waved a dismissive hand. In fact the brief
description she’d had from Tigger was the sum of her knowledge
about the project. Johnno had managed to keep it out of her hopeful
hands ever since she’d offered to read it aloud for him.

“
A romance?” Nurse Mandy
wondered.

“
Hardly, darling.
‘Wham-bam, thank you ma’am,’ but no nice sensual seductions. Men!”
she added with a dramatic eye-roll.

Ian chose that moment to
approach their end of the room to restock his lunch plate.
Meg—relaxed and replete—let her gaze roam over his sinewy brown
arms and sexy narrow hips. ‘
Men
,’ she mused to herself.
‘
Aren’t they lovely
?’

“
I’m probably a criminal,”
Romy muttered to Liz so the others couldn’t hear. “Dammit, dammit,
what the hell am I going to do?”

This was unimaginably large.
Unstoppable as an avalanche or a neutron bomb. She’d been trembling
since 8.30 that morning and saw no escape from its vise-like
jaws.

“
Nothing. You’re going to
do nothing. I can’t see that you’re in the wrong at all. Let me do
a bit a research before you panic any further.” She rubbed Romy’s
arm.

“
You won’t ask Paul?”
Romy’s usually sparkling brown eyes looked as moistly pleading as
an old dog’s.

Liz, who had indeed taken it for
granted she’d get free legal advice from her ex-husband when he
returned their children the next evening, shook her head. “I doubt
he’ll be in the mood for talking,” she murmured. “One bare-chested
man hanging out my panties on Friday, and another lounging around
in a towel on Sunday...?” She raised an eyebrow and gave Romy a
grin.

Romy’s confidence in her privacy
returned a little. “So who?” she pressed.

“
Dickie Arthur,” Liz said,
pulling a name out of the air. “My first boss. He’s been retired a
few years now—he’s an old darling. I was his last secretary. He’d
do anything for me, I’m sure.” Including, she thought to herself,
pat my bottom, look down my dress, kiss me rather wetly on my
birthday.

“
Don’t tell him our names,”
Romy begged.

“
Promise. Cross my heart.”
Which she would have done, had she not been balancing an empty
plate in one hand and a glass of dry red in the other. “I’ll ring
him tomorrow,” she added.

“
Sunday?”

“
Ah, Monday then. He’ll
know. Family Law was his field. But,”—and here she paused very
delicately—”how on earth did you find out about Neill?”