The Bonk Squad (12 page)

They were silent for a few
minutes.

“
In case you’re wondering,
Gary’s dead. Unexpected heart attack several years ago.”

“
I checked with
Michael.”

She nodded, stealing a sideways
glimpse of him as he turned the car toward the Tuki Tuki river
road.

Al raised his chin and appeared to
make a decision. “So—two unattached people, hoping to enjoy each
other’s company.”

“
Exactly,” she agreed,
thinking back to his kiss on her cheek. It had been chaste in
comparison with what must have been rather drunken grappling on the
sofa the night before. “I’m sorry about last night,” she added.
“Things got a bit out of hand I think.” She sent him a more
confident glance.

“
Hell of a way to break the
ice, though!” He gave her a broad smile—sure of his charm. Olive
skin, very good teeth and plenty of them, lively eyes under fierce
black brows. A handsome man, by anyone’s yardstick. And with money
and style.

Why was he bothering with
her?

“
Are you Megan or
Margaret,” he asked, once the wine had been chosen and
poured.

“
Just Meg,” she said,
smiling across the table at him.

His gaze dropped to her warm cream
breasts, framed so enticingly by the plunging neckline of her taupe
cotton jersey. She saw him looking, and leaned a little further
toward him, drawing her arms in against her sides to increase and
emphasize her fullness.

He knew exactly what she was doing,
and grinned. “You’re a tease, Meg. I can’t make a grab for them
here.”

“
Who says you’d be allowed
to grab?”

“
You’d be offended if I
didn’t.”

“
Not at all,” she said
primly, fingers playing with the gold chain necklace that hung,
glittering, right where he wanted his hands. “You
could—perhaps—caress...or stroke...or fondle. I’d enjoy any of
those more than a grab.”

He closed his eyes in frustrated
anticipation, imagining cradling the warm soft weight of her. A
woman in her prime. No longer quite young, but with interesting
compensations.

It was Meg’s turn to smile
now. She inspected him across the table, wondering what he was
imagining behind his eyelids. His lashes were unfairly long and
dark—
she
should
have such luck!

“
Would you choose a caress
over a fondle? Or a stroke in favor of a nuzzle?” he asked after an
aching gap.

“
I rather like the sound of
a nuzzle.”

“
Mmmm—so do I.” He dropped
his voice even lower so the other diners had no chance of
overhearing.

She leaned even closer, wondering if
that was his plan.

“
Of course,” he continued,
“a nuzzle can only be performed with a mouth.” He sent her a slow
burn of a smile.

Meg’s pulse thrummed faster. “And how
exactly do you picture this nuzzle, Al?”

“
I think my lips should
make first contact about
there
.” He dipped a long brown
forefinger into his wine and placed its tip very precisely on her
love-bite. He drew a tight little circle on her skin, then pulled
away. They both watched as the drop of chardonnay danced and
trembled with her heartbeat, and then ran down out of
sight.

“
You’ll make me all wet,”
she said, without considering quite what other inferences he could
draw from such a comment.

He raised his eyebrows above wicked
eyes.

Damn—I’ve dropped myself
right in it.

She breathed out quietly. He was fun
to flirt with. He’d probably be great in bed—athletic and
enthusiastic.

He dipped his finger in the wine again
and held it an inch or two above her flesh. The drop shimmered and
flickered in the candlelight before falling with a tiny soft splash
very accurately down her cleavage.

“
Stop it Al,” she said with
no conviction at all.

“
I’ll lick you clean
later.”

Her internal muscles liked the sound
of that and clenched in pleasure.

I’m going to come right
here at the table if he continues this.

He watched her, eyes
intent.

“
I’ll let you know,” she
managed.

“
If I’m allowed
to?”

“
If I
want
you to.”

“
Oh, you want me to, Meg.
There’s a very sexy blush spreading up your boobs. You’re halfway
there already...” He looked delighted with his progress.
Guilt-stricken, she glanced down to check if she was really
blushing. It was far too dark to tell.

“
I am not,” she
protested.

“
Blushing or halfway
there?”

“
Both, damn you!” But she
laughed. Being angry wasn’t on the menu.

She glanced around the dimly lit
restaurant. No-one was taking the slightest notice of them. It was
the sort of place where couples could be wrapped up in each
other—separated just enough to feel private, candles flickering,
music soothing, waiters attentive but not intrusive. And Al had
managed to secure a corner table so they were even more secluded.
She hadn’t felt so cosseted in ages.

He let her off the hook by asking,
“And you’re a librarian?”

She nodded. “Always loved books.
Always been a keen reader.”

Should she tell him her heart’s
desire? It might make her sound a bit more interesting than just
‘mother of a son’s friend/librarian/good boobs/available’. She
gulped a brave breath. “And these days I write them,
too.”

He sharpened his inspection of her.
Especially of her newly-inflated breasts. “Published?”

She gave a regretful shrug. “Not yet.
Trying hard.”

“
What do you
write?”

Here she faltered a little.
“Relationships—new beginnings,” she said, hedging around the
truth.

“
Soppy romances?” One
corner of his mouth quirked.

“
Don’t you
dare
laugh!” she snapped.
“Huge market, Al. Good money if I’m lucky. Which I may never be.
The competition is incredible.”

He reached across and clasped her
hand. “Go for it.”

Meg relaxed with gratitude. “I’m
surprising myself so much. I’m absolutely hooked. I’ve always read,
but never written. And now I can’t leave it alone.”

“
Ben’s mentioned
it.”

She sharpened her gaze. “Is he
complaining? Am I neglecting him?”

He shook his head. “Not at all.
Absolutely not. He’s very proud of you.”

“
I bet he didn’t tell you
what I was writing?”

“
Weeelll...no...not
quite.”

She sighed. “If you research the book
market, Al, you’d see it’s the very best option for me. More than
forty percent of all published novels are romances, one way or
another.”

His big eyebrows rose in surprise.
“What about science fiction? And all these forensic crime things
that seem to be the rage? Or the vampires and dragons and
werewolves Michael’s been so hooked on?”

She looped the chain necklace around
her fingers, and watched his gaze slide down to her breasts again.
“No, romance is the answer. Everyone loves a happy ending, even if
they won’t admit it. When their own lives are crappy, they want to
escape somewhere with nice clothes and beautiful houses and
good-looking people.” She grinned, and released the necklace. “And
have the satisfaction of knowing how it’s going to end long before
the characters in the book work it out. They do put themselves
through hoops. It’s such fun being the one to pull the
strings.”

“
Yup—Ben said you were
right into it. Don’t put me into any of your stories. I’m nobody’s
ideal man.”

“
I think you’ll be safe
enough. The heroes need to be desert sheikhs, or wealthy shipping
magnates or classy French Counts and so on. I’ve got an Italian
billionaire on the go right now. I could use your body for him, I
suppose.” She inspected him over the table, head on one
side.

“
Are you undressing me?” he
asked with suspicion.

She nodded, eyes far away.

Carlo strode into the
children’s quarters, rigid with fury. He’d seen their game from the
balcony of his study. His children had played under the garden hose
like a pair of ill-educated peasants. And the nanny encouraged
them! They’d squealed together like flapping birds—even his son,
Antonio—running through the spraying water with shrieks of
enjoyment.

Did the boy not realize he
was the scion of a noble and wealthy family? Decorum was a
necessary part of his life. Did the chit of a girl, the English
Angela, not know this? He needed to put her straight.

He slammed the door behind
him—and froze. The nanny was barely dressed. She glistened with
water as she pulled off her sodden clothing. And gasped as Carlo
came to a sudden standstill.

She was slender, pale,
delicate, and quite the most lovely young woman he’d ever seen.
Fragile and smooth as porcelain. His long fingers itched to caress
her.

Angela moaned and
attempted to cover herself, but her hands were tiny and hid very
little.

Lust demolishing his
manners, Carlo stepped closer, taking her hands in his own and
wrenching them away from her up-tilted breasts so he could gaze his
fill. The tiny wisp of damp silk and French lace left nothing to
his imagination, merely outlining her with charming
clarity.

Embarrassed, she attempted
to turn aside, but he held her with an iron grasp, drinking in her
loveliness. His eyes slid lower...over her slender ribcage to a
hand-span waist...and down to the luscious curve of her hips. The
tiny wet panties clung to her skin, semi-transparent. He could
clearly see her feminine curls pressed flat against the
fabric.

“
Signorina
,” he groaned. “You are
beautiful, but you must not encourage...” His eyes roamed
helplessly over her. “Er, not encourage my children to play such
games. To be so wet...” He licked his lips in frustration. “To be
so wet is not...?” He’d lost track of his thought processes again.
“Is not...?”

“
Is not...natural?” she
queried, seeing her handsome employer lost for words, and possibly
putty in her small capable hands. “I find nothing unnatural about
being wet,” she continued, flicking her pointed pink tongue over
her cushiony bottom lip. “But you could always make me dry again.”
She indicated a fluffy white bath towel.

Mesmerized, he reached for
it, and began to rub over her neck and chest, patting at her pretty
breasts until he saw the towel was having very little effect on the
damp fabric.

“
We need...I think...to
remove this,” he muttered, fumbling with the central fastening of
her bra.

She nodded assent. He
folded the cups aside and gazed at her twin mounds, each delicately
tipped with pink. His mouth moved closer and fastened onto her
flesh. Angela smiled.

“
...on earth are you
imagining?” Al asked.

Meg jerked back to reality. “A sudden
scene for my book turned up.”

“
You looked—somewhat
ecstatic. I’d be flattering myself if I thought undressing me would
do that for you?”

“
It wasn’t you I was
undressing that time.”

He glanced around the restaurant. “So
who else?”

“
An English
nanny.”

His mouth dropped open at that, and he
lowered his voice to a whisper. “Are you, by any chance, bisexual,
Meg?” Did he sound thrilled or horrified at the
prospect?

“
No Al, absolutely not.
Would you prefer me to be?” she couldn’t help enquiring with a
straight face.

He shrugged his big shoulders,
nonplussed. Meg let him off the hook with a smile. “My Italian
billionaire just undressed his children’s nanny. The right words
can happen at unexpected times.”

Al nodded, looking unconvinced. He
produced a pen and a small notebook from his jacket pocket and
handed them over. “Jot them down while they’re fresh in your mind.
I think I need the bathroom after that.” He rose and strode to the
back of the restaurant.

Meg made a halfhearted attempt, but
the notebook was small, the lighting was dim and she knew she could
recapture the scene once she had the keyboard under her fingers.
She ripped out her page of rough notes as Al returned to the
table.

“
Thank you. Very handy.”
She smiled and committed his clothing to memory. Carlo might soon
appear in well cut black trousers, a snowy white shirt and a
stylish charcoal linen jacket—Armani, naturally.

Ben still swung between desperate lust
and total confusion by the time she opened the door. Why him? Why
would a girl like Tigger want to go out with him when she knew he
was seventeen? She was several years older. Several years more
sophisticated. Well travelled and worldly. Gorgeous beyond
belief.