Free Farm Fatale by Wendy Holden Page B

smelly, and hairy knocked her violently aside and charged, snorting, past her through the open door and out into the night.
    ***
    It had taken a week of hard negotiation, but finally Samantha had done it. Her most subtle diplomatic tactics—violent tantrums, withdrawal of all sexual favors—had combined with a difficult week for Guy at work and secured his eventual capitulation. He had, albeit reluctantly, agreed to spend a weekend in the country. Samantha, although jubilant, had sensed the need to proceed with caution. She had not yet mentioned house-hunting, much less moving, as Guy's dislike of all things rural had turned out to be rather stronger than expected.
        "What do you mean I don't know what its like because I've never been there?" he demanded. "I grew up there, for Christ's sake. It's the most godawful place in the world. Nothing to do, no one to see. During the school holidays, I had a job delivering the post. I walked miles, got attacked by everyone's dogs, and none of the bloody houses or farms had a sodding number on them, much less a name. What the hell do you want to go there for?"
        Yet going there they were, on this brilliant Saturday morning, strapped in amid the luxury of Guy's XK9 with its computeradjustable super baby-soft seats made of the unblemished skins of Scandinavian calves. In the plaited ostrich-skin Bottega Veneta document wallet on Samantha's knee was a fat wad of estate agents' details. Details that must, for the moment, remain a secret, and, should Guy inquire, were officially notes for Christabel. Which they were in a way, even if it was unlikely any barmaid would ever have been able to afford the types of property Samantha had in mind. Unless she married the president of the pub company, of course. Samantha raised an eyebrow and smiled to herself. She'd done pretty well, all things considered. Life was good, even if the digital satellite-led trip planner feature on the dashboard currently showed the M1 like a blocked artery and them only just past Junction 3. As Guy gnashed his teeth and swore, Samantha looked serenely out of the tinted window at the (vastly inferior) cars grid-locked on either side of them.
        Closing her eyes in satisfaction, Samantha thought, phase one had now been accomplished. Guy had been successfully lured out of the capital. Phase two would be breaking his resistance down and showing him the delicious portfolio of houses she had built up. Forcing him to buy one and get rid of Roland Gardens was phase three: the biggest challenge of all. How this was to be achieved, Samantha had absolutely no idea. The re-granting of sexual favors, perhaps? Even though her entire career was based on the premise that where there's a willy, there's a way, she was aware that this strategy might be required for the successful completion of phase two. Destiny, she was sure, would come up with something, although it had better start trying. Hard.
        The signs, Samantha had to admit, were not good. The hope she had initially felt, on seeing Guy enthusiastically perusing Country Life , faded at the realization that it was the "Girls in Pearls" he was looking at, not the house ads. As the car purred on, Samantha's thoughts flitted to more pleasant subjects, such as the manor house in a mellow stone currently top of her wish list. The fact that it had a stable block was of particular appeal; Samantha had always fancied herself as a horsewoman. Despite never having gotten closer to a horse than watching the Grand National on television, Samantha had no problems picturing herself in skintight breeches, Titian curls tumbling out of a riding hat, looking exactly like those pictures of Stefanie Powers at the polo grounds she had always so admired in the back of Harpers & Queen.
         Mounted on the sweeping lawns, Samantha Villiers shows off her magnificent frontage…
        No, that didn't sound quite right.
         On the sweeping lawns before the frontage