For His Eyes Only by Liz Fielding

she said as they bounced, very slowly, through a tunnel of fresh new summer leaves along a dirt track so narrow that the frothy billow of cow parsley brushed both the sides of the Land Rover.
    ‘If we do, they’d better have a good reason for being here,’ he said. ‘This is estate land.’
    ‘This is the back way in?’ she asked, trying to recall a map she’d seen, orientate herself. A chalk stream, low after an unusually dry spring, was curling quietly around shingle banks just below them on the right, which put them at the lower end of the estate and, as she turned and looked up, she caught a glimpse of tall chimneys through a gap in the trees.
    ‘The main road goes round in a long loop to bypass the village,’ he said. ‘This entrance is known only to estate residents, who have more respect for their suspension than to use it, and locals doing a little rough shooting for the pot.’
    She looked at him. ‘Do you mean poachers?’
    ‘My grandfather would have called them that,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a problem with the neighbours keeping the pigeon and rabbit population under control in return for the odd trout.’
    ‘Well, that’s very neighbourly, but people who buy this kind of property tend to be nervous of unidentified gunfire,’ she said, trying to pin down what exactly was wrong with the way he said ‘grandfather’. ‘If...when...I find you a buyer, someone had better warn the locals that they’ll have to find their small game somewhere else.’
    His jaw tightened, but all he said was, ‘I’ll make sure Gary passes the word. When... if... you find a buyer. Having burned the midnight oil and spent the drive down here leaving the work to your subconscious,’ he said, ‘have you got any further than creating a Facebook page?’
    ‘It’s a work in progress,’ she admitted. Between reliving their close encounter in his studio and wondering how soon they could manage a replay, she hadn’t been giving nearly enough thought to saving her career. ‘What I need is a story.’
    ‘A story?’ He slowed almost to a stop, looking at her instead of the track.
    ‘Relax, Darius, I’ve got the message. Your name is off limits. Cross my heart,’ she added and then, as his eyes darkened, she drew her finger, very slowly, across her left breast in a large X.
    His foot slipped from the accelerator, the engine stalled and only the ticking of the engine disturbed a silence so thick that it filled her ears.
    ‘You are in so much trouble, Natasha Gordon,’ he said, his face all dark shadows, his eyes shimmering with heat.
    ‘Is that a promise?’ she asked, her breath catching in her throat. ‘Or are you all talk?’
    The click of their seat belts being released was like a shotgun in the silence and then his hands were on her waist and, without quite knowing how she’d got there, she was straddling his thighs, her mouth a breath away from lips that had haunted her since the moment she’d first seen him.
    She wiggled a little, snuggling her backside closer to the impressive bulge in his jeans, and he groaned. ‘Correction. I’m in so much trouble...’
    ‘Talk, talk, talk...’ she murmured against his mouth, cutting off any attempt at a response with a swirl of her tongue over his lower lip. There was a satisfying buck from his hips and, giving no quarter, she sucked it into her mouth.
    Darius leaned back to give her more room.
    There had been a bulge in his pants ever since she’d appeared on her doorstep in curve-disguising clothes, her hair in restraints, minimal make-up. She’d been doing her best to appear cool but she hadn’t needed lipstick to draw attention to a mouth that had been hot, swollen, screaming kiss me at a hundred decibels.
    He just about managed to restrain himself—if he’d kissed her they would never have left London and he wanted this over. He’d done a good job of keeping his mind on the road while he was driving along the motorway, but then she’d fallen asleep