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 5

Sydney, Christmas Shopping

We flew down Friday morning, a quick trip in the beautiful little jet Russell leased in partnership with several other people. It was hot, but the skies were blue and there was a breeze, so it wasn't too unpleasant being out of doors. If it weren't for the decorations and Christmas music everywhere, though, I would have had difficulty believing what season it was. We were casually dressed, both of us with lists we didn't want the other person to read, and we both had on our comfiest walking shoes, because, as I was about to find out, a lot of our shopping was going to be done in Sydney's open air markets, and up and down streets of little shops. I think we walked the equivalent of an Olympic marathon before lunch.

Russell, who was growing his hair even longer for the period film coming up, was still recognized, but for the most part left alone. Aussies are much more cool about local celebrities, and only a few did more than wave or say a friendly "G'day, mate!" His cousins, Martin and Jeff, the international class cricket players would probably have caused a much bigger flap walking down the street, sports being what it is in Australia.

"Does it bother you?" I asked him.

"Fuck, no, it's nice to be ordinary," was his heartfelt response.

"Ordinary is something I don't think you'll ever be," I told him, then let him pull me by the hand to look in the window of a musical instrument shop at a display of guitars. "I like the red crackly one," I said, pointing to a Fender Stratocaster.

"It's nice," he allowed, but I noticed he had eyes only for a beautiful big guitar that I learned was a cousin of B.B. King's famous "Lucille". He twisted his head around, trying to see the price tag through the shop window, then gasped and shook his head. "Too fucking dear. C'mon, let's get some tucker, I'm about to pass out here."

We ate hamburgers and chips with cold Aussie beer to wash it down, seated outdoors with the crowds of shoppers passing by. "Okay," Russell announced, after we ate, "I'm going to get my stuff and I'll meet you back here in an hour."

I blinked. "Alone?" I had no idea where anything was in Sydney beyond the obvious places such as the Opera House, Botanical Gardens, and the Hilton.

His giggle alerted me that I was being teased. "Gotcha," he murmured, leaned across the table and kissed me warmly. I heard someone at a nearby table say, "Get a room!" and we both laughed. "Okay, I'll go with you, and you can go with me, and we'll just have to manage to keep our secret stuff secret."

And that's what we did. Russell took me to some wonderful antique shops and helped me choose a vintage cameo brooch for his mother, and he found a gorgeous gold pocket watch complete with chain and fobs for his father. Those purchases made, we meandered down a row of similar shops until we came to one with vintage glassware and linens, which he knew was a weakness of mine. Although he sighed and shifted from foot to foot as I gazed at the shop windows, he waited patiently while I searched through piles of vintage table cloths and napkins, and then through several cupboards of depression era glass. I chose a couple of things I liked, and agreed to go with him to a bookshop nearby that he particularly liked.

While he prowled the shelves of books, I found some beautiful leather bookmarks and bought several in different colors as presents for various people, including a blue weighted one for Russell. I also found a book of poems I knew he would like, and had the shopkeeper stash all my purchases under the counter until after Russell walked outside, then I shoved them down in the bottom of my shopping bag and left, exchanging "Happy Christmas!" wishes with the clerk.

We spent another hour getting the items on our lists, alternately allowing each other to get those secret things we wanted for each other and promising not to peek. We took a cab to a beautiful Victorian era mansion that had been turned into a small, private hotel, where we had a gorgeous sitting room and bedroom in a round tower on the second floor. It was all chintz and antique furniture, and the centerpiece of it was a huge four-poster bed with a canopy. The hotel was all decorated for Christmas, and there was a live Christmas tree in our room and garlands tied with ribbon festooned around the fireplace. I couldn't have asked for a better surprise, given that I had assumed we would be at one of the more modern hotels.

Our overnight bags were there, having been sent ahead from the airport, and we undressed to take a long bath in the huge claw footed bathtub that probably could have held four people instead of just us, but it was nice to have the room and the view out a tree-shaded window as we bathed.

Russell took a sponge and washed my feet and legs, holding my foot by the heel and sponging between each toe, massaging the sole and arch and instep. I moaned in delight. Finished with the right foot, he set it in his lap, and repeated the favor to my left. I pressed my sole against his thigh, then higher, against his testicles, smiling when his hand trembled and he drew a shaky breath. "Best stop that," he said in his growly-honey voice, "or I'm going to dive right over there and splash all the water outa this tub fucking your brains out."

"Dare ya," I murmured, even though I knew I shouldn't tempt someone who always accepted dares.

Water slopped everywhere as he rose up, streaming soapsuds, and made good on his promise.

I squealed with laughter and we thrashed our way through a very interesting interlude.

We got most of the splashed water mopped up with the stack of towels in the room and I called down for more later, explaining we'd had a little accident. To their credit, the housekeeping staff never questioned how so much water got all over the bathroom, and I thought that was very nice of them.

We had dinner in a restaurant overlooking Sydney Harbour, a sight to stir the senses with the lights and the Opera House and the waterfront. I already loved Sydney, hell, I loved everything about Australia, especially the man sitting across from me, smiling as he watched me stare out the window at the view. "You look like you want to drink it all in," he commented, reaching across the table to take my hand.

"Oh, I do! I love it here, Russell." My hand almost disappeared inside his big paw. I loved that too. I beamed at him and he laughed, shaking his head.

"Hopeless," he pronounced me, "worse than I am."

We went to the Opera House and listened to the symphony perform Christmas music, drawing a few interested stares. Russell, with his hair already down to his shoulders and dressed in his black Armani suit over a dark red silk shirt open at the neck, looked incredibly handsome. I felt very plain beside him, but he assured me my ivory lace sundress and spider-web shawl were beautiful. I wore the aquamarine jewelry he had given me, and we held hands through the whole performance. Afterward, we walked for a little while, looking in the windows of the closed shops, just enjoying the warm evening. A little breeze ruffled our hair and carried the scent of Christmas candles and summer flowers.

The cab let us out in front of the hotel and we necked for a while outside in their rose garden. I leaned my head against Russell's shoulder and sighed, totally content. "Thank you for this," I told him.

"Oh, any time, love, I aim to please." He hugged me tighter.

We slept cuddled together in the huge canopy bed after initiating it thoroughly, not waking until the morning was well advanced. We had a huge room service breakfast, checked out, and hit a few more stores to finish out our shopping. I managed to dodge him for an hour, telling him I was going to Victoria's Secret to try on lingerie.

"Oh, no," he had said, refusing to go along. "I always get a hard on in there, you know that."

I did. That was why I fibbed and said that was where I was going. I suggested he go to Notes Over Australia, a huge music store not far from Vicky's Secret, and told him I'd meet him there when I had found what I wanted. He agreed, and set happily off to browse for music. I made sure he saw me go into the lingerie store, then darted out the rear door, got a cab and went to the shop with the guitars where I put a big dent in my American Express card buying him the B.B. King guitar. After arranging for it to be delivered mid-week, I cabbed back to Victoria's Secret, quickly selected the things I wanted, and walked out the front door carrying a large bag of unmentionables just as Russell arrived carrying a larger bag that was apparently full of cd's, books and sheet music.

We got to the airport, where our suitcases had already arrived from the hotel, and flew back to Coffs Harbour. It was dark when we got home, but all in all, we had spent a wonderful two days, and I was really looking forward to Christmas.

Cousins and family members, friends and friends of friends all began dropping by as we got closer to Christmas. There were daily footy games on the wide front lawn of the big house, and we - the Crowe Women, as we dubbed ourselves - cooked and baked and cooked some more to feed the hordes. People came over from the States, up from Sydney and Melbourne, even from England to spend some time with us over the holidays.

I never knew who I would run into when I got up in the morning, one morning startling Peta Wilson and her husband who were enjoying an early dawn skinny dip in the heated pool. On another morning, I walked smack into Colin Firth and his wife, arriving with two of their children for a few days in the wilderness, as he put it. Colin was cast in Botany Bay as the English aristocrat who went from being the enemy of Russell's character John Hamilton, to his friend, so he had moved his whole family to Oz, renting a house outside of Sydney for six months.

Russell's band mates and other musicians dropped in, too, and every evening there were impromptu jams, sing-alongs and "do you remember this one?" sessions that gave each day a special ending. Russell was closeted with his band mates working on some songs they were polishing for their next CD when his guitar arrived from Sydney, so his mother and I managed to smuggle the large package inside and get it wrapped and hidden so he was unaware of it. We grinned at one another like children, caught up in the holiday mood, and went back to our endless cooking and baking.

On the afternoon before Christmas, Russell, Terry, his cousins Jeff and Martin, plus a whole other assorted group of graziers, film people and neighbors, played their annual Christmas cricket match on the lawn. They now referred to it as a "pitch", which I gathered was what one called the location of a cricket match, but other than thinking Russell was gorgeous in his all white uniform (except for the funny, tiny brimmed ball cap they all wore), I was totally lost as to how the game was played. To me, raised with football, baseball and basketball, cricket seemed like a kind of hodgepodge game, a cross between croquet, baseball and field hockey. Of course, I would never tell Russell that - why risk having to sit through an hour-long dissertation about the finer points of bowling, wickets and cricket bats? I'd already learned that lesson!

Russell's team, dubbed "Russell's Roughnecks", faced off against his cousins' team, who called themselves the "Crusher Crowe's". After the first few innings or whatever you call them, the Roughies, as we had already renamed them, were losing, although yelling pretty loudly about it. By the end of the game, the Roughies were down by about a gazillion points, and it was Russell's turn at bat.

He taunted the bowler or whatever he was called - the guy who pitched to him - and waggled his backside at him, making rude remarks. Since the pitcher was a friend of his cousins whom I suspected was a pro player, I thought this wasn't too wise of Russell, but when had he ever taken the wiser, safer route? Never, as far as I knew.

The pitch came and he swung mightily, hitting it with a loud crack, then hooting and laughing as he ran the bases while the opposition bumped heads trying to get him out. He stopped on first base, bent over, and mooned Jeff.

"Ah," Colin commented from beside me, "the famous Full Moon Gambit." I almost fell off my lawn chair laughing.

His trousers respectably back in place; Russell attempted to steal bases as his teammates came up to bat. He succeeded in stealing one base, but by then he was being yelled at by Terry to knock it off because he was going to get tagged out and lose the game for them, and yelled at by the referee for cheating, and yelled at by Jeff and Martin just on general principles. He ignored them all and ran yet another time.

This time, the largest player on the opposition team, irritated and obviously not quite in the swing of the kind of game this group of loonies played, dove at Russell and pounced on him as he came flying past, arms and legs pumping. There was a fleshy thud, the sound of someone getting the breath knocked out of him, and Russell on his back underneath the other player, who was almost twice his size.

Everyone went silent and I rose out of my chair in disbelief. Beside me, Colin said, "Holy shit," and then everyone ran at once.

Terry got there first and bodily shoved the other player off his brother. "Gerroff," he snarled, and knelt by Russell, who was lying flat out and still in the grass. Terry grabbed hold of Russell's belt and lifted him up off the ground by it, managing to elicit a cough and some movement just as I got there. "He's just got the breath knocked out of him," Terry informed me in an expert's tone of voice.

Meanwhile, Jeff and Martin shooed everyone else away while I unbuttoned Russell's shirt collar to ease his breathing. One of the neighbors, who was a doctor when he wasn't being a gentleman farmer on weekends, felt of Russell's limbs, checked his pupils, felt his neck and went "hmm" and "uh-huh", and finally held three fingers up in front of his eyes. "How many fingers, Russ?"

My dusty, base-stealing husband snarled, "Three, and I think my fuckin' shoulder is broken."

I groaned, shaking my head at all testosterone-poisoned athletes, and patted his hand when I really wanted to punch him someplace where it would hurt but not do any permanent damage.

Colin sighed, thinking what I was thinking, only he said it out loud, "Bad luck for the film, Russ, if you've done for that shoulder."

"Fucking-A," I agreed, causing some laughter from the few who were still standing around. "Don," I addressed our neighbor the doctor, "can we get him in the car and get his arm looked at, or should we just shoot him now?"

"Shoot him now," Terry said flatly, but went to get the car anyway, mumbling to himself about showboating players who didn't know when to quit.

Thus we spent the night before Christmas in the emergency center of the Coffs Harbour hospital getting Russell checked out. He hadn't broken his left shoulder, which was somewhat lucky, because that was where he'd had surgery before. What he had done was shatter his right collarbone, which the surgeon said was actually worse. "We have to pin it," he told me, while Russell tried to talk over him, but was shushed by a very large, very fierce-looking Maori male nurse who threatened him with a catheter if he didn't shut up. Amazing what a silence fell at that point.

So, I settled down with Terry and Jeff, Martin drove back to the farm to tell everyone that Russell wasn't going to be home that night, and we waited. I was allowed in the room while they were pre-medicating him and he was a very unhappy camper.

"Lynnie, it hardly hurts at all, get them to just give me a sling and let's get the hell out of here." He sat up, beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and he gasped. The nurse eased him back down and told him if he moved again, he was going to strap him to the gurney and sit on him.

"No worries," my intrepid spouse said weakly, "I'm not moving."

They started an IV of anesthetic and he drifted off in a pleasant fog. I kissed him, then they rolled him into surgery. An hour later he was in recovery, his right shoulder and chest swathed in bandages to immobilize his arm and shoulder. I sat beside him, alternately worried and peeved with him, but when his eyelashes fluttered and he woke up enough to recognize me, I didn't yell at him, I just kissed him and told him he'd been very naughty and he wasn't to do that ever again.

"I won't," he whispered, though I doubt he even knew what he was promising to not do.

They let him go home the afternoon of Christmas Day after making him promise he would rest and not do anything more strenuous than eat, sleep and go to the bathroom until the bones started to knit. I promised for him, fixing him with a look that informed him I was not pleased with him, then Terry drove us back home.

We drove in through the front gate, where someone had stuck a big poster over the normal sign. "Happy Christmas" it read in big block letters, and someone had drawn Father Christmas in with decidedly Russell features, holding a broken cricket bat. Beneath that, someone had scrawled, "Don't quit yer day job!" He groaned when he saw it, muttering about his cousins' sense of humor.

Everyone had opened their presents already except Russell and I, so we got him comfortable on the sofa and his mother and I brought out the things we had stashed. His dad loved the gold pocket watch, and I had gotten him some books and cd's that he seemed very pleased about, meanwhile his mother loved the vintage cameo, and Russell gave her perfume, a particular kind of chocolates that she loved, and gift certificates for her favorite stores in Sydney. Together, we gave them cruise tickets for a trip around the Hawaiian Islands. "Y'need to get lei'd, Dad," Russell teased him.

Russell instructed Terry where to find the presents he had stashed for me, and while he was gone, I served spiced tea and cookies just as if it wasn't summer outside. Terry came back with a big shopping bag full of wrapped packages, and I stacked Russell's gifts from me beside him on the couch. Magically, everyone else melted away and left us alone for our first Christmas together.

Russell eyed the huge package that held his guitar, clearly puzzled, but manfully began with the small packages I handed him one at a time. I helped him with the wrappings since he was pretty much one-handed. He loved the blue leather bookmark, and the leather-bound journals I had had made up for him with his initials embossed into the covers. "For your deep thoughts," I explained.

"I don't have any," he claimed, but I could tell he was really pleased. "Open this one," he instructed, handing me a package that obviously held jewelry.

I opened the bright paper and the white velvet box inside to reveal aquamarine earrings set in rose gold. "Oh, they're beautiful!" I kissed his cheek, "Thank you!" I wasn't wearing any earrings, so I put them into my ears and modeled them for him. Upon his smile of approval, I opened the next package and found the matching tennis bracelet. It was incredibly gorgeous. I was speechless, much to his amusement.

He opened more of his - books and a set of antique maps of Australia, cd's that I thought he would like, some games for his computer, and a heavy gold ID bracelet with his initials carved into the links. "Lynnie, this is beautiful," he said, studying it from all angles. I fastened it onto his left wrist, where it looked very handsome. I leaned down for his thank you kiss, then slid the big box where he could reach it.

"What's this then?"

"Oh, nothing much," I lied. I helped him rip the paper off. When we got the cardboard box open and he saw the guitar case I think he was stunned. "Oh, shit," he breathed, and fumbled, trying to open the latches with his left hand. I helped him and lifted out the beautiful instrument, smiling at his red face and shining eyes. "Lynn. . .I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything," I answered, "just write a song for me on it, okay?" I placed it on his lap and he ran his hand over it, clearly wishing he was able to play it. I don't think I ever saw him so moved over a present. I was so pleased with myself, I wanted to burst.

We had some silly gifts for each other - candy pants for me in a flavor called "passionate peach"; I had gotten him a pair of fur-lined thong underwear from a catalog, which he thought was hilarious. "Wait till you see yourself in them," I told him, though he swore he wouldn't be caught dead in them. He had gotten me some earrings with kangaroos and brightly enameled koalas, platypi, echidnas and other antipodean symbols dangling on tiny chains from big enameled maps of Australia. Tourist jewelry but so cute! I gave him cufflinks and evening shirt studs from an antique shop in LA - they were small gold kangaroos. Of course, he loved them. He then pointed to a medium sized box and commanded me to open that one next.

"What is it, some of those exploding snakes that fly out when you take the lid off?" I wondered aloud, laughing when I saw it was some outrageous X-rated undies, including a pair of passionate purple crotchless panties. "Oh, nice! I guess you braved your hard on affliction to pick these out?"

"Nah, ordered 'em from a catalog, wasn't taking any chances." He was smiling, but looking tired, so I helped him open some small packages containing candies, aftershave and socks, plus a large one that held four new flannel shirts. "New costumes to confuse the press," I told him. There were two red plaid, exactly alike, and two blue, also alike. "They'll never be able to prove where they took your picture in these."

After appreciative laughter, he indicated a medium sized box, "Open that one next, love."

I did. It was the animals to my nativity set - the three camels of the Wise Men, two sheep, and two cows. They were beautiful and in mint condition and I knew they had cost the earth. My throat tightened, thinking how wonderful it was that he knew I would love them more than just about anything. "Don't start cryin'," he warned me.

"Too late," I sniffed, smiling through my tears. I kissed him all over his face and promised him in a whisper that when he was able, I was going to wear those crotchless panties for him and test his mettle. For the moment, though, I drove him to our little home where we could be alone.

He was in his ubiquitous blue jogging shorts and a singlet with his running suit jacket thrown over his shoulders. I offered to help him undress for bed, but he insisted he wasn't going to bed yet, it was too early. So I made him comfortable on the couch. While he fiddled with the remote to the sound system, I changed into one of his footy shirts, washed my face and then joined him to sit listening to Christmas music in the darkened room.

I sighed happily, my head in his lap. "This has been the best Christmas," I commented, feeling very much at peace.

"It had a few odd moments," he returned, "but basically, yeah, the best one ever." He stroked my hair and rested his head against the sofa back. "It's going to be a busy year, though."

"That's an understatement," I agreed, snuggling closer. "We need to stockpile all these peaceful moments so we can draw on them when it gets really crazy."

His amused chuckle sounded, then his breathing evened out and he was asleep. I closed my eyes and fell asleep with him, holding him close, already stockpiling moments.

Happy New Year

"I swear, you are the worst patient I've ever had the misfortune to run across." I glared at Russell, who didn't look at all contrite. In fact, just the opposite. He was determined to ride his horse across the paddocks to the main house and then to "just watch" as he put it, as the graziers moved some of his cows from one paddock to another, treating them for flies, etc in the process.

"I'm going mental just sitting here," he complained, wincing as he jarred his shoulder getting out of the chair. "Fuck," he muttered, quickly wiping his face clear of anything but optimistic good cheer. "I'm fine, Lynn, really."

"You aren't," I insisted. Hell, the orthopedic surgeon in Melbourne, whom he'd gone to see after having his collar bone pinned Christmas Eve, had said he wasn't fine and he had to curb his normal frenetic activities to let the bone knit if he wanted to be fit by the time shooting was scheduled to begin on Botany Bay in February. "Dr. Bruckner told you that."

He made a face, rolled his eyes and kept on walking.

I gave up. "Fine then, do what you want, I wash my hands of you." I folded my arms across my chest and stared at him. "I'll tell your mum you're on your way and to have the ambulance waiting."

"You do that," he said, then he was out the door and gone. If he had been 5 years old, I would have put him over my knee and paddled his fanny for that. However, since he was an adult, a subtler revenge would be exacted. As soon as I could think of one.

I watched out the kitchen window as he led Romper out. How he managed to bridle and saddle the horse was beyond me, but he had done it somehow. He was not having an easy time mounting, in fact, as I watched, he failed twice, stopping each time because, presumably, his shoulder hurt and he couldn't use his right arm to help swing his weight across the saddle. He had such a look of frustrated disgust on his face I almost laughed out loud. Serves you right, I thought. It was a day short of a week since he'd gotten hurt, and that had also been because he didn't know when to quit.

I moved to the kitchen door for a better look. Now he led Romper over to the small corral and he used the mounting block there to finally get onto the horse's back. He signaled Romper, who set off at a trot, and I groaned under my breath as Russell sort of folded in on himself. It had to hurt - Romper had the roughest trot it had ever been my misfortune to experience. Russell urged the horse into a canter - somewhat more comfortable - and disappeared across the big south paddock towards the main house. I sighed. Short of tying him to a chair, there was nothing further I could do. I did call and speak to his mother, however, warning her that our impatient patient was on his way over.

"I'll have Terry drop a net over him, dear," she promised.

I wished he would. I was learning what "difficult" meant when applied to my husband. It meant stubborn, mulish, annoying, irritating, exasperating, infuriating, maddening, pig-headed, frustrating and obstinate. Did I mention stubborn? He was also charming as hell, especially when he was determined to get around me to do something he wasn't supposed to do. Like ride Romper today. Even the threat of having to push back the start date of Botany Bay hadn't fazed him.

I decided to take out my frustration on the mountain of email I had waiting and went to work on that. I used Russell's computer since my laptop was acting up. When Windows came up, a line of cows did a Rockette's high-kick routine across the screen to some tinkling music. Obviously, my husband had been playing around again. The last time I'd used his machine, just the other day in fact, it still had a Santa Claus with reindeer singing "Jingle Bells" when it started up. "Arrested development, that has to be it," I muttered, and dialed up for my email.

There was a nice long chatty one from Sandy, who wrote that she was enjoying being retired, but had started learning to be a travel agent because she was so bored being home all the time. She would, she said, work a day or two per week just to keep her brain from turning to custard. I smiled. That was so like her; she just couldn't NOT have something to do.

I answered her, telling her about our Christmas, the shopping trip to Sydney, and the Christmas Eve cricket game - with its aftermath. "Russell, of course, is not behaving - which shouldn't surprise anyone, I suppose, but it's worn me down a little trying to keep him from hurting his shoulder further because he's bored. I'm beginning to think bungee cords might work - I'll just use ten dozen of them to fasten him to a wall somewhere until he heals. Please send assorted colors, thank you."

I finished by wishing her a happy new year, and shut the machine off. Since it was early in the day and I had nothing better to do, I decided to saddle Minnie and ride over to see how my intrepid spouse was doing. I took along his pain medication - which he had been "forgetting" to take - and the sling for his arm - which he had also conveniently "forgotten". I wondered as I was cantering along on my sweet little mare if he would admit he had erred in riding over there. Probably not.

I was right. I rode up to find him perched rather dejectedly on the corral fence, watching Terry and some graziers putting tags into the ears of the calves. When he caught sight of me, though, he sat up straighter and replaced his unhappy expression with a more cocky one. God, he was such a poor liar sometimes! I smirked, dismounted, and climbed up beside him. "G'day," I said in imitation of the greetings I had just gotten from everyone else.

"I thought you had things to do," was his greeting.

I resisted the urge to shove him off the rail onto his very fine ass. "I finished them," I said brightly, being outrageously perky. I even tried a nose-wrinkling grin. He stared. I batted my eyelashes with great innocence and spoke to Terry, ignoring my husband's glower. Terry glanced from Russell to me and back again, grinning hugely. I winked at him. "Terry," I asked sweetly, "why do the little baby calves need those earrings?"

Beside me, Russell made an odd strangling noise. I ignored it. He had also turned to stare at me like I had grown a second head.

"Oh, because we use those to identify their mum and dad, y'see," Terry explained, going along with the joke. "It also lists when they had their vaccinations."

"Oh, how nice!" I enthused. "I had no idea you cattlemen were so clever."

"Thanks, luv," Terry said, grinning widely. "We're not such a bad lot of blokes."

The strangling noise was repeated. This time Russell swiveled his head to fix his basilisk gaze on his brother, who ignored it.

"Would you like to pet some of the baby calves?" Terry asked me in his most humor-the-city-slicker voice.

"Oh, yes!" I jumped down inside the corral and went to be introduced to some of the calves. Actually, they were pretty, especially the Herefords with their curly white foreheads and deep red bodies. I completely fell in love with a little Jersey heifer that looked like a fawn with her big eyes. "Oh, I just love her!" I hugged the little calf, who patiently allowed this display of human oddity. She only mooed a little. Meanwhile, Russell watched from the top rail. He hadn't said anything so far, though his body language spoke volumes.

"Lynn," Russell said after I had spent a good ten minutes disrupting the whole operation, although Terry and the others were winking to let me know they realized we were having Russell on, "could I speak to you for a minute, love?"

"Bye," I waved to the group, and bounced over to stand looking up at him. "Yep?"

"What are you doing?"

I pretended to misunderstand. "Petting the baby calves."

I heard snorts of laughter from the workmen behind me. Russell shot them a look and they suddenly got very serious about their work. "Come over here," he invited, and climbed down off the fence. I was secretly pleased to see that he moved as though he hurt all over, which only served him right.

"Okay," I bubbled, and followed him, smiling brightly.

He stopped well away from the corral and turned to face me. "I don't need you to nursemaid me," he said, looking very serious.

"I wasn't," I lied. "I was just - "

"Petting the baby calves, I know. And flirting with the men."

Now that was out of left field. I gaped at him for a second or two, then shook my head, "No, I was flirting with the baby calves, Russell."

"Fuck that," he bit out and I realized he was angry. Had my tease backfired? "I don't want you over here, they're a group of roughnecks. And if one of those baby calves, as you call them, gets ornery, you're liable to get stomped into the dirt."

"Russell, I grew up on a farm, remember?" It was apparent that he didn't until I reminded him. He looked confused for a moment, which was novel. The man never seemed confused about anything.

"Yes, well - then you know to be careful." He thought for a minute, then peered into my face, "Calf earrings?"

I snorted, unable to stifle my laughter. "Yeah. Pretty lame, huh?"

"Not as lame as you're going to be, Lynn," he promised, and made a grab for me with his good arm.

I eluded him and ran into the house, startling his mother as I dashed through the kitchen and out the door on the other side.

Russell was hot on my heels, but understandably a bit slowed down by his sore shoulder. Also, he stopped and grabbed a couple of bottles of beer out of the refrigerator as he went through the kitchen. When he came out the front door, I was leaning against the trunk of a big oak tree, laughing and panting. He saluted me with his opened bottle of beer, then meandered out to hand me the other one. "Calf earrings," he scoffed in his rumbly voice.

"Flirting with the men," I shot back, knocking back the beer. For once, I didn't choke and was able to swallow a good fourth of the bottle before stopping for breath. "Although that Maori one, Petie, is kinda cute."

Petie was almost seven feet tall and had facial tattoos that would frighten just about anybody until you realized he had the gentlest eyes in the world.

"Y'like that little Jersey heifer?" he asked, obviously changing the subject.

"She's beautiful. She looks like Bambi. I raised a couple of those as a kid." I set my empty bottle on the ground and sat down on a stump.

Russell went very quiet, so I peered up at him, shading my eyes with my hand. "What?"

"Lynn, I want you to sit abso-fuckin'-lutely still, y'got me?" Something in his tone and his stance scared me. My heart began beating erratically and I was afraid to move. "Still!" he barked in a whisper. I didn't twitch so much as an eyelash.

"Terry," Russell said in a low, carrying voice. I saw Terry look up sharply out of the corner of my eye. "Pistol."

"Pistol?" I mouthed, considering just bolting.

Terry was there almost instantaneously and he had a nasty looking gun in his hand. Russell flicked a finger at something and Terry's eyes narrowed, spotting whatever it was Russell was looking at. "Kill it," he said in a low voice.

Terry cocked the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The explosion was atomic bomb loud in my ears. Something flopped across my boot and I glanced down, ears ringing, to see the decapitated body of a brown snake wriggling there. Doors were opening, people were running, cattle and horses and dogs were going crazy, and I just sat there, dumbfounded. Then I slid off the stump in a dead faint, knocked my head on a gnarled root and went away for awhile.

I woke up, head aching furiously, totally confused and disoriented. Someone was pressing on my head, really hurting me, and my stomach was roiling. I seemed to be in some kind of moving room, then I realized I was on the back seat of the Rover with Russell crouched on the floor in front of me holding a folded wad of cloth to my head just above the right temple. "I'm going to be sick," I moaned.

"Auugh, don't worry about it, love," came my husband's soft voice. I raised up slightly and threw up, then lay back down, still nauseated. "Lynn, Lynn," he murmured. I hoped he wasn't mad that I had thrown up in his lovely car. And on him. "Shh, baby, don't cry, I've been thrown up on before." I cracked one eye open. He was looking at me with deep concern. "Lie still," he whispered.

"Okay," I managed, and wished I were dead. Nausea roiled in my stomach and my head pounded, and the car jounced all over the place. I wished I could just pass out. We hit a big chuck hole and the car bounced through it, jarring me hard. "Oh, God," I moaned. I dimly heard Russell telling Terry to at least miss a few of the fucking holes in the road, then I just heard buzzing and then nothing.

I came to again in the emergency ward at Coffs Harbour Hospital. Everything was exceptionally loud, then silent, then back to loud. It was maddening and it hurt. "Russell?"

A hand tightened on mine. "Here, love. Lie still, they're taking you to look at your skull."

I pictured a pirate flag with skull and cross bones. I realized I was on some kind of moving, flat cart - a gurney, that's it - I was very proud of myself for thinking of it. It made me so happy that I turned and vomited again. Would the cart never stop moving? Finally it did, and I was sort of flickering in and out of awareness while they did their scanning and imaging, then the next thing I knew, I was lying in a room that was blessedly quiet, and the pain in my head had subsided to a more manageable level. The nausea was gone, thank God. I moved a little bit and gasped as my head began to throb.

"Lie still, lovey," Russell said, his face swimming into my view. He was wearing a hospital gown like a jacket, which I thought was a little odd until I remembered throwing up on him. Twice. He followed my train of thought, smiling down at me. "No worries, luv, everything will wash."

"What happened?" I couldn't remember. Something about a snake.

"When you sat down on that stump, there was a Fear Snake curled up right there by your foot. Terry shot him, and then you fell off the stump and cracked your head on one of the roots. You've got a concussion and some stitches right here," he touched my head, feather light, above my right temple and ear.

His voice receded into a mixture of hospital sounds, and I slept. I don't know how long I was out, but when I opened my eyes again, at least the headache wasn't so awful. Russell was there, holding my hand. He was sitting in a chair beside my bed, with his head resting on the mattress, sound asleep. I touched his cheek and his eyes drifted open, beautiful pools of blue-green. He sat up, yawning. "There she is," he said in a low voice. "How's the loaf, then?"

"Loaf? Oh, my head?" He nodded. "Ten times its normal size," I said truthfully. "And I don't feel well."

"I imagine you've got a hell of a headache, Lynn. But your skull's not cracked, so they're only going to keep you over night, then I'll take you home."

I noticed he had his own shirt on, although a different one. Terry must have brought him fresh clothes. I was so thoroughly miserable, that when he teased me about this being the second time I'd knocked myself out for him, I only sighed, and fell back to sleep.

I went home the next day, New Year's Eve. We spent the day indoors, with me resting. The only fireworks I saw were inside my head. Russell took good care of me, staying within a few feet of wherever I was in case I needed him, which had the added bonus of keeping him from doing much to aggravate his shoulder. We were a pair of walking wounded, but it was nice having him to cuddle with. And Russell, even though he was animal lover from the get-go, had killed a snake to protect me. I felt small and cherished and loved.

He brought me painkillers and soda water at sundown New Year's Day, and gathered me against him, holding me close until I slept. I had six stitches in my scalp, a fearsome headache, and was still very dizzy, but I was also content because he wasn't doing anything macho and endangering himself.

"You didn't," he asked me in a low voice, "happen to have concussed yourself on purpose to keep me stuck here with you, did you, Lynn?"

Trust my husband to figure that out. "Sure," I answered him, "I talked the snake into waiting there so Terry could shoot him, and then I knocked myself out. Wasn't that a good plan?"

"Pure B-movie stuff," he teased me, pressing his lips to my temple with extreme gentleness. "Nobody would believe it."

After a few days of this, I was pretty much well, and Russell was less sore, so he began a more cautious routine of conditioning in preparation for Botany Bay. He used the gym at the main house, and he swam in the heated pool - something I loved also - and he started running every day out on the road. I worried about this, but spoke with Dr. Bruckner, his orthopedic surgeon, and he assured me Russell was following a plan they had worked out. I stopped mother-henning him and just observed in wonder as he worked through the soreness in his shoulder and overcame it.

By mid-January, he was running several miles every day, plus swimming and doing some weight training, but not, he said, enough to look bulky. He and Steven had decided that John Hamilton, being a member of the English aristocracy (he called it the "Pommy bluebloods") would be fit but not too muscular. They had also decided, in one of their endless meetings where they dissected the script and the characters, that Hamilton would be slimmer than Russell was, hence his rigorous training schedule. I confess to wishing he hadn't lost any weight, not liking his slim rump as much as his normal, more padded behind.

"I promise to fatten up when we're done, Lynnie," he reassured me. This was said while he stood drying off from a swim. A nude swim. He saw my close scrutiny of his body and grinned, striking a pose. "God's gift?" he asked in his Jeff Mitchell voice.

I smiled, "Yes, but way more now than then. I like you better with some mileage on that body."

He dropped down on his towel beside me and scraped his long wet hair out of his face. "Good thing, since I don't know how to reverse time."

"Neither do I, darn it." I glanced down at my bosom, wishing time and gravity didn't work against perkiness. But, let's face it, I was a long way past perky, had been since about age fifteen.

"Your breasts are perfect," he informed me, dragging my swimsuit top down to demonstrate his enthusiasm for that particular part of my anatomy. He rested his whiskery face against my chest, sighing happily. I hoped nobody came into the fenced pool enclosure, they'd get an eyeful.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, alternately licking and kissing me. "Mmm, this is nice," he commented, taking my left nipple into his mouth and sucking hard until I wriggled in pleasure.

"T-that it's a good thing no helicopters are f-flying over - oh God, Russell! - right now."

He moved to my right breast, repeating the procedure until I was panting and digging my fingers into his hair to keep him right there. He loosened my grip and grinned up at me, chin on my breastbone. "Let them fly over, they can't have you."

After a few more minutes of "appreciating" my bosom, he sat up. "What?" I wondered. It wasn't like him to stop without taking further action.

"Let's make a baby," he said, completely serious.

"Now?"

He knew I wasn't on the pill and that I was at the point where I either had to get another shot or make a decision about what we wanted to do about birth control. I hadn't expected him to want to begin nesting quite so soon.

"Yes, let's start on it." He had hold of my hand as he had the night he gave me the engagement ring. In fact, he was studying my rings, turning the big aquamarine and the matching rose gold wedding band around and around on my finger. He glanced up at me, a waiting look in his eye. I realized he wasn't joking and that my answer was important, so I didn't tease him.

"I'll need to see a doctor, ask some questions. You know I've been on the injections a long time."

"I know." He probably understood more about the workings of my body than I did, I thought. "Let's do it. The timing is right. If I can get you pregnant in the next couple of months, we'd have our little one when Botany Bay hits the theaters. We could take little Mary or Joe with us on the publicity tour."

The tone of his voice when he said "our little one" made my heart turn over. At that moment, I would have given him the moon if he'd asked for it. Besides, I wanted a family as much as he did, I just wanted the timing to be right, especially for him. "All right," I said, my throat unexpectedly tight.

"God, Lynn, I love you so much," he whispered, then drew me down onto the folded towels and just held me close for a long time. After a while, he got up, dressed, and we drove home, where we spent the rest of the day in bed practicing getting me pregnant. As rehearsals go, it was tiring but wonderful.

So far, 2005 was turning out to be a very happy new year, indeed.

My Funny Valentine

I was working on my novel. It was late morning, February first, and we were two days into shooting "Botany Bay" near Sydney at a site that was doubling as The Rocks, where many of the convicts had been set ashore when brought to the Botany Bay colony. Russell had been gone since 5:30 that morning, although I expected him to breeze in at any moment for lunch. We had agreed he would come to the trailer - he persisted in calling it a "caravan" - at least once a day for a break, probably lunch.

The food had arrived from craft services not long ago - broiled chicken with herbs, salads and beautiful steamed vegetables - so I knew he wouldn't be far behind. I finished my chapter, saved it, and shut down the computer just as his footsteps sounded outside. I heard him talking with someone - probably one of the crew - then he came inside. "I'm starving!" he announced, patting his stomach for emphasis.

"Me too, and the food is here." I uncovered the plates, poured us tea - mine over ice, his hot - and we ate while he filled me in on his morning. He was in costume as John Hamilton, buckskin trousers that fit like a second skin, a linen shirt, brown leather riding boots to the knee, and a brown leather vest with carved ivory buttons. He wore a cross of antique gold on a leather thong around his neck, and his hair was tied back with another thong, the wavy tail reaching a good ways down his back. "I believe I know what I want for dessert," I remarked, having looked my fill.

He pretended to misunderstand, "What, cake? Ice cream? Something sinful?" He was beautiful and he knew it. But he thought I was beautiful as well, so I didn't mind his ego at all.

I nodded, munching my salad, "Sinful," I said when I had swallowed. I reached across the little table and stole a carrot. "Mmm, lovely."

He stabbed an artichoke heart off my plate and ate it with a lascivious wink. "Sensual," he pronounced it.

"Mmmf," I commented, and swiped a piece of his chicken. "Yours is better than mine," I explained when he raised his eyebrows.

"It's exactly the same," he said indignantly, and stole half a chicken breast. His eyes dared me to protest, but I settled for his asparagus. "Hey!"

I giggled, knowing I had stolen his favorite vegetable. "I love them, they're so long and firm." I slid the whole stalk into my mouth after licking the furled head with half-closed, bedroom eyes.

A strangled sound came from his chest, then he got up, knocking the chair over, and practically leaped on me. "By God," he said, speaking a line from the screenplay, "you have tempted me sorely this day, woman!"

"Good lord, Mr. Hamilton, unhand me!" I improvised, unbuttoning his buckskin trousers.

"Don't mess them up, Lynnie," he cautioned me, breaking character, then he laid me down on the day bed and climbed on top of me. "I didn't get to do this when I woke up today, I've been thinking about it all morning." He kissed me, sliding his tongue inside to play with mine, then he pulled up my skirt, pulled down my panties and thrust inside me. "Oh, yes," he breathed when he was fully in, pulsing warmly, "Oh, yes, that's what I wanted." He proceeded to screw my brains out. His capacity for sex and his expertise at it never ceased to amaze me. If he didn't want it, I suppose that meant he was near death, but even then, I wasn't so sure he wouldn't want one last ride just for the hell of it.

When we had both had our fill, stifling our shouts of pleasure so as not to be heard outside the trailer, he sat up, tucking the shirt back in and buttoning the fly of the soft leather pants. "Well, that was nice, what's for dessert?" he asked cheekily.

I pulled my clothes back in place and got up. "You ass," I said in mock disgust, "that WAS dessert!"

He resumed eating, smiling like the cat who had got the canary. "God, I feel great!"

I finished my salad, ate my chicken and veggies, sighing happily. "So do I. My compliments to that Hamilton fellow, he rogered me very nicely."

He giggled, finished his lunch and leaned back in his chair with a big stretch. "We had some trouble with the lights again this morning, bloody cable got run over by some fool in a jeep and we only got half the set ups done that we wanted."

I was beginning to learn that film making never went smoothly. If it did, it was because somebody was forgetting something because when you did it right, it was so complex that delays were inevitable. "You'll be back on schedule soon," I encouraged him. I was glad to see he looked happy. I had worried that a return to the busy life of making a film would plunge him right back into the whirlpool of activity and stress that he had so happily left behind. So far, at least, that wasn't evident.

He reached across the table and played with my fingers, "Stop worrying," he said with a little half-smile, "this is a very low-stress shoot."

"Well, early days yet," I teased him with one of his favorite sayings.

"Oh, pessimistic, huh? Well, we'll see. Wouldn't it be a surprise if the whole thing went this well?"

"I'll believe that when I see it," I retorted. I had no idea I was so prophetic until much later.

The scenes they had in the can so far were mostly long distance shots, with very few close ups of the protagonists and only a couple of really meaty interchanges with a lot of dialogue. They had to get the outdoor scenes done relatively quickly so as not to run into seasonal changes that would cause the appearance of trees and fields, and the all important weather to be mismatched. The really intense scenes between Russell, Colin Firth and the other cast members would be shot indoors in London on sets that were just now being completed. I knew that once the scenes of confrontation and drama really got underway, his stress level would escalate. I thought I was prepared for it.

What is that old saying? What fools these mortals be? Definitely true in my case.

A few days later, a freak storm blew over some scaffolding that held up lights and boom microphones, causing another delay. The day after that, shooting was held up when some goanas scuttled across the set, frightening some of the female cast members, although, truth be told, goanas could hurt anyone simply by scratching them with their dirty clawed feet. Still, everyone waited around while some lizard wranglers came out from the zoo in Sydney and rounded them up. Russell was a bit more subdued that night. I decided not to mention the word goana in the foreseeable future.

The very next day, the female lead, a rather temperamental actress from England, blew up at Russell when he got with the writers and Steven and changed a few lines in a scene to make it play better. It was one of the few close ups they were filming, and was done outdoors overlooking Sydney Harbor, or the empty bay that was standing in for Sydney Harbor in the early 19th Century. The woman's role was fairly important as she was the cause of jealousy between Russell's character and Colin's, but she had made it plain from the beginning of filming that she much preferred working with the Englishman and that she considered all Aussies to be just slightly above hacks when it came to acting.

Russell had been seething that night at supper - which was after nine because of delays. "That bitch, I would never have agreed to casting her if I had known she was going to have this attitude." He was muddy and tired, having come from the set without changing into his own clothes.

I caught him each time he strode past me, each time relieving him of some article of the costume - coat, waistcoat, shirt - until he had to stop, sit down and take off his muddy boots which were tracking up the carpet of our hotel suite. He pried them off, and started pacing again, venting his frustration. "She refused to use the new lines, and because of that, she ruined about ten takes before Steven finally had a little chat with her."

"Mmm," I responded, wondering why Russell hadn't had the chat with her himself, and sooner.

"I didn't do it because I was afraid I'd murder the bloody bitch," he said, reading my mind again. He raked both hands through his hair, coming away with the grosgrain ribbon that held his queue in place. He blinked at it, obviously forgetting what it was, then flung it down.

"Stomp on it," I suggested, "It'll make you feel better."

He ground it into the carpet with his bare foot, then laughed ruefully, coming out of his mood. "God, I wanted to choke her," he said, coming over to throw himself down on the sofa beside me. He eyed me sidelong.

"Oh, no you don't," I warned him, "I'm, er, incapacitated, remember?"

He scowled, then brightened, "There are other ways, Lynnie."

"Russell, I'm really not feeling well," I said truthfully. I wasn't. Going off the contraceptive injections had caused a hormone flux in my system that left me irritable, headachy, and now I was experiencing my first period in at least three years, and it was a lulu. But, I told myself as I took Ibuprofens and tried to concentrate on not being a bitch, it would be worth it to get pregnant with our baby.

"I'm sorry, Lynnie," he said, gathering me into his arms for a cuddle. "I'm just a selfish pig."

I giggled and poked him in the tummy with a fingertip, "You're a pretty slim piggy. Don't feel too sad, I'm sure I'll feel all right in a day or so."

"I thought I was being a properly sensitive, considerate husband," he said with mock dismay.

"You were overacting. How about we just go to bed and you can comfort me there?"

His eyebrows quirked, "Comfort?"

"As in coddle, snuggle, rub my back, be sweet - that kind of comfort."

His face fell. "Oh." Then he brightened, "Early days yet, let's go to bed."

Before we actually climbed into bed, however, he came into the bathroom where I was about to shower, and sat me down on the closed lid of the commode. He ran the lavatory full of warm water, took up one of the thick hotel wash cloths and my scented soap and bathed me. He stroked the soapy cloth up and down each arm and rinsed me, stopping to dry me with a heated towel, then he washed my feet and legs and dried them. Then he washed my back and finally my front, being extremely gentle with my very tender breasts. He couldn't resist caressing them, being such a breast fanatic, but his touch was feather light and lovely. Then he slowly washed my stomach and belly, rubbing where I ached and soothing me with his warm hands. As baths go, it was almost perfection. Perfection would have been to finish it with a long, slow loving, but being carried to the bed and gently tucked under the covers was a close second.

While I sank into blissful comfort, I heard him singing in the shower - off key - and stifled a laugh. He knew more filthy pub songs than I had ever realized existed. This one was something about a lady named Miss Annie and her lover, a horseman they called "Horseboy Hank". From the lyrics he was warbling, Hank came by his nickname because of his anatomical attributes, not his vocation.

"Oh, Hank was a grazier and drover," he sang, "a helluva helluva lover! Said Miss Annie, a lady so saucy, 'I can see you are hung like a horsseeeeeeeeeeeeeee, won't you come lie with me in the clover?' That helluva helluva loverrrrrrrrrrr!" He dropped the soap a couple of times, pausing to search it out, then continuing with verse after verse about Hank and his exploits.

I was laughing so hard by the time he finished and came to bed, that I was wide awake again.

"Hello there, Horseboy," I greeted him. We giggled together in the dark. He took my hand and put it down low on his body. "I was right!" I whispered.

"Mmm," he grunted. "Don't suppose you'd care to relieve this problem would you?"

"Only if you don't call me Miss Annie in the morning."

"Na-a-a-a-y," he teased me in a whinnying voice.

"Oh, stop it!" I stopped it by giving him what he wanted. After, finally over his randiness because, I suppose, I had just about suctioned his brains out through his cock, he wrapped me up in his arms, lying behind me, and put his warm palms on my belly as a kind of living hot water bottle. It was much better than that, though. Almost worth the annoyance of having the discomfort in the first place.

The next day, Russell didn't come to the trailer for lunch. I sent his tray back to craft services untouched, then wandered outside to see where they were shooting that day. One of the production assistants pointed me in the right direction and I soon found myself standing to the side of a rickety old building where they were filming a scene between Russell and Diane Dimante, the actress he didn't particularly like. Well, okay, he had called her a bitch. I decided to observe.

Their characters were supposed to circle one another for a good part of the story, attracted but at the same time disliking each other, before finally consummating the relationship just before the big, climactic ending of the film. As Russell had put it, "See, we climax, and then the film climaxes, and it's all just one big fucking celebration at the end."

I watched as "Action!" was called. Russell sat at a table, booted feet propped on it, lounging back in a chair that was tipped against a wall behind him. He was arguing with the female lead (Miss Dimante) about some property rights that were important in the story. "You ask too high a price, Lady Charlotte," he said in his best London posh accent.

"Not high enough, Mister Hamilton, if the likes of you can afford it!" she said, with barely disguised contempt.

Russell stood, pushing back the chair, then leaned across the table, fixing her with a very intense look. "The likes of me, madam, could buy and sell you once upon a time."

She sniffed, nose in the air, "I find that difficult to credit, sir."

Something was wrong, Russell squeezed his eyes shut and stood up straight. Steven said, "Cut!"

Russell looked disgusted. The actress looked furious. "What? I did the lines right, what is it now?"

"That wasn't right," Russell answered her, sounding, I thought, very patient. "We changed it, remember Diane? She says 'It's no longer once upon a time, Mister Hamilton' and then she walks out the door. We eliminated the argument, remember?" He was speaking very carefully, and the tone he was using told me he wanted to choke her.

"Steven?" she said petulantly, and when she got no help from that quarter, she whirled back to face Russell and snarled, "You fucking arrogant bastard, are you going to rewrite this whole movie before we're done?"

The PA who had walked over with me shot me a look, and we raised eyebrows at one another, waiting to see what kind of explosion would take place. Instead, Russell merely stared at her coolly, and answered, "Probably. Are you going to learn the lines or keep on complaining about everything?"

Bravo, I thought, he was so polite it almost hurt.

"How can I learn the lines if you keep changing them?" she screeched at him, looking very unlovely and decidedly un-aristocratic.

"We changed this line a week ago, Diane," Steven called in his quiet voice. "You're reverting to the previous pages."

"I - I am not!" she insisted, but quickly read the pages the coach held up for her. "All right, all right, I have it. Let's shoot the fucking scene."

Russell turned and sat back down in the chair, putting his feet up on the table in exactly the same position. He saw me and winked. I grinned back, then they called "Action!" again, and this time the scene went perfectly. They redid it from several different camera angles, then broke for lunch. Russell walked over to the side where I was standing, sighing. "I missed lunch, didn't I?"

"Yup." I leaned up and he kissed me. Over his shoulder, I saw Diane Dimante glaring at his back. "She doesn't like you much," I whispered in his ear.

"It's mutual," he whispered back, kissing me once more for good measure. "I don't suppose you brought me a sandwich, didja, love?"

"Nope, but I think Steven is waving you over to his trailer sweetie, maybe he'll feed you. I sent your tray back to CS."

Russell turned, saw that Steven was indeed gesturing to him to come and eat, and dragged me along with him. I don't know where Diane Dimante went, to perdition, for all I cared.

I had lemonade and sat with them while they ate, absorbing their conversation about the film and the plans for the rest of the day. Heady stuff, and when they began discussing the plans for the shoot in London, I was all ears. "Lynn's never been," Russell explained.

Steven grinned at me, "You'll love it, you'll have to let Kate show you where to spend all of Russ's money, she knows all the best places."

I thought about buying vintage linens, and baby clothes and special things in London shops and could hardly wait to go. Russell chuckled at my excited expression. "I can see I'm going to have to take extra money just for her to spend."

"A lot extra," I agreed. After the meal, they had to get back to their shoot, so I went back to our trailer and got a good bit of writing done. Only a couple of weeks and we'd be off to England. I wanted to have a lot done so I could devote time to exploring and not feel guilty about neglecting my manuscript.

Russell was furious again that night. He arrived at the hotel, tired and upset, but at least in his own clothes this time. I asked him what had happened but he only shook his head and said, "Just more shit." He was angry throughout dinner, barely spoke after, and paced back and forth, going over lines for the next day, pretty much ignoring me. I decided to keep quiet, and sat alone on the sofa, watching television, although I couldn't tell you what was on.

He climbed on me when we went to bed that night, kissing me fiercely, pressing me down into the bed, shoving into me really hard so that I winced and pushed him away. "Stop it!" I sat up, turned on the lamp. "Don't take it out on me, Russell."

He blinked, scrubbing his face with the backs of his hands, then just crouched there, looking contrite. "I'm sorry, that wasn't very well done, was it?"

I shook my head. "No, it hurt."

"Lynn," he started, then made an inarticulate sound of disgust, and told me what had happened. It was, of course, Diane Dimante again. She had blown take after take of a scene involving both Russell and Colin, then had stormed off the set, delaying retakes until she cooled off and one of the PA's coaxed her back. "So she gets her fancy ass back there," Russell explained, "and she got the fuckin' lines right for a change, so I think 'great, she's finally got it', then when we finish up, she's waitin' for me outside the trailer."

"Our trailer?"

He gave me his little half-smile, amused. "It's really MY trailer, Lynn, I'm just letting you use it."

I made a face at him. "Do go on then. She was waiting for you outside YOUR trailer with the big star on the door, and?"

"She said she wanted to apologize and could she come inside. So I said, 'sure' because I had to make a couple of calls anyway, kill two birds with one stone, right? So in she comes, and while I'm on the phone with Myra, she . . .she. . .felt me up."

I spluttered, not sure whether to laugh or smack him one. He looked so indignant, though, that I went for the comedy of the situation, picturing him talking on the phone to his agent in Sydney, and the reaction when she touched him. "Did you scream?" He shook his head no. "Well, what did you do? And just where did she touch you?"

"I didn't scream, but I dropped the phone. She grabbed my dick, Lynnie!"

I bit my knuckles to keep from laughing. "So you, naturally, told her you weren't that kind of a girl, er, guy?"

"Fair Dinkum, I did."

"Did she let go?" I wouldn't have, that was a very fine dick to hold onto. Not that I wanted anyone but me to hold onto it in a romantic manner.

"No! I had to pull away from her, and she got me with her nails, see?" He pointed to where there were several definite crescent-shaped marks along his shaft.

I was beginning to think I would knock this fancy actress on her keester myself the next morning at dawn. "And then?"

He stared at me, "And then? Oh, after I pried her hands off me, she backed me into a corner in the kitchen and grabbed hold of me again."

Persistent, if nothing else. "Not too subtle, is she?" I knew I would kill her, it was only a matter of time. Maybe I'd maim her first though, let her suffer just a little bit. Jealous? Nope. Not!

His cheekbones were red. I wondered if he'd ever experienced an unwelcome assault before, or, rather, been unreceptive to the advances of a beautiful actress in a similar situation. Probably not. "No, not subtle at all. She started kissing me, stickin' her tongue in my mouth, rubbing my cock. I finally just shoved her off me and threw her out of the trailer."

"And told her you were shocked at her behavior, I hope."

"Something like that," he muttered, examining himself in the light. "Bloody hell, she broke the skin there!"

Something about watching my husband holding his cock under the light of the bedside lamp and examining it for finger marks shoved me over the edge and I started giggling. I fell back into the pillows and laughed until I got the hiccups. My husband shot me a puzzled look, but eventually smiled his pussycat smile, stopped examining his very fine weaponry, shut off the light, and made love to me very sweetly.

In the very early morning, he woke me with kisses and teasing hands, turning me onto my stomach, then lifting my hips to stroke me with his warm, thick fingers. Then he pressed into me from behind and fucked me for a long time, making me come several times before he came. We collapsed in a heap, lying spoon fashion with him still inside me. "Some people just say good morning, y'know." I whispered.

He chuckled, face in the hollow of my neck, kissing me right under my ear where he knew it made me crazy. "Good morning," he growled, and nipped my earlobe, chuckling when I jumped.

"Guess your wounds are all better, huh?"

He moved his hips, still hard inside me. "Seems like it." He stroked a few times, almost purring. "Love it, love it, love it," he whispered in a sing-song voice.

I wanted him so badly right then, despite having just climaxed, that I shoved my hips back against his pelvis so he went very deep, then I demanded that he do something about it, which he did. Always the gent, my Russ.

For Valentine's Day, he filled the trailer with roses - white ones, red ones, yellow ones, pink ones, peach ones, lavender ones - it was incredible. Then he gave me a small box that held a rose gold heart-shaped locket set with small aquamarines. Inside was a tiny picture of him and the word "Always" engraved in script.

I, of course, melted into a puddle of ooze, but not until he had opened my gift, a protective cup like a baseball catcher wears, on which I had painted red and pink hearts and the words, "Mine" and "Hands off!" We giggled and kissed and giggled some more, then I gave him his real present - a beautiful antique gold cross I had found in Sydney and had engraved with our initials and the date on the back. He wore it in a pocket near his heart when he couldn't wear it on the set because of being in costume. But first, he wore it when he made love to me by candle light.

"Happy Valentine's, Lynn," he whispered, brushing my damp hair off my face.

I looked into his beautiful eyes and thought how lucky I was.

"Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart."

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