This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2001 by WILDBEARIES

Future Perfect - Section II

I woke with all the covers kicked off, but I was warm because a large, warm body was pressed against mine. I peeked, hoping it wasn't a Labrador retriever. Nope, definitely human, most definitely whiskery male, and decidedly Russell. I tried not to move too much, not wanting to lose the chance to study him up close and very personally. I was lying on my side, my head resting on his pillow instead of mine. I realized my right hand was on his chest - he was wearing the sweats, get your mind out of the gutter! - and he was breathing quietly but deeply, lips parted, face smoothed into innocence. What irony to be in this position and have the head cold of the century.

I tried to slide out of bed without waking him, my bladder about to burst, but I tangled a foot in the sheets and jarred him awake. He saw what I was about and unknotted the sheet, then helped me to the bathroom. Talk about embarrassing! I washed my face, trying not to look in the mirror because what I saw there looked like something that should have snakes for hair, then wobbled my way to the door. I opened it and was practically carried back to the bed. Magically, while I was answering Nature's call, he had smoothed the sheets, righted the tangled blankets and refluffed the pillows. I could have wept, the man was so perfect.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice totally gone.

"No worries," he answered, feeling my forehead. "I'm going to get you some more aspirins, and some juice, then I want you to go back to sleep." He was off before I could do more than nod weakly, back before I could really complete a coherent thought. He held two aspirin tablets on his palm, which I took, then he helped me drink some orange juice. It was deliciously cold on my sore throat, and I wanted more, but he gave me water instead. "Too much juice can make your throat worse," he said, sounding like the voice of experience, which, given the fact that his voice was a major part of his occupation, I supposed he did know what he was talking about. "Now," he said, "lie back and rest. It's the only way to beat the germ."

He intended to go to his own bed, I think, but I had his hand in a death grip, so he just chuckled and lay back next to me. "I'm so sorry to be such a bother," I choked out.

"Rest!" he ordered, but he squeezed my hand comfortingly, and I scooted nearer so that I was pressed against his warmth, and I rested. I slept on and off that whole day, and into the night. At some point, he naturally had to get up and do his own thing, which he did. But he was endlessly patient, endlessly concerned, and checked on me frequently. He plied me with juice, water, broth, cough medicine, aspirins and his presence, which was so comforting it was a kind of medicine all by itself.

After 24 hours of his care, I was well enough to shower and dress, and feel somewhat human. When I emerged from the guest room, he applauded, beaming. I couldn't do other than beam back at him.

"Thanks, doc," I teased him.

"Oh, nothing but old fashioned bush medicine. Out in the middle of nowhere, you can't go to the docs for every little thing."

"I'm sure you've roughed it a lot."

He sobered a little, "Actually, luv, I have. My mum and dad weren't rich, y'know." Seeing the chagrin on my face, he quickly added, "But, you're right, plenty of times I've needed more than herbs and berries myself the past couple of years." He moved his left arm a bit gingerly, "had two surgeries on my bleedin' shoulder, for instance."

"Oh, not fun. Is it better now?"

He rubbed it absently, then nodded, "Yeah, most of the time. Aches a little in the winter. Guess I'm getting' to be an old geezer, hm?"

"You? Never!"

"Ooh, listen to the flattery!" he exclaimed, laughing.

I spent most of that day making notes and doing emails, although I did manage to call Sandy late that night and talk with her in my croaky laryngitic voice. She demanded to know if "he" was being mean to me, or if I needed help flown in, or just anything at all, making me laugh until I coughed and couldn't talk. Russell took the phone out of my hands at that point, to my horror, and began chatting with Sandy like he'd known her for years.

"Hello, Sandy, Russell here." He listened a second, then reassured her, "No, no, she's doing better. It's a bad cold, and she sounds like a frog, but I think she's going to live." He stopped and listened again, then said in his best, most honeyed voice, "No, Sandy, I wouldn't lie to you. Besides, your boss is a doll, I'm getting attached to her."

I covered my eyes in embarrassment.

He chuckled and teased and generally was a prince to my secretary, then handed me back the phone. "She wants to say goodbye," he informed me with a cheeky grin.

"Jeez," I complained, and then listened to several minutes of Sandy gushing about how nice he was and, "Not at all nasty." I assured her that he had his moments, scowling at Russell, who was making funny faces, trying to make me laugh. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Sandy. Right now, I have to go cough on my doctor." He threw his hands up in horror and ran into the kitchen while I giggled and hung up the phone.

"Chicken," I called after him.

I heard, "Pock, pock, pock," and he reappeared carrying mugs of hot tea. "C'mon luv, rest your pipes now and drink this, it's got honey and lemon in it." He urged me down on the sofa and handed me my tea, then sat next to me. He studied me over the rim of his mug.

I wondered how awful I looked. I hadn't looked too bad when I'd showered and dressed earlier in the day, and my hair was clean, although in its usual riotous curling state.

"No worries, luv," he said softly, reading my mind. God, the man just has radar or telepathy or something, he can read me like an open book.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I claimed, lying my backside off.

His mouth quirked in an ironic smile, then he reached over and touched my hair. "Very soft," he commented, "I love red hair."

That surprised me. "Really? I thought you were more of a blonde freak." Would I never learn to shut up?

"I have very eclectic taste in women," he informed me, half laughing, "I love blondes, brunettes, even red heads, and I once had it off with a lady with no hair at all. I just ask that my lady be intelligent and able to talk about something other than shit like the latest fashions or how she never eats a bite."

I glanced down at myself. No way he'd confuse me with the latter. I had a decidedly un-anorexic figure, and I almost never talked about clothes or things like that. Didn't have time, for one thing, I was too busy working.

He was grinning at me, his empty tea mug on the table in front of us. I had barely sipped mine, too busy doing other things, I suppose. "You, for instance," he said, in his rumbly, honey-drenched voice, "You're very sweet, and you have a sort of calmness about you. I could easily spend time with you. Have done, actually, now haven't I?"

I had to admit that he had, and even though he had brought a lot of it on himself, dragging me through the rainy night when I was coming down with a cold, he had been a total gentleman and a consummate host. "Yes," I answered, wondering if every woman he had ever met had felt she could drown in those magnificent eyes.

"So you see, hardly anything you've read about me is true. I don't have a woman stashed in every room."

I nodded agreement, wondering where this was going.

He moved closer. Our legs were touching, albeit through two layers of clothing. I could still feel his body heat and the heat he was causing elsewhere.

"Also, I'm not a drunk, and I have even quit smoking." He grinned modestly, "Hell, I'm a fucking model of conservative behavior. I haven't even gotten laid in almost a year now."

I spluttered and he blushed, apparently having confessed a bit more than he had intended.

"Oops," he muttered, then sort of shook himself. "Okay, so it's true. The stud muffin of Australia hasn't gotten any in a long time, but I always think things will turn up better, don't you?"

I could only stare, nodding jerkily. Our noses were only a foot or so apart at this point.

"Right," he said softly, "Anything is possible if you want it enough." He stroked his big, warm fingers through my hair and I couldn't remember my name without an effort, much less answer him. He smiled and continued caressing my hair. "Lynn, I like you. Would you…could we…ahh, dammit, where is that glib tongue of mine?" He laughed at himself, then took the tea mug from me and set it on the table. "So, is it possible?" he murmured, staring at my mouth, then looking into my eyes. There was no guile in him, the slight nervousness was real and only added to his charm.

"Possible," I whispered, unable to get out any more volume. My heart was thudding so hard he probably could see my pulse leaping in my throat. Flustered, I didn't know where to put my hands, but he solved that by taking my left hand and putting it on his right shoulder, at which point my right hand just sort of homed in on his other shoulder, and then he kissed me. Full on the mouth. A real five-alarm stunner. I thought briefly about willowy blondes, then dismissed them all. Who cared? The moment was on me and I wasn't going to miss it for anything.

His lips were soft, though his beard was bristly and teased my face as he kissed me. He held my face in his hands - large, warm, work-roughened hands - and I felt small and delicate and cherished. Then he slid his fingers farther into my hair, and his tongue into my mouth and I was hopelessly lost. That kiss was a possessing as complete and intimate as sex. He claimed control with lips, tongue, fingers and sheer force of personality, then gave over control just as thoroughly so that I found myself the more dominant one, pressing him back into the cushions and stroking his shoulders and chest as covetously as he was touching me. When we pulled apart, panting and staring at each other, I was lying across his lap with my hands under his shirt. I looked into his eyes for an instant, and we both smiled, then I unfastened the snap and zip of his jeans and slid my hand down against his belly.

His hips lifted and I heard his breath hiss between his teeth when I took hold of him. I stroked him briefly, up and down, then moved my hand lower, cupping his balls. He moaned at my touch, and his left hand, still tangled in my hair, trembled slightly, then he gently pushed me away, sat up and took off his shirt. He wriggled out of his jeans, then he stood up, pulled me to my feet, and undressed me. Sweatshirt, jeans and panties in a heap on the floor, and Russell laughing softly when he discovered that I had no bra on. He put one of his big hands under each of my breasts and squeezed them appreciatively, rubbing his thumbs over the sensitive nipples. His kisses on my breasts, tongue rasping my nipples, were incredibly sensual. He stopped and hugged me close for a minute, his erection imprisoned between us, then he took me by the hand and led me to his bedroom.

He turned on a little lamp on the far side of the bed, pulled back the white denim spread and the blankets, and sat me down on the side of the bed. I gazed up at him. He was so well put together, the big chest and shoulders I had swooned over when I first saw him in a film, the flat stomach, muscular but not too muscular thighs and calves, and of course, those arms. Odes had been written to those arms, and then there were the other treats visible when he was nude. I remembered the old wives' tales about foot and hand size being an accurate gauge to judge the size of a man's endowments, well, I have to say, without getting into actual diameters and lengths that those old wives' tales are true in Russell's case.

I could not stop drinking him in with my eyes, he was, and is, perfect in my eyes - everything fits together and he embodies my ideal manly form. He smiled gently and leaned down to kiss me. "I hope the lady is pleased with what she sees," he murmured.

He looked at me in much the same way I was looking at him - a long, slow perusal from head to toe, then back to look in my eyes, and then, smiling, he told me, "You are so beautiful, so womanly, Lynn." He continued caressing and squeezing my breasts, "You have wonderful breasts, I love that."

I would have slid onto the floor in a puddle of ooze at that, but he leaned over me for more kissing, deeper, hotter, then he put one knee on the bed beside me so I could reach his cock. I stroked it, looking up into his eyes. His face was flushed and his eyes glittered sea green. He took my hand off his cock and I fell back onto the bed. He knelt over me to stroke and kiss my breasts, suckling on each nipple until I was writhing, then stopping to kiss me breathless before starting on my breasts again.

"I don't think I've ever seen hair redder than yours," he whispered, tangling his fingers in it, then he looked down at my belly and my red, curling hair and stroked there too, unerringly finding the hottest, most sensitive place and rubbing it over and over until I was frantic. He slid his fingers down and inside me, and I shamelessly lifted my hips against his hand, asking for more. I wanted him, inside, right then!

"Easy," he whispered, then rubbed his hips against my body so that I could feel he was in the same state of full arousal that I was. His cock pulsed hotly against my thigh, then he was kissing me again, kneading my breasts, sucking my nipples until they ached, and when I was just about to go totally crazy, he held my thighs apart in his big hands and shoved that cock into me. He was gentle but steady, sliding deep, all the way inside, then holding still for an instant before starting to thrust. He was big, stretching me, filling me tightly, and I took it and wanted more.

He was a master and I should have expected it, but nothing could have really prepared me for his expertise, his generosity and his sensuality. He didn't just fuck me fast and get off, he found where I liked to be touched and how I liked it, then he varied his pace from slow and sensual to fast and rough, and although things progressed pretty quickly that first time because of how long he had gone without sex, he still gave me a thundering orgasm before allowing himself the same release. He uttered a harsh groan at his climax, his whole body shaking with the intensity of it, while I pulled him closer still, though I don't think he could have gotten any deeper. Afterward, he still found enough energy to hold me, kissing and stroking me, until we both dozed off. It was wonderful.

I don't think we slept much that night. We kept waking to repeat the pleasure until I simply couldn't take any more because I was too tender, and he was too tired do to more than laugh ruefully at his insistent body. We settled for curling together with my bottom against his pelvis, his cock still semi-hard, resting between my thighs, his breath stirring the hair around my neck and ears as he tucked his face into the crook of my shoulder to kiss me. "What are you thinking?" his voice rumbled in my ear after we had both caught our breaths. I was very sleepy.

"Mmm?" I stretched, rubbing against him, feeling his body jump reflexively, "I'm thinking I'll be lucky to be able to stop smiling sometime next week." His giggle tickled my neck and I reached back to take his hand, twining our fingers together. "God knows, I won't be able to walk straight for days," I added.

"Me either," he concurred, and then he mumbled something into my shoulder, kissed me, and fell asleep. I deciphered it despite being sleep-fogged and on sexual overload - he had said, "stay with me". As though I would have even thought of leaving that bed! Dynamite couldn't have blasted me out of there.

I woke with him still curled around me, only he wasn't sleeping, he was busy with hands and mouth teasing me awake. I groaned and half-protested because I was sore from the previous night, but I couldn't have said no anymore than I could have stopped the sun from rising. He did it slowly, taking his time about it, holding my hands in his, working that incredible cock inside me, stopping for kisses and appreciative murmurs, finally finishing us both off with a thoroughness that left me boneless. We lay there like two beached whales, just breathing and enjoying things until the dogs demanded to be let out and he got up to oblige them. I dozed off while he was gone, and woke when he set a hot mug of coffee on the nightstand beside my head. I cracked one eye open and thought I might be able to move after all.

"Ah," he commented appreciatively, "the woman lives."

I sat up with the coffee cup and tucked the sheet around me because it was chilly. He was tousled and stubbly and wearing dark blue sweat pants, his carved gold cross glinting from his very handsome chest. I wanted to eat him with a spoon. Instead, I settled for leaning over to kiss him good morning. "And the gentleman knows how to live," I responded.

"We do our best," he said modestly. He noticed me shivering and went to a dresser, emerging with a rugby shirt that he put on me. "There," he said when he had pulled it down (it came down past my hips), "nothing like a woman in a man's footy shirt. Sexiest thing in the world."

I beamed at him, liking how the soft shirt felt against my skin. And it smelled faintly of sandalwood, a very erotic scent. I suppose at that moment, anything would have been erotic, but there you go. I was sunk. I knew I was sunk, and worse yet, HE knew I was sunk, so there was no pretending there would only be business between us. But how in the world was I going to manage that?

"I hear the gears clicking," he teased me, pulling me down to snuggle against his shoulder.

"Well, this could be complicated." I didn't want to think about anything beyond the moment and enjoying it, but I couldn't help the doubts that were trying to worm their way into my thoughts. Besides, what were his feelings? I had to consider that, too. I could not just assume that because I liked him, he felt anything but healthy lust.

"Life is complicated," he answered, "you just have to let yourself relax and enjoy it."

"Okay, I'll do my best," I promised, smiling up into his face. A thought managed to come through in spite of my efforts to do as he asked and relax. I sat straight up, elbowing him in the ribs accidentally.

"Ow, shit, woman! Watch the elbow, that's a lethal weapon!" He rubbed his side and uttered a theatrically overblown hiss of pain. Of course he didn't get away with it, but once I kissed the little reddened area by his ribs, he was mollified. "What was that?" he finally inquired after we stopped laughing and kissing.

"I have to go back to Sydney."

He scowled, "Why the hell do you 'have' to do that?" He was annoyed, which secretly pleased me.

"Well, my clothes and things are there, for one thing."

"Shit, is that all? I'll get someone to pack you up, check out for you, and bring your stuff here. No worries on that score, love."

Life is so easy when you have staff, I thought. "And we do need to talk about work," I reminded him, trying not to grin like an idiot. He wanted me to stay! I was dancing a mental Snoopy dance of celebration.

"Later," he commanded in a firm tone, "I need to do something else first."

Silly me, I thought he was going to seduce me again - not that I needed much cajoling! Instead, he got out of bed and dragged me into the bathroom with him for a long, hot shower, during which we did a bit of washing each other, playing with the shampoo lather, and more kissing, before the hot water ran out and we had to emerge and dress. Besides, we were both starving.

Later, fed, dressed in some other borrowed clothes - I reluctantly parted with his footy shirt - we went outdoors with the dogs since it had finally stopped raining. He lent me a pair of rubber boots that almost fit me, and donned some of his own, which he called "Blundies". He was so damned cute in them with his old Aussie duster coat on, I wanted to throw him down in the mud right then and have him, sore or not. I shoved my hands in my pockets instead. It was cool and breezy, but there was some blue sky peeking through and I felt like doing cartwheels across the yard. We settled for walking far out into the pastures, looking at his cows, throwing sticks for the dogs to fetch and generally just ambling along.

We went downhill to the side of a stream where he helped me cross on some rocks that made a sort of rough bridge. The far bank was covered with thick, soft grasses. We stopped here and kissed for a long time with the wind blowing our hair and the grass whispering all around us. A few drops of rain down our collars brought us back to reality with a laugh. He held my hand and led me down by a fence topped with a strand of barbed wire. "There's where you hit your head," he pointed out.

I looked at the fence, then back at the house. It was about 400 yards. "It felt like miles when you were carrying me," I remarked.

"Yes, it did," he said, deadpan. I punched him in the ribs, eliciting another mock complaint of severe injury, which then called for some "kiss it and make it better" therapy. The dogs frisked around our feet, finally barking to get our attention. We broke apart, laughing, and resumed our stroll.

Another 400 yards or so down some hills, he showed me where a road snaked between his paddock fences. "Aronga Station Road," he said.

My jaw dropped. "Right there? That's all the farther we were from the house when we started walking?" I began putting things together. "So we didn't walk for miles?"

He cleared his throat, looking contrite, "Well, yes we did walk a bit."

I folded my arms across my chest, "How far is 'a bit'?"

"Um, in a straight line, it's not far. But I took you in circles." He looked very sheepish.

"In the rain. You walked me in circles in the rain and muck, then dragged me up hill and dropped me over the fence?" I was having difficulty comprehending this.

"Yes," he finally admitted, folding his own arms across his chest and looking stubbornly unrepentant.

"With me sneezing the whole way?"

"Yes."

"I think that is a very lousy thing to do," I finally informed him.

His eyes narrowed, "Don't forget, love, you were the one invading my privacy. I was teaching you a lesson."

It was too much. I reminded him that he had, in a sense, invited me by pretending to be Ira and bringing me there, then I turned and stomped off.

"Lynn!" he shouted after my retreating back, "Lynn, come back down here and talk to me!"

I shook my head and waved "bye-bye", continuing my snit all the way to the house. I heard him crashing through the brush behind me, cussing a blue streak, tripping over weeds and sloshing through mud puddles. It was strangely pleasing and I was over my anger by the time I walked in the back door. I didn't want him to think I was that easy, though, so I slammed the door shut for good measure just as he got to it. He kicked the door, said "shit" a few times, and then sat down on the back steps to scrape mud off his boots.

I watched him through the window. His boots took the brunt of his temper and by the time he had most of the mud off, I could tell he was pretty much over it. I opened the door, went out and sat beside him on the steps. "Harrumph," was his only comment, but when I leaned against him, his arm came around me and he pulled me close.

"I'm sorry," he finally apologized.

"Oh, I suppose I deserved it," I said, mollified, "I did, after all, force my way in here."

He studied me and I turned to find a worried look on his face that he quickly replaced with a grin, "So the lady forgives?"

"She does," I nodded. Who was I kidding? I'd have crawled over broken glass for that smile.

"Whew!" he blew out a relieved breath, "Thought I'd fucked that up for sure." He pulled me across his lap and apologized further with kisses and fondling. This had the inevitable result, and when he got to his feet and led me into the barn, it was difficult to wait until we were in a rear stall, knee deep in clean, sweet-smelling hay.

He imprisoned me against the wooden stall door, kissing and rubbing against me, then yanked my jeans down, his jeans open, and came into me rough and hard. I wrapped my legs around him and he held me up while he took me with fast, deep thrusts, eventually pushing so deep inside I felt it to the tips of my fingers. He came in a hot burst, shuddering. I climaxed as he finished, sinking my teeth into the muscle of his shoulder. We leaned against the rough wood of the door, panting. "God," he muttered, and lowered me to my feet.

My knees buckled, and we ended up half-buried in the clean hay, minus our clothes.

That was when we heard noises outside.

"Bloody, fucking hell," he muttered, "its Terry."

"Terry?" I asked, in a daze, then remembered. His brother. "Oh damn!" I sat up, floundering around for my jeans, grabbing his first by mistake, then jumping up to pull mine on as fast as I could. I could hear his brother outside talking to the dogs, and he was looking for Russell.

While his fingers flew buttoning his shirt, I helped him get his pants on, even zipping his fly to his admonition to be "Careful, careful - don't catch that in the zip, woman!"

Fly safely closed, I patted the big bulge in his jeans and smiled innocently. "Don't worry, I have a vested interest in keeping that in working order."

He grinned and at that instant, the barn door flew open, illuminating us like deer in the headlights, and me with my hand on his cock. Too late, I stepped away from Russell, shoving my hands in my pockets.

Terry stood silhouetted in the doorway for a moment, a bit broader and stockier than Russell, who was muttering under his breath about "nosy damn fucking big brothers". I fought an insane urge to just collapse in giggles. It wasn't hard to figure out what we'd been doing, given the hay in his hair and mine, our rumpled garments, and the smell of sex in the closed area. "Heya," Terry finally greeted us. He must've caught the look on Russell's face because he backed out the door, tripping over the dogs, who had also come to investigate. I buried my face in my hands, laughing like an idiot.

"Not difficult to tell we're related, he's clumsy as an ox," Russell commented wryly, then followed Terry outside where I heard Russell telling him he had come at a "bloody bad time, mate!" I couldn't hear Terry's response because they moved away from the barn, but from his tone, he wasn't going to take that lying down. I then heard Russell slam the kitchen door, and figured it was safe to come out. I finished picking the hay out of my hair and clothes, then followed them indoors with what little dignity I was able to muster, which wasn't much.

They were arguing in the living room, so I managed to scuttle through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the guest room, where I changed clothes into the other sweatshirt Russell had lent me the day before and the black leggings that were rolled up in my duffle. I finger-combed my hair, telling myself I looked like a Botticelli angel with my riot of curls, if you could find a Botticelli angel with beard burn, that is. I took a few deep breaths and went to face the music.

I was barefooted, so they didn't hear me. I heard Terry - who sounded very much like Russell - say, "Well, Christ, Russ - how the hell was I supposed to know she had her hands down your pants?" Then I heard a solid thumping noise and a chair fell over. Good God, had they come to blows? I stood perfectly still just outside the living room, and peeked carefully around the corner.

"I don't care," Russell bit out, enunciating carefully, "You should have phoned first."

Terry ran a hand through his hair so it stood up on end, "I don't see why, you've walked in on me enough times, mate. At least I'm not so desperate that I had to fly in a sheila from the States."

"Nonetheless," Russell shot back, advancing on his brother.

"Nonetheless," Terry mocked him, "Nonetheless." Then he jumped on Russell, pinioned his arms flat against his sides and put him on the sofa without much of a struggle. "I'll let go if you promise not to punch me," he told him.

Russell promised, then as soon as Terry let go, he butted him in the stomach. Terry flew backward and crashed to the floor, taking the coffee table with him. The dogs started barking. Terry got up and punched Russell in the stomach. Russell staggered back and knocked over a side table, sending a radio flying. When it bounced on the carpet, it came on at full blast, adding to the din. I didn't know whether to stop them or just stay out of the way. While I dithered, Russell socked Terry in the eye.

"Ow, God dammit!" Terry yelled, and, flailing with his large fists, managed to land a couple of glancing blows. None of his punches were very accurate, probably because he could only see out of the one eye by then. Russell, pressing his advantage, stepped close and punched Terry in the jaw, knocking him onto his butt on the floor.

Russell stood over him, panting. "Next time," he barked, "call first."

Terry wiped a little trickle of blood off his lower lip, felt of his jaw, then lay flat on the floor with a little "wuff" of surrender. "Right," he said by way of apology. He sat up again, grinning crookedly at his brother, "You hit pretty damned hard, Russ."

Russell, gingerly feeling of his own jaw, merely nodded, examining Terry's rapidly swelling eye. "I'll get ya some ice, mate." He turned and spotted me standing in the doorway, my eyes wide as saucers. "It's okay, Lynnie," he reassured me, "we do this every few weeks whether we need to or not."

"I usually win," Terry put in from his seat on the floor.

"Stuff it," Russell barked without looking at him. "Okay?" he asked me softly, then walked over and hugged me. "I didn't hurt him."

"Nah," Terry agreed, climbing to his feet. "He just looks tough, y'know." He sat down on the couch, arms spread across the back, grinning like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

"Cheeky bugger," Russell murmured into my ear, then introduced me to his brother. It was all I could do to look him in the face. But he merely grinned and nodded, so I took that as my cue and tried not to blush too much.

Russell's older brother was nice, once I got over my initial shyness. He was broader than Russell, a bit shorter and had shorter hair, though it was much curlier. They had similar features, though Russell was by far the handsomer one of the pair. Of course, I am prejudiced.

We had barely started talking when a car drove up and loud knocking rattled the back door. "Christ, the whole bloody neighborhood's dropping by," Russell griped, opening the door. "Oh, hullo mum." She immediately noticed their marked faces, but, apparently used to their tussles, said nothing about it. She was very nice to me, welcoming me to Australia and patting my hand when we were introduced, commenting that she had heard I'd had to walk in during the storm the other night. I shot Russell a look, and he shrugged comically. So he'd told his mother about me, had he? I wondered who else he had told, and what he had told them.

I shrank into the chair, wishing myself elsewhere. It was becoming obvious that everyone was coming over to see who was keeping Russell from his normal activities. Just how much they had surmised or guessed was more than I wanted to think about. Apparently, it was unusual for him to not spend time at the main house at least once daily, so this departure from routine had everyone's curiosity up. I wished I had something nicer to wear than a bright yellow sweatshirt and black leggings, but nobody else seemed to care, so I relaxed.

A bit after his mother was comfortably settled, another car drove up, this time disgorging his father. Russell just shook his head, realizing there wasn't anything he could do to change it. His dad and mother were sweet people, though I could see them covertly examining me as though to make sure the predatory female from California wasn't about to kidnap their younger son and drag him back to something he didn't want to do. He was patient and pleasant despite his griping, and it was plain that there was a lot of affection between all of them. He hugged both of his parents when they left, then exchanged mock punches with his brother before he exited a few minutes later. He shut and locked the door, sighing happily.

"I liked them all," I told him, draping my legs over the arm of the chair and getting comfy. "Your mom is especially sweet."

He nodded, "She's a good 'un, after all, look how nice I turned out." He grinned and dodged a throw pillow I lobbed at him. "Missed me," he said in a low, rumbly whisper, then dove into the chair with me. "You are so damned cute in those tight pants," he purred, then started tickling me.

I squealed, "Stop, stop!" but he found all my worst ticklish spots and I was laughing so hard, trying to get out of his reach, that we both ended up on the floor. "Stop it now, or I'm gonna pee!" I warned him.

"Worse than the dogs," he chided me, but he stopped. We lay panting and grinning on the floor, finally turning to face each other, our faces so close together my eyes crossed looking into his. He moved closer still and touched the tip of his tongue to my mouth. I opened to him and he wrapped himself around me, just kissing and stroking me for a long time. I could tell he was aroused, no less than I was, but he didn't make the final move until I whined impatiently, then he chuckled, low in his throat, knowing he had me right where he wanted me. He pulled at my leggings, mumbling, "Take these off."

I complied, but left on the sweatshirt because it was chilly in the room. He didn't seem to mind because he just pulled it up and began kissing and sucking my breasts. His beard rasped my skin, but it was heaven and I pulled his head closer still, holding onto his hair to keep him there until he broke off with a protesting laugh. "Can't breathe, woman!" I let go of him and he sat up, stripping off his shirt, then his jeans. He moved back against me, his cock burning hot against my thigh. "Guess what?" he teased, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"I can't imagine," I murmured, sliding a hand down and taking hold of him. His cock swelled to my touch and I gave him an appreciative smile.

"All for you, luv," he growled in Ira's raspy voice. "I knew ya wanted to cop a feel of it." He rocked his hips against my hand, then thrust his tongue into my mouth, moving it in the same rhythm. I was lifting my hips, my body asking for what it wanted. He rolled us over so I was on top, then lifted me onto his cock, pulling me all the way down onto it. "Ride me," he ordered, but I already was.

I sat astride his hips, leaning forward so he could reach my breasts with his mouth, and I moved slowly on him, clutching him tight inside me until he moaned in delighted pleasure, thrusting hard up into me. He stroked my clit with his fingers, and I moaned right back at him. His cock was quivering inside me and I knew he was ready to come. I lay flat against him then and whispered, "Now fuck me hard."

"Oh, God - Lynn!" He rolled us over, thrust violently and came almost immediately, shaking all over and groaning with each spurt. He finished and collapsed onto me, panting harshly. Instead of dozing like I thought he might though, he propped himself on one elbow and fixed me with an accusing look. "You didn't come."

I smiled like the Cheshire cat and shook my head, "Nope."

"Hmmf," he grunted, not sure what was going on.

"Not yet," I added, moving my hips so he got the idea.

"You're going to kill me," he teased, but as usual, he was ready - more than ready - to oblige me. That time, I did come. Thoroughly.

"Not bad for an old bloke," I whispered in his ear, blowing the damp tendrils of his curls because I knew it tickled and he liked it.

He acted as though he didn't hear, but I realized he had when he started tickling me again. He was merciless this time, and I barely got him to stop before disgracing myself, then I ran into the bathroom and clicked the lock, leaving him outside, making animal noises at me through the keyhole. I thought he had given up when the barking and grunting stopped, then his voice echoed through the little opening, "Whaddaya mean, 'old'? Come out here and I'll show ya old."

I flushed the commode, washed and dried myself, then unlocked the door. He was leaning against the opposite wall, still nude, arms crossed on his chest. He scowled at me. "You sheilas take a bloody long time havin' a piss."

I fluffed my hair and grinned at him, still just wearing the yellow sweatshirt, "Plumbing differences," I informed him, then went past him into the living room, hips swinging outrageously, and retrieved my leggings from the coffee table where they'd landed when I flung them.

He followed me, hair rumpled every which way, and stood in front of me. He seemed totally comfortable in his nakedness, although I suppose anyone who looked that good nude would be. I wanted to lick him all over. He smiled lasciviously, reading my thoughts and his cock, which had been quiescent for once, lifted. "Plumbing," he explained, "I've got no control over the thing."

"Yes, I heard that about you," I said dryly, then wished the words back. I had promised myself I would not bring up his past and I had just done that very thing.

He frowned, the teasing glint gone from his green-blue eyes, then shrugged. "If that's what you think, bugger off." He turned and walked to his bedroom. If his gorgeous, muscular backside hadn't been exposed to my view, it would have been more effective. But, the slam of his bedroom door was very effective. I sat in the silent room, which seemed a lot smaller with him out of it, and wished I had kept my mouth shut.

After a few minutes of contemplation, however, I began fuming. How dare he make something out of such a casual remark? Especially given the circumstances in which it was said? I marched over to his door, opened it, and stood in the doorway, intending to really let fly. He was standing by the bed, wearing light blue sweats. He turned when I came in, his eyes searching my face.

We both spoke at the same instant, "I'm sorry!" I laughed, but my throat was tight. I hadn't realized until he spoke how upset I was by his walking off. He grabbed me close and apologized again. I leaned against his solid warmth and held him equally tight. After long moments, he set me gently away from him and said, "We have to talk." I didn't like the sound of that, but I nodded and we went back into the living room where he sat on the couch and I sat in the chair facing him. It seemed the right thing to do, given the serious look on his face.

We stared at each other for a minute, then he ran both hands through his already unruly curls and laughed ruefully. "I don't blame you if you wondered about me," he began, waving me to silence when I would have denied it. "No, let me talk." He searched the pocket of his shirt, then grinned crookedly, "Bugger it, I'm hunting for ciggies, even after all this time." He stilled his hands with deliberate effort.

"It's no news that I've been a randy goat from the age of fourteen or so." Seeing my tentative nod, he went on. "And I've been an ass in just about every relationship. Every break-up or falling out or whatever you want to call it, has been mostly my doing. It isn't that I didn't love the woman enough, or want to be with her, it's just that I was totally driven by what I wanted in my career, and I was willing to sacrifice the relationships to get it." He rubbed his eyes tiredly before going on. "I had a clear vision of what I wanted to achieve, and there wasn't room in that for a woman, or at least, that's what I thought then."

I nodded, aching for him because I knew how that felt. I had sacrificed a couple of promising relationships myself in my career climb, although none that I would have classified as great loves.

"Of course," he added wryly, "it didn't help that I always seem to fall for women who are as driven as I am. I was unwilling to bend at all, though, and now that I'm older, I know that you have to bend if you don't want the relationship to break."

I smiled at that because I had reached that same conclusion about my own life not long ago, I just had been too busy to look around for the right person to try my new flexibility on.

"I kinda of gave up on the sheilas when I came back home. I imagine you think I've fucked every female in Australia, but the truth is, I haven't been with a woman in over a year, and before that, I think the last time was in the States, before I came home. And wouldn't the tabloids just love that bit of news!"

"So. . .," he let the word hang in the silence, groaned awkwardly, took a deep breath and got to the point. "So what I'm sayin', Lynnie, is I'd really like to see if we could have a long-term relationship. I'd really like it," he stopped and I swear he blushed, "What I mean is, I'd really LOVE it, if you would think about staying with me for a while, to see if we. . .if I. . ." He trailed off, his voice all funny and hoarse.

I was out of the chair and kneeling in front of him almost before I knew it. I looked up at him, then kneeled up and kissed his face. "Shut up," I ordered in a whisper, "just shut up."

"Too bleedin' fast, eh?" he whispered back, his voice still funny. "I'm such a slut, y'know."

"Are not," I said, and kissed him until he finally did shut up. We clung to each other for a long time, then, sighing, I sat back on my heels and straightened his hair, running my fingers through the silky strands until he looked less of a ragamuffin.

He studied my face, I guess looking for any signs of a negative answer. I wasn't quite ready to put him out of his misery, but he looked so stressed, I weakened. "I'll stay - I bought an open return ticket here, y'know."

He laughed in relief, dragging me up onto his lap and holding me. "And you wouldn't think it was too fast?"

I shook my head. "No faster than I am," I told him honestly.

We sat snuggled together for a long time, not saying anything, just enjoying the cuddling and friendly warmth. I felt just right, tucked against his heart with his arms around me. "Terry will be bringing your stuff tomorrow," he told me after a long silence.

"Already?" I was surprised, though I should have known he'd never do anything halfway slowly.

"Yeah, I had my agent here in Sydney get with the hotel, and you're all checked out, cleared to go." He amended that quickly, "Stay, I mean."

Amazing what you could accomplish given influence, the right people, and, I supposed, money. Also, I knew those people did what they did for him out of affection and loyalty, not just for the money. He seemed to inspire it once he let someone get to know the real person. I was experiencing the same urges myself, along with the obvious, more carnal ones. He was a gem, a real prize, and I didn't want to miss being with him, even if it was only for a little while.

"Okay." I finally said quietly. "But there will be hell to pay."

"Fuck that," he said firmly, then asked, "Why?"

"I have an assignment, you know."

When he scowled, looking like thunder, I reached under his sweats and tickled his stomach. "Stop pouting, Russ, I have to finish this one thing, you must understand that. I didn't say I was leaving tomorrow, or five minutes from now, or even five days from now, but I do have to report back to the agency, and I do have to go back to work back home."

"Back in the States," he corrected me firmly, and I knew then that he understood. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and relaxed completely for the first time since that morning. At that point, we both realized we were famished, and trooped into the kitchen where we made a feast consisting of frozen pizza, salad and Aussie beer, drunk from the bottle. "The only way, mate," my instructor informed me.

"So," he informed me around a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese, "tomorrow we will work on this assignment of yours. I want to talk to some people, and you probably have stuff you need to do." I nodded, chewing. "Okay then. After that, we can talk about what we're going to do."

I realized he was plowing ahead, taking over, but it felt strangely nice, especially since, for the first time in years, I had someone near who understood what was involved in the kind of work I do, and who knew a lot more about it than I did. I told him as much and he beamed across the table at me, finishing his beer. "I do understand it, and since you brought it up, here's what I've been thinking." At which point, he started writing notes in pencil on a paper napkin. He made a list of what he wanted with Botany Bay, including some locations he had already begun scouting for shoots months ago, people to play the primary roles - beyond himself, of course - and then he dropped the bomb, "I want Steven to direct."

"Steven," I echoed, then gaped at him, "Spielberg? You want Steven Spielberg to direct your project?" Aside from the obvious questions, such as would the famous director be available or even interested, I had thought Russell would want to direct it and said as much.

He shook his head, "Not this one, it's a bit big to be my maiden effort. I want someone really good to do it."

"Will he?" I asked.

He nodded emphatically, "Yeah, I'm sure he'll do it, we talk on the phone a couple times a month, y'know. He already has a preliminary screenplay and he said he liked it."

"I didn't know," I admitted.

He flashed me a smile and went on with his lists until he had a whole stack of paper napkins covered with writing. He stacked them together neatly and weighted them down with a salt shaker. "There, tomorrow you can work on your end."

"I hope that doesn't mean you're not going to work on my 'end' anymore," I murmured.

"Not bloody likely," he informed me, flipping me with a dish towel. He cleaned off the table, cleared away the trash and suggested we watch a movie.

He opened doors in the bookcases to reveal a big screen TV and shelves of DVD's and video cassettes. "Good lord," I remarked, "don't do things half way, do you?" I searched through a few and selected "Casablanca". He groaned loudly and produced his choice, "Mad Max". I moaned and shook my head, countering with "Snow White".

"Uh-uh," he nixed that one, then triumphantly waved a Three Stooges compilation at me.

"Not bloody likely," I said in my best fake Aussie accent.

"Lord God, I've gotta teach you how to do strine better than that. Promise me you won't try that around my mates or my family, okay?" He looked genuinely dismayed, then he cracked up laughing when I blushed. "Okay, okay, I'll stop teasing you about tryin' to talk like me and I'll let you choose the film, just not "Casablanca Wanker", okay?"

"Well, why do you have it if you don't like it?" I stuck my lower lip out, pretending to pout while I searched.

"It's - uh - not mine," was all he would say.

I ignored that, thinking it probably belonged to another woman, and not, I thought, his mum. I was going to try hard not be jealous of his past, so I diligently did my best. "Ahah!" I exclaimed, and showed him my find.

He examined it, "The Silver Brumby"? Y'wanna watch one of my films?"

"Shy, are we?" He was turning the DVD case over and over in his long fingers. I wanted to jump him, but we had done a lot of 'jumping' already that day and I didn't want to injure him.

"Nope," he finally said, grinning, "but I'm God-awful in it, and practically just out of short pants."

I pretended to check his head for gray hairs, teasing him. "Oh, I see…too old and dignified now, hmm?"

"No-o-o," he said, drawing it out doubtfully, "I don't think I am, anyway." He slapped the disc into the player then. "Okay, suit yourself, just don't go expecting my ass to still look that good on a horse."

I walked behind him to the sofa and patted the ass in question. "Looks fine from here, luv."

He groaned, "Stop that! No mock-Aussie until you can do it properly!"

"Yes sir!" I saluted, then settled down to watch a very young Russell catch a beautiful wild horse.

I woke very early the next morning, forgetting where I was in the post-sleep confusion. I was in a strange bed, and someone was with me, lying wrapped all around me, breathing deeply and slowly, warm breath ruffling my hair. I cracked an eye and peeked. A blue-green eye, half-open, peeked back at me. "Don't scream," Russell said in a low voice, "it's me, remember?"

I sat up, rubbing my face. "Why no, whoever could you be, in my bed and with no clothes on?"

"Y, what?" he yelped, then realized I was having him on, and he yanked me back down, giggling. "C'mere, you," he growled, and snuggled me tightly against him. I fought for a minute, but it was very half-hearted. When I was still, he kissed my forehead. "That's better now. That's how I like my women, compliant."

I poked him in the stomach with my forefinger. "Piggy!"

He oinked once, then moved his kiss down to my mouth, starting with a loud, wet smacker that made us both giggle, then getting more serious about it. He stopped after a moment, though, with a great shudder, and sat up, cursing. "No bleedin' heat in here!" He was out of the bed like a shot, letting cold air under the covers. "Gotta fix the thermy," he announced over his shoulder, and galumphed into the kitchen, where, presumably, the "thermy" lived. I deciphered that while he was gone, contemplating the image of his white backside as he'd exited the bedroom. A thing of beauty, I decided, snuggling into the warm place he'd left.

I heard the toilet flush, then he galloped back into the bedroom and hit the bed like a ton of bricks, diving under the covers and grabbing me as I squawked in surprised shock at how cold his skin was against mine. "You're a fucking iceberg!" I pretended to shove him back out of the bed.

He held on, warming his hands on my bottom, giggling at my indignation. "No wait, don't poke around with those elbows," he warned me, holding me down by putting one thigh across my legs and pinioning my arms with his.

"There," he said, pleased with himself, "now I've got you where you want me." He rocked against me so I was sure to feel his hard-on. "Look who's awake," he purred into my ear, then nibbled on my earlobe, whispering what he was going to do to me and how often and where.

I listened, giggling, but also enjoying what he was doing with his hands once he stopped holding me down. He was lewd, rude and crude, and I loved it, but when he said he was going to fuck me at high noon in the middle of the pansy bed in the Sydney Botanical Gardens, I couldn't help answering him back with my own creative ideas about where I was going to have it off with him. To give him credit, he actually listened, probably because a few of the things I said really turned him on.

"In the middle of the lounge of the biggest 747 Pan-Am flies, midway across the Pacific," I could almost picture this one.

He pondered for a moment before inquiring in his best London Dramatic School voice, "So that would be the one with the Picasso's or the one with the Renoir's in the men's loo?"

"Renoir's," I said. In the loo? Now that was something I hadn't known.

"I like that one," he enthused. "And would you have me up on the bar, in full view of everyone?"

"Yes," I could feel him getting bigger against my belly, so I embellished my threat, "tied hand and foot." His cock twitched. I was learning some interesting things from his body's reactions. "Wearing a bustier," I added.

He cracked up, hugging me appreciatively before claiming that he didn't look that good in a bustier. "Hairy armpits," he said mournfully, showing me.

"Not you, loony, ME!" I yanked on his armpit hairs for emphasis.

"Oh, now there is a picture," he mused. "And would you cover me with whipped cream?"

"And chocolate sauce, with a cherry."

"Haven't had a cherry in years," he claimed in a squeaky adolescent voice.

"I think you were born without one," I griped in mock despair, and shoved him down on his back. "Everyone is watching," I whispered.

"Oh, God," he moaned, partly play-acting and partly into the fantasy. Unless he was a way better actor that even I gave him credit for. Could he control how his cock jumped when I described everyone looking? If so, maybe there should be another category for the Oscars. He shook my arm, breaking off my musings, "don't stop!"

"Give me a minute," I begged, "I'm tryin' to think of something."

"Oh, bugger it!" he sat up in mock pout. "Damn amateur, startin' somethin' she can't finish."

"You big idiot," I whispered fiercely, and yanked him back down, "I'm using Method."

He snickered, "Never use it m'self, but do go on." He slid his hand between my thighs and distracted me even more.

"I can't think when you do that," I complained.

"Why do ya think I'm doin' it?" He put me on my back and stopped playing around, much to my - and his - delight. "Watch now," he told me as he shoved his cock into me, "when I finish, I'm going to shout my own name."

"Urk, ummph," was all I could muster. It's hard to speak coherently when being had by the talented Mr. Crowe, especially when he was being outrageously funny. I smacked his bottom when I looked up and caught him with his eyes crossed, looking like Kevin Kline in "A Fish Called Wanda". "Stop it! I can't fuck when I'm laughing!"

He uncrossed his eyes and took a few serious strokes, stopped to look at his watch, then started again. He was incorrigible!

"Is the meter still running?" I managed, making him giggle.

"Y'got 25 cents' worth left, lady."

"Better hurry," I told him, and squeezed his ass cheeks, bringing him into me more deeply. "Ouch!" I stopped pulling him in, "I think you hit bottom."

He smirked, holding still inside me. "Too big for you, dearie?"

"Um, actually…yes, but don't stop now!"

"I won't," he promised, and he didn't, but he became extremely gentle with me and stopped kidding around. He went from Russ the Loon to Russell the Gentleman, and cherished me with every kiss, every soft, appreciative caress, and every slow, deep movement of his body in mine. When I came with him, it was bone-melting and I surprised myself by sobbing afterward. He held me close and kissed me, shushing me and rocking me. I sniffled into his warm chest, the hairs tickling my nose. "That bad, eh?"

I shook my head. "No, that good."

He lifted my chin and peered into my flushed, teary face. I smiled, albeit a little shakily. "Musta been some orgasm," he whispered.

"World class," I confirmed.

"Nothing but the best for my Lynnie," he bragged, and held me close against him while we both dozed in the early morning light.

After lunch, I sat answering emails, borrowing his desk to use my laptop. I really needed to phone, but remembered the time difference, so wrote Sandy that I would call her in the morning her time to bring her up to speed on my progress. I smiled to myself, thinking I would have to edit that report pretty strictly.

Russell was gone over to the main house, doing some hairy-chested, masculine task with his brother that involved cows. The house was too quiet, so I found some discs of his group and put them into the CD changer. With his voice singing to me, I wasn't so jumpy.

I drifted along the shelves of books, hunting for something to read, and looked at the small framed photographs set amongst the volumes. There were mostly family pictures, but also one or two of Russell with a lovely blonde woman that I recognized. She was petite and slim, a lovely woman, and I knew he had once had quite a "pash" as he called it, for her, though now they were just friends. His two Oscars stood in a glass case beside several other impressive awards. They were beautiful, gleaming golden in the light. There were some small press clippings from his first films arranged in a collage under glass, and a photo of him on the night of his first Oscar, clutching it like he couldn't quite believe it, but looking into the camera with a pugnacious, almost defiant smile. I smiled back at his image, then settled on the sofa with a book about Sydney.

Russell came blowing in with the wind about an hour later, intent on dragging me over to the main house for supper. "C'mon, mum's fixing all this great food," he cajoled.

I was unaccountably shy, but could tell it meant a lot to him, so I changed into some of my own clothes - at last! - and was able to get my hair into some semblance of order using my own things on it. I emerged from the guest room, which I now used only to store my things, and found Russell in the living room, his hair damp but combed, dressed in khaki pants and a black denim shirt with shoulder tabs. He looked very spiffy, and when I walked over to inspect him more closely, the faint scent of his sandalwood cologne made me smile. "All dressed up, eh?"

He smiled, dimples on full stun. "Dinner at my mum's - can't look like a swagman now, can I?"

I remembered a swagman was a hobo, and agreed that he couldn't. We took the dogs and drove over in the cream Range Rover, passing through a gate with a sign that read, "Jocelynd Station" and "Cattle, Horses, You-Name-It". I laughed when I saw it.

"Not enough space to list all the critters I've got," he explained. We arrived at the front door and got out, Alice and Max immediately blending into a group of half a dozen other dogs of various kinds: cattle dog, a big Rottie and some I couldn't identify that he called a "duke's mixture". The barking was deafening until Russell shouted and they all shut up. "There, the master has spoken," he bragged.

A tiny Shitzhu came flying out a doggie door and sat in front of him, barking like crazy.

I lifted my eyebrows in question. Russell shrugged, "That's mum's dog, she doesn't recognize me as the alpha dog."

"Of course," I murmured, then his mother and dad beckoned from the doorway, and we went inside. My stomach was doing nervous flips. What had he told them? I had no idea, so I decided to be flexible and see where the evening led. At that point, it led into the kitchen where his mother put me at ease by handing me bowls of food to take into the dining room. I was glad to have something to do, it kept me from feeling quite so nervous.

The table, a slab of oak about ten feet long by four feet wide, was set simply but nicely, and I noticed there were more place settings than would be accounted for by just Russell, his parents and myself. Oh lord, who else was going to be there?

That question was answered when Terry came banging in the back door, looking almost as spiffy as his brother. He nodded greeting to me, then joined his dad and brother in what was apparently a long-running discussion about some cows they were moving from one paddock to another.

Several other men and a couple of women, who I learned were various cousins and spouses of cousins, arrived, and then everyone sat down to eat. Luckily, I was seated beside Russell, who kept me giggling during the whole meal by doing a sotto voce translation of what the conversation was about. I noticed his mother watching us a couple of times, but she was totally charming and friendly, so I finally relaxed. They were warm people, the Crowe's, and I liked them.

After dinner, when most everyone was in the big entertainment room watching a footy game, as they called it, Russell's mother cornered me in the kitchen. I smiled uncertainly at her, but all she said was, "He's lost here, get him into making his movie, dear." I said that I would do my best. She smiled and patted my arm before adding, "He's nothing like the magazines say, y'know."

"I know," I murmured back, impulsively hugging her. She smiled at me and shooed me in with the noisy group in front of the game. "Go on, then, he'll be wanting you by him."

I went up to where he sat yelling at the screen with the rest of the group, and he stopped to flash me his sweet smile, pulling me down to sit beside him on the floor. "What's happening?" I asked, confused by the blur of color on the screen.

"All Blacks are winning," was the enigmatic reply, by which I took it that the home team was ahead. Since there were players of all racial origins on the teams, I took the "All Blacks" name to mean the color of their uniforms, which, for some reason, had red stripes on a black field. Go figure.

"That's not the same colors as the shirt you lent me," I commented to Russell during a lull.

"No," was the response, "that's from the Rabbitohs."

Well, that certainly was enlightening, I thought, then Terry thumped me on the shoulder. When I looked up at him, he was grinning and told me I should be honored Russ lent me his Rabbitohs shirt. "He treats that shirt like the Shroud of Bloody Turin," he claimed.

"Do not!" Russell countered, and they were off, engaging in a "did so" "did not" argument - albeit a friendly one - about everything from Russell's shirt to whether they should get a Hereford bull or a red Angus one. The discussion grew so loud, everyone forgot the football game and joined in, disputing the merits of both breeds of cattle. Bottles of Aussie beer began to be passed around, and then the football game got interesting again, and attention was dragged back to the television screen.

I watched them all, enjoying it tremendously. Russell smiled and whispered in my ear, "You look smashing, luv."

"So do you," I responded, loving how happy and light-hearted he appeared. "For a surly bugger," I added, so only he could hear.

"I'll get you for that," he promised under his breath, stopping to yell at something a referee did just as the game was ending. "Bleedin' Pommy Asswipe!" he shouted at the screen, but I gathered their team won because everyone was smiling and laughing. He leaned back against the chair behind him, stretching his legs. He took my hand, "Wanna go home?" he asked softly. His eyes promised untold delights.

I nodded, and he rose, lifting me to my feet effortlessly. We said goodnight to everyone, with Russell taking a lot of good-natured ribbing from his brother and cousins about "flyin' in a Sheila, the bloke's so desperate!" when they thought I couldn't hear; then we walked out into the misty cold night and climbed into the Rover for the short drive back to the little house. I relaxed and sighed happily. "They were all so nice," I commented as we bumped over some pot holes.

"Mum likes you," he informed me. "She told me not to hurt you."

Oh, Lord. "Well, she told me to get you out of her hair," I countered.

He laughed, "She would. She knows what's best for me, Mum does." We parked in back of the house and got out of the car. He put his arms around me and kissed me before we went inside. He turned me so my back was against the warm part of the car and started groping me through my clothes.

A blinding flash of light broke the darkness and we jumped apart in shock. "Fucking shit!" Russell yelled, and another flash went off. I realized we had just been photographed. And that meant. . .before I could complete the thought, Russell went after them at a dead run, totally silent in the dark. Eyes like a cat, as I had found out during our cross-country jaunt that first night.

I heard running feet crashing through the brush, glimpsed Russell darting after the noise maker, then heard the sound of shattering glass. There went one camera, I thought, then a car engine coughed to life and I heard Russell shout, "Look out!" just as headlights blinded me. He knocked me down, and as I rolled, confused, the car sped past. There was a thud, a grunt of pain, then he was beside me on the muddy ground, rolling back and forth, cursing a blue streak. The car had actually hit him! I was in shock, and immediately tried to hold him still to check him out. He fought me, but finally understood it was me and just sat bent over, panting.

I had his coat sleeve in a death grip. "Where are you hurt?" I kept asking him. He shook his head, climbed to his feet with an effort, grunting in obvious pain when he tried to straighten up. I supported him on one side and got him into the kitchen, where I sat him down in a chair and turned on the lights.

He was covered in mud, bleeding from a scrape on his right cheekbone, and holding his right side. I flew to the phone and dialed his brother's number with his input. Terry's voice, sounding sleepy, "Yeah?"

"This is Lynn, we, cameras, we…" my voice failed me, so Russell grabbed the phone and gave Terry a brief run down on what had happened.

"I did for their cameras," he rasped, "but the assholes ran me down with their car." He listened and I could hear Terry's shouts of outrage through the receiver. "Yeah, yeah, they're gone," Russell panted, "But I think I broke a rib or something." He stopped and bent over, obviously in pain, so I snatched the phone back from him, under better control of myself.

"Is there a hospital nearby?" I asked. Both brothers spoke at once, so I shushed the one in the room with me and listened to the other one. "Yeah, a clinic, but you'll have to drag his ass there."

Meanwhile, Russell was insisting, "I'm not going anyplace!" and trying to take the telephone back. I backed out of his reach and asked Terry to come and take us. "He needs an X-ray, I think."

Terry agreed to do just that, and I disconnected. Russell wanted to argue, so I silenced him. "Okay, tough guy. If you can stand up straight, you don't have to go."

"Right, I will," he insisted. He rose out of the chair, stood straight for about half a second, then bent over again, holding his side. "Fuck me!" he exclaimed, and sat back down.

"I thought so," I commented, and fetched him a glass of whiskey once I made sure he hadn't hit his head. He tossed back half of it and Terry came screeching to a halt outside, apparently having driven over at supersonic speed. He bounded into the kitchen, felt of his brother's ribs while Russell cussed him up one side and down the other, then nodded to me. "Clinic," he said flatly.

"Stuff you," was the response, but he went.

We got him into the big back seat of the Rover, and I sat on the floor of the car in front of him, while Terry drove at breakneck speed into the misty night. We jounced over the road and Russell made rude comments about Terry's driving when the bouncing around hurt, but mostly we just held onto each other's hands. I caught him studying me and realized HE was worried about ME, when he was the one who got run down deliberately by a car. "Damn fool," I whispered, and he gave me a brief, cheeky grin, then made kissing movements with his mouth. I shook my head at him and added, "Hopeless."

The clinic was small but efficiently run and warm. Nobody was there but our somewhat disheveled group, a very nice middle aged lady doctor and an ancient nurse so thin as to resemble a wraith more than a person, but who, I discovered when she relieved Russell of his coat and shirt despite his arguing with her, was tough as nails. He had some scrapes on his tummy and back on the right, and an already impressive bruise forming over his lower right rib area. When the doctor felt of the area, his hiss of pain made me wince. "Musta been at least a lorry, eh, Russ?" the doctor asked wryly.

"More like an old lady on a bicycle," Terry interjected. He tried to keep the mood light, but I could see he was furious and scared at the same time. After an X-ray showed a cracked rib, they taped him up.

Russell shifted uncomfortably on the exam table when the doctor wanted to check his back, finally climbing gingerly to his feet. He raised his brows to Terry, who gaped briefly, then took me by the arm, "C'mon, Lynn, let's get some water or something."

I dragged my feet, confused, then Terry applied a bit more pressure and gave me a meaningful look. Oh. Obviously he wanted to tell me something or else Russell wanted to tell the doctor something, and in either case, they wanted me out of the room. We got out in the hall, and I asked him, "What?!" in a fierce whisper.

"I dunno, he can be a strange one, but you know that already, I dare say." His eyes crinkled and he grinned, though he was obviously worried about his brother. "We'll give him a minute, then drag his ass outa there."

He checked his watch, counted down two minutes, and we walked back in. The doctor had Russell up on the table, lying on his stomach, and he was only wearing his shirt and a strategically draped white sheet. "What th'?" Terry exclaimed.

The doctor was using tweezers and gauze to remove bits of gravel and dirt from a large area on Russell's right hip. "Big abrasion," she explained succinctly, and delicately plucked some bits of grass from the wound, much to Russell's discomfort. "Hold still," she admonished him, "do you want an infection because I've left some debris in here?"

"No," came the muffled response. His forehead was pillowed on his arms. I walked around the table, determined to comfort him and caught a good look at the abrasion. He heard my indrawn breath of dismay and turned his head to give me the fish eye. "It's not that bad. Is it, doc?"

"Nah," she said, plucking some further debris and tossing the tweezers onto the instrument tray. "Nothing most any grown man wouldn't be weeping over." She sprayed something on the area which extended from just below his waist on the right side to about a quarter of the way down his right buttock. "This won't hurt," she informed him just as he gasped and slewed around on the table to get out of range. "Careful, Russ, you're not in top shape at the moment." She spritzed more antiseptic or whatever it was on the raw, rather nasty area of abraded skin, then smiled. "Okay, that's probably going to hurt more than the ribs, but I don't think your career is ruined."

"Hah, hah, hah," Russell mocked her, and got down, clutching the sheet around him. "Bloody damn bugger all. . ." he hissed, "did you skin me?" He grabbed his pants and hobbled behind the partition screen. "Lynnie, help me, would ya, luv?"

Terry and the doctor exchanged leers. I ignored them and went to help Russell into his pants. I pulled them up carefully, holding the fabric away from his shredded backside, wondering where his underwear had got to, the deciding it must have been ruined anyway. "Don't zip it," Russell hissed in my ear, "just leave my shirttails out and let's go home before she wants to check my dick as well."

"Is it damaged?" I teased him.

"No, it's not damaged!" He said sarcastically, then shuffled back into the examining room. "I'm out of here," he informed the room at large, and headed for the door.

The nurse forced him to take two pain pills before we left, so that by the time we got him back home, he was fuzzy-minded and relaxed. We got his muddy, bloody clothes off, and Terry put him to bed, propping him on his side with pillows to keep him from rolling onto his sore backside. We went back outside with flashlights once he seemed comfortable, to see if the paparazzi had left anything besides a shattered camera or two.

Aside from some cigarette butts near the barn, and the aforementioned cameras, there was nothing beyond some tire tracks where they had skidded into Russell, narrowly missing me. "How could they have found him?" I wanted to know, shivering despite the warm jacket I was wearing, courtesy of their mum earlier in the evening.

"Oh, we get them once or twice a year," he explained. "We usually just take their film and send them on their way. This is the first time anyone's got hurt."

He saw me safely inside, made sure all the doors were locked, and said he'd send some of the ranch workers over to keep an eye on things. "Don't worry, you'll be safe tonight." He squeezed my hand in his much larger one. "Tomorrow we'll make sure the fences aren't down anyplace, and see if we can figure out who these fuckers were." I kissed him on the cheek and went in to check on Russell after he left and I had made sure the locks were fastened.

I climbed into the bed with him very gingerly, but he wasn't sleeping. "Sure you're okay?" he mumbled as I snuggled close as carefully as I could. He lay on his left side, facing me. His face was discolored around the cut, but it didn't look too serious, more of a graze.

"I'm fine," I assured him again, and kissed his forehead.

He sighed tiredly, resting his face against my neck, finally relaxing. Blue-green eyes at half-mast, he was a sight to stir my protective instincts. Of course, he wasn't stupid, he knew it. "You may mother me now," he murmured, nipping my throat.

I pulled his hair, "Stop that! Believe me, mothering is the farthest thing from my mind when you chew on my neck."

He giggled, then uttered a breathy, "Ouch, dammit!" when his cracked rib and shredded butt made themselves known. "I bet I won't even be able to fuck," he said bitterly.

I fought the urge to laugh because I had been thinking along much the same lines. "We're hopeless," I moaned, after confessing my thoughts. I patted his back, then rubbed it in slow circles. "Never mind, we can go without for a few days, we might even get some work done."

"A few days!" He groaned in only half-jesting anguish, then he tangled his feet with mine, draped his right arm over me and announced that he thought he might be able to go without until noon the next day.

"My God," I mocked him, "that long?"

He started to giggle but caught himself before it hurt. "I told you I'd been without for too long. It's kind of like you turned on the spigot and I can't turn it off."

"Now there is a pretty mental image," I teased him.

"Better be one of those big, fancy kitchen spigots," he mumbled, then finally stopped fighting the pain killers and slept.

He got out of bed with no help the next morning, which amazed me, but he was gruff as a bear. I finally pushed him outside to find something to grumble at out there and went to call Sandy at home, time difference be damned.

She answered, surprised it was me. "It's night here, you know," she informed me. "Have you seen the TV tabloids today?" was the next thing out of her mouth. A chill went through me. Surely not?

"Why?" I asked, noncommittally.

She cleared her throat, then read, "Crowe and his new love caught on film." I groaned. "Wait," she broke in, "there's more. They had pictures of someone who looks remarkably like you necking with him. Is there something you're not telling me?"

"I - uh - well, you could say so," I finally stuttered. Russell was going to be furious. I wasn't sure I wanted to see that at close range. I relieved Sandy's curiosity by telling her the truth, that Russell and I liked one another, and he had asked me to stay on indefinitely to work on the film project, and also to work on other possibilities.

Silence. Then she spoke carefully into the line hum, "Lynn, I've known you for a long time and I know you're not an airhead, but are you totally nuts?"

"Probably," I admitted. Seen from an outsider's point of view, I probably was crazy.

"I see. Okay," she sighed into the phone. "So that was you kissing Russell Crowe?"

I admitted as much, then told her how they had sneaked onto his place and snapped pictures the night before. "I thought he got all their film, looks like I was wrong."

"No kidding," I heard her tapping her pencil on the desk, a sure sign of mental wheels clicking over. "Okay, I'll put out a little press release, claim that those are old pictures or something, and see if they buy it."

I hadn't thought of that, "Okay, it's worth a try." I enumerated what I had accomplished so far, getting the expected reaction when I told her who Russell was positive would direct his film.

She asked the inevitable just before hanging up, "So, what was it like?"

I laughed but answered honestly, "Superb." She sighed theatrically, and we rang off. I went into the guest room to turn on the little TV set in there.

I flipped through the channels and finally got the hang of the satellite listings, then found some American channels. On the E! Entertainment channel I struck pay dirt of a sort. There we were, kissing, his hands very obviously under my coat, and mine on his backside. I groaned. It looked as if "furious" wasn't even going to come close to what he would be when he saw this.

I didn't have long to wait to find out, he came storming - albeit slowly - through the kitchen door, yelling into his cell phone. I don't think I'd ever heard that tone from him except maybe in a film. I peeked out of the doorway. He was in the living room, glaring in my direction. He beckoned to me and I went, reluctantly. Meantime, he spoke urgently and coldly, all trace of the affectionate Russell gone. I imagined being on the other end of that call and my knees shook. He took hold of my wrist in a death grip. I barely managed not to wince and pull away.

"I don't care if you have to tell them it's a bloody scene from a fucking film rehearsal, or if you tell them it's not even us, you WILL put a cease and desist on those pictures, and you WILL see to it that nobody else puts them out." He paused and I heard a brief reply, unintelligible through the receiver from where I stood, then he modified his tone and loosened his grip on my arm. "Let me hear from you before the day is over."

He disconnected, flipped the phone into its little case and regarded me somewhat coolly. "I'm going to ask you something, Lynn, and I don't want you to take this wrong, but did you have anything to do with those pictures?"

My jaw dropped open. That was not what I was expecting from him, although later I could see why he might have thought that. After all, we'd only known each other a week at that point. "No!" I said indignantly, and yanked my wrist out of his grasp. "How could you think that?"

He sighed, wincing a little, eyes still glacial. "I'm trying to be fair, and I want to know," he insisted.

"No, I didn't. I just spoke to Sandy and she told me the pictures were all over the tabloid TV shows there today." I examined the red finger imprints on my wrist. I was numb. And Russell did not know whether to trust me or not. Embarrassing tears ran down my face and I dashed them away with my sleeve. "I had nothing to do with this except for being the woman you were kissing."

His eyes searched my face, and then he relented, his eyes warming again. "Don't cry, Lynnie." He stepped close and wiped my tears with his thumbs, then put his arms around me. I hesitated, and I know he could tell, but I couldn't help it. But I also couldn't resist him long. I wrapped my arms around his waist and leaned my face against his chest. "You're trembling," he murmured.

"You scared me," I sniffled into his warm shirt front.

"I'm such an idiot," he rumbled. I nodded agreement and he chuckled. "I felt. . ." he stopped and I looked up at him. He was blushing and my heart thudded hard while he stammered, started and stopped, finally managing, "I felt betrayed. Because…because…" He screwed his eyes shut really tight, then opened them and looked into mine. "I think I'm falling in love with you," he finished.

My knees buckled and he held me up, a little bit of a smile showing. "Does this response mean the feeling might be mutual?" he whispered.

I nodded, unable to speak. If I was an airhead, I thought, I might as well be a total airhead. The stereo was playing in the living room; ironically, it was TOFOG, and he was singing "Hold You."

He tipped my chin up, "Say it."

I couldn't resist the look in his eyes or the voice like warm honey. "I don't just think it," I whispered.

He digested that, and I wondered if he realized his pupils dilated when he was emotional. His grip on me tightened. "Think what?" he rasped. His eyes were luminous.

"I'm already in love with you," I confessed. Until I said it aloud, I hadn't even allowed myself to think it.

He gave a shout of laughter and we grinned idiotically at one another. "Life can be surprising," he remarked.

"No kidding," I shot back.

"We'll do fine, you'll see," he promised.

"I trust you."

He groaned, "God, the Sheila trusts me!" He laughed and I realized he was laughing at himself as well as at life's strange twists and turns.

"I still think we'll do fine," he pronounced, and demonstrated his confidence in his prediction by kissing me thoroughly.

The phone began ringing almost before he finished his sentence. He ignored it, then growled in frustration and flipped it open. "What?"

He listened, face darkening. "I don't care about that." Staticky words from the other end, then he said, "No. The answer is no. N-O. If they can't leave me alone even now, they can bugger themselves." He disconnected and looked bleakly down into my face.

"What?" I didn't want to let go of him because I knew it wasn't going to be a good answer and if I let go, it was going to happen.

"That was Smithson's. There are more pictures out, and Tinsel Tonight wants to interview me. Maybe I'll just send them a picture of my shredded ass." He laughed bitterly, and raked his hands through his hair.

I let go and stepped back, and the phone shrilled again. It was happening and nothing I could do would stop the nightmare. Why now, I wondered, and there was no answer forthcoming. Blame the greedy photographers, yes. Also blame the people wanting pieces of him, and even now, they apparently did. I couldn't help feeling this was all my fault. If I hadn't come to find him, he would still be happily writing lyrics to a song, or tagging calves or something bucolic and peaceful. Now, he was smack in the middle of the whirlwind again.
 

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