The Bonk Squad (4 page)

She took a thoughtful step
backward. And just as well, because the remaining piece of tree
suddenly un-snagged itself and toppled down the steps toward her,
whacking the side of her van.

“
Hey!” she objected,
glaring up. The wrecker stood there, one hand on his hip, the
pruning saw hanging loosely from his other. A tall hard-bodied man
of maybe thirty—wearing only a pair of low slung khaki shorts apart
from his boots and muscles. And the odd gleam of sweat. And a
frown.

Leah huffed out an annoyed
breath and turned to inspect the paintwork. “Look what you’ve
done.”

“
How bad is
it?”

She started to tug at the
rogue foliage and he jogged down the steps to help. Fortunately the
leafy end and not the jagged timber stub had hit the
van.

“
Walls’ Garden Design?” he
queried, heaving the big piece of tree aside with impressive ease.
“What are you here for?”

“
I’m re-working the
courtyard,” she said, wondering how she could get a better look at
him without staring.

“
Can’t be. That’s what I’m
doing.”

“
The
back
courtyard.” Maybe there was
another?

“
Yep—the back courtyard.
New pool and fountain.”

“
No! That’s my job. She’s
paid a deposit.”

“
Too late, sorry. I’ve
already done most of it. What the hell is Gran playing
at?”

“
Gran? Mrs. Banks is your
grandmother?”

“
Dad’s Mom. Did she strike
you as senile?” His scowl had softened. Leah now saw genuine
concern in his very blue eyes.

“
Not at all. Quite the
opposite. Seemed to know exactly what she was doing.”

“
Hmmm.”

“
I’ve already bought the
fountain she chose,” Leah added.

“
Got it here? I can give
you a lift up with it.”

“
I hope she still wants
it. It won’t be too bad to carry. It’s copper, not
concrete.”

“
Ric Banks,” he said,
pulling off a dirt-encrusted leather gardening glove, and reaching
out to shake her hand. She saw long fingers and well-tended
nails.

“
That’s not a landscaper’s
hand,” she said, enjoying the scent of his warm skin and a hint of
cologne on the frisky breeze.

“
Guitar.” His sudden grin
was gorgeous. “Have to look after them a bit.”

It was Leah’s turn to say
‘Hmmm.’ She wouldn’t mind being looked after by those hands. Or
nibbled on by those even white teeth...

Ric dragged the big piece
of Magnolia further away and sawed it up while she unlocked the van
for the boxes containing the fancy French fountain.

“
So she went for the three
tiers with the cherub on top?” he said, inspecting the photo on the
packing. “She was still dithering about it last time we
talked.”

“
That’s strange. She told
me she wanted this design right from the start. I think it set her
off on the whole scheme.”

He sent her a disbelieving
look.

“
Truly,” she added,
beeping the van locked and hefting one of the boxes. He followed
with the other.

She scooted up the steps
in front of him, acutely aware her jeans were on the snug side.
Thank heavens there weren’t many steps.

She sighed when she saw
Ric’s work. The pavers were beautifully laid, the brick herb-boxes
built, and he’d started on the lily pond.

“
You’re right, there’s no
job left for me. You’ve nearly finished.”

“
Good heavens no,” Mrs.
Banks said briskly, trotting through a gate from the property next
door. “I thought we should get my grandson to do all heavy work
because he’s nice and fit, and very good at this sort of
thing.”

Ric rolled his eyes and
struck an ironic body-builder’s pose. Leah took this as an
invitation—checking him out was no chore at all.

Mrs. Banks smiled. “And I
want your help with the pretty plants, dear,” she said to Leah.
“You did some lovely borders for my friend Evelyn Mitchell, and I’d
like something similar.”

Leah reluctantly turned
away from her excellent view and tried to remember the Mitchell
job.
Buxus
edging
and clumps of raspberry-colored
Heuchera
and white Flower Carpet
roses? Delphiniums? Impatiens to fill the gaps?

“
It doesn’t really work
that way, Gran,” Ric objected. “You can’t employ two people to do
one job.”

“
Why ever not?” Mrs Banks
asked, raising her neat gray eyebrows and looking slightly too
innocent. “You each have different talents, so I’m sensibly making
use of them.”

Leah tried to stifle her
laugh but a small puff of mirth still burst out. Ric heard, and
grinned across at her.

“
A set-up, ya
reckon?”

“
She’s very good at
it.”

“
Yeah, I wasn’t expecting
this.” He turned back to his grandmother. “You’re a sneaky old
schemer, Gran. How’s Cecily now? On the mend?”

Mrs. Banks managed to look
reasonably contrite. “Better than she was yesterday. We’ve just had
a cuppa and a nice chat.”

“
And spied on us with the
binoculars she keeps for the boats on the harbor, I
daresay?”

His grandmother chuckled,
plainly guilty. “Don’t be angry, darlings. You’ve each told me you
need a partner because you’re too busy. Why can’t an old lady give
things a nudge in the right direction?”

“
Mrs. Banks!” Leah
exclaimed, amused and embarrassed in equal measure. “You mustn’t
play Cupid just because your new fountain has a boy with a bow and
arrow on top of it.”

“
But you’d be perfect
together. Your names are just right. ‘Walls and Banks’. Doesn’t
that sound like a landscaping company? Cecily and I thought it was
inspired.”

This time Leah couldn’t
contain her laughter. “So we just need to round up a Mr Bloom
and—er—Ms Ponds and that’d cover all aspects of the
business?”

“
Why don’t you take Leah
out for a nice dinner and discuss things, Ric?”

“
What things would those
be, Gran?”

His grandmother flapped
her hands. “I’m sure you’ll manage very well without suggestions
from me.”

“
I might have managed okay
without you in the first place,” he said, sending Leah a hopeful
glance. “You thinking of branching out?”

“
No, that wasn’t what I
was thinking at all.” She flashed him a mischievous
invitation.

Ric’s brilliant blue eyes
narrowed and his expression intensified. His excellent chest
expanded as he took a deep breath and turned to Mrs.
Banks.

“
Riiiiiight,” he said.
“I’ll add the dinner to your bill, Gran—serve you right for
interfering.” He turned back to Leah. “Italian? Turkish? Seafood?
Where are we going?”

She tipped her head on one
side while she considered. “Cafe Magnolia on the hill above
Waterfall Bay?” she suggested. “That seems kind of appropriate for
Walls and Banks, don’t you think?”

Vi covered the batch of
pikelets with a tea-cloth to keep the moisture in. The landscaping
story might be worth writing, but once again there were no
arousals—peeking around tree trunks
or
swelling in khaki shorts. She set
the mixing bowl to soak. Oh well, she could try another story
later, after the meeting. She always enjoyed the Romance Writers’
get-togethers. What should she wear? Her new mauve cardigan and the
pink pin-tucked pink blouse?

As usual, Vi arrived early, offering
to help. As usual, Meg pointed out that everything was ready. And
as usual, Vi took over the sunny blue kitchen to put the finishing
touches to today’s gastronomic excess. Fresh pikelets. Raspberry
jam. Whipped cream. Yum.

“
Leave a couple without
cream for Bobbie, seeing she’s a veggie,” Meg cautioned.

Vi nodded, and then looked worried.
“I’ve buttered them all.”

“
Tell her it’s
margarine.”

“
She might be dairy
intolerant as well as a vegetarian.”

“
She needs fattening up a
bit, that girl.”

“
I think it’s all the
bicycling, dear. It’s very good for the body.”

Meg thought about Al’s
body. His long muscular legs, and trim torso and tight butt. It had
been very good for
his
body for sure. Perhaps she should buy a bike herself? Maybe
they could go cycling together and follow the ride with a shared
shower and a ride of an altogether different kind. She closed her
eyes. His cologne teased her imagination. Obviously he’d found her
attractive in return. So…

Veronique leaned against
the smooth bark of the big plane tree, grateful for the shade from
the fierce summer sun. Here in Saint-Paul-Trois-Chateaux, Tour de
France fever was at full pitch. The famous
caravan
of floats and advertising
vehicles had passed by in a riot of color and noise and good humor
as people scrambled for the free gifts on offer.

But much more thrilling
now were the teams of racers on their glittering cycles. The air
hummed with excitement as they approached, then they swept past
with that intoxicating swish of tires on hot paving, chains driving
gears, lungs sucking breath down deep as streamlined men tortured
their muscles for even better performance.

Helmets gleamed brilliant
in the sun, shirts stretched tightly over beautiful taut bodies.
Veronique’s panties moistened.

The crowd applauded until
the very last man. Veronique turned away and started her walk home
on slightly shaky legs. A few minutes later, she heard a strongly
accented “Mam-zelle? Seel voo play?”

She swung around. Hobbling
behind her was a tall American wheeling his racing cycle. Blood
welled from a gash on his upper arm.

“
Non
!” she cried, anguished that such a gorgeous man was injured.
Had he somehow become separated from the main bunch of
riders?

She pointed to a patch of
dense shade under a nearby olive tree where the grass grew soft and
verdant. She dropped to her knees and encouraged him to do the
same. He leaned his carbon-fiber cycle against the olive trunk and
sank down beside her.

She inspected his arm.
Such a bulging bicep...such a strong corded forearm...such long
tanned fingers protruding suggestively from his cutaway cycling
glove—all with that thin red trickle of gore.

“
Merde
,” she muttered, reaching for the hem of her white cotton
blouse. A swift tug ripped a broad strip free. Broader than she’d
intended. The summer air caressed her slender waist. His eyes
caressed it too as she wiped up toward his wound and held the pad
of fabric firmly against it. He flinched only slightly, seemingly
distracted by the abundance of her creamy bosom above the French
lace trim of her low-cut bra as she bent over him, trying to bind
up his injury.

Chuck no longer felt any
pain. The flimsy blouse outlined his pretty paramedic’s body in
loving detail. And the unbuttoned neckline revealed more than he’d
dared to expect. Her breasts were magnificent—full and heavy—as she
leaned forward to comfort him.

Thanks to a sudden waft of
cool breeze, he glimpsed the jut of her stiff nipples. His own body
started to stiffen in response. Not a good look in tight shiny
Lycra. It took all his concentration to reverse the process.
Frantically he calculated the distance he’d raced today, the
distance still to go, his average speed over the route so far
covered. Tire pressure, (blood pressure!), time of expected arrival
and time elapsed.

She was a magnet to his
grasping hands. He imagined his fingers cupping up her
over-spilling flesh, brown against cream, rough against smooth.
Longed to insinuate himself closer to her and place a chaste kiss
inside her gaping blouse. No doubt she’d make a small show of
resistance, but surely he would overcome her reluctance with
perseverance and patience. What a prize she’d be—vibrant,
voluptuous and virginal...

The doorbell bonged
imperiously.

Meg left Vi to the jam and cream.
Damn, she’d been enjoying that. Hadn’t even got to the shared
shower and the rollicking ride. She’d have to revisit the scene
once the meeting was over.

“
Hi,” she said, waving
Bobbie in. “Do you know, I had a nine-thousand-dollar carbon fiber
racing bike parked right there last night?” She pointed to the
wallpaper with a flourish. As there was now nothing to see Bobbie
looked puzzled. “Nice man,” Meg added. “
Very
nice man.” She took a deep
breath, hoping the love-bite showed.

“
I’ve chained mine to the
side fence,” Bobbie said, ripping open the Velcro fastenings on her
helmet strap. Her mop of frizzy black hair expanded to fill a vast
amount of airspace, swamping her small pale face.

“
No manuscript?” Meg asked,
eyeing Bobbie’s empty hands. Bobby went everywhere on her bike, and
seemed to live out of the sporty little bag strapped around her
waist. Plainly no neatly printed sheaf of papers lurked in
there.