Wildwood (9 page)

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.’ The line went dead.

Fifteen minutes later I heard the grunt of his big four-wheel-drive vehicle outside and I came out, keys in hand. He’d already emerged from the driver’s side. ‘Come on,’ he said; ‘let’s go.’ From his manner on the phone I’d expected to find him in a bad mood, but there was a smile on his face. He was impatient certainly, but he looked pleased with himself.

‘To the wood?’

‘Oh yes.’ He was wearing more casual clothes today but they still looked neat and expensive. In fact a second glance suggested that they were brand new, fresh from the packet. The creases on his cotton trousers were still sharp and his Timberlands were unscuffed. City boy, I said to myself.

I went round and climbed up into the passenger seat and the scent of clean leather and some
parfum pour homme
filled the car’s interior. I inhaled with secret pleasure. I checked out the dashboard admiringly, though the vehicle I really aspired to myself was a beat-up Land Rover that stank of two-stroke and collie dog.

‘Nice motor.’

‘Hold on,’ Deverick warned, releasing the handbrake and slamming the difflock. We sprang forwards. He took the car straight across the estate as if it were a paved road, completely indifferent to the terrain and the threat to his transmission, slewing around bushes and lurching up and down folds in the ground, ploughing through bonnet-high foliage which might have hidden rocks or fallen trees or anything. ‘Oh God!’ I gasped once. I had to grab at the overhead handle straight away and brace my feet; my butt didn’t stay in contact with the bucking upholstery for more than a second at a time. My knee-jerk exasperation at his showing off gave way to exhilaration as we careered through the orchard and, with both of us grinning
and
whooping like teenagers on a roller coaster, finally drew up near the old Wood Gate.

‘What do you think?’ He turned his dazzling smile on me.

I shook my head expressively; none of the phrases that sprang to mind were the sort you could use on your boss. ‘More money than sense’ was the politest of them. ‘Is that how you drive in London?’ I sputtered, laughing.

‘I go rallying at weekends. I find it relaxing after a long week in the city.’

Now there was a hobby I could relate to. I warmed to him, just a bit. ‘Nice.’

He turned sideways in his seat to look at me. ‘So tell me, have you been to the Eden Project, Avril?’

The change of tack took me by surprise. ‘Not yet. I mean to, because we’re quite close here, aren’t we? But I’ve had so much to do.’

‘Well, as it happens I’ve got a function to attend there shortly. A dinner party, you understand. After hours. I could do with a partner and I thought you might like to 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 the point where my thighs brushed together. For a moment he paused there, making a point of not forcing me into anything. Assessing my readiness. I could smell his aftershave and his warm skin. My shoulders were rammed hard into the car seat, my spine taut with alarm. I might have done a number of things at that moment: I might
have
slapped his hand away or opened my door to jump out or told him exactly how unprofessional I thought his conduct. What I did was allow my legs to ever so slightly part to his touch, letting his fingers continue their journey right up into the hot pocket of my crotch and press against my pubic mound.

His eyes widened slightly as he acknowledged my complicity.

The seams on my jeans were sturdy and it would take a fair pressure to make any friction felt through them. He gave me that pressure. His grasp was firm, his fingers strong. They squeezed my mons and stroked the hidden crease of my sex with long, sure movements. I arched against the seat back, curling my lip to bare my teeth, barely breathing, my outrage and displeasure as undisguised as my submission. I couldn’t wrench my own gaze from his face, from those slightly parted lips and those merciless blue eyes fixed in intent concentration on his task. He wasn’t smiling but I could read the pleasure he was getting from his control and from my surrender. He caught his lower lip in his teeth as he delved deeper, his wrist working hard, and I writhed my hips shamelessly against the invasion. His thumb ground back and forth across my zip. Control was slipping rapidly away from me, swept aside by wave after wave of pleasurable sensation, each demanding the next. A flush blazed up my throat and cheeks. Oh, oh, oh, I cried in my head, my lips shaping inarticulate monosyllables, my tongue suddenly craving his. The hard edge of his hand mashed into my swollen sex. I arched my back, thrusting my breasts up, and then suddenly my sight was glazing over and I was bucking helplessly and he was hearing for the first time the broken little gasps and moans of my climax.

‘That’s right,’ he whispered as he pleasured me. Then as my last spasms died away he withdrew his hand and glanced at
his
gold Rolex. ‘Not more than a couple of minutes then,’ he sighed. ‘How tedious for you.’

I threw open the passenger door and staggered out, slamming it behind me. Then I had to lean back against the side of the car because my legs had gone to quivering jelly. Shame was almost overwhelming.

I heard his door open and then close. ‘Let me know if you change your mind about the Eden Project,’ he said. Then he walked away.

What could I do after that? I followed him up the slope to the eaves of the wood. Inside my jeans my pussy was all squishy with juices and my backside felt swollen, and on my cheeks was a scarlet flag of embarrassment, but there was no other alternative. Anything else would be running away.

When I caught up to him just in front of the Wood Gate he didn’t even glance at me. His gaze rested on the mossy bars in much the same way as most people’s might rest on a box they knew to be full of snakes. ‘Is this the way you came in?’

I was shocked. Was that it? He’d frigged me senseless and now he’d moved on to something more important? ‘Yeah,’ I mumbled.

‘Did you climb it or open it?’

‘I climbed over.’

He shoved his fists into his pockets, feet firmly planted. ‘Hm. Did you climb the hill?’

‘No.’ I shook my head, and then wondered at myself. I’d meant to climb the hill, hadn’t I, to start with? I’d hoped for a view over the land. ‘There’s a lot of dead wood,’ I muttered. ‘I ended up going that way.’ I pointed vaguely round the right flank of the mound.

‘I see.’

I walked past him to the gate and laid my hand on the top bar, intending to climb. Then for the first time that day I took
a
proper look into the wood and I frowned. ‘That’s new,’ I said sharply.

‘What?’

‘Those.’ I pointed up into the trees at the ropes and the pallet-wood platforms. My eyes were picking out more details with every moment: plastic-sheathed bivouacs on the forest floor, ladders up some of the trunks, canvas slings hung up like hammocks twenty foot above the ground. ‘I swear they weren’t there yesterday!’

Michael snorted, then filled his lungs. ‘Ash!’ he roared.

Rooks exploded from the treetops, cawing. Then figures began to appear, crawling out from their benders and sliding down their ropes. Wiry, smoke-grimed figures clad in khaki and hand-knitted Tibetan woollies. Men and women, all sharp cheekbones and knotted hair. The beards were straggly, the braids long unwashed, the eyes bright with the prospect of confrontation. One woman nursed a baby at her bare breast, one man cradled a rawhide drum under his arm which he began to beat upon. They whistled and called to one another, grinned and lit cigarettes and eyed us up. One young man pranced about painted green and wearing only a loincloth; he turned his back and flipped it up to display for our benefit a pair of scrawny green buttocks.

‘Ash!’ demanded Michael, ignoring them all as best he could. ‘Where are you?’

Ash? He came out last, my tree-hugging animal-lover. Michael knew him already then. I stepped away from the gate, my head spinning. After all, the last time we’d seen each other we’d both been butt-naked and he’d just fucked a … a …

Woah. This was way too much for me to deal with, just after getting my button pressed by Michael. I’d hoped to face Ash with some semblance of dignity but right now I didn’t know what the hell anyone was playing at, myself least of all.

‘Showing your face finally then,’ said Michael with a measure of triumph.

‘Finally.’ The two men faced each other across the gate, jaws set, eyes hard. No love lost there, I thought.

‘You look like crap. The country life not suiting you?’

‘I can cope for a while yet.’

Michael had a point; Ash looked dog-weary and black shadows lurked under his eyes. He looked, unsurprisingly, like he’d been up all night – and then some. His glance had barely passed over me as he came to the gate and I felt relieved; all his attention was on Michael.

‘And what’s going on with this lot?’ With a jerk of his chin my employer indicated their raggle-taggle audience.

‘Like it?’ Ash hooked his thumb in his belt. ‘There’s a camp at every gate now.’ He tapped what was presumably a mobile phone in his pocket. ‘And I’ve got every local reporter in the area on this.’

‘Just what the hell’s that in aid of?’

‘Publicity, Deverick. Just in case you try anything really silly involving heavy machinery. You don’t like publicity much, do you?’

My eyebrows rose at this. The memory of standing face to face with this man with not a stitch of clothing on either of us was horribly clear. I wished my knickers weren’t awash with my own stickiness. Especially when he looked over at me – but then he said coolly, ‘And I’ll warn you now, we’ve started spiking the trees.’

‘
What?
’ I was horrified. Spiking trees is really nasty Earth-First stuff: driving metal spikes deep into the living wood where they can’t be seen but cause any chainsaw coming into contact to kick back into its operator’s face. ‘What d’you think we’re trying to do here? Nobody’s planning on felling the wood, you idiot!’

‘Good. Then you’ll be safe.’ He looked at Michael. ‘Won’t she?’

Michael glowered.

‘Tell him you’re not planning to fell,’ I said recklessly. ‘Are you?’

He didn’t even look in my direction. ‘I want access to my wood. By any means necessary.’

‘But it’s not your wood,’ said Ash, his grin more a baring of his teeth.