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Once upon a time, there were three brothers—heroes, one and all. But these three men worked so hard they didn’t have the time to pin down the right woman. Until one steamy summer, when each of them met a crazy lady during the course of their duties—a crazy lady out of control…
When the beaten-up Land Rover pulled up alongside him on that midsummer evening, Ben had been standing on the isolated Kent lane for nearly an hour. His classic car was parked on the roadside, radiator steaming, and two vehicles had already passed him by without stopping. There was maybe an hour until sundown, if that.
The four-wheel drive stopped with a clunk, one headlight flickering on and off, the engine idling erratically. Someone needed to check that tick over. He ducked his head down as he opened the passenger door, expecting to find a local farmer driving out here in the sticks. “Thanks for stopping. Can I get a lift to the nearest station? I need to get back to London before the last train.”
When he saw the woman behind the wheel, he lost track of what he was saying. She was exotic looking, both sultry and alternative, with red streaks in her shoulder-length black hair.
“Hey, you’re that TV documentary investigator aren’t you? Benjamin O’Neil, yes?” Her emerald-green eyes widened with interest and she smiled at him invitingly.
He folded his arms up against the car roof, flexing his biceps, and looked in at her with a grin. “Yes I am. You’ve seen the show?”
“I’m a big fan.” She patted the passenger seat invitingly. Her glance was entirely sexual, and it captured his attention in kind.
Ben threw his bag into the foot well and climbed in, noticing as he did her silver jewelry, and the skintight top and cut-off jeans she wore.
“Benjamin O’Neil,” she repeated, and then reached over and kissed him on both cheeks, which surprised him no end. “Last week’s show, where you infiltrated that gang—that was high-octane viewing, amazing work. Hard-hitting, too.”
He was listening, but he wasn’t thinking about the show. He was thinking about the way she looked, exotic and untamed. He took a long slow breath of her perfume. It was musky and enticing, like she was.
She glanced down at the video camera in the bag with curiosity. “Are you out here on a job?”
“I was.” He nodded back at where the car was parked on the side of the road. “Car broke down. My brother will tow it for me, but it’s knocked my plans out for tonight.”
“Was it something exciting?” She had an accent, and she exaggerated her sibilants in the most delicious way.
“You’re French, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” She put out her hand. “Patrice Reynaud. It’s good to meet you.”
Her hand was small but gripped his firmly. There was no bra under that strappy top she wore, and her breasts looked provocative through the tight fabric, capturing his attention when she moved. A tribal tattoo scrolled over one shoulder. Her legs were long and her arse looked fit inside the tight denim of her cut-off jeans. If this were a nightclub, he’d offer to buy her a drink and try to get to know her.
She was looking at him expectantly.
He gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but I can’t really say what it was.”
“I bet it has something to do with that old farmhouse up the road.”
Ben was surprised. He hadn’t wanted to say, but if she guessed, that was different. “What makes you think that?”
She switched off the engine. “I live just up the road. Graleston. It’s a little village, off the beaten track and quiet, which is what I wanted. I’m an artist. But just after midnight every Friday a big truck rumbles past, sometimes two, and they are headed towards the disused farm. One night I was up working so I watched the headlights and I could see where they were headed. Something is going on up there.”
