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.’
She wasn’t put off by his curtness. ‘I liked him. Those were the days,’ she continued dreamily. ‘We all mucked in together at the Quinta. Not much money, but bags of hope and mega-size dreams—built on the back of the new villa developments in the Algarve which needed their gardens landscaped. We were two close families, working all hours to build up the business.’
Close families! Too damn close. Grimly he turned on the radio, not wanting to hear any more. He had enough to deal with. Memories could stay where they were.
‘You’re very grumpy. I thought you’d be interested,’ she said, sounding hurt.
He snorted but didn’t reply. Privately crushed by his abruptness, Maddy watched him scowling at the road ahead as if it deserved his revenge.
And yet despite his sullen, antisocial manner, he was quite a dish in a basic kind of way: tall, well-built and undeniably handsome.
The smell of smoke hung around him and he clearly hadn’t washed his clothes for days or cleaned his fingernails. His hands were ingrained with dirt and there were streaks of black decorating his broad forehead and strong cheekbones. Even his voice sounded husky, as if he’d chain-smoked all his life.
But his profile was to die for: a dark and brooding eye beneath a lowered black brow, the firm jut of a nose and a chiselled mouth that Michelangelo would have been proud to have created. Though, she mused, Michelangelo might have stopped short at the designer stubble, however sexy it looked.
This was a true labouring man, she decided. Rough and ready. No conversationalist. And yet passion lurked in those dark eyes. Pity Dex couldn’t be more like him instead of detached and distant. Thinking of their imminent meeting, she shuddered with apprehension.
‘If you’re cold, there’s a sack in the back you could put over your shoulders,’ he suggested sardonically.
Her mouth twitched at the caveman offer and, thinking of Debbie’s instructions to stay in character, she raked up a reply to suit her personality.
‘A sack? Moi? I’d rather freeze,’ she said with a giggle and, in the absence of a decent chat, opened her book on getting her man for some quick revision.
The truck suddenly lurched forwards and she struggled to find her place as the Hunk hurtled along the motorway with scant regard for the suspension—either the truck’s or hers.
All she needed to do, she reminded herself, dismissing her grumpy companion for more important things, was to make sure her behaviour was the exact opposite of what the book advised.
She mustn’t be a woman with wife potential. She had to be a ‘good for now’ kind of girl. That was a task she felt was within her grasp, since she’d practised on the rugby team. They’d been hugely appreciative and their delight in her company had given her confidence a huge boost.
It had been fun, too. The most fun she’d had ever. Nothing heavy, just wall-to-wall flirting and endless laughter. All perfectly harmless.
Frowning with concentration, she delved into the chapter on how to charm a man with sweetness and submission. Always agree, always defer. Hmm.
Her eyes gleamed as she planned her tactics on going completely against her character and doing nothing of the kind.
By putting a spanner in the attempted matchmaking, she was only being kind. Her subterfuge was all for the best. Dexter needed a battleaxe of a wife who’d stand up to his domineering grandmother.
Maddy smiled wryly to herself. Just as she needed a gritty, assertive husband who wouldn’t shake like a jelly when he met her stern grandfather.
None of her boyfriends had stood the Grandpa test. They had all run a mile at his first bark and hadn’t even made it to his bite. But they’d been pretty lacklustre, if she was honest.
Her face grew wistful. When would a gorgeous, independent cuss of a man ever look twice at a mouse like her? Of course, she could probably lure a guy who fell for her brassy, extrovert image, but where would that get her? She was really quiet and shy. Would she want to live a lie for the rest of her life?
She checked her useless thoughts. This was ridiculous! It was silly to even contemplate the idea of marriage. It would never happen.
Sadly she closed the book, the corners of her bright mouth drooping. She wanted to be someone’s wife. Wanted babies, loads and loads of them. Like her friends, who seemed to be forever swelling or giving birth or pushing buggies and wailing