Page 66 of Vine

Christ they were up themselves. No consideration of a world beyond the television studios. “Forgive me if I disagree,” I said drily.

“You’ll agree when you see it.”

“I very much doubt that.”

Why had it taken me so long to notice how weak he was? Adapting his opinions to suit other peoples? Always parking theblame elsewhere, dodging responsibility, getting his excuses in first.

Feeling my annoyance rising, I stood and brushed myself down, careful as always to keep my cuffs low over my wrists. Leigh’s spiteful gaze missed nothing. “He’s got a still image of your arms, by the way,” he offered, picking at grass in an offhand fashion, like he was passing that on as an afterthought. Knowing him, it was probably the whole point of the visit. “From when we did the Broadway show.”

My pulse quickened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sorry, Caspy. Obviously, I told him using it was unfair, but, you know, can’t interfere with a genius at work, can we? Though if you get on and sign the breakfast telly thing, I might be able to persuade him not to use it.”

My stomach contracted into a tight ball. I really needed to get away from Leigh. A few minutes longer and I could. Thank fuck this hot endless day of filming was drawing to a close.

On cue, the low rumbling of a heavy diesel engine cut through my escalating disquiet. A big blue tractor slowed down outside the vineyard gates, turning both our heads, and I blew out a long breath.

“It’s only that weird bloke from the other gatehouse,” observed Leigh. The engine rumbling swelled in volume as the tractor turned through the gates. “Bit odd him hanging around all the time, isn’t it? Except he came in handy when you took a nose-dive, didn’t he? Mind you, manhandling you like that. Where did he take you, by the way? Not sure I’d want to be alone with…”

“His name’s Max,” I interrupted. “Max La Forge. He’s an oyster farmer.”

Parking the tractor next to the gatehouse, Max switched off the engine and jumped down from the cab with much more grace than I expected from him. His blue waders, hugging his bigframe like a second skin, matched the colour of the paintwork on the bonnet. At the sight of him, my heart rate slowed a little more. Shielding them from the glare of the sun, Max’s eyes searched the vineyard.

“I wouldn’t want to meet him down a dark alley,” Leigh commented. “He’s got a screw loose, I reckon. Always looks ready to start a fight with someone.”

“Nah,” I grinned to myself, feeling quite restored. “That’s his I’m-going-to-haul-you-back-to-my-lair-and-fuck-you-against-the-kitchen-counter-face. Subtly different.” It was more his ‘hey-Caspian-you-must-listen-to-this-thing-I-heard-on-the-radio-about-slugs face’, but my retort was so much better.

“What?” Leigh snorted. “No thanks. I’m not sure the oafish caveman vibe he’s got going does it for me.”

“You’re missing out, mate.”

I gave a little wave. Max responded with a curt nod, then swaggered over, as if he owned the place. As if he owned me. Can’t lie. It was kind of hot.

“Works for me just fine,” I said, stepping forward. “Feel free to keep the cameras rolling, Leigh. Take as many snaps as you like. I’m off on a date.”

CHAPTER 25

MAX

Caspian’s kiss was a fierce thing. Tasting of fresh earth and bitter salt, like a violent collision between the vines and the sea. And, even better, our tongues were wrapped around each other’s tonsils not five metres from his gawping pig of an ex-husband.

“I like your date outfit,” he whispered against my mouth as he gave my waders a little pinch. “It’s hot.”

I pinched him back. “My red sequinned pair are hanging over the steering wheel.” I was getting good at jokes.

Caspian’s hand slipped around to my arse and gave it a squeeze. “Then what are we waiting for, big man?”

He folded his hand into mine. Not looking back, we headed to the tractor. “It’s only got one seat,” he commented as I swung myself into the cab.

I patted my broad thigh. “No it hasn’t.”

For years and years, I’d spent Friday and Saturday nights behind the wheel of my tractor instead of going on dates. Who knew you could do both? Caspian’s cute bum jiggled up and down as I drove, warming the length of my thigh. With every bump in the road, his grin stretched wider.

“Where are we going?” he shouted in my ear.

“On a date,” I shouted back.

The coast road grew narrower and sandier. As the ocean glimpses between the trees lessened, the cyclists and cars petered out too, the rutted, sandy track an impediment to both. After a few more minutes, I slowed in front of a thick padlocked chain linked between two trees and bearing the wordskeep out. Hopping down, I removed it, drove through, then reattached it. “My cousin’s land,” I explained. “Lots of islanders own patches like this.”

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