Lots of Love (23 page)

‘The three wishes?’ he reminded her, straightening up.

Scruffy, poker-faced and arrogant, he was an unlikely genie. Given that all Ellen wished for right now was a long shower, her eye-mask and a day’s solitude, she wished he’d stayed in his lamp – at least until her eyes adjusted to the light. She’d forgotten just how luminous that silver gaze was.

‘Yes, I remember.’ She whistled for Snorkel, who was gearing up to plunge through the long grass towards her favourite Cochin-watching spot. ‘It was only a ten-pound donation – you really don’t have to honour it.’ She guided the collie towards the dovecote and clipped the lunge rope to her collar.

He followed her. ‘I always honour my promises.’

Still crouching, Ellen smiled to herself as she stroked Snorkel’s black ears. She doubted that very much: from what she’d heard, honour had never been one of Jasper Belling’s greatest qualities. And at this precise moment, she wanted to forget all about her accidental bid at last week’s auction.

‘Honestly, I’m happy to let it pass.’ She glanced over her shoulder, not wishing to appear rude but anxious to get rid of him.

He crossed his arms and looked down at her, the silver eyes suddenly flint-like. ‘C’mon – you can think of a wish, even if it’s just that you hadn’t drunk so much at the Duck last night. I know a great hangover cure – one wish and it’s yours.’

Ellen didn’t want to be reminded of the previous night. If she could wish for anything, it would be that she’d never agreed to go out with Lloyd in the first place – but she wasn’t about to tell Spurs that. ‘I’m not hung-over, thanks.’

He looked down at her for a long time, tapping his fingers against his arms.

‘I have nothing to wish for right now,’ she hinted.

‘There’s really
nothing
little Ellen Jones could wish for?’ He narrowed his eyes.

It was an obvious taunt. That stony, petulant gaze was practically throwing pebbles at her dark glasses. ‘It’s Jamieson,’ she pointed out. ‘And no.’

‘Nothing in the whole wide world?’ he goaded. ‘Spoilsport.’

He was a spoilt brat, spoiling for a flight, Ellen told herself. It wasn’t her idea of sport. She knew a red light when she saw one. But she’d always run red lights. It was a lifelong weakness.

‘Put like that,’ she stood up again and faced him thoughtfully, ‘then I guess there would be a few things I’d like – like no wars, no exploitation, no religious bigotry, no racism or sexism or ageism or body fascism. And I wish women could come as easily as men. Do you want to pick out three?’ She flashed a smile to let him know she was pulling his leg.

But he didn’t return it. He just carried on gazing at her. ‘Those don’t qualify. The wishes you bought are for personal use only.’ He made them sound like recreational drugs. ‘Those are just boring. I’m not God.’

He was watching her very closely now, and Ellen was uncomfortably aware that he was looking through her dark glasses and into her eyes. She remembered only too well that Pheely had called his promise three ‘death’ wishes. Yet, facing him in the bright sunlight, she didn’t feel intimidated so much as hot, bug-eyed and flustered. She was irritated that he’d caught her on an off-day and that he was so humourless. She had a curious feeling that he was having an off-day too, which made it doubly annoying that he had come here to vex her.

‘All you have to do is make a wish. It’s easy. Try it,’ he demanded snappishly, still monitoring her eyes through their tinted Perspex veils.

Ellen ran another red light: she refused to drop eye-contact first. She no longer cared how puffy-lidded and cried-out she was. He was far too accustomed to intimidating people, and she’d encountered enough self-styled bad boys over the years to find it – or his village-hooligan reputation – scary. If he really wanted to grant her wishes, then he’d have to stop the Mephistopheles act, brandishing his magic wand like an Uzi.

‘Any wish I like?’ she asked, pondering her options. Wishing he had a sense of humour might be a start.

‘Yup,’ he snapped back. ‘If I can’t make it come true, I’ll give you your money back.’ Still he stared, until the unblinking, flinty eyes seemed to shower her face with hot sparks and Ellen’s sunglasses felt moments away from melting right off her face.

‘In that case, I wish . . .’ She willed herself to say it.
I wish you’d go away.
But, to her irritation, she found she couldn’t. To her even greater irritation, she had to look away before her eyeballs burst into flames. Then, seeking visual sanctuary in the verdigris haze of the garden, she saw a way to get rid of him very quickly indeed.

She ran a hand through her sweaty hair and fanned her T-shirt. ‘Okay. Right now, I wish could cut this lot back before the weather breaks.’ She nodded at the wilderness. See how you like that, posh boy, she thought with satisfaction.

He followed her gaze, assessing the gargantuan task. ‘It looks like it hasn’t been touched for months.’

‘It hasn’t,’ she sighed, ‘and I’ve got to make it look like something from
Homes and Gardens
in just a couple of days so that the cottage stands a chance of selling.’

His silver eyes narrowed as he stared across the huge, messy jungle. ‘Two days isn’t long, but it’s a bloody good wish.’ Suddenly he smiled – a wide, genuine smile. ‘And I thought you were just going to wish I’d piss off.’

Ellen glanced at him guiltily and was almost blinded. She should have just wished for that smile: it was the loveliest thing she’d seen in ages – as cheering, compelling and catching as the giggles. The Belling bone structure, which made a sulk look petulantly beautiful, made a smile simply breathtaking – the broad, high cheeks creasing those big silver eyes, the dimpled chin lifting high above the broad neck like a thoroughbred stallion sniffing the air.

‘Okay, I’ll grant your wish for you.’ He shaded his eyes and surveyed the garden.

‘You’re not serious?’

‘Of course I am – although I’ll need your help to get it done this weekend.’ He looked around. ‘Is there a decent lawnmower?’

Ellen had just dug herself into a very large hole before even investigating the whereabouts of a garden spade. ‘It’s
way
too much to ask for a tenner,’ she said quickly, dragging the smile reluctantly from her own face, but it just sprang back again at the prospect of Spurs Belling stripped to the waist emptying a grass box.

‘Three pounds and thirty-three pence.’

‘What?’

‘Ten pounds for three wishes – that’s three pounds thirty-three each.’

Ellen wasn’t the only one who couldn’t resist playing with sums, it seemed. She scuffed her trainer into the gravel. ‘In that case I should have paid a bit more. You can’t help me mow this jungle for three quid.’

‘You’re right.’ He rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand. ‘What needs doing apart from the grass?’

Ellen stared at him in disbelief.

The silver eyes were dancing now, with infectious excitement as though she’d just offered him a Ferrari for the weekend, rather than a task she had been avoiding all week. ‘I can’t promise to know a hell of lot about gardening,’ he apologised, ‘but I picked up some basics when I was on remand.’ He watched her face for reaction. When she showed none, he laughed again. ‘And the flower-beds here look as though they need some serious attention.’ He set off to inspect the closest one, stalking through the tall grass like a leopard slipping silently into the veld.

‘I wasn’t sure which were weeds . . .’ She followed him, wondering what in hell she’d just started. Pheely would be livid with her.

He stooped and pointed at a nettle. ‘You know what this is, surely?’

‘Ornamental Chinese parsley?’ she suggested distractedly, aware that she had unwittingly triggered something she wasn’t sure she could handle.

He grinned over his shoulder then leaped up and bounded into the long grass. ‘You okay if I look around and throw out some ideas? I know it’s your wish, but when I was planting cheap daffodil bulbs in uniform rows, I used to dream of gardens like this.’

‘Sure.’ She followed him reluctantly. ‘My wish is your remand.’

He pulled his hair back from his forehead and strode on down the slope. ‘The hedges badly need trimming. This pond looks like it’s crying out to be drained and cleaned – and that paddock is way out of control. It should be topped.’

‘Topped?’ She turned to him alarm, wondering if he planned to kill it off somehow.

‘Topping is mowing on a bigger scale – you tow a cutter behind a tractor. There’s one at home, but we’d have to bring it through the garden. Then again, it might
do
the garden – there must be half an acre of lawn here, and it’ll need at least two cuts.’ He strode uphill again.

Ellen watched him for a few seconds before she followed, trying not to notice the way his shoulder muscles moved beneath his T-shirt. This fervent enthusiasm was classic X-factor. For people like Spurs there was precious little midground between passion and boredom. If you found their on switch, it was like starting a firework display, but you usually got your fingers scorched, and the fuses burned out quickly.

He’d wandered round to the back of the cottage now where he was looking up at the walls. ‘It’s probably the wrong time of year to prune these climbers, but they could be tied back to stop them covering the windows, and I’ll clean those while I’m up there. This clematis is being strangled by ivy – and your rambling rose is hosting an aphid orgy. Nice jasmine, though. Mmm – smell.’ He held a frond under her nose.

‘Were you Lady Chatterley’s lover in a previous life?’ Ellen joked, as she emerged from the sweetest of breaths.

The silver eyes were almost incandescent now, the soft voice playful. ‘Why? Were you Lady Chatterley?’

She looked away quickly. She might run red lights, but green ones were a different matter. She knew his type too well. Flirting with him would be as easy as breathing, but people like Spurs burned so brightly that they stole the oxygen from the air, leaving everyone around them winded. It was better not to go there.

‘This is way too much to ask of you,’ she said again. ‘Three pounds would buy less than half an hour of a professional gardener’s time.’

‘It’s two days’ wages in prison.’ He smelt the jasmine, eyeing her over its lacy petals.

‘You’re not in prison any more.’

‘Aren’t I?’ For a moment, he looked flint-eyed again, but then he smiled at her. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t bother you, does it?’

‘Not unless it affects your ability to mow a lawn.’ Ellen shrugged, then noticed a strange reflection over his shoulder. It was Hunter Gardner’s binoculars – trained on them through the gap in the hedge. ‘After all, the village guards are keeping watch.’ She indicated the sparkling lenses.

Spurs’ smile dropped away as he turned to look. ‘Bastard!’

‘He’s actually more interested in the dog,’ she assured him.

Spurs thrust up a one-fingered salute and the reflection wobbled furiously.

She grabbed his wrist without thinking. ‘Please don’t do that – I’ve pissed him off enough already.’

He snatched away his hand. ‘Ashamed to be seen with me too, are you?’

Ellen balked. ‘I don’t care if you bare your arse at him every time you pass his house.’ She laughed in surprise. ‘But I hardly know him – or you – and while I could really use some help in this garden, you can bugger off if you’re going to wind up the neighbours.’

Slowly the smile lit his face again. It was warmer and more compelling than ever. Within seconds, they were playing ‘smile tag’, each unable to resist the pull that made their eyes crease and laughter catch in their throats. Then he tilted his head towards hers and whispered in her ear, ‘I promise I won’t. Please don’t tell me to go home.’

He knew she wouldn’t. As he straightened up to look at her again, she felt her sweaty T-shirt shrink two sizes. Bugger, Ellen thought, as he drank her in. I fancy you, and you know it. Bugger.

Then, without warning, he reached out a hand and took off her sun glasses, the silver gaze examining her puffy eyes. ‘Hay fever?’ he asked carefully.

She nodded very carefully in return, reaching out to take her shades back.

His dark eyebrows curled up into his forehead, then he backed off. ‘In that case, you’ll need to take a few antihistamines before we get cracking. Is there a brush cutter or a strimmer here – preferably petrol-driven?’

‘There might be something in the workshop,’ she jerked her head towards it and he wandered over to try the door. ‘It’s locked.’

‘Do you have the key?’ he asked lightly. ‘Or would you rather wriggle in through a window?’

The silver eyes still marked hers as she ducked away in embarrassment, cramming her shades back on and snapping back with a cheap retort because she was flustered: ‘I thought that was more your line.’

‘Well, I could try forcing my way in with a dodgy cheque if you want,’ he muttered, checking the padlock. ‘I was banged up for forgery and embezzlement.’

‘Not drugs?’ she asked, before she could stop the question slipping out.

He let the padlock rattle against the door. ‘Good old local legend has me driving a speedboat laden with Thai opium when I was nicked. Slightly more glamorous than trying to use a stolen credit card in Dixons, admittedly, but it means that if I so much as light a fag here, the sniffer dogs are called in.’

‘How long did you get?’

‘As my mother likes to say, I worked “overseas” for four years.’ He chewed at a rueful smile as he turned and leaned against the locked door. ‘I forged a bit more than signatures. It was in all the papers – I’m sure Hunter has a scrapbook on the case that he’ll let you leaf through if you need my references before I start on the garden.’

‘Sorry.’ She moved back hastily behind the mark she’d overstepped.

‘Forget it. I can’t get away from it – especially not here in this village. I might have guessed you’d already know about it. I still get calls from TV shows –
Toffs from Hell
was the last.’ He started to look around the car port.