Farm Fatale by Wendy Holden Page B

not easy.
        "Resting heart rate of sixty-five," Guy called back. "Fittest fiftysomething on the block, I am. Been busy, darling?"
        A scuffling sound as he picked up one of the country homes magazines from the kitchen table. Samantha rolled her eyes impatiently. "Come upstairs, darling," she called.
        But Guy seemed absorbed in whatever he was reading. An incredulous snort reached her from the basement kitchen. "To shift hard-water deposits from the bases of bathroom taps, scrub with an old toothbrush dipped in vinegar…" Guy yelled up the stairs in astonishment. "What's all this about?"
        "Christabel," shouted Samantha, as sexily as she could. They were at least getting on to the subject.
        " Christabel ?" echoed Guy disbelievingly. "Who the hell's that? New cleaner or something? Must say it would be nice to have something slightly foxier to look at than Consuela."
        Samantha's lips tightened. Not now, not ever was the time to point out that Consuela's lack of foxiness was the whole point of her.
        At last, Guy jogged up the steps and appeared in the sitting room. "Bloody hell," he said as his gaze descended from the curls tumbling seductively round her face, past her exposed nipples to her fishnetted thighs. As Samantha, running her tongue round her lips, lifted her legs and slowly placed a stiletto-heeled foot on either side of the daybed, he registered the knickers as well.
        "Shall we go into the bedroom?" she purred.
        "No," gasped Guy, tearing himself out of his clothes. "Stay right where you are."
        Like hell, thought Samantha, sitting up so quickly on the daybed that it felt as if she had left half her back behind.
        Five minutes later, she was slipping her bra straps off her shoulders and admiring herself in the unframed mirror that stood propped against the wall at the bottom of the futon. Beneath the sheer fabric, her breasts rose full, ripe, and brown—the breasts, Samantha thought smugly, of someone ten years younger. Which they could well be—who knew what or who the plastic surgeon had stuck in there.
        In her best Mrs. Robinson fashion, she peeled off the fishnet stockings and, pushing a hand through her rumpled auburn hair, smoldered at her husband in the mirror. She had sneaked this into the house in blatant contravention of Basia's rules; its life-or-death necessity was the one thing on which she had stood firm.
        Guy, reflected behind her on the futon, was standing pretty firm himself. His stiffly erect penis protruded beneath the swollen roundness of his stomach.
        Samantha turned and gave him a burning look from beneath her eyelashes. "I'm a lioness," she informed him in a sibilant hiss. "Hunting for my prey." Her bracelets and watch rattled loudly together as, snarling, she pretended to slash at the air with a paw. Guy grinned appreciatively and grunted in reply. Lion Hunter, Samantha knew, was his favorite game. If this didn't persuade him, nothing would.
        But even here Basia had managed to bugger things up. The slow, threatening big-cat lope toward Guy, in which the sight of her thigh muscles flexing was central to building up his excitement, was perfectly possible on the thick-piled carpet of old. Even if Marina had put it there. Post-Basia, emulating the Queen of the Jungle was less about growling, more trying not to squeal as the bare beech boards, chosen for their knotted qualities, pressed agonizingly into Samantha's bony knees. Guy, however, noticed nothing of this; his attention was fixed unwaveringly on her breasts as, swaying and spilling generously out of the feathered bra, they approached him over the futon.
        Breathing in short, excited bursts, Guy squealed in excitement as his wife cuffed him with a heavily beringed hand. Springing forward, he clamped both hands on Samantha's breasts; she, in turn, locked both legs round his waist so he fell back onto the mattress. A sharp