She was tall, swarthy and strong and aiming for her storage shed where all her tools, fertilisers and machines were kept safe.“Mornin’ Wel, perfec... weather for the job,” he gushed, in a mock version of a Southern American accent and failing dismally, but his prime focus was ogling her, stoutly brassiere encased big bosoms bouncing towards him, her armpits showing large dark sweaty stains. There was another, less obvious, but he’d eyed it, in her groin. Her soil smeared, perspiring, swarthy face. When he had left the room it must have been face down, its gold, engraved face lying upwards. Ilsa had obviously moved it for some reason. As he lifted the glass of champagne towards his lips he suddenly realised why. He looked across at Ilsa and saw her watching him closely.He threw the champagne in her face. She yelled, falling back on the bed. Clegg dived for his jacket, wresting Ilsa's pistol from his pocket.Ilsa, wiping the champagne from her eyes, blinked as he threatened her with the. More

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