‘What are you doing here?’ Isobel asks as I slowly lower my thigh from between hers. It’s as though the pace of lowering it might detract from what we were clearing up to. I’m thankful that the bulk of my body shields hers as I hook my fingers into the cups of her bra, pulling the fabric back into place before I lower her sweater.
Unfortunately, my modest sentiments aren’t returned as her own hand moves from my dick to my hip where she pushes gently, encouraging me to turn.
‘I’m not decent,’ I grate out with an expressive raise of my brows. Her lips are a soft moue, her gaze full of mirth. ‘Don’t you dare laugh. This isn’t funny.’
‘No, of course not,’ she agrees, pulling my shirt straight to cover me.
I turn, preferring not to notice that she’s taken hold of my hand.
‘Sweetie! What ever are you doing here?’ The owner of the voice is around five foot eight and wearing the kind of coat that would look at home on a German Field Marshal, circa 1935. Except for the fact that this coat is blue and sports an orange fur collar.
‘What do you mean, what am I doing here?’ Isobel returns. ‘I’ve been staying here, remember? The wedding? The fact that you were supposed to be here, too?’
Thank heaven for small mercies, as my auld granny used to say.
Isobel relinquishes her hold on my hand, meeting her friend near her wee car where they hug like they haven’t seen each other in years. Meanwhile, I notice two other men walking towards us, too.
‘You silly, silly girl.’ My gaze slides from Mo and Isobel as he chastises her for something I don’t quite get.
‘Jim.’ I hold my hand out in greeting to local village policeman. I wasn’t lying that night she turned up when I said I used to go to school with him. ‘How’s it goin’?’
‘No’ so bad, Greg. No so bad. I see you’ve had yoursel’ a busy few days.’ His head jerks in the direction of Isobel as she animatedly discusses the trials and tribulations of being snowed in. I say nothing. Jim is what my granny would’ve called a sweetie-wife. I prefer the term gobshite, but that would’ve earned me a clout around the ear back then. The man is a gossip, pure and simple, so I share nothing with him. But even though I say nothing, I can read his expression pretty well.
Gaun, yersel’—she’s pure tidy, that one!
Roughly translated: lucky me for being snowed in with a woman as gorgeous as Isobel.
‘Greg,’ Jim begins again, ‘this here is The Earl of—’
‘Will. Just Will.’ The man thrusts out his hand, and though I take it, what I really want to do is give my head a shake or wiggle my finger in my ear. Isobel has brought the polis and a member of the aristocracy to my door? Not that he looks like a toff, apart from the regulation Barbour wax jacket and the Land Rover Defender parked beyond the fence.
‘His Lordship—’
‘Will. Or Travers,’ the man corrects with a fierce look. ‘Either will do.’
‘Aye, well,’ Jim says, pushing his police-issued cap back on his head, ‘he’s a personal friend of Mr Mohan here. And he was kind enough to come out today and help us locate the lady, Mr Mohan’s friend.’
‘Locate her?’ I repeat. ‘Like a missing person?’
Jim nods. ‘On account of her leaving a strange message on Mr Mohan’s phone. He seemed to thing she was in some danger, so he flew up from London this morning. It was the first day the airport opened after the storm.’
Jim doesn’t have to say he believes the only thing Isobel has been in danger of was a good, solid fucking.
Again, I neither confirm nor deny.
‘Mo!’ Isobel’s exclamation brings my attention back to her. ‘You beast!’ She slaps her friend playfully before throwing back her head and laughing uproariously.
What the fuck is happening here? Whatever it is, it’s not likely to be sorted standing out in the cold.
‘I suppose you’d best come inside.’ Though fuck knows how they’re all going to fit.
‘Yes, come inside,’ Isobel says, pulling on Mo’s arm. ‘It’s so gorgeous inside.’
‘Yes.’ Mo’s gaze slides my way as he takes a thorough inventory. ‘Gorgeous. I can see.’
‘Stop violating Greg with your eyeballs,’ Isobel chastises playfully.
‘You mean, I can do it some other way?’
