The Bonk Squad (23 page)

He moved closer and bent
for the knife strapped around his ankle, taking his time to cut her
free, testing the cords as he worked, careful not to send her
plummeting to the ground. Soon she was supported only by one of his
strong arms and the footholds he’d found for her in the
branches.

She jabbered like a
frightened monkey, asking him questions, watching for nods or
shakes of his head as she tried to piece his story together. His
hoarse voice was hard to understand, but he definitely spoke
English.

“
So you had a boat? And it
sank?”

He nodded, and then shook
his head. “Ran ground.” He pointed across to an area of dense
vegetation.

“
And there’s only you? Or
were other people drowned?”

“
Me,” he said, tapping his
own chest to emphasize the point. So he’d been sailing
solo...

“
How long ago?”

He held up a hand, fingers
spread wide, then folded them down and held up just two.

“
Seven weeks? On your
own?”

“
Months. Long time. No
talking.”

Marianna heard his voice
returning as he exercised his unused vocal cords.

She blanched. Seven months
on his own?

Once he’d cut her free he
indicated they should make their way to the ground. He kept a
strong arm around her waist as she descended. The hard ridge of his
sex rubbed against her hip; she tried not to look.

“
Wait,” he ordered once
they were down.

She watched, astounded, as
he climbed into the nearby tree where much of her parachute had
draped itself. The sun lit up the play of toned flesh as his long
legs stretched and flexed. He cut off a portion of the parachute
and returned to the ground.

Turning away from her, he
squatted, hacking through the fabric with his knife, fashioning a
rough breech-clout which he passed between his thighs and knotted
around his hips. Well, it covered him, but she was still all too
aware of what lolled behind the layer of flimsy fabric.

He turned, and with
surprising tenderness arranged the rest of it around her shoulders
to shield her from the sun.

“
Ian” he said, proffering
a mahogany hand. She shook it primly, smiling a little.

“
Marianna Edgecombe. With
any luck they’ll pick up my beacon’s signal and rescue us
both.”

He shrugged, as though he
wasn’t expecting a miracle any time soon.

They walked together
across his island; rough grass and Pandanus palms...rocky ridges
and smooth sand...to the area he’d indicated from their perch.
Concealed in the trees a little way up from the high tide line his
boat lay—the hull stove-in beyond repair but the cabin still whole.
So this is where he’d lived for so long alone? She shivered,
despite the fierce heat.

“
Water?” He indicated a
Heath-Robinson affair she presumed must be a still. The liquid
tasted flat, but she was desperately thirsty and grateful for the
drink.

“
Celebration meal,” he
croaked, waving a hand at his few remaining cans of food once they
were aboard.

“
Because of
me?”

“
First woman on my
island.”

Marianna speculated what
he planned for their second course. She’d have no chance of
fighting him off if
she
was to be dessert.

“
Have you been living on
fish?”

“
Fish. Seaweed. No
coconuts growing here, but they get washed up
sometimes.”

She ran a hand over his
remaining supplies. Three cans of beef stew. Two of tinned
tomatoes. Several unopened bags of pasta. One of rice. Most of a
bottle of brandy. A first-aid kit. That was all. He reached out for
a can of stew.

“
You should keep
it.”

“
Tired of fish,” he said,
sending her a warm smile
.

Ian lay on the bed, right hand still
busy.

Fuck it—this is my
fantasy. I don’t want dinner, I don’t want her point of view, I
want the sex.

He fast-forwarded
viciously.

Marianna knelt before him,
tugging at one of the knots holding the parachute fabric secure.
She peeled it away, licking her lips as she gazed at his body, then
slid the fabric down his thigh...over his knee...down his iron-hard
calf. He raised his foot for her and she tossed the scrap aside.
Now he stood naked in the sand, knees locked back.

The low sun lit her pale
hair as she leaned closer. She placed a gentle hand either side of
his waist and smoothed her fingers over the taut skin of his belly.
He craved her pleasurable grip on his shaft, but she had other
plans.

“
Legs apart,” she
demanded.

He obeyed.

She slipped a hand between
his thighs and cupped the heavy weight hanging low in the tropical
heat.

“
Now you’re at my mercy,”
she said, squeezing gently. She released him and ran her fingers
backward between his buttocks, searching until she found her
destination. She teased him with a fingernail, scraping over the
puckered skin, sending a jolt of pure sensation through
him.

She leaned back a little,
looking him full in the face, and licked the fingers of her other
hand.

“
Do you think that’s going
to feel nice inside you?” she asked, sliding them over the head of
his cock. She ran her tongue over her hand again until it was very
slippery, and caressed him once more.

Ian’s breath caught in his
throat as she changed direction and pushed up his ass with
lubricated fingers. She found his prostate and pulsed against it
exquisitely until he let loose an animal howl of ecstasy. All his
muscles clenched with contractions so powerful he might have broken
her fingers.

“
You bitch!” he ground
between clenched teeth. “You lovely little bitch.”

Thursday. Mandy found news from the
publisher almost always arrived on Thursday. Did they post all
their rejection letters the same day every week? Did that account
for the uncanny timing?

She wondered about that as she
proceeded along the path snipping the spent flowers off the rose
bushes and bending to dead-head the French Marigolds below them.
She liked a bright display at the front of the house to welcome
guests.

Max was away at sea again. If she got
another rejection letter at least he wouldn’t know about
it.

After the last meeting Mandy had
written feverishly until she had three short pithy chapters.
Airmail package-rate postage was a killer, but she’d discovered if
she confined herself to thirty pages, plus self-addressed envelope
and international postal coupon, she could just sneak in at letter
rate—heaps cheaper.

She bent down and peered into the box.
The distinctive creamy envelope was there, much faster than usual.
She caught her bottom lip under her teeth as she concentrated on
opening it. Only one page again. Another rejection, no
doubt.

She sighed. She’d had a lot more hope
this time. The discussion at the writers’ meeting had really
helped. She’d finally seen the point of conflict. Not just endless
arguing about the right treatment for the patient, but the
important reasons why her doctor and nurse couldn’t be together.
The differences in their beliefs. The changes they would have to
achieve. The compromises on both sides as each drew closer to the
other.

She’d really enjoyed plotting out the
‘closing down the hospital/protest march/police/broken leg’
scenario with the wealthy devil-may-care doctor and the underpaid
idealistic nurse.

She unfolded the letter. And dropped
the secateurs with surprise, slightly spearing her big
toe.

“
We have now had a chance
to read your submission and if the manuscript is complete, would
appreciate receiving it for further assessment.”

She collapsed onto the garden seat and
re-read the letter. Bugger the toe—it was only a bit of blood.
Further assessment. They wanted to read the whole book! Somehow she
needed to work that wonderful elevator scene into it. It was just
so sensuous. If she changed the names and wrote a new ending, it
would be dynamite. She pulled her mobile from her pocket and
stabbed in the code for her mother.

“
Sorreee—not here to talk
to you. Leave me a message,” her mother’s voice trilled.

“
Mom, it’s Mandy. Such good
news. I’ve been asked to send a whole manuscript for further
assessment for publication. Phone me back eh?”

Darn, she really wanted to share! She
tried Romy. She’d understand, being published herself.

“
Can’t talk to you just
now, but leave your details and I’ll be straight back to
you.”

“
Romy, it’s Mandy. I’ve
been asked to send the whole book. The one with Addy and Brad. Can
you get back to me?”

Who else could she try?

Liz? Maybe not.

Vi? She might be home, being retired.
Mandy trotted inside and looked her number up. It rang on and on.
Not even an answer machine to take a message...

Ian? No, that would be a bit cheeky.
He was probably carrying something heavy at the far end of the
Garden Center. He didn’t work at a desk with the phone by his elbow
all the time, and she didn’t know his cell number.

Meg!

“
Sorry, I’m out of the
building on a half day seminar, but do leave your details and I’ll
return your call as soon as possible.”

She sighed and broke the connection.
She wanted an actual human being to talk to. She sent them all a
text for good measure, but it wasn’t the same. She’d leave a
message on Meg’s home phone anyway. Meg was the group’s convener,
so she should be first to hear the wonderful news.

Mandy was amazed to have the phone
answered.

“
Hello?” Bobbie
honked.

“
Who’s that?”

“
Bobbie
Rutherford.”

“
It’s Mandy. Have I got the
wrong number?”

“
No, I’m staying here at
Meg’s for a bit. There was a fire in my flat.” She coughed. “And
I’ve had the flu.”

“
Oh, Bobbie, what an awful
combination!” She swung into nurse mode. “Are you resting up?
Drinking plenty of fluids? Taking any cough mixture? How bad was
the fire?”

“
Pretty bad. The whole
house is done for. Worse for the McArthurs, my landlords upstairs.
But my hair got burnt. I looked a real fright.”

“
You didn’t get
hurt?”

“
No, only my hair. Liz took
me to her hairdresser and got me—um—modernized. You’ll get a shock
on Saturday. Can I give Meg a message? Is it about the Christmas
meeting?”

“
No...” Mandy purred. “Just
a piece of personal news. I’ve been asked to send a ‘full’—an
entire manuscript for them to consider.”

Bobbie squawked her surprise and
pleasure, and Mandy preened. How sweet it felt, at last. She
wouldn’t let Max know yet—just in case. A hundred and ninety more
pages and she could send it away. She exchanged further
pleasantries with Bobbie and bustled into her writing room,
checking her watch to see how much time she had before her
afternoon shift started.

Not enough...not nearly
enough...

Liz tugged at his sleeve as though he
might bolt at any moment. And Ian was still considering it. He
really wasn’t looking forward to this.

“
Come
on
,” she insisted, pulling harder as
they neared the door. She towed him inside. He gazed around in
despair and disbelief.

Silver walls. Pink ceiling. Purple
feather boas suspended on fine nylon threads so they swirled and
dipped as the air from the hair driers caught them. Peggy Lee
singing ‘Fever’. And at least two of the hairdressers bopping along
and snapping their fingers.

“
Lizzy, my lovely!” someone
yelled.

Ian flinched, and steeled himself to
meet the famous Tony who Liz made such a fuss about. Six foot four
of fiendishly thin hottie grinned at them. Ian assumed he was what
the women called a hottie, anyway. The way Liz fawned over him, he
had to be.

Wicked eyes. Huge smile. Jeans falling
to bits. A strange T-shirt that stopped at waist level to reveal
his belly button and a line of hair dyed a deep disturbing green.
How far down did the green go?

“
Tones, this is Ian, who I
told you about. A really great re-style please.”

She yanked Ian’s unbuttoned shirt off
his shoulders and hung it on one of the pegs by the door, adding
her own jacket to the collection, too.

Tony reached across and plunged his
fingers into Ian’s thick dry mop.

“
Plenty to work with,” he
said, dropping his hands onto Ian’s black-T-shirted shoulders and
turning him so they were reflected in one of the big mirrors
together. Ian found it difficult to look away—the man was
beautiful… bewitching.