wearing the same perfume. Her dress revealed acres of smooth, tempting skin and one honey brown knee and half her thigh was exposed as she crossed her legs. He turned for the bar and heard her say, “Everyone calls me Rosie, Mike.” Not everyone. She hadn’t asked him to call her Rosie! He pushed through the gathering crowd.
Tom gathered the drinks carefully between his hands and edged toward the corner table. Mike and Primrose were laughing. God, she was gorgeous! Black lace knickers—barely a scrap of fabric. She wouldn’t need much to cover that neat behind of hers. No bra? Or the lacy thing he’d found in his bathroom?
She reached out to remove the precariously balanced glass of wine. A special little smile from shiny red lips. A flash from those sparkling eyes. “Thanks.” Was she doing this deliberately? Did she know the effect she was having and did he look as stupidly obvious in his desire as Mike?
“Rosie’s been telling me about the paintings in her bedroom,” said Mike. “Always wondered what went on in that place.”
“Rosie?” asked Tom.
“Danny called me that when we were little. Now all my friends do.” She shrugged. “It’s stuck.”
“You don’t strike me as being a Rosie.” Tom started in on his new beer. He obviously didn’t rate as a friend. He studied her solemnly. “We had a big chestnut draught horse called Rosie when I was a kid.”
“This Rosie is no draught horse, she’s a thoroughbred, through and through,” cried Mike.
“What name do you think suits me?” She ignored Mike’s blatant attempt to wrest her attention away. This girl was all his. He wanted her with a gut-wrenching intensity which shook him to the core.
“I prefer Rose.” He put his glass down precisely on the coaster.
“Why?” She was all attention now, leaning forward slightly, lightly tanned skin of her throat and chest on display, soft swell of her breasts tantalisingly visible before the black dress obscured further delights. No straps, definitely not that bra. Not prim like the first part of her name.
He tore his eyes and his mind away from temptation. “It’s elegant and refined.” Unlike his thoughts.
A slow smile spread across her face. “Thank you.” Unless he imagined it her eyes blurred momentarily. She blinked and turned to Mike.
“So how smart are you? Is it worth being on your team for trivia?”
“Sport’s my specialty,” he declared. “And peach growing.”
“Excellent! I know all about music. What about you, Tom?”
“Tom’s the local science boffin,” said Mike.
“Really?” She turned a very surprised face toward him. “Did you study science at Uni?”
“I have a PhD.”
“So you’re doing all that stuff on your place with a scientific basis?”
Her amazement could be taken as insulting. If he chose. “What did you think I was doing? Messing about?” He raised an eyebrow.
Primrose’s mouth dropped open and a warm pink tinged her cheeks. He caught her eyes and held. Mike interrupted. “Tom’s the local expert on new agricultural methods. He’s improved my crop yield over the last couple of seasons.” He frowned. “And if that German bastard would see some sense we’d all be better off.”
“Kurt?” Still holding Tom’s gaze.
Tom nodded. He shifted in his chair, broke the contact because this subject was close to his heart and he wanted her to understand. “He farts about with his organic style methods, refusing to intervene on disease control saying it’s unnatural, and all he does is attract every pest known to man. His version of organic is do bugger all. Then he complains when the professional fruit growers in the area dob him in to the authorities. Blames me because I’m closest.”
“Doesn’t he bother you?”
“Nah. He gives me a laugh sometimes. Apart from the farming menace aspect. But we’ve got it under control, now.” He looked at her pointedly. “I don’t have anything to do with him. And I don’t have to live
Tom gathered the drinks carefully between his hands and edged toward the corner table. Mike and Primrose were laughing. God, she was gorgeous! Black lace knickers—barely a scrap of fabric. She wouldn’t need much to cover that neat behind of hers. No bra? Or the lacy thing he’d found in his bathroom?
She reached out to remove the precariously balanced glass of wine. A special little smile from shiny red lips. A flash from those sparkling eyes. “Thanks.” Was she doing this deliberately? Did she know the effect she was having and did he look as stupidly obvious in his desire as Mike?
“Rosie’s been telling me about the paintings in her bedroom,” said Mike. “Always wondered what went on in that place.”
“Rosie?” asked Tom.
“Danny called me that when we were little. Now all my friends do.” She shrugged. “It’s stuck.”
“You don’t strike me as being a Rosie.” Tom started in on his new beer. He obviously didn’t rate as a friend. He studied her solemnly. “We had a big chestnut draught horse called Rosie when I was a kid.”
“This Rosie is no draught horse, she’s a thoroughbred, through and through,” cried Mike.
“What name do you think suits me?” She ignored Mike’s blatant attempt to wrest her attention away. This girl was all his. He wanted her with a gut-wrenching intensity which shook him to the core.
“I prefer Rose.” He put his glass down precisely on the coaster.
“Why?” She was all attention now, leaning forward slightly, lightly tanned skin of her throat and chest on display, soft swell of her breasts tantalisingly visible before the black dress obscured further delights. No straps, definitely not that bra. Not prim like the first part of her name.
He tore his eyes and his mind away from temptation. “It’s elegant and refined.” Unlike his thoughts.
A slow smile spread across her face. “Thank you.” Unless he imagined it her eyes blurred momentarily. She blinked and turned to Mike.
“So how smart are you? Is it worth being on your team for trivia?”
“Sport’s my specialty,” he declared. “And peach growing.”
“Excellent! I know all about music. What about you, Tom?”
“Tom’s the local science boffin,” said Mike.
“Really?” She turned a very surprised face toward him. “Did you study science at Uni?”
“I have a PhD.”
“So you’re doing all that stuff on your place with a scientific basis?”
Her amazement could be taken as insulting. If he chose. “What did you think I was doing? Messing about?” He raised an eyebrow.
Primrose’s mouth dropped open and a warm pink tinged her cheeks. He caught her eyes and held. Mike interrupted. “Tom’s the local expert on new agricultural methods. He’s improved my crop yield over the last couple of seasons.” He frowned. “And if that German bastard would see some sense we’d all be better off.”
“Kurt?” Still holding Tom’s gaze.
Tom nodded. He shifted in his chair, broke the contact because this subject was close to his heart and he wanted her to understand. “He farts about with his organic style methods, refusing to intervene on disease control saying it’s unnatural, and all he does is attract every pest known to man. His version of organic is do bugger all. Then he complains when the professional fruit growers in the area dob him in to the authorities. Blames me because I’m closest.”
“Doesn’t he bother you?”
“Nah. He gives me a laugh sometimes. Apart from the farming menace aspect. But we’ve got it under control, now.” He looked at her pointedly. “I don’t have anything to do with him. And I don’t have to live
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