Fatherhood Fever!. Emma DarcyЧитать онлайн книгу.
had been removed. She wore a red sweater that clung like a second skin, showing off the superb slopes of two glorious breasts. Matt had never thought himself a breast man. Legs had always taken his fancy. He suddenly found himself converted. There was definitely a compelling attraction about perfectly rounded and fulsomely weighted breasts.
“I didn’t think you could wear red with red,” his mother murmured, her initial shock having turned to awed fascination.
“Mmmh...” he replied, leaving his response options open.
The vision of feminine plentitude moved past them to the buffet table, not so much as flicking a glance in his direction. Which was just as well, since being caught gawking at her again would have been galling. The cornflower blue eyes were quite capable of slicing him in two and shrivelling all activity below the belt. Though, come to think of it, his testosterone levels could probably do with a bit of shrivelling at the moment. Not since he was a teenager had he felt such a strong wave of lust.
“Well, she’s new,” his mother declared with relish, her eyes atwinkle with more lively interest than she’d shown in anything for quite some time.
“Mmmh...” Matt repeated, busily buttering his bread. The communal table was filling up with the regulars. It usually held ten, though a couple of guests had departed this morning. He didn’t want to be put on the spot with an open discussion of the new arrival. After all, he was the only male here and the focus of considerable speculation. He didn’t really care to reveal how taken by her he was. Not when it was still uncertain how she felt about him. Now if she attended the archery session this afternoon...
“Don’t you think she’s striking?” his mother pressed.
“Quite,” he agreed, stealthily withdrawing his personal salt cellar—a recent and desperate purchase from the grocery store in the nearby village—from his trouser pocket. Salt was not supplied at the health farm. He would suffer a lot for his mother, but doing without salt was taking sacrifice too far. He surreptitiously sprinkled it on his food while everyone else was still settling down to their meal.
“There’s a spare chair here, dear,” his mother called.
Matt couldn’t believe his ears. His ultra-respectable, conservative mother inviting the sexy as sin, red on red to sit next to her? Opposite him? In the hot seat left by Vida, the vamp, who had gone through five husbands and had flirted with the idea of taking Matt as her toy-boy, much to his mother’s amusement and his embarrassment?
He held his breath. She was coming, a whimsical little smile showing her surprise at the encouraging welcome extended by his mother. She cocked an eyebrow at Matt and he knew curiosity had drawn her. Mummy doing the honours for Mummy’s boy?
“Thank you,” she said, placing her plate on the table. “I was wondering where I should sit.”
“There’s no special place for anyone,” his mother informed. “I’m Cynthia Davis. This is my son, Matt. And you are?”
“Peta. Peta Kelly.”
Matt stood up to offer his hand in courtesy, only to realise he was still holding the salt cellar. She looked at it, looked at him, and rolled her eyes mockingly.
“Still at it, I see.”
“At what?” his mother asked.
“Cheating. Your son was outside smoking when I arrived. Now he’s sneaked in salt.”
“Salt? Salt? Did someone say salt?” A plaintive voice cried from the other end of the table. “I’d give my eyeteeth for some salt.”
Matt sighed and offered it up.
“Definitely a corrupting influence,” Peta declared.
“And you are a spoilsport,” he retorted in some exasperation. “A pity the jug on the table isn’t full of prune juice. I could have offered you some.”
She laughed and sat down. “Put out, are we?” she tossed at him teasingly.
“Matt, you promised to give up smoking...”
“Mum, if you nag me about one more thing today...”
“Well, if you want to have a baby...”
“You want to have a baby?” The cornflower blue eyes stared incredulously at him.
“Matt would make a wonderful father,” his mother enthused.
“Pass the salt back, please,” he thundered down the table.
“Salt? Who’s got salt?” someone appealed from across the dining room.
“Got everyone cheating now,” Peta muttered darkly.
Matt didn’t care. At least he’d diverted the talk about babies. He gave his mother a baleful look. It was perfectly obvious babies were the last thing on Peta Kelly’s mind. His freewheeling bachelor image would be far more likely to appeal to the rider of the red Ducati. If he was to get to first base with her, he had to shut his mother up on the subject of grandchildren. The problem was, she was so obsessive about it.
“Please forgive me,” his mother gushed to the object of his desire. “I can’t stop looking at your hair. I’ve never seen anything so daring.”
Peta grinned at her. “Well, nobody can take me for a blond bimbo anymore.”
More like a blond bombshell, Matt thought.
His mother was astonished. “You’re really a blonde? I thought the copper red part was natural.”
“Nope. Straight out of a bottle. It’s called flaming chestnut.”
“What are the other shades called?”
“The first band is crushed orange and behind it is papaya.”
Very exotic, Matt thought. He reached for the jug of juice on the table and poured her a glass. “You’ll like this. Tropical fruit.”
She laughed. No mocking lights in her eyes this time. Pure amusement dancing at him. Matt’s heart did cartwheels. There was definitely a connection here. He could feel it. He smiled at his mother.
“Why don’t you do something exciting with your hair, Mum? Peach with cream highlights would look good. Much more fun than grey.”
“Oh, Matt! I’m at the stage in life where there’s nothing left to do but grow old gracefully.”
“Nonsense! Who says the mature woman has to be dull? You admire Peta’s daring. Put some colour into your hair. Splash out on some bright clothes to go with it. Start a new life.”
“It can make you feel better,” Peta said in support.
Matt grinned at her, delighted with her help in encouraging his mother to do something for herself. Peta looked quizzically at him, probably assessing his motives for using her as a glowing example to be emulated.
“Well, I’ll think about it,” his mother said dubiously.
It wasn’t the usual flat negative. No negative vibrations coming from Peta, either. Matt sensed a burgeoning of interest. He munched into the sandwich he’d made with more appetite than he’d experienced for days.
“You must have a colourful job,” his mother remarked to Peta, still in the grip of fascinated curiosity.
She shrugged, doing instant damage to Matt’s resolution not to focus on her breasts. “Not really. I’m an airline stewardess with Qantas.”
Fortunately his mother held Peta’s attention. “On international flights?” she asked.
“Yes. Mostly to London or Rome.”
Ah, the Italian influence, Matt thought.
“That must be a very responsible job, taking care of a planeload of people on such long trips,” his mother said appreciatively.
Matt