The Bonk Squad (6 page)

“
News to me dear. He’s
never mentioned it. And he’s no use when my computer plays up here.
With you on the other side of the world I have to ring up Meg’s boy
to help sort things out if I really mess up. Young Ben. He’s very
helpful.”

“
Dad stays on after school,
too.”

“
No dear—that’s preparation
time. School teachers work horrendous hours these days. For no
extra money, I might point out.”

“
Preparation time?
For
woodwork
? Get
off the grass, Mom.”

“
Are you sure Johnno’s not
teasing you? Trying to impress his little girl because her Mommy
writes?”

Tigger pressed her lips together. Her
mother always wanted to be the star. How had her father put up with
Eloise all these years?

She shrugged. “Is it all right if I
bring my stuff today?” she asked again, deciding she couldn’t be
bothered with a full-scale argument.

“
Lovely, darling.
Wonderful.” The hint of frost was not quite hidden by the honeyed
words. “Have you something prettier to wear?”

Tigger regarded herself in the long
mirror her father had fixed to the back of the kitchen door. Eloise
liked to practice her lines whenever inspiration struck. There were
mirrors all over the house so she could preen and posture,
declaiming vigorously.

Prettier than what? Jeans and a
somewhat faded black and white zebra-zig-zagged T-shirt? She was
rather fond of it.

“
Not really,” she said. “I
need to do some washing. But
you
look very nice, Mom.” Long practice had taught her
that turning the topic back toward her mother tended to pay
dividends.

“
Kind of you to notice,
darling. Yes—I think this has a certain
je
ne sais quoi
.”

Eloise twirled in the mirror, admiring
her long rust and gold peasant skirt and top with the complacent
gaze of a contented cat. Tigger hid a smile behind her hand, and
watched as her mother’s gaze took on that strange blankness
indicating she’d gone far away.

The Duchess fluttered her
fan, eyeing their host’s niece with displeasure. How radiant her
skin. How lustrous her hair. How bright her eyes. Youth was
undeniably wasted on the young. They had no social strategy, no
conversation, and no sense of their own mortality. It would do this
smooth skinned maid good to learn what a speck of dust she was in
the scheme of things.

“
Miss Woodsedge,” the
lavender scented Duchess rasped. “I have a message for you from
Wainsborough. Though I scarcely feel it proper to pass it
on.”

The younger woman was
instantly all attention.

“
But, if it please you,
Your Grace?” she begged. She bowed her head in hopeful supplication
and then resumed her blue-eyed plea.

The Duchess relented a
little.

“‘
Tis most irregular, to
be sure,” she muttered. “But should you decide to take the air by
Castleton Bridge around sunset, then a certain person is desirous
of speaking with you.” She snapped her fan shut and turned
away.

Castleton
Bridge
, Chloe murmured.

She’d be thrilled to see
the Earl of Wainsborough again. She’d caught sight of him twice now
at musical gatherings, and been intrigued and impressed by the tall
fair nobleman.

But what a rum way to
arrange a meeting. No chaperone. No politely penned note in his own
hand, delivered by his faithful close-mouthed servant.

Desire warred with caution
in Chloe’s eager heart.

The late afternoon sun
kissed her shoulders as she strolled around the grounds of the
great estate, stooping to capture deep red roses and immersing her
face in their heavenly fragrance...wandering into the little byways
of the garden until she was out of sight of the other guests and
the huge house. She was free—and Castleton Bridge was an easy walk
away.

Chloe released her breath
with a shivering sigh. In truth she should not be doing this. It
was imprudent in the extreme. No young woman of good family ever
risked being compromised by meeting a man unsupervised. But the
Earl of Wainsborough was a gentleman, surely? She could come to no
harm...

She leaned against the
warm stone of the bridge, idly toying with her reticule as the long
minutes passed.

Then she heard it—the
thrilling thrum of hoof-beats. Out of the golden sunset a galloping
silhouette drew ever nearer. Chloe straightened, shading her eyes
to try and confirm the identity of the horseman.

Each thud of the hooves
raised a small puff of dust from the country road. And then he was
upon her, reaching low, swinging her up onto his mount, holding her
fast against his broad chest. He had barely slowed.

Chloe gasped in disbelief
as she twisted to look up into his face. This was not the Earl of
Wainsborough, but his dark-complexioned younger brother!

She struggled in
consternation. He overcame her without apparent effort, growling a
warning that if she did not accede to his dominance he would pitch
her off his steed at the next high bluff. Death would be certain.
Chloe blanched—and clung to him, whimpering.

Minutes later he slowed,
and turned in beside an old barn a little distance from the road.
It was near dark now, but a huge golden moon floated up over the
horizon.

He released her, and Chloe
stumbled to the ground, still restrained by the steely grip of one
warm hand.

He dismounted, fixing his
prey with deep-set black eyes. She quailed before him as he looped
the halter around a handy branch. His foaming horse shuddered and
snorted. It had been a frantic ride.

“
So, my beauty,” he said
with indolent amusement. “Not the brother you were
expecting?”

“
Indeed, no Sir,” Chloe
snapped, finding spirit from somewhere. “I would be much obliged if
you would return me to Lancaster House forthwith.”

“
And not enjoy my pretty
prize?”

He caught hold of her
other hand and pulled her toward his rangy frame. She stumbled on a
tree root and pitched against him. His musky masculine scent
surrounded her, and she trembled with fear—and something else. For
he was so tall and broad. So warm and strong. Her face flushed with
confusion where only outrage should be.

Now his arms pinned her
close to his hard hot body. Chloe chanced a look upward to judge
his intent, and found herself snared by his dark haunted
eyes.

“
My brother has boasted he
will have you,” he muttered. “Even now he is planning to approach
your father to negotiate betrothal terms. But you are meant
for
me
.”

She gasped, but could not
tear her eyes away. He took instant advantage of her parted lips
and kissed her passionately, sliding his tongue over
hers.

She shuddered at the
delicious intrusion, frantic to escape, desperate to stay. With shy
determination she returned the pressure of his firm lips. This was
no cousinly peck on the cheek, and that was all she’d so far
experienced in her sheltered seventeen years.

God, he was beautiful!
With great daring she slipped her own tongue between
his
lips, drowning in
the taste and feel and smell of him.

He flinched away from her
and her heart contracted.

“
No more, my beauty,” he
said in a voice husky with desire and regret. “I came to take you
as mine, to ruin you for him. But I find I would rather forego such
base pleasure and pursue you with honor for myself.”

Chloe gazed at him in
rapture, blue eyes brimming with unshed tears of joy.

“
I am only the younger
son,” he muttered. “I shall not inherit a fortune as large as
Edward.”

He kissed her again, more
gently this time. She raised a hand to his face and her fingers
rasped against the darkness of his early-evening
stubble.

“
Could you be happy with
me?” he demanded.

“
I could never be happy
without you, now,” she whispered, pressing her body once more
against his. “Let Edward keep his fortune, for we have our love to
sustain us.”

Eloise drew a deep breath and shook
herself back to the present day.

Tigger reached up and ran her fingers
over her dreadlocks, wondering if the afternoon would be the least
bit bearable. “I’ll just grab my stuff, Mom,” she said.

Sooner or later I’ll have
to read something to them,
Bobbie thought
as she sat chewing the inside of her cheek in the cane chair in the
corner.

Well, she wouldn’t do the actual
reading. She’d turn that over to Eloise, like some of the others
did. Meg wasn’t comfortable reading her own stuff. Vi liked to hear
someone else reading her words, too—said it gave her a new
perspective on them.

Liz always read out her own
manuscripts. And you couldn’t
stop
Nurse Mandy.

Eloise had such a beautiful actress’s
voice she could make anything sound good. Well, better than it
probably was. She could even make Nurse Mandy’s rubbish sound
reasonable, given half a chance.

But Mandy had elected to read her own
today, and she was rattling away, full of enthusiasm, with this
month’s medical misadventure.

“
I’ll do the synopsis
first,” she’d said. “Nurse Adelaide Carter—”

“
Adelaide
???” several of the others
chorused in horror.

“
Well, she’s called Addy
for short. I think that’s very nice and modern, don’t you?” Nurse
Mandy’s eyes sparkled behind her spectacles. “Anyway, Nurse
Adelaide Carter is appointed as temporary ward sister in a new town
and is pitched headlong into conflict with handsome and charismatic
Doctor Brad Harding.”

“
That’s a better name,” Liz
drawled. “So what’s the conflict?”

“
They hate each other on
sight. Just
hate
each other. You wonder how they’re ever going to see eye to
eye.”

“
Yes—but what’s the
conflict
?” Meg asked
patiently. It sounded as though this was going to be very similar
to all the other Mandy efforts. New name for the doctor and nurse,
new illness for the main patient, nothing else changed, and no
story at all. No wonder the publishers always turned her down.
Nurse Mandy probably had more rejection slips than the rest of the
group put together.

“
Well the conflict is
just
constant
,”
Mandy beamed. “You see—the main patient has Ankylosing Spondylitis
and they just can’t agree on his treatment.”

“
That’s an even better name
than Adelaide,” Liz said, sotto voce.

“
Whatever is it?” Vi
wondered.

“
It’s a sort of arthritis
you get in your spine,” Mandy explained. “Very debilitating. They
argue about it a lot. You wonder how they’re ever going to reach a
resolution.”

“
But that’s not conflict,
Mandy,” Liz snapped, patience finally deserting her. (How many
times had she tried to explain this?) “Conflict is something
like...they’re closing the public hospital down, and she
disapproves and decides to fight for its survival because she’s
come from an impoverished background, and
he
has a rich father who’s planning
to build a private clinic on the same site to take over the
business and make heaps more money. And
she
goes on protest marches
and
he
calls the
police to break up the crowd. See—their points of view are miles
apart—that’s conflict. External conflict anyway.”

“
And
she
could get injured in the chaos,”
Romy added helpfully.

“
And
he
puts a splint on her broken leg
and carries her in his arms into the hospital,” Vi
suggested.

“
And he can’t help kissing
her while he has her at his mercy,” Meg contributed. “But she gets
offended of course, and that’s another thing he has to
overcome.”

Mandy dashed down notes as the new
plot unfolded. The light bounced off her lenses as she nodded and
hummed.

Bobbie slumped further and further
into her chair. It really wasn’t possible to write a synopsis for
her own novels. There was sex, followed by sex. And then there was
more sex. And after that she inserted a sex scene. And then maybe
the two main characters would have sex. Or perhaps there were three
of them by now. And then there’d be some sex.

Bobbie had read months ago that there
was a thriving market for erotica. She’d decided that would be her
genre, but it wasn’t easy. It seemed to consist mainly of bedroom
scenes, and in truth Bobbie wasn’t all that good at bedroom scenes.
Or living-room-rug romps. Or spa-pool pokes. Or kidnappings to
kinky caves. Or back-seat-of-the-car seductions. But she soldiered
manfully on, trying to get enough sex together to make a saleable
novel.