Husband By Arrangement. Sara Wood

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      GRIMLY plotting mayhem, Dexter lobbed Maddy’s luggage with studied carelessness into the back of the pick-up, on top of the equipment he’d collected from the builders’ yard.

      ‘Gosh,’ she said, with an appealingly infectious giggle. ‘You could get work as a baggage handler any day.’

      Dex met her amused glance with a blank stare. Privately he’d expected Maddy to have changed—but not this much! Maddy had rarely spoken unless given permission by her bullying grandfather.

      Old man Cook had ruled his family like a dictator. For the first time it occurred to him that this might be why Maddy’s gentle, plant-loving father might have wanted to escape the evil old tyrant’s influence.

      ‘Get in,’ he said curtly.

      Just in time, he remembered not to open the door for her, or to offer to help her up the high step. He had to give her the maximum of aggravation. And in that skirt she had a serious handicap, he thought with malicious satisfaction.

      ‘This’ll be fun. I’ve never been in a pick-up before!’ she declared enthusiastically. ‘Right.’ She took a deep breath that threatened the fragile construction of her straining top. ‘Here we go. Avert your eyes.’

      He did nothing of the kind. Sourly he watched while she hitched up her soft leather skirt to eye-blinking heights, slipped off her spiky shoes and hauled herself onto the first step.

      Perfect thighs. Toned and firm and clearly the result of high-maintenance work-outs in the gym. Cynically he saw her wrench open the buckled door a few inches and virtually limbo-dance her way in through its reluctant gap.

      He couldn’t believe that Maddy could be so uninhibited. Or assertive. But he steeled himself not to show his grudging admiration.

      ‘Crikey! It’s very dirty in here,’ she commented, when he clambered into the driver’s seat beside her.

      Illogically it annoyed him that she was stating a fact and didn’t seem in the least bit put out by the mode of transport, or its ramshackle nature.

      ‘Been too close to a fire,’ was all he offered, starting up the engine.

      ‘Oh. Camp?’

      ‘No. I’m straight,’ he replied, deliberately misinterpreting her.

      She gave a little gurgle of laughter.

      ‘I mean was it a camp fire?’

      ‘Forest.’

      ‘Were you in it?’

      ‘The forest or truck?’ he drawled, annoyed to be enjoying the exchange.

      ‘Truck!’ She laughed in delight.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Lucky for you,’ she said, sounding surprisingly heart-felt.

      Other than that, she made no comment about the fire. He assumed that was because his grandmother had already warned old man Cook about it—and also reassured him that the Fitzgerald wealth could easily weather the disaster.

      Dexter’s mouth grew cynical. Maddy had come, even though she’d known she’d be making do in a small cottage on the estate. She must be desperate to marry a fortune!

      Breaking the silence that had fallen, she sighed and shot all his nerves to pieces by stretching wantonly in a flurry of sensual limbs and writhing curves.

      ‘I’m absolutely shattered,’ she confided. ‘Don’t be surprised if I fall asleep on the journey. No criticism of your conversational skills. It’s tiring being on show,’ she added absently.

      What the devil did she mean by that? He frowned and deliberately drove fast over the humps in the road in an effort to get back as quickly as possible. But behind them the scaffolding clanged up and down in metallic protest and she let out a squeal.

      Mistakenly he flicked a quick look at her and then concentrated fiercely on the road again. Unfortunately his vision retained the image of two firm, flawless breasts quivering seductively as the truck bounced over the uneven surface. And his body responded with the kind of enthusiasm that any self-respecting male would expect.

      ‘Sit tight,’ he growled irritably. ‘This truck isn’t designed for women.’

      ‘You can say that again. My bits are going everywhere. So why did Dexter send it for me?’ she demanded, yanking up her bodice indignantly.

      ‘I was coming to Faro for supplies,’ he clipped, annoyingly unable to forget the alluring sight of her ‘bits’. ‘No point in two vehicles making the journey. Takes two hours to the Quinta.’

      She groaned. ‘My bones’ll be jumbled into a completely different person if we go on like this! If you don’t want to end up with a Quasimodo next to you, I suggest you attack the bumps with less vigour.’

      He intended to do just that. His libido was giving him enough trouble as it was, without witnessing another seismic shift of her body.

      ‘Got to hurry. Get back to work,’ he muttered in excuse.

      ‘Doing what?’

      ‘This and that.’

      For a moment she looked floored by his reticence, then gamely started the conversation again.

      ‘I used to live here, you know.’

      ‘Mmm.’

      As sure as hell, he wasn’t going to encourage reminiscences.

      ‘Yes,’ she said, undeterred. ‘My grandfather and Dexter’s grandfather set up the garden centre together. They’d been friends since childhood and chose to go out to Portugal because it was an up-and-coming place for ex-pats to settle,’ she told him, and paused for his comment.

      Hoping his silence would shut her up, he just glared at the road. Annoyingly she launched off again, clearly in a chatty mood.

      ‘Grandpa was the business brain, Mr Fitzgerald was the plantsman. They married Portuguese women. So did my father, so I have Portuguese blood,’ she announced. ‘I was born on the farm, like Dexter. I was there for the first eleven years of my life.’

      ‘Really?’

      He didn’t want to think about it. Unfortunately she ignored his plainly uninterested comment and forged on, opening old wounds, old memories.

      ‘Mmm. Our two families lived together because it was cheaper than running two houses and they could put more money into the actual business. I suppose it was more convenient, too. Not so far to commute.’

      She went quiet for a moment and he shifted uncomfortably. There had always been tensions between the two grandfathers. One saw the Quinta purely as a commercial venture, the other as a wonderful way of life.

      ‘My grandpa says Mr Fitzgerald senior died a year or so ago.’

      ‘Yes.’

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