polished, but when a grey-haired man in a classic E-type Jaguar pulled up beside her at the traffic lights, she cast a long, covetous look at it. She’d always dreamed of driving a sports car – something that would have made James Bond drool. She’d been leaning towards something more modern and kick-ass, but the long, sleek lines of the classic 1960s icon surely did look good.
Her attention drifted to the driver, who, sensing eyes on him, glanced her way. No doubt he was used to his car turning heads. But when his eyes met the large grey eyes of the striking-looking, spiky-haired blonde woman, they widened slightly in appreciation.
Gemma gave him the long, slow, sexy smile. The smile that was so meaningless to Guy. Had she been so attracted to Guy Brindley, the blind maestro, solely because she couldn’t use her killer smile on him? Had he represented more of a challenge solely because he couldn’t admire her long, lean, grace? Her bony, intriguing face? But then, it had been her own damaged, gravelly voice that had first caught his attention, so perhaps her seduction of him hadn’t been much different from her seduction of other men.
He was still attracted to the physical. Only the specifics had changed.
The driver of the E-type was still staring at her when the lights changed to green, and it was Gemma, her foot already poised over the clutch, her hand ready on the gearstick, who raced away first. Uninspired Fiesta or not.
She smiled in triumph, but as she headed into the suburbs of Banbury, she felt a hard, hot, familiar glow spread into her stomach.
One day, she was going to have that sports car. That villa in the sun somewhere. That designer wardrobe, the jewels, the expensive perfumes that had been specifically made up for her by her own ‘little chemist’ in Paris.
And they wouldn’t be provided for her by a lover, either.
Well. Not technically.
Keith Barrington turned off the main Oxford-Banbury road a mile or so south of a little spot on the map called Hopcroft’s Holt, and found himself driving down a narrow country lane.On all sides of him, pungent May blossom was in bloom, and the roadsides frothed with cow parsley. In all his explorations of the countryside surrounding Headquarters, he’d never made it to this particular village before.
A narrow bridge over a twisting river led him to a small but pretty enough place, and as he pulled up on a grass verge, he heard ducks fighting.
He found Number 23, Laburnum Terrace, after a bit of searching. A modern-build, with neighbours crowding in all around, it still managed to look pretty and cottage-like, and he wasn’t surprised to see the garden host to not one but two, spectacularly flowering laburnum trees. He eyed the dangling, grape-like clusters of yellow flowers with a vague sense of unease. Weren’t they supposed to be poisonous or something?
He walked up a garden path bordered by all sorts of flowering things, stopping now and then to let ponderous bumble bees have the right of way. By the time he reached the tiny upside-down V of a porch, smothered in flowering clematis montana, the door was already opening. Obviously, his arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Marion and Judy Druther, according to the last Ale and Arty club member he’d talked to, were specialists in stained-glass. Now, Keith found himself showing his ID card to Marion Druther, a pleasant-faced forty-something with a large mass of curly dark hair and slightly small, button-like dark eyes. Her fingers were stained a funny yellow, he noticed, as she reached to draw his card nearer her face. Whether that was due to the nicotine stains of a heavy smoker, or something to do with the mysterious process of creating stained-glass, he wasn’t sure.
‘Sorry, haven’t got my proper glasses on,’ Marion Druther said, and from the behind her, she heard a younger voice laugh.
‘You haven’t got any glasses on, Mum! They’re still hanging around your neck.’
They were too,
Her attention drifted to the driver, who, sensing eyes on him, glanced her way. No doubt he was used to his car turning heads. But when his eyes met the large grey eyes of the striking-looking, spiky-haired blonde woman, they widened slightly in appreciation.
Gemma gave him the long, slow, sexy smile. The smile that was so meaningless to Guy. Had she been so attracted to Guy Brindley, the blind maestro, solely because she couldn’t use her killer smile on him? Had he represented more of a challenge solely because he couldn’t admire her long, lean, grace? Her bony, intriguing face? But then, it had been her own damaged, gravelly voice that had first caught his attention, so perhaps her seduction of him hadn’t been much different from her seduction of other men.
He was still attracted to the physical. Only the specifics had changed.
The driver of the E-type was still staring at her when the lights changed to green, and it was Gemma, her foot already poised over the clutch, her hand ready on the gearstick, who raced away first. Uninspired Fiesta or not.
She smiled in triumph, but as she headed into the suburbs of Banbury, she felt a hard, hot, familiar glow spread into her stomach.
One day, she was going to have that sports car. That villa in the sun somewhere. That designer wardrobe, the jewels, the expensive perfumes that had been specifically made up for her by her own ‘little chemist’ in Paris.
And they wouldn’t be provided for her by a lover, either.
Well. Not technically.
Keith Barrington turned off the main Oxford-Banbury road a mile or so south of a little spot on the map called Hopcroft’s Holt, and found himself driving down a narrow country lane.On all sides of him, pungent May blossom was in bloom, and the roadsides frothed with cow parsley. In all his explorations of the countryside surrounding Headquarters, he’d never made it to this particular village before.
A narrow bridge over a twisting river led him to a small but pretty enough place, and as he pulled up on a grass verge, he heard ducks fighting.
He found Number 23, Laburnum Terrace, after a bit of searching. A modern-build, with neighbours crowding in all around, it still managed to look pretty and cottage-like, and he wasn’t surprised to see the garden host to not one but two, spectacularly flowering laburnum trees. He eyed the dangling, grape-like clusters of yellow flowers with a vague sense of unease. Weren’t they supposed to be poisonous or something?
He walked up a garden path bordered by all sorts of flowering things, stopping now and then to let ponderous bumble bees have the right of way. By the time he reached the tiny upside-down V of a porch, smothered in flowering clematis montana, the door was already opening. Obviously, his arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Marion and Judy Druther, according to the last Ale and Arty club member he’d talked to, were specialists in stained-glass. Now, Keith found himself showing his ID card to Marion Druther, a pleasant-faced forty-something with a large mass of curly dark hair and slightly small, button-like dark eyes. Her fingers were stained a funny yellow, he noticed, as she reached to draw his card nearer her face. Whether that was due to the nicotine stains of a heavy smoker, or something to do with the mysterious process of creating stained-glass, he wasn’t sure.
‘Sorry, haven’t got my proper glasses on,’ Marion Druther said, and from the behind her, she heard a younger voice laugh.
‘You haven’t got any glasses on, Mum! They’re still hanging around your neck.’
They were too,
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