Cupid’s Confederates

three and had just completed his second year of law school. They were both very happy, that first year of their marriage…and one look at the land had caught both of them, like rabbits in a snare. There’d been no going back.

Bett’s wandering eye paused again, this time catching sight of something strangely out of sync in the natural landscape. Definitely out of sync. A very old boot was weaving back and forth in the air, the ankle to which it was attached resting on a jean-clad knee. The owner of the boot was lying flat in the grass by the pond, his short-sleeved shirt open and his head resting on a log. His eyes were closed and a long blade of grass was stuck between his teeth.

So. Guess who else had had the unforgivable idea of taking a break when they had work absolutely coming out of their ears. Bett tossed her hat on the ground; her halter top followed rapidly. The sneaky piece of manhood down there certainly looked as though he’d just emerged from a haystack, not at all like a once-very-serious law student. Well, he might still look halfway intelligent. If he took the blade of grass out of his mouth.

She tugged open the button on her jeans, then used the toe of one boot to pry off the heel of the other. That lazy Tom Sawyer was just lying there without a care in the world, while his virtuous wife had been slaving the entire morning. Even reclining, he looked tall and lanky. Big feet. Lustrous, thick brown hair, coppery skin and a square face with clean, precise lines. Blue eyes-but not at all like her own blue eyes. Hers were plain old blue; his were Spencer Tracy sassy, the kind of eyes that took their humor slow and lazy. He wasn’t very smart-no one with any intelligence worked his way through college with all As, completed two years of law school and then fell for a derelict old mismanaged farm-but Bett was rather attached to him. For one thing, he generally handled the impulsive surprises she handed out pretty well.

With an impish grin, she left her jeans in a heap-her underpants had naturally come off with them-and tiptoed out into the sun.

***

Zach lifted one lazy eyebrow at the sound of the splash, then the second one when he glimpsed the distinct flash of a bare white thigh. He hunkered up just a little higher on the fallen log to get a better view, carefully making sure his eyes were closed every time the mermaid surfaced for air-and to look his way.

Sleek white limbs skimmed gracefully just beneath the water’s surface; a stream of long blond hair swirled around her shoulders. Bett was built like a miniature, compact, exquisitely detailed time bomb. How in the hell had he ever married such a tease?

He stretched out one leg to better view Bett’s back float. It was only for a minute; Bett was a terrific swimmer, but a lousy floater. She sank. Not before she’d shown off exactly what she’d intended to. Two tiny, wrinkled nipples that looked in terrible danger of being sunburned; they were that vulnerable.

Cautiously, he pushed off one boot, then the other. Every farmer in the area joked that all libido simply died in the summer; somehow, Zach seemed to have the opposite problem. Maybe it had to do with knowing that he and Bett shared the same workday, struggled through the endless hours together and still loved what they were doing. Who could have guessed that Bett would fall for the land the way he had?

She was built on such tiny, fragile lines. A long white throat and those huge, lustrous blue eyes, the cloud of blond hair…she would outwork him, if he let her. He didn’t. A man had to put his foot down now and then, just in case male chauvinism came back in style.

Evidently she was weary of playing porpoise, because she suddenly faced his half-closed eyes with a disgusted expression. Slowly, she swam closer to shore. Zach never once flickered an eyelid to let on he was awake, but he could see her through lowered lashes. Her shoulders emerged first from the water, golden and smooth. Then her breasts, small and taut, water streaming down the crevice between. She’d promised him she would develop a bustier figure once they married and she gained a little weight.

They’d married. She’d never gained any weight. Her waist was still nipped in, her hips almost nonexistent. Just now, her hair was a single rope strand hanging over one shoulder, dripping a long trail of water between her breasts and over a flat, satiny tummy into a soft curl of golden hair. She had golden skin, like their sun-kissed peaches. A soft, smooth gold.

She really didn’t have a damn thing to flaunt in the way of a figure. She was flaunting it, both hands on her slim hips, head proudly thrown back. The sun caught her delicate profile, every bone, every hollow and shadow. His jeans could barely accommodate the growth within. If he were any closer to her, she wouldn’t still be standing.

Bett was a witch. He’d actually married a witch. In college, he’d specialized in voluptuous Amazons. He still didn’t know what had happened. From the back, Bett could pass for a boy. And from the front…Bett could be sensitive about her lack of build. Foolishly sensitive. Every miniature inch of her aroused lust in him.

“Hi.”

Even her voice did it. A husky little alto. She was so darned slight that her surprisingly sexy voice always drove him slightly over the edge. Zach managed to very slowly open his eyes, feigning surprise. “Bett?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re in trouble.”

He didn’t even bother to look, taking the three steps to the water with his arms extended for a racing dive. He knew every inch of the pond and he knew its depth at that point, and he could care less if his clothes got wet. In seconds, the shockingly cool water closed over his head.

***

Laughing, Bett pulled herself out on the other side of the pond and started running, grabbing her jeans and halter top and hat and boots as she ran.

“You come back here!” shouted a baritone voice behind her, but she paid no attention.

They both had work to do, she told herself virtuously. Not necessarily work that she’d planned to do naked, but then the picking crew had been sent home at noon, which left their 250 acres empty of voyeurs. Their neighbor Grady was an obvious risk, but since he was Grady, and of an age, Bett didn’t give him more than a passing thought. The rough clover field chafed her bare feet, but she kept up her pace. Knowing Zach…

Through the clover, past the plum trees, past her hives; there the truck was waiting. She vaulted into the cab, slid her cool, damp bottom onto the aged vinyl, tossed her clothes on the seat and started the engine as she faced a languid Sniper. She told the cat for the thousandth time that no self-respecting feline liked to ride in vehicles. Sniper stretched every Persian inch of him and started purring as the engine coughed and sputtered to life. The Ford pickup was ancient, but for another year or two they couldn’t afford a new one.

And Bett couldn’t afford a new husband. Besides, she liked the one she had. Zach was made on confident, easygoing lines; it did him good to get shaken up once in a while. The mischievous grin persisted all through the drive to the house, during the hurried rush into a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt, on the trip to the local market to pick up a load of bushel baskets, and through another trip to a processor to request the return of their pallets by morning.

Three hours later, she was unloading the bushel baskets with a forklift when Grady drove in, his dusty red pickup unmistakable. Bett leaped down from the forklift just as their neighbor approached her, the last of the afternoon’s hot sun behind him.

Grady Caldwell’s face had a permanently hangdog look, with pendulous jowls and lots of wrinkles. He was hitching up his trousers as he approached, already taking his pipe out of his pocket to pack it. She’d never seen him light the pipe, but it did take a lot of packing. Grady claimed to be sixty; Bett was fairly certain that his sixtieth birthday had passed a decade ago, and regularly marveled at the relationship between men and vanity.

“Where’s your better half?” he asked gruffly.

“Are you kidding? You’ve got it,” Bett replied impishly. “Are you coming in for iced tea?”

“Haven’t time.” Grady pushed back his cap and with it a strand of perspiration beads on his forehead. “Still damn hot.” Grady never risked any extra words.

“Yes,” Bett agreed.