In Vino Veritas by J. M. Gregson Page B

noticed, the old road into Ross rather than the M50. Nothing wrong with that; it was the shorter, if not the quicker, way. But she would rather have been on a route which carried more traffic; this road was hardly used at all since the motorway had become available.
    Beaumont said nothing for a full two minutes, so that she hoped he had seen there was nothing in this for him; hopefully, he was thinking, as she was, about being mildly embarrassed when they met at work the next day.
    Then, abruptly, he swung the big car into the deserted parking space beside the old road. ‘It’s time we had a little talk,’ he said.
    â€˜Just drive me into Ross as you promised to do, please,’ Sarah said primly.
    The speed of his movement caught her by surprise. He flung himself suddenly across her. His hand clutched her shoulder and he kissed her clumsily, holding her lips against his until she managed to twist her mouth away from him. His breath was hot and damp in her ear. ‘You must be able to see what you do to a man, you little minx,’ he muttered. ‘Parading yourself up and down at the vineyard, twitching your hips as though you don’t know what you’re doing.’
    She felt as though she had got herself involved in a bad play. He surely could not be saying these things. She felt the panic of claustrophobia which she had known when she was a child, pinned to the floor by other children. Her seat belt was still fastened, and there was no way she could release it with this great bear of a man leaning on her like this. She tried to bring her knee up between his legs, to slam it into his balls the way the self-defence manuals taught you to resist, but his leg was splayed across her, pinning her own thighs to the seat. ‘Let me go! Get your fucking hands off me!’ she shouted into his face.
    She did not know where the word had come from: it was one she hadn’t used in years. Her voice, harsh and grating with panic, seemed to have come from someone else. The smell of his aftershave crammed itself into her nose and her mouth, making her want to retch. Past the edge of his head, she could see a low wall, a field, bright green beneath the still steady sun and dotted with black and white cows, an innocent world which seemed to exist but be far beyond her reach.
    His hand was on her knee now, trying to lift her skirt, the thick fingers sliding higher even as she tried to prise them off. ‘You’re not as innocent and wide-eyed as you pretend you are, young Sarah. You’re a mature woman, like you said. You know what life’s about and you’re up for it really, however much you try to come the nun.’
    Sarah managed at last to get her left arm free from under him, to bring it up and get a handful of the hair at the back of his head. She twisted her fingers to secure her grip, then tugged as hard as she could, bringing a scream and a clutch of obscenities from the mouth that was now six inches above her face and full of pain as well as lust. She was sure afterwards that it was the sight of that pain which gave her strength. She twisted abruptly sideways, brought the knee which still had his hand upon it up between his legs, bringing a new gasp of pain from him as he yelled, ‘You bitch! You crazy bitch!’
    She had the door of the car open as he clutched himself, but she was not quick enough with the unfamiliar catch on the safety belt. She was still fumbling with it when he clutched her arm with both of his hands, shouting, ‘Stay where you are! If you don’t want it, don’t have it, you bitch! I’ll drop you off at the garage in Ross as promised. You can keep your hand on your precious halfpenny!’
    He reached across her, pulled shut the door she had managed to open. Sarah was still fumbling with the wretched safety-belt clasp. He restarted the engine, revving it furiously in his confusion, then moved out of the lay-by and back on to the road. They had