Page 78 of Summer At Willow Tree Farm

He stepped into her personal space. The smell of fresh water and the underlying hint of man had her catching her breath, audibly.

‘When did I agree to that?’

She tried to get her objections in order, but the sight of him, the smell of him, so close was having a predictable effect.

‘We can’t have an affair, it would be too awkward, for Dee… And Toto. And it would be beyond confusing for Josh. I only told him three nights ago that I’m divorcing his father. He’s still processing that and…’

‘Who says they have to find out?’

‘But… What?’ Her voice trailed off into breathlessness as he bent to put his work boots on. The narrowed expression when he straightened was even more exciting than his damp T-shirt. Blast the man.

‘How could they not find out?’ Was that hope she could hear in her voice? Or madness? ‘We all live in the same house? And we both know from Jacob and Maddy that sound carries in this house.’ He remained mute as her common sense explanation gathered pace. ‘I’m not having sex with you with my son and your daughter and my mother right down the hall.’ Of that much she was certain… Or certain-ish. The feral glint in his eyes doing weird things to her resolve. ‘They might hear us.’

There were loads of other reasons why this would be a very bad idea, why couldn’t she verbalise a single one of them?

‘Get some shoes on,’ he said.

‘What? Why?’

‘I’ve got a place I want you to see.’

‘Where?’ she said, fairly sure she should not go anywhere with this man. Because she could not trust the endorphins rampaging round her body like teenagers at their first all-night Acid House rave.

His lips tipped up, the elicit smile a devastating combination of smug and sexy. ‘It’s a surprise.’

She waited two pregnant seconds. Should she go? Could she stay? And spend another night fighting the memory of having that hot avid mouth on hers?

She cursed and shot into her room to slip on walking boots over her bare feet. She must look ridiculous, but when she returned to the doorway, he took her hand and led her down the stairs without a word.

He dragged her out into the starry night, the air warm and still. He found his way in the darkness as if he had twenty-twenty night vision, leading her through the farm outbuildings, past his workshop, and round the back of the shop, and into the woods. The night smelled of wild honeysuckle and wet earth.

They followed the track that circumnavigated the millpond. It reminded her of another night two weeks ago, when she’d foolishly embarked on a midnight stroll.

Where is he taking me? And why am I going? What am I? A lemming?

But the denial eluded her, as his hand flexed on hers. She stumbled over something and his grip tightened.

‘You OK?’ he asked as he steadied her.

‘Yes,’ she managed, past burning lungs.

He guided her over a stile and then led her up the hill through the trees. A cloud passed over the moon, but, as her vision adjusted to the darkness, a shape appeared through the treeline at the top of the meadow.

‘What’s that?’ she mumbled, as the shape morphed into a bow-top gypsy caravan similar to the one in his workshop.

‘Somewhere private.’

He let go of her hand to climb the steps and swing open the door.

She stoppe

d in the doorway, both unbearably aroused and completely horrified. With herself and him. What was she doing here? What were they doing here? This was still a really bad idea.

But, even as she lectured herself on the sense of letting Art drag her away from the safety of the farmhouse, she couldn’t find the will to move.

He dug around in the darkness. A scratching sound was followed by the scent of kerosene. The soft glow of a lamp illuminated the caravan’s interior. It was beautiful, compact and cosy but also luxuriously finished. Her pulse skipped and skidded at the sight of the double bed built into the end of the space, covered by a colourful patchwork quilt which had to be her mother’s work.

She dragged her gaze away from it, to encounter a series of expertly finished dark wood cabinets which had to be Art’s work, with a gas stove and an icebox on top. Gingham curtains, like the ones in her room, fluttered over the narrow windows propped open on one side. The fresh scent of lemon polish and the fragrant smell of summer flowers infused the air.

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