Wildwood by Janine Ashbless Page A

come along with me.’
    The smile fell off my face. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’ I was suddenly far too conscious of how close we were sitting, of how intimate the space was, of how much the car was his territory.
    ‘Really? I’d have thought it would suit you perfectly. Guided tours of the rare plant collections; behind the scenes in the tropical rainforest dome with trees you’ve never even seen growing in this country …?’
    ‘Ah,’ I said, horribly tempted. He was playing dirty. I shook my head. ‘Look, Mr Deverick –’
    ‘Michael.’ His eyes twinkled.
    Not subtle. It put steel into my glance and my voice. ‘Take my word for it, I’m not the dinner-party type. You really don’t want me there, believe me. It’s just not my thing.’
    ‘What? Good food, fine wine, beautiful clothes, a little conversation?’
    I met his eyes, wishing they weren’t so blue, wishing my treacherous body wasn’t melting under their glance. ‘Champagne?’
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘I can’t stand champagne. Rich dull people in fancy clothes talking about share prices and the trials of yachting at Cannes? I’d go mad and bite someone.’ I ignored the way his lips quirked in a smile at that and shook my head in despair. ‘I’m just not into that sort of thing. My idea of good living is a roast dinner in a pub and a pint of Old Peculier. Don’t waste your time, Michael; I’m not your type.’
    ‘Yachting at Cannes? Is that what I do?’
    ‘Tell me you don’t own a yacht.’
    ‘No … I own a powerboat,’ he admitted.
    My snort was restrained. ‘I stand corrected.’
    ‘You tell me, then,’ he said softly. ‘What’s your idea of a perfect day out?’
    My pussy was turning to hot mush. I wondered if I was going to leave a stain on his suede upholstery. I rolled my eyes. ‘Mine? I’d like to wake up at dawn and run straight out onto the beach with my board. Catch the morning light on the wet sand. Then spend the day surfing big waves with a whole crowd of mates, maybe stop for chips and a plastic cup of tea from the van pulled up on the slipway, but basically keep going till we’re so tired we can hardly wade through the surf. Then get changed and hit the pub for a proper dinner, me and my friends, sink a few pints of beer to wash down all the salt water and just talk and have a good laugh and enjoy ourselves.’ I smiled fondly.
    ‘And after that?’ said Michael softly. ‘Back to your cosy cottage to watch the TV? Or – no – perhaps slipping out into the warm night and over the stile into the field behind the pub. Giggling, a little drunk, but perfectly sure you know what you’re doing and how right it is. Lying on the warm grass, listening to the cows munching behind the hedge and the thrush calling, feeling his lips on your throat as you stare at the crescent moon. The taste of the sea salt on each other’s skin. The smell of the crushed grass. The warmth of his wiry body on yours, shielding you from the night breeze. His weight between your thighs.’
    He was looking deep into my eyes, his expression grave. Mine was frozen, not because I was offended but because somehow he had described in perfect detail the night I’d first got off with Scott.
    He relaxed and glanced away. ‘Just a guess,’ he said, deferentially. ‘I’m good at guessing.’
    ‘No kidding,’ I whispered. I could feel the pulse in my crotch.
    He flicked a smile. ‘So what you’re really saying isn’t that you’re not my type, but that I’m not yours. That an evening of my company would be too boring for words.’
    An evening in his company would be terrifying. I wanted out of the car. I wanted out before I fell apart like casseroled chicken and let the big bad wolf eat me up. Words clogged in my throat.
    ‘I wonder,’ he mused, ‘how long I could keep you entertained?’ And he slipped his hand gently onto my thigh.
    I quivered. His eyes held mine as he slid his fingers up the inner seam of my denims to