Книга - High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

High Heels & Bicycle Wheels
Jane Linfoot


Meet Bryony: she’s a fun-loving, very single TV production assistant whose idea of sport is the Jimmy Choo sales scrum.Meet Jackson: Cycling’s bad boy superstar. Injured and out of a certain race this summer, without his training, he’s looking for another distraction…Bryony’s facing a triple whammy – her last single friend just named the day, her mother’s offering to have her eggs frozen, and the guy she’s loved from afar, forever, has just got hitched. So she’s more than happy to accept the offer of a totally out of character but seriously steamy one night of no-strings fun. Especially when the guy in question is so attractive he even looks good in Lycra!Jackson’s on the lookout for a new career but if the opportunity to work on TV means a fortnight with the most uptight woman in the world, he’d rather not bother. He never goes in for seconds – and who in their right mind would head off in a campervan, with a woman who irons her knickers?Add in a tandem (yes a tandem) and fast forward to double trouble for a summer neither of them will ever forget!













High Heels & Bicycle Wheels


Jane Linfoot










A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)




Contents


Copyright (#uabed22cb-0753-5034-97ab-829e4d8ab101)

Dedication (#u4875d1f6-ece6-5db7-acc1-d99b86379dda)

Chapter 1 (#u5c467dc7-9402-51dd-abd0-0bccde988e80)

Chapter 2 (#u17fd847f-f640-5878-bed8-6d3b257853ef)

Chapter 3 (#u4c189380-c701-576a-a0c1-cee297c9aeca)

Chapter 4 (#ua1fed807-fcb7-516e-948d-0545a9cf55a9)

Chapter 5 (#u4dcad3e8-caf9-5398-830f-ff9bb3688dfc)

Chapter 6 (#u269199b1-8fee-5551-a5d1-c8ef533954f0)

Chapter 7 (#uf1ffdab2-e18a-57d1-8979-1943afc521a0)

Chapter 8 (#ubeed6472-341b-59d5-9be3-17dda2204686)

Chapter 9 (#u5314ca8c-a748-5f4b-8412-2a1a1b879d29)

Chapter 10 (#u0000884e-7300-55d5-bde0-fa1b3d9417cc)

Chapter 11 (#ucbfdc90d-bea3-5af4-94b1-928f1137778c)

Chapter 12 (#u86b98434-831c-511e-abb5-291c6182de5c)

Chapter 13 (#ue9456c46-1df9-5f2a-83d3-31edcc60e51c)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo)

Jane Linfoot (#litres_trial_promo)

About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2014

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Jane Linfoot asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © July 2014

ISBN: 9780008104443

Version 2014-09-24

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.


For my own personal hero and tandem partner, Phil




Chapter 1 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


‘Eeek!’

Hot naked tush alert!

Careering round the corner of a hedge in the car park, Bryony Marshall, Sporting Chances’ TV production assistant on-the-run, dug hers heels into the gravel and skidded to a halt. Clutching wildly as the coffees she was carrying flew in all directions, she balked at the startling rear view that confronted her.

Damn. Embarrassing or what? Crashing into today’s bike race celebrity guest-of-honour as he tucked in his shirt in the shelter of his car tailgate was not the ideal way to discover what men wore under their cycling shorts, even if she was delivering resuscitating caffeine. There was no way she was going to live this one down, except… Her eyes locked onto the most delicious butt ever.

Talk about all her Christmases coming at once. With definite emphasis on the ‘come’ bit.

So that would be nothing on then… Underneath the kilt as it were. No boxers, no briefs, not even a teensy-weensy mankini. And all those rumours about professional cyclists waxing their backsides weren’t holding up, either.

Bryony, behave. Look away. Now!

One hard mental kick got her rampant inner-woman back in line. Almost.

But hey, there was every excuse to go wild given the shape of him. This guy was ripped enough to double as a super-human – one hell of a toned back, broad shoulders bursting with muscles under that slippery Lycra top he was finally dragging on.

That was the great thing about being a production assistant – the job was full of surprises. Fighting to rein in her saggy lower lip, Bryony sucked in the drool. Hurriedly arranged her best ‘I’m soooo sorry’ face as he spun around to face her.

Wham! Too late. Her mouth had gone again. This time her whole jaw.

Beautiful didn’t begin to cover it.

All cheekbones and stubble shadows, the laconic twist of his smile instantly acknowledged the eyeful she’d just enjoyed. Permeating the air with delicious early-morning hot-male scent. Body spray mixed with a double dose of testosterone. She watched as he scraped his fingers through his tousled hair. Then, almost as if in retaliation, he surveyed her through narrowed eyes, and sent a shock-shiver zipping down her spine.

Beautiful, hot, with a full torching of arrogance.

Like he was certain he was best.

At everything.

The thought was so far out-of-line that it sent her knees weak.

And he was giving her one thorough, blatant, top-to-toe, mental undressing, which she was lapping up, God help her. Only the sub-zero breeze, slicing off the North Sea was saving her from melting into a syrup pool on the tarmac.

She was so far off her game plan, she couldn’t believe it.

Scarborough in June, 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning and cold enough to freeze …

OMG. Errant nipples leaping to attention under scrutiny was the last thing she needed. One sensitive area and she’d been dying of embarrassment for her Fembot tendency ever since Year 8 – thanks-a-bunch Austin Powers. A desperate glance to confirm her double-padded bra and down jacket were on top of the job. Thank you to the God of Wonderbra for that. Then, grappling her ‘professional’ back with one designed-to-be-dazzling smile, she bounced in for an introduction.

‘Bryony Marshall, Sporting Chances TV – you must be Jackson Gale?’

Not that much of a wild assumption, given the way the decal-covered car was hollering it to the world. And something about the whole Teflon arrogance of the guy told her not to go in making excuses.

He thrust a hand in her direction.

‘Bryony! Hi, I’m Jackson.’ Riveting her to the spot as his face split into a grin the width of the promenade. ‘Going commando, as you just discovered.’

What?

‘Erghhh…’ Clinging onto his lean tanned hand under the tray of coffees as, for once in her life, words failed her.

‘No worries. At least now you can quash the rumours. Tell your viewers that I don’t shave my backside. Seems to be a subject of endless fascination to them. ’

If he was deliberately trying to wind her up, no way was she going to let him get the better of her.

‘I’ll certainly do my best to pass that on.’

‘And if you’ve finished with it, I’ll have my hand back please.’

‘Oh, yep.’ She unlocked her fingers. Shucks. Had she really been clinging onto him?

‘So what’s your preference? Shaved?’ Where the hell had that deep, gravelly growl come from? His dark eyes twinkled with mischief. ‘Or not?’

‘What?’ she squeaked. Damn it! Was this guy for real?

‘Just wondering where you stand…’ His narrowed eyes locked onto her chest again. ‘In the rough-versus-smooth debate.’

She grappled a moment, to get control. ‘In that particular debate I’d say I stand firmly outside of the room.’ There – that told him. She tossed her head deliberately, shimmied him an unmissable ‘keep your distance’ smile. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

She thrust the tray under his nose.

‘Great. Thanks.’ Finally he unstuck his gaze from her boobs, allowing it travel to her face. ‘Got any black, without?’

Her stomach did an unexpected triple-flip as his dark eyes collided with hers, and she looked away quickly.

Reeling a bit at that molasses voice. Getting her breath back. ‘Sorry…?’

‘Mind still stuck on the underwear issue then?’ He let out a short guffaw. ‘Sorry to confuse you. I’m talking coffee here. No milk, no sugar.’ He flashed her another grin. ‘Keep up.’

Rude or what? And definitely pushing it.

‘Try the one with the green lid.’ Determined not to rise. So that was how he stayed in shape. She nudged a plastic cup towards him. ‘Muffin?’

His smirking snort with a triple shot of incredulity suggested she was talking dirty. Very dirty.

‘Do I look like I eat muffins?’

Good thing she hadn’t gone for pure porn cupcakes then.

‘Raspberry and white chocolate chip, freshly baked…’

And still he shook his head.

Whatever.

Muffins were today’s healthy option. She’d done a mega-order to ensure the crew stayed sweet, though no doubt by the end of the day she’d be hitting the cupcakes as usual, wading through an inch of buttercream for an instant sugar rescue.

‘Later perhaps.’

Was that him trying to be conciliatory?

‘Good luck with that given the gannets here; otherwise known as cameramen.’ Damn. She didn’t mean to let that beam get away. People who refused her muffins didn’t deserve smiles that effusive, even if they did have a great ass.

‘Did someone say white chocolate?’

Bryony turned to see Cressy swooping around the wing of the car, and coming to her own swooning halt right by Bryony’s elbow. ‘Lordy! Phwoar! Don’t mind if I do! Loving you for the muffins, Bry.’

Bryony, lips twitching, let her gaze skim firmly over the top of the OMG face Cressy was shooting sideways at her.

Cressy was so generous and warm, Bryony had forgiven her years ago for having the pint-sized figure she’d always wanted herself. But she was also a total man-magnet. Men falling at Cressy’s pretty, dainty feet was something else Bryony was totally inured to, even though it had landed them in a whole load of trouble more times than she cared to count.

And today could be shaping up for another Cressy train-wreck.

According to last night’s background research, fitted in by Bryony at two in the morning in her childhood bed after that shocker of a dinner with her Mum and Stepdad, it seemed that Jackson was exceptionally available. Apparently, cycle race podium-girls weren’t the only females he got up-close and personal with. Completely on the market by all accounts. Grabbing whatever he could wherever he could, and the more the better. Quality and quantity. Oh, and his nickname was The Howler, for three exceptionally good reasons: a) after howling gales, b) because of the way he howled as he crossed the finish line, and c) because…

The last reason went straight in the too-much-information bin. No way did she want to imagine his girlfriends’ ecstatic screams at the crucial moment.

More so, since she’d seen the guy in all his naked glory.

Especially since…

Bryony re-spun her brain cogs and landed, randomly, on last night’s crazy family dinner. Ouch! That would have to wait for later, when she had a whole lot of time and at least a full psychology department on hand for support. She had to remember: however hurtful the suggestions sounded, her mother was only trying to be kind.

Take one second to clear your head of all things family…And another to forget exactly why you’ve volunteered to bury yourself in work when you could’ve been shopping…

The frantic catch-up background reading was just one of the drawbacks of ending up working on a sports programme when you were the least-sporty person on the planet.

World famous cyclist Jackson Gale…

Getting up to speed for this sporting gig was time-consuming, not to mention stressful. Oh, and yawnsville too.

In theory TV production was the same regardless of the subject, but somehow it was a whole lot easier if you were in tune with what you were filming. It came naturally to her to be enthusiastic about filming pretty things and country houses, whereas with sport…even the word made her cringe. All wrapped-up with memories of humiliation in games lessons at school when she was not only a head taller than everyone else, but also terminally uncoordinated. At least the money for this job was top-whack and it was helping Cressy out of a hole, seeing as how the crew had all gone down with some unmentionable virus, which accidentally coincided with some ferocious stag-night celebrations.

Although, talking of Cressy and holes; despite Jackson’s penchant for play and the way Cressy was warming up her full-bodied come-hither wiggles right here on the car park, she didn’t give much for Jackson’s chances today. Bryony looked up, expecting to see Jackson’s tongue lolling out in Cressy’s direction, and started sharply as his eyes sidled up her own body then clashed with her gaze.

All grey brown and smokey.

Shades of irresistible.

Except she always resisted. Other people had relationships, not her.

So, Jackson was still pursuing the undressing thing, then. Anyone else and she’d have rottweilered them by now. Why the hell had she let him go this far?

He inclined his head and narrowed his gaze a fraction, sending her pulse into overdrive.

Why didn’t he realise he was honing in on the wrong person here?

This sowasn’t how it worked when Cressy was around. And it wasn’t only because of Cressy. Bryony didn’t do flirting, for goodness sakes. She rarely did men. She had her rules, and that included no flirting. Especially not at work.

Especially not in Scarborough, of all places.

Scarborough was too cold and too northern to be auspicious for any sort of romance – and it was laden with back-story.

Oh my. He was still looking. Would he never give up?

She took a large gulp of air. Given the way today was shaping up, she was starting to wish she’d bitten the bullet, stayed home in London and faced her demons. At least then she could have had the soothing benefit of retail therapy.

Beside her, Cressy’s wiggle had escalated into overdrive, apparently to zero effect.

Time for action. Not necessarily evasive action. Any action at all would do.

‘Here, have that muffin.’ Bryony stuffed a cake at Cressy, who jerked to a standstill, staring at her open-mouthed. Then Bryony strode purposefully to find refuge on the far side of the car, pulled herself up to her full five foot nine plus heels, put on her best production-assistant-in-control voice and motioned to the rack on the car roof.

‘So is this the bike you and Annie are going to ride today then?’

Annie, being Annie Brooks, one time super-athlete, turn-her-mind-and-body-to-anything-and-win, morphed into mega-successful presenter of Sporting Chances, who always wore state-of-the-art running shoes. Bryony squinted down at her own wedge-heeled trainers which she’d panic-bought in an attempt to fit in with the gym bunnies on the Sporting Chances team. Four-inch heels rather than five was the only concession she’d been able to make towards a sensible appearance. It wasn’t her fault; she’d had an addiction to towering heels since the age of three. At least she’d made an effort with her Sweaty Betty Zero Gravity Leggings – not that she understood the technical spec, but at least the name was cool. Whatever. Annie was a super-brave, super-talented, super-woman. She was going places. And she was beyond crazy if she was ready to get on the back of a push bike for a ten-mile ride with this guy.

Based on the knowing way he was slow-blinking at her, Bryony guessed that he knew he’d got to her.

‘Yep. The tandem. That would be the one.’ He leaned a shoulder on the car and shot her one long, laid-back, wicked grin. Zap! One electric bolt arrived on target, oblivious of the cycles zooming round the car park, the gathering crowds and the milling pedestrians hovering around the car bonnet. ‘It’s the tandem challenge I’m contracted for. Champion cyclist teams up with famous sports presenter; it’s a golden ratings combination for the sponsors.’

Whatever. She got the joke, though the last part had a curiously hollow ring to it.

‘It’s shaping up to be a great day.’ She flashed him another PR smile to counteract any wobbles he might be having. It was her job to smooth things here, and celebrity ego-massaging was something she could do in her sleep. ‘You’re going to be a great pull.’

The fraction of a second pause was long enough for her to kick herself for what she’d just said, not long enough for her to jump in with something to neutralise the statement.

‘Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse…’ His face split into a slow grin, even more wicked than before. ‘Thanks, we’ll discuss the details later.’

Jeez, this guy was a nightmare. She prayed her cheeks weren’t entirely bright-red and opted for flat-out dismissal as the best tactic. ‘We all know I’m talking crowd-pullers here, Jackson.’ An eye-roll and a deep sigh hopefully emphasised the put-down.

‘Fine, no need to get your Nikes in a twist.’ He was straight back at her with a low rumble of laughter and enough smoulder in his eyes to bring the back of her neck out in a hot sweat.

Definitely time to get this show on the road.

‘Okay. You get the bike down; I’ll go and find Annie,’ she barked, and he jumped.

Nice work.

Great. The power had shifted. She was back on top. Business as usual.

‘That’s still the best proposition I’ve had this morning.’ He gave her a smirk.

She raised one eyebrow at him and gave him an icy stare, to finally put him in his place. So, even though he might be King of the cycling world and distantly related to the Prince of Darkness when it came to pulling women, he didn’t miss the bit about her being in control.

Here. Today. Now.

Behind the car Cressy erupted like a one-woman volcano.

‘Annie? Jeez, sorry. That’s what I came to say. How the hell did I forget?’ She slashed a raspberry muffin smear across her cheek, inadvertently spraying a shower of cake over Jackson as she spluttered. ‘Annie’s in the Ladies being sick. There’s no way she’ll be able to ride.’




Chapter 2 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


So Annie was out.

And given that they needed a female on the tandem with Jackson – orders from on high, after a rush of phone-calls – that left Cressy as the only option. Or Bryony. And the message from the top was that they could fight it out between them, but one of them was going on the back.

‘There are times when I hate this job.’ Bryony grimaced, rolling her eyes around the car park. Bike riding was so not her thing. ‘The way we always go the extra mile to make things work.’

‘Ten miles looking at that butt may not be so bad.’ From the way Cressy was grinning, Bryony could tell that she was well up for it. ‘I was in love with choppers when I was a kid. Did stunts and everything. It’ll be like old times.’

Cressy in love with choppers? No change there then.

‘Phew. I’m pleased that’s settled.’ Bryony released one sigh of relief. She would have died rather than ride on that tandem.

Cressy stooped, rifling enthusiastically through the bag Annie had thrust into her hands as she left.

‘It’s all very rosy in here…’ Cressy screwed up her face, squinting up at Bryony. ‘But there’s one teensy problem.’

Bryony’s stomach sank.

‘Namely?’

Cressy waved a cycling shoe in her direction.

‘Look at the size of this. It has to be a seven. These beauties clip on to the pedals, and my mini-feet will slip right out of them.’ She shrugged, gave a guilty grimace. ‘Sorry babe, but it looks like this one’s down to you.’

‘Can’t you borrow some that fit you?’ Desperation was mounting in Bryony’s chest.

‘Maybe I could have done if we’d known about it earlier, but right now I can’t see anyone in cycling shoes with small feet.’ Cressy gave a hopeless shrug as she scanned the car park. ‘If I could I’d have grabbed them already.’

‘Can’t you change the pedals or something?’ Bryony’s voice rose to a squeak.

‘I doubt we’d get any others in time,’ Cressy glanced at her watch and sighed. ‘But even if we did I’m still in heels, and there’s no way that fits with Jackson’s major champion look.’

Damn and double damn.

This couldn’t be happening, could it?Bryony chomped her lip, determined not to scowl. Scarborough was so not her lucky place, but it wasn’t Cressy’s fault.

‘Talk about Cinderella in reverse.’ One last desperate ploy to wriggle out of the hot seat. ‘There’s no way I’ll fit into that Lycra, though.’

‘It’s not as if you’ve got a choice. At least Lycra’s stretchy.’ Cressy gave Bryony’s hand a pat; if it was meant to be comforting, then it failed. ‘It’ll squeeze you. Make the most of your assets for The Howler.’ Cressy shot her a wicked smirk as she shoved the kit towards her. ‘You know he’s called that because he’s so great in bed that he makes women…’

Bryony cut her off swiftly. ‘Yep, I did the reading too. Blowing In, Jackson Gale, The Official Biography.’

Trust Cressy to zero in on the bedroom side of things; although, something about this particular guy had her own brain hanging in exactly the same place. Great minds…

She made a mental note to stop that. And fast.

‘Aww, Bry, tell me you haven’t been reading biographies again?’ Cressy grimaced at her. ‘There’s no need to take it so seriously. Hot Stuff magazine has all the low-down and it’s so much more readable. And that Lycra certainly made the most of his assets.’

Cressy and her obsessions again.

Although she had a point.

In spades.

Not that she was about to admit to Cressy she’d noticed. No point getting the girl any more over-excited than she was already.

‘Probably just padding.’ Bryony added a derisive sniff to reinforce the deception.

‘That particular bit of him had nothing to do with padding, Bryony Marshall, and you know it.’ Cressy shook her head despairingly. ‘And lucky you for having that rear view for elevenses.’

Bryony shrugged, aiming to look completely disinterested. ‘Whatever.’

‘Don’t knock me out with your excitement. Glory, what I wouldn’t give to be in your saddle.’ Cressy’s teasing nudge hit her full in the ribs. ‘C’mon on then. Unless you want to strip off here like Mr Smart-ass, we’d better head to the Ladies. I’ll pour you into your finery.’

‘Fuchsia! And so tight! What the hell was Annie thinking?’ Bryony, emerging into the sun from the Ladies tripped on the step and landed in a heap on Cressy. ‘At least this dreadful stuffing round my bum will come in handy when I fall on my butt.’

‘Careful!’ Cressy grabbed Bryony’s arm hastily. ‘And in her defence, Annie probably chose the shorts to match the Charity top. They wouldn’t have been quite such a snug fit on her. And the padding is to stop you getting wedgies and saddle sores.’

Snug? That had to be the polite way of putting it. Indecent was more like it. And saddle sores were so not on her agenda. An already-bad day was turning into an indisputable nightmare and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. Bryony grimaced down at her boobs, morphed to melon-size, and her cleavage, squished skywards by the bursting zip.

‘Who’d have thought a stretchy top three sizes too small would zoom a girl to a double G? I look like I’m promoting Breast Enhancement, not Sport for Teens. And it’s not very warm either.’

Nipple alert!

Bryony squinted down, to examine her profile.

‘Don’t worry, it’s an erection-free zone – this far at least.’ Cressy shot her a grin. ‘And you look fab. So lucky we found that matching lippy. I can think of someone not a million miles away who’ll appreciate the look.’

‘Just the kind of support I need.’ Not. Cressy could wiggle her eyebrows all she wanted. That one wasn’t happening. Jackson Gale, with his smouldering, stomach-flipping brand of uninvited flirtation, had already made it onto her personal list of guys to be avoided at all costs. Bryony snorted, determined to distract her. ‘These shoes are crazy. I’ll never be able to walk in them.’

‘Sorry to state the obvious.’ Another rueful grin from Cressy. ‘But you’re not exactly going to be walking…’

Ahhh, shucks.

‘Don’t remind me.’ Another worry zapped into her brain. ‘You have told Jackson that it’s me on the back?’

Ominous silence. Cressy shuffled.

That would be a ‘No’ then.

‘It’s a great opportunity. You need to lighten up, Bry; we both know that. This could be your chance. Look at it as a gift.’

More animated eyebrows.

‘Cressy…’ Was there even any point in admonishing her?

‘At least it’ll be brilliant for that career path you’re so obsessed with. They’ll really owe you after this.’

Bryony dragged in a breath and clutched at her stomach. Somewhere along the line it had dematerialised. ‘This is such a bad idea.’

Why did she say always say ‘yes’ like some over-enthusiastic, cliff-fixated lemming? Why did her irrational need to prove herself override her sensible head every time? Why did she always need to show that she could pull off the impossible? Scared stiff of two wheels and she’d still let herself be railroaded into this. She’d barely ridden a bike since she was six and, even then, she’d been wobbly.

‘Don’t worry, it’ll be over before you know it.’ Cressy, sensing her wavering, whisked into Producer-mode. ‘Let’s go and find Mr Delicious and get you on this bike.’




Chapter 3 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


As Jackson wheeled the tandem out along the edge of the car park half an hour later, the trickle of spectators was increasing, all heading in one direction towards the race start down the road.

Damn to the way today was going.

Damn to how he’d felt obliged to traipse to this wind-lashed desert of a town, simply in an effort to try to reinforce his cleaned-up reputation. His aunt had begged him to come as a favour to a friend of a friend, who was masterminding the event. Accidentally mentioned to Team HQ, who seized on it as part of his personal character-whitening campaign, and here he was. Along with a film crew, also courtesy of the whitewash brigade, who were ostensibly about to begin charting his progress as he returned to fitness with the team.

Guaranteed to annoy the hell out of him, more like. But all the more reason to appear like the new good boy and not the old bad boy. Truth be told, he was beginning to miss bad-boy Jackson more than a little himself. All this ‘best behaviour’ was wearing very thin – his screaming libido could vouch for that. Why the hell his aunt had convinced herself that he’d be a huge draw at what seemed little more than an out of the way fun-run and tandem race was beyond him. Who in their right minds would want to see some washed-up cyclist with a crapped-up knee?

And in Scarborough?

Whichever marketing exec was pushing it as a new-found trendy resort needed their head examining. The location’s charm had certainly by-passed him.

He didn’t even have anything he could give as an excuse right now. It was his fault for letting things slide, for not getting his life sorted, for sitting in limbo, waiting endlessly for his dratted knee to heal. Although the TV talk, vague as it was, did have the whisper of a promise of being financially rewarding down the line. Depending what developed. Not holding his breath on that one either. So, apart from the TV possibilities, the only spark on the dismal grey horizon that purported to be the North Sea was the woman who’d caught him with his shorts down earlier. Literally.

She was the one thing all week that had made him smile. Possibly all year. Worth it for the look on her face and the excuse it gave him to give her the once-over in return.

And PHWOAR to what was waiting for him body wise, even if she was doing an Oscar-worthy performance of making out that she was a superior ice maiden.

Not that he’d needed any encouragement. Far from it. With a body like that wafted in front of him, he practically needed a restraining order. Big shame he was on his mission of self-improvement. The Jackson Gale that the press portrayed, Jackson Gale as he was before the whitewash, would have whisked her into his bed, or possibly not even that far. Hell, that Jackson Gale would most likely have had her in the car park, there and then, up against the wall. In broad daylight.

Ignoring the electric shocks that the image powered to his groin. Ditto his blood, fizzy as shaken cola, since she zoomed into his view-finder.

Ironic, then, that today’s Jackson Gale wasn’t about to run loose, with voltage like that scrambling his radar. Having spent the best part of a year cleaning up his act, he wasn’t about to squander the efforts, however hot the woman. He found it disconcerting that it was even on his mind. The press wrote rubbish about him on a daily basis and he realised that the press guys who knew the truth were lined up, waiting for him to fall off the virtue wagon, just so they could seize a scoop. No way was he going to hand them that satisfaction. He had too much to lose.

But there was something about the lilt of those lips, the quiver of those eyelids, not to mention the oh-so-full-on nipples he’d glimpsed as her coat fell open that sent more shocks zapping south. Doubly ironic given what his out of control libido was howling at him to do. ASAP. If not sooner. He gritted his teeth. Drove the thought of that tongue, teasing a raspberry muffin crumb from her finger end, right out of his…

A light touch on his shoulder jolted him, and he spun.

‘Cressy! You’re back!’

And look what she’d brought.

Bryony. Shuffling to hide behind Cressy and failing spectacularly, like trying to hide Everest behind a molehill. And talking of mountains, in one gulp he lost all the air from his chest cavity.

Bryony. Shrink-wrapped in shimmering bubble-gum-coloured Lycra, cleavage as deep as…

‘And I’ve bought you your partner in crime.’ Cressy’s words floated over his shoulder.

Unzipped was the word which stuck in his head. And beautiful. If Barbie and Wonder Woman had their genes mashed up, this would be it. With a shake of that filthy rock star, who liked to wear cowboy chaps and not much else on a dirty day. Talk about hot… Scorching more like. Fluro pink perfection, down to every last blonde, tossed tress, entirely eclipsing how stuck-up she was.

And entirely unsuitable to ride a bike of any kind, especially a tandem.

Someone had to be taking the mickey here. Okay, he understood the presenter with the sporting credentials had taken a vomit-check, but surely they could have found someone more suitable than this. Eye-candy was for bedrooms, not bike riding, and this woman looked about as fluffy as candy-floss.

Somewhere deep in his psyche, the twanging ache of lust morphed into the molten lava of anger.

‘You are joking?’ His words slammed off the tarmac louder than he’d imagined, shot through with bitter tarnish that had so much more to do with resentment for what he’d waded through these last eighteen months than the woman standing there now.

Through the apparition-haze he sensed her flinch, and the slight drop of her jaw wrenched his twisted guts another turn. Was he feeling guilty? Sorry for her? Then motor-mouth beside her jumped in.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but due to the kit problems, this is the best we can come up with.’ The dizzy one, suddenly not so ditsy any more. Ostensibly apologising, but packing a punch; spinning him a resounding smile, presumably to sweeten the awful truth. ‘This is it, Jackson. Take it or leave it.’

So that told him. Whose mouth was gaping now?

‘She’s just not the girl for the job.’ When in trouble, make the same point a different way. This would never have happened in his victory days.

‘And you think I don’t know this?’ Bryony cut in, eyes flashing. ‘At least we agree on that. And please stop discussing me as if I’m not here.’

He clawed back control of his jaw. Prepared to negotiate.

‘Have you ever even ridden a bike, Britney?’

From her speech hesitation, and shrug, that’d be a ‘No’.

‘For God’s sake, it’s not Britney, it’s Bryony. And of course I’ve ridden a bike.’ Avoiding eye contact, she studied her feet feverishly. ‘When I was younger.’

Younger? She already looked like she belonged on a nappy night. Close up, she couldn’t be more than twenty-six.

‘At playgroup?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘What do you know about cycling, anyway?’

One flash of her eyes told him Barbie had left the building and Wonder Woman had sprung into action. It warned him that he might need to take cover and fast.

‘What? Do I have to have qualifying times to sit behind you?’ She gave a disparaging sniff. ‘For crying out loud, it’s a bit of fun, not London bloody 2012!’

Ouch. One sideswipe that hit him full in the thorax.

He caught Cressy landing Bryony a swift kick on the ankle and shooting her a ‘face’, no doubt telling her she’d jumped in with both feet about the London Games that he’d missed.

Damn. The last thing he wanted was to be saved. Saving went hand in hand with pity and he had zero time for that either.

Hell, he should be beyond all that now. Served him right for failing on all counts there. Failing by having that stupid accident in the first place, failing to make the damned Games and then failing to come to terms with it all. He should have put it behind him when it happened. All those years of work, all the anticipation, one careless slip, and he’d missed the whole damn show. The event of a lifetime, ten years working towards it, and he stuffed it up.

Swallowing a mouthful of sour saliva, he braced himself for total climb-down.

‘Okay, point taken.’ He watched Bryony’s pale curls flick as her chin whipped up, no doubt marking some kind of personal victory, which was going to be short-lived. ‘So, if you’re that experienced, then you’ll know you need a helmet…’

‘Oh, damn.’ Her confident flounce was instantly replaced with the squawk of panic. ‘Cressy?’

Point to him. Worth it, if only to see the whites of her eyes as her face crumpled. Not so sure of herself now, was she?

‘No worries, the helmet’s in the kitbag, Bry.’ Cressy posted him a mocking dead-eye as she triumphantly pulled the hat out of the holdall and thrust it at Bryony.

‘One last thing—’ And it had to be said. ‘From your VPL I’d say you’re wearing a thong?’ From the way she coloured up, he knew he’d scored a bulls-eye there. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? Cutting in and all that? There’s a reason I go commando.’

‘Too much information.’ She vaulted in, glaring at him like she’d love to throttle him and finish off with a happy dance. ‘I know you think you’re God’s gift, Jackson, but, honestly, my underwear choice is up to me.’

‘Okay, it’s your call, I’m only trying to help.’ Eyes snagging on Bryon, as she fiddled alternately with her chin strap and – God help him – her thong elastic, he wheeled the tandem out to an open patch of car park. ‘If you insist you’re up for it, then climb aboard.’

He braced himself. Stood back, holding the handlebars at arm’s length as she approached. Something about the way her steps hung back screwed up his stomach again. What was it with this woman and the way she tipped his guts upside down?

Definitely committed then. His pulse picked up speed as she arrived beside him, grasped the rear handgrips and shot him a hesitant scowl; yet he was still totally unprepared for the scent of her. One sweet, warm, blast of pure sex hit him as she bumped against his hip and swung her leg up, fumbling her way onto the saddle.

Guts on full spin now.

‘Seat at the right height?’ He had to ask, though getting in close enough to raise it might be beyond him.

‘Errr. I guess so.’

‘Bemused of Scarborough’ speaking there, but giving the right answer from his point of view. No way could he cope with the up close and personal that adjusting her saddle would involve. Even though it was obviously too low, he wasn’t about to force the issue.

She sat up shakily, one toe on the ground, and stopped biting her lip long enough to manage a slip of a smile. ‘So where do I put my feet?’

A question to make his heart sink if it hadn’t been pounding so fast. Experienced bike rider? What a load of…

‘You need to clip the cleats on the base of your shoes into the pedals.’

Easy. If you weren’t a high-maintenance female who couldn’t tell a bottom bracket from a chainset.

‘What?’

Nice move. Neatly making it sound like he was the one over-complicating this.

‘Twist your feet and attach them to the pedals.’ Watching the clouds scudding across the bright blue sky, he counted to ten.

‘No, not happening.’

No surprise there then. Dammit.

His pulse already in overdrive, anticipating the next bit. Taking the weight of the bike on one arm, he bent to help, sliding his face down, mentally blocking the slippery heat of her Lycra-clad thigh perilously close to his cheek. Grasping her foot and yanking it into place on the pedal.

‘Not so hard, is it?’ Not for her, at least. ‘Twist your foot on and off. Get the idea?’ He aimed for nonchalant, rather than ready-to-take-her-against-the-wall.

‘Cool. They seem to be clipped in now.’ She dragged in a deep breath, pushed him an accusing stare.

The full heat and weight of her body plus the bike rammed up against his as he straightened to stand, and the surge in his groin came as a firm reminder to him to somehow sort the desert of his sex life as he disentangled himself from the scent of clean hair. Moved hand over hand, towards the front of the tandem.

Why the hell was he going ahead with this? More to the point, why was she? She could act as feisty as she liked, but he’d felt the nerves juddering through her, heard the rattle of her chattering teeth, even though her jaw was clamped tight shut. He had an idea that, despite her bravado, Cherry Bomb was silently freaking out here.

He was suddenly aware as he swung his own leg over the crossbar and clipped a foot onto his own pedal that they had an audience. Winding the pedal into position, he raised his eyebrows to the arc of bystanders.

‘Right, I’m going to push off. All you need to do is to sit still and pedal along with me, okay? And stop pedaling if I stop.’ Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he saw Bryony clinging onto the handlebars, eyes wide with terror.

Anything but okay, then.

‘Yep.’ She gave a wobbly nod and threw a desperate grimace at Cressy. ‘Great.’

Lying through those perfect teeth and hyper-ventilating too. She was about to get a whole lot more than she bargained for. For a nanosecond he considered stopping, taking pity and letting her off, but the caveman in him overrode that. Now that he’d got her jammed in behind him, he was loath to let her go. True, she might turn into a complete liability on the back, but some strange part of him was relishing the thought of spending a half-hour with his buttocks thrust between her hands on the bars, the two of them rushing through the air together. Despite the fact it was barely eleven in the morning, he felt a sudden compulsion to forget all about the race and pedal off into the sunset, dragging her behind him. It was only a fun bike race after all. Fifty tandems racing ten miles along a road, a linear course rather than laps, and judging by the fancy dress he’d already seen charging round the streets, most of the entries were about the fund-raising, not the speed. But an overwhelming desire to go AWOL, taking the Cherry Bomb with him? Weird, or what? He put it down to too much caffeine.

‘We’ll have a trial run. A couple of turns around the block, see how it goes.’ Laughing over his shoulder in a desperate bid to block out the sunset image, he decided to join in the lie-fest. ‘You’ll be fine.’

As he pushed off, a crescendo of yelps from Bryony rose over the cheers and wolf-whistles of the small crowd. Too bad. He powered on the pedals, clicked up the gears.

‘Go Bryony!’ Cressy’s yell followed them across the car park. ‘You’re gonna have the ride of your life!’

At least someone thought so.




Chapter 4 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


Three swift laps round the block later and she was shaping up better than he thought possible. His barked instructions to sit still and move with him had worked. Now they were coasting down a quiet residential road lined with elegant terraced houses, the screaming had stopped, she’d lost the attitude and her gasps had subsided into small moans. Although this was good news for his aching ears, it was pretty disastrous for his good-behaviour policy, given the way the small mews that she was emitting now sounded sexual enough to drive his libido wild.

He tried to close his ears to the distracting noises behind him. She needed to man up. If she couldn’t take the heat, she shouldn’t go in the damn kitchen in the first place. That was better. Quiet was good. Although maybe she was too quiet.

‘Are you alright back there?’

The reply, when it finally came it was more of a whisper than a groan. ‘No…’

Not sounding good. One glance over his shoulder confirmed that she was green.

Damn. He’d known this was a ridiculous idea; it was his fault, he should never have set off. Just another example of the disaster area his life had become.

Bad decisions, bad calls. When did it all go so wrong? And why did bad follow bad like a toppling cascade of dominos, making it seem like all the good years had been down to luck and nothing else? Yanking the bike into the side of the road, the tourniquet tightened around his gut again as he watched her struggle onto the pavement.

‘Why didn’t you say something?’ That sounded way harsher than he intended no doubt as his own self-recrimination spilled over.

He caught the flare of surprise in her eyes as she sank down to squat on the kerb. With a big shrug, she shook her head. Gulping for air, she brushed a hand across her cheek and a slash of tears streaked the dust. Oh, shit, she was crying. The woman who seemed so goddamn sure of herself, and he’d broken her in three blocks. She swallowed again, rubbed her nose and sniffed hard.

‘Something wrong?’ May be best to act like he hadn’t seen the tears.

‘I don’t want to wimp out.’ Her bottom lip juddered. ‘But I feel sick.’

Unbelievable. ‘Not another one.’ He let out a slow breath. What was with everyone today?

‘I’m too scared to look forward, so I look sideways, but then everything flashes past and makes me dizzy.’

Pulling herself together might help. ‘You need to look forwards over my shoulder.’

She grimaced. ‘It’s all so fast.’

Now he’d heard it all.

‘The speed’s the best bit. The exhilaration. It’s the closest to flying you’ll get without wings.’

‘I don’t do thrills. Or flying.’ She chomped hard on her thumbnail and gave what looked like an involuntary judder. ‘I hate sledging, I refuse to ski, going downhill fast is my worst nightmare, because I hate not being in control.’

A control-freak to boot. Today just got better and better. ‘Great. You’ll just have to postpone your enjoyment until you get back in your armchair then.’

‘I thought that with the flat course it would be okay.’ Her eyes staring up at him were gut-wrenchingly blue.

‘Flat? Whoever told you that?’ Someone clearly forgot to mention the gentle ten mile climb to a big final descent and he wasn’t about to enlighten her. Biting back his exasperation, he pulled his water bottle out of its cage on the bike frame and thrust it towards her. ‘Have a drink, it might make you feel better.’

The shake of her hand as she grasped it sent an unexpected jolt of sympathy through him, making him want to reach out, rub a comforting palm across her back. Yet he held back, firmly, as he watched her lips close around the bottle top. Chasing sunsets? Reaching out? Not him. Not in this life. Even though the vulnerability of her neck as she tipped her head back to drink sent his stomach crashing to hit the deck. She took a long draft, then pulled her legs up and tucked her chin onto her knees.

‘Too many raspberry muffins, maybe.’ Flicking a strand of hair away from her mouth, she gave a rueful grimace and tapped the drinking bottle with one, perfectly manicured, russet nail.

Polished nails and tandems? He should have known better. ‘You don’t have to do this. We can walk back; it’s only round the corner.’

She flew back at him in an instant. ‘There’s no way I’m giving up.’

So, that put him in his place. Again.

‘Okay. We’ll give it one more go. I’ll raise the saddle, so you’ll sit higher. This time you face forwards and we’ll take it steady. You only have to say the word and we’ll stop.’

Hopefully, that would placate her.

‘You don’t understand.’ She fixated on him with narrowed eyes as she unfolded her legs, rubbed her nose again and clambered to her feet. ‘Giving up isn’t what I do.’

Got that now. And staring down your top isn’t what he did, except the way she was standing, tugging at her jacket. He couldn’t help but notice. He swallowed hard, trying to dispel all thoughts of rolling his tongue around what had snagged his attention; but he failed, just as he failed to avert his eyes.

‘Are you cold?’ That was enough to break the spell.

‘Oh, drat.’ She flung her arms around herself, and, dammit, he lost the view of what had the potential to be the most promising set of nipples in the history of the world. Although, on the plus side, he gained an insight into how fast a blush could splash across a girls cheeks – also sexy as hell. Somehow he didn’t have her down as a blusher, but her grimace was telling him she was dying here.

‘Here. Take this.’ In a flash he’d unzipped and flung his own jacket round her shoulders. ‘I’m warm anyway.’

Ever the gentleman, as long as he wasn’t mesmerised, obviously. Warm had been an understatement. Overheated more like.

‘Thanks.’ Absentmindedly, she pushed an arm into a sleeve. ‘If you’re sure.’

Not looking at him when she was talking to him, then. Following her sightline downwards, he saw that her eyes had locked onto something a lot lower than his face.

‘Aw, damn.’

Length and width – and plenty of both – bulged against the glossy black sheath of his shorts on proud display, and still more to give. Thanks to the God of Lycra for the stretch. His attempt to whack the bulge into submission with the heel of his hand failed.

‘Gotcha.’ Bryony, eyes shining, proving she could serve an ace return.

Cheeks pinker than ever now that he’d caught her, her lips twisting into a grin that lit up the world, as she zipped herself into the safe haven of his jacket. And not backing down.

‘So you did.’ He gave a snort. ‘No place to hide in Lycra.’

Not backing down. And sharing the joke. He liked that in a woman, even a high maintenance one.

‘Come on.’ He glanced swiftly at his watch. ‘We’d better get moving if we’re going to catch this race.’

‘Made it!’

Bryony caught the grin Jackson flung over his shoulder as they whizzed under the start banner, chasing the other riders who were already a hundred yards down the road. At least now her seat was higher and she could see ahead, she was less queasy. Getting travel sick on a tandem…she’d never live that one down. In a blur out of the corner of her eye, she caught Cressy, arms flailing like windmill sails, yelling.

‘The camera bike will catch you up!’

Then she was gone, her words lost in the rush of air. And who even cared about cameras? Damn it to that, in spades. A TV production woman who forgot about filming?

In front of Bryony, Jackson was up on the pedals now, bouncing from side to side, giving chase. Navigating, steering, and zig-zagging alarmingly between the other tandems as they caught up with the bunch.

‘Oh, my. This so wasn’t my best idea.’ One groan to comfort herself, perked up by the view.

Wow, that was one toned butt. As for the muscles in those thighs… Nudging her hand too, as he sank back onto his saddle. OMG. I just touched Jackson Gale’s…

‘Blimey.’A bump in the road threw her out of the saddle, cancelling all wayward thoughts.

‘You okay back there?’ He slung a grin over his shoulder. ‘Don’t forget to hang on.’

She locked her fingers more tightly on the handle bars. If she didn’t concentrate here she’d be off the flaming back. Her wrists were already burning with the effort of holding on, and they’d hardly even begun. If it had been achingly scary going slowly round the block, now they were weaving in and out of other bikes right across the road – it was terrifying.

‘At least I haven’t chucked up.’ Yet.

‘It’ll soon be over, it’s only ten miles.’ Another nugget tossed in her direction. ‘We’ll get ahead of the rest of the field and keep out of trouble.’

So comforting. Not.

‘It all feels like trouble.’ It was alright for him. He was used to it.

‘There’s no serious competition. Most people are in fancy dress.’ Another spurt, and he gave a loud guffaw as they accelerated past a custard-yellow cloud. ‘We ruffled Donald Duck’s feathers there!’

What crazy place had she landed in?

‘Only a guy could be that competitive about overtaking cartoon characters.’ Craning her neck as she shouted, she peered past his ear and saw capes up ahead. ‘Batman and Robin – they’ll give us a run for our money.’

She should have shut up. Like a red rag to a bull. Jackson was up again, and her feet were flying around on the pedals in time with his as they soared past them.

‘Batmobiles can’t keep up with me.’ He was shouting back with the enthusiasm of a five year old. ‘I top sixty miles an hour downhill on a good day.’

Not what she wanted to hear. If it hadn’t already been in free-fall, her heart would have sunk.

‘Can’t we ride with the rest?’

That groaning appeal fell on deaf ears.

‘The faster we go, the quicker we get there.’ One flash of a backwards grin told her he had no intention of slowing down. He might even be enjoying tormenting her. ‘It’ll all be over in another twenty minutes. Keep pedaling.’

As if she had any choice.

When had she ever been this out of control? Another bump sent her rocketing skywards.

‘Ouch!’ The dull ache in her butt exploded as she crashed back onto the saddle, the padding in her shorts doing nothing to save her bottom. As for her legs, they were on fire.

Twenty minutes more? She’d be dead.

Gritting her teeth, she clamped her eyelids shut and sent a juddering prayer to the God of accelerated-career-progress, to make it end soon.

‘Hey, Cherry Bomb, time to wake up.’

One more jaunty comment flung in her direction and she might just throw up after all. This one penetrated her self-induced trance deeply.

‘If you’re expecting me to open my eyes, think again.’ She growled through gritted teeth as no way would her bone-shaken jaw unclench.

‘We’re almost there. You need to wave to the spectators. The camera bike is lining up ahead of us too.’

Weakly, she opened one eye a crack. She couldn’t have ached more if a forty-four wheel pantechnicon had driven all the way over her then reversed back again.

‘Smile! It’ll make a perfect shot, us flying down this hill to the finish.’

It was so like this joker to be mocking her.

‘Hill…’ The shock of the word unlocked her jaw. ‘What hill?’

She snapped her eyes open in time to register a hairpin-bend sign whooshing by. Blinked to bring the blur into focus and saw the road dropping away in front of them, dipping sharply like a roller coaster, then corkscrewing round. She hurled out her mental anchors.

‘Hold on tight!’ Another superfluous instruction from Jackson.

If she’d had any breath left, she’d have hyperventilated. ‘If I hold on any tighter my arms will drop off.’ Angry enough to find the strength to protest. ‘Slow down. Pleeeeeeease.’

Downhill. Accelerating. Out of control. All her nightmares. To the power of ten, at least, if not to the power of a thousand.

‘JACKSON! SLOW DOWN!’

The only upside to freewheeling was that the pedals were still. The noise of people on the pavement edge bounced off her head as the washing-machine thump of the world switched onto full-spin.

Why the hell wasn’t he doing as he was told? People always did as she asked. That was the effect she had. The ability to make people do as they were told was her special power and always had been; now was not the moment for it to fail her.

Colours flashing past, faster and faster, and now the bike was tipping sideways as Jackson flung them around the corner. They had to fall. But then they were upright again, momentarily, then she was hurled the other way as they changed course on the bend. She had one fleeting thought through all the panic – she’d get him back for this. Then, the desperate instinct to survive kicked in and before she knew it she’d let go of the handlebars, grappling her the Lycra slide of Jackson’s torso.

She felt the heat of his lower back as her cheek clamped against the solid sinew of his ribcage. Jackson’s body like an anchor, holding her fast in the hell of the storm.

As she screwed her eyes closed again, she wrenched some air into her lungs from the hurtling wind that was choking her. Then, something shifted, deep in her core. It was like every emotion she’d ever had was erupting, venting, finding release. Something primal, something deep, some huge animal vibration. Reeling at the shock of the sound, before she even knew it was coming from her. It amplified, as she hurled back her head, threw her jaw wide.

A shrieking, howling scream.




Chapter 5 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


A win for The Howler then.

Longer than Jackson cared to remember since that had happened. World event or charity gig, the taste was still sweet. Flipping the front wheel out of the tandem, he hoisted the frame up onto the roof rack and began to secure the fastenings. Wins all round in fact. Kudos for his Aunt and her charities; all his duties for the day looked after, the right hands shaken and enough of them, the right prizes presented, the right smiles smiled, the right egos massaged. A ton of goodwill for Jackson the good-boy, whose whitewash was getting a golden aura here today. And he gave the finger with a right and proper royal wave to the trashy papers waiting for him to mess up.

The upside of flying across the finish line in first place being slightly off-set by the downside of having a banshee along for the ride. Okay. He howled mildly when the adrenalin rush had nowhere else to go, that he’d concede – but the screeching wail that came out of the Cherry Bomb was barely human. Something else entirely. Although, overall he had to admit she’d surprised him, impressed him even, with the way she’d got a grip of her fear and hung on in there. She was obviously made of sterner stuff than that first candyfloss impression suggested.

And speaking of cherries.

‘Jackson, you’ll give me the heads-up when you’re ready for our interview? A quick chat to camera won’t take long, but sooner rather than later would be better. Like, now would be great.’

Bryony, seemingly transformed from the wreck of a woman who’d climbed off the tandem; she was still in the bubblegum shorts, though, striding across the car park waving her arms.

‘Found your bossy self again, then?’

And her clipboard.

That oh-so-arrogant way she assumed people were going to go along with her every whim rubbed him the wrong way.

‘No thanks to you.’ Flicking her almost-perfect-again hair over her shoulder, she waggled a microphone in his direction and posted him an iron smile.

This was one lady who was very used to getting her own way. Super-efficient, super-composed. So long as she wasn’t travelling by tandem.

He propped the bike wheel against the bumper. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’

Playing it cool, he stifled a grin and rubbed his back. Still aware of where she had clung on to him, the imprint of her warmth sticking on his spine like a muscle memory that wouldn’t shift. Hell, given those spiky nails of hers, he was lucky she hadn’t shredded his whole stomach along the way, even if it was sending his blood rushing south as he recalled it.

‘Dave, Tony.’ A half-lift of one of her perfect eyebrows and a camera guy and a sound man materialised out of nowhere. ‘Here will do, Jackson. Annie’s gone, so I’m standing in to ask the questions. It’s my first time, so please bear with me.’

It’s my first time… He tried to ignore the way those words made his knees sag momentarily. For an interview virgin, she was showing no sign of nerves.

Palm on his chest, she slammed Jackson to lean against the car wing, then tucked in neatly next to him. So close he couldn’t escape her woman-cloud; yet they were pointedly not touching.

Shoving the mike under his chin, she nodded at the camera guy and cleared her throat.

‘A great win for you today, Jackson, wouldn’t you say?’ TV voice all pretty now, expecting him to play nice.

‘So long as you overlook my perforated eardrums.’ No harm in telling it like it was. ‘That was one major scream you did back there.’

Contact alert. Nudging him with her shoulder as she stiffened. All huffy, then, with a shake of accusing.

‘Which wouldn’t have happened if you’d put on the brakes.’ Judging by the shrill, he’d caught her by surprise there.

He returned her nudge, just for badness, and saw the whites of her eyes for his trouble. ‘We won. Winning’s what matters every time, even if it was just for fun today and hopefully we raised lots of money for good causes too. But asking a competition cyclist to brake on a final hill… Seriously, it’s not going to happen.’ Leaning back, he gave a low chuckle. ‘It’s like asking a tiger to turn vegetarian.’

Wow. Great view down her top from this angle. Trying to damp down his grin of appreciation for that and simultaneously ensure that his perving would not be discernible on camera. Good boys didn’t gawp at boobs, full stop, even if the sight was unavoidable. And she was still wearing his jacket. He made an instant mental note to leave it that way.

‘So Jackson, you’ve had huge success over the years – what’s your secret? How come you’re such a winner?’

A bit deep for a Saturday lunchtime in a car park. He blinked away the view of the tender skin at the top of her cleavage and focused on the mic instead as he searched for a suitably swift retort to shut up Ms Sure-of-herself.

‘I always get inside my opponent’s head, it’s a great advantage to be a mind reader.’ He tilted his head to see how she took that one, cocked a challenging eyebrow at her. For a first timer she was holding her own alarmingly well.

‘On top of all your other gifts you’re a mind reader too?’ Her voice went up an octave and she sent him a disbelieving smirk.

‘Yep.’ He felt a grin spreading slowly across his face. It was rare to find an interviewer so delightfully…how could he put it…reactive. That had to be the rookie coming out and he couldn’t resist the fun.

‘Okay! Great! So prove it then, tell me what am I thinking now?’

She pursed her lips determinedly, and dragged in a huge breath that brought her boobs at least six inches closer to his face, making the view he couldn’t resist returning to even better. Hmmm, soft flesh. Delicious, tantalising, even if it did belong to someone, who, now she’d recovered herself, obviously took pleasure in pushing him.

Half-closing his eyes, he slid out his reply. ‘At a guess I’d say you’re thinking I’m hot…’ Holding back his smile, he waited in anticipation, and wondered how far as a good-boy he could push this. Interview boundaries were new territory for him – his whole career as a bad-boy he’d relished in saying exactly what he pleased and damn the consequences. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he could recall an interview where there’d been underlying smoulder like this.

Whatever reaction he’d been hoping for, he hadn’t counted on traffic-light-red cheeks, or the spluttering into her hair.

‘Wwww…wh…what?’

He caught the panic in her eyes as she opened and closed her mouth, doing a pretty full-on impersonation of a goldfish.

Holy crap, he’d meant to needle, not cause the woman to do a total stall on camera. Who’d have thought the shiny armour plating of Ms Bossy would have been so quick to crack? He’d had his fun, but he wasn’t completely heartless.

He swooped in to rescue her. ‘Easy assumption, bit of a cheat, given most women find me irresistible.’ As she was still picking her jaw up off the floor, he bashed on. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, I’ve yet to meet a woman who doesn’t fancy the pants off me!’

‘Not at all arrogant, are you?’

He breathed a sigh of relief as she came back at him and resumed staring down her top. Opponents were way more fun when they were fighting on all cylinders. And what he’d thought was smoulder between them was fast escalating into full blown fire.

‘Hey, cheeky!’ One swift smack on his arm from her sent his grin wild. That had to be for the inappropriate sight line, given the way she was dead-eyeing him.

‘So Tiger, are they going to let you out of your cage any time soon? Any plans to return to racing?’

And all credit to her for the way she bounced back from the brink with that blinder of a question he had no intention of answering. Diversionary tactics were called for. He fired up the famous charm. He had no idea at what point exactly this interview had morphed from plain Q&A to out and out flirt, but somewhere along the line it had. And to hell with it; he was going in for the squeeze now, and good-boy was just going to have to suffer the consequences.

‘Only if you promise to come with me.’ Stretching an arm around her waist, he squished her hard against him, reeling at the way she smelled like heaven as he struggled to disentangle her hair strands from his chin stubble. However, she was weirdly delighted that she’d pushed him into grabbing her.

‘Fabulous offer, Jackson. But you can dream on.’ With a toss of her head, she shot him a wicked smile. ‘Unless you discover the brake lever, that is.’

Nice retort. She’d had him for breakfast and now she was spitting him out. Not sure if the pain of being publicly humiliated by Candyfloss-on-a-stick was sweet or not. But regardless of the push of those delectable breasts against his chest, he was wrapping this up, and fast.

‘Great, well thanks for the ride, Bryony. Screaming aside, you were awesome. We make a great team.’ Giving her one last nudge with his hip, he tipped her a lazy wink. Stuck around long enough to watch the pink flow into her cheeks.

Then quick handshakes all round to the rest of the gawping crew.

And he was getting the hell out of here, before good-boy suffered any more collateral damage.




Chapter 6 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


‘Hey. Without the pink shorts, I almost didn’t recognise you.’

Bryony knew it wasn’t true. Jackson had clocked her as soon as she strode into the empty hotel bar three hours later, eleven miles up the coast. He’d watched every step of her high-heeled progress across the long room, almost as if he’d been expecting her.

‘Pleased I’ve found you. Cressy remembered she’d booked you in here and your car was the final giveaway. I’ve brought your jacket.’ She held it out to him as if to justify her arrival, now strangely reluctant to let it go. ‘I’m the only one staying on tonight; the rest of the crew have gone back to London. I’m off to Northumberland in the morning, so I got the delivery job.’

Why the heck was she making the frantic excuses? Cressy and her ‘go-geddim’ cries obviously had her running scared. Running guilty more like, given she’d not exactly been mortified when he’d driven off leaving her wearing his top, and not minding at all that she had to leave the elegant streets of Scarborough and wind all the way to this isolated hotel that stood proud and lonely on the wind-raked cliff top. Just because he was the hunk of the century. For one more glimpse of his decorative awesomeness. Nothing to do with the way he’d sent white-hot shivers through her whole body when he’d grabbed her. And totally excused by the fact that she never dated, so she really couldn’t be interested. Could she? She shot him her best pro smile, just to prove this was work and nothing more.

‘Miss Organization. Always last to finish. Why does that not surprise me?’ Jackson climbed off his bar stool, and pulled out another for her. ‘Might as well have a drink now you’re here? Bit of a trek, but worth it for the seclusion. And best of all, no press – apart from you, that is.’

The lazy smile he slid her unleashed a single butterfly in her chest. Then another. Designer-threadbare jeans never looked so good on a guy. Impossible not to lock onto the bulge of his groin as he pushed up onto the bar stool again. Then the whole damn flock were loose. Five hundred butterflies. Choking her, with their frantic fluttering.

‘The views here are awesome too.’ Hauling her attention upwards, with that dark grin of his. ‘Once you look out to sea that is.’

Loving the way his cheeks creased when he smiled, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, that tan that was way deeper than any British summer gave. Just for a minute she soaked up the whole charisma of this super-athletic guy who was entirely at one with being head-and-shoulders above his nearest rivals. The whole superhuman quality was disturbingly familiar, reminding her an awful lot of her older and supremely successful brother, Brando. And, yes, Jackson had picked her up there. Again. But this time she wasn’t playing.

‘I’m sure the views are spectacular.’ Determined to keep this professional, not risking an acknowledgement of where her eyes had landed, or that he’d caught her out. Again. ‘So what can I get you to drink, Jackson?’

His eyebrows raised in surprise at the ease of her offer. ‘Thanks, but it’s my shout. The beer is good and cold, if you like that.’

‘Beer it is then.’

A drink with the boys. No harm in that. She did it all the time. Didn’t usually make her heart thump this badly though. As the barman pushed beer and a glass across the bar, she waved away the glass, picking up the bottle. They were two colleagues, sitting, with their elbows and their bottles on the bar. Nothing more.

‘I admire you for what you did today.’ He shot her a sideways glance. ‘It took guts.’

She shrugged, knowing he didn’t have to say this. ‘I don’t usually make that much fuss.’

‘Even so – and before you jump on me, I’m not being patronising – you did really well.’ The gravel in his voice sent a twang through her chest, his lips curving deliciously as he played mischievously. ‘Backside sore?’

Not holding back, then, although there was something simultaneously charming and disarming about his directness.

‘It could be worse.’ She grimaced. Not that she should be discussing it with him, although talking like this made the drink more matter of fact. Somehow safer. Like she was simply one of the guys. Boy-talk was good.

He swirled his beer round in the bottle, angled his head and studied her through narrowed eyes.

Dragging in a breath, she stood up to his scrutiny.

‘And I like that you aren’t throwing yourself at me.’

Wow. That came out of left field. Tag-line for Jackson Gale: expect the unexpected.

‘Throwing myself at you? As if.’ Incredulity made her voice squeak. ‘Spoken like someone who thinks they’re irresistible.’ She sniffed, definitely not about to reinforce his ego, whatever she thought privately. ‘Or maybe I haven’t got around to it yet?’

Another smile. All rugged jaw and the darkest twinkle. Many more of those, and she might have to rethink her hands-off policy.

‘No. I’m confident that you won’t. You’re nothing like the women I usually come into contact with – or rather, fight off.’ He drummed his fingers on the bar ‘I like it. It’s intriguing.’

Was she really hearing this? Not so much of the fighting off either, if you believed the official biography.

‘Don’t you get fed up of being so super-sure of yourself?’

That made him laugh. ‘Spoken in person by Miss Uber-Confident herself.’

As he drained his beer, the hollow at the base of his neck played havoc with her insides.

‘So…’ He cleared his throat, swallowed again. ‘Shall we take this outside? There’s the beach, the terrace, or my log cabin. Your choice.’

What? Bryony’s stomach officially left the building. A man who knows what he wants and goes all out to get it. Like a line from The Official Biography. Picking up her own beer, she took a like-I-even-give-a-damn swig. The past fifteen minutes had confirmed this as the weirdest weekend of her life to date, and it wasn’t just the tandem fiasco.

Sadie, her last stoically-single friend, had just signed up for matrimony, she thought to herself, presuming that’s what Friday’s hold-the-date card meant. Okay, Cressy was still single, but Cressy was so far off the couples’ radar she didn’t figure. And Bryony was still reeling from her mum’s approach last night; although to be fair to her mother, how did you sugarcoat an offer like that? It was bound to sound insulting. Suggesting someone was unlikely to meet a partner before it was too late was not the easiest line to spin. Then she’d been shoved in front of the camera for the first time ever, and that was definitely the wrong side, from the mess the interview with Jackson had turned into.

All going down in Scarborough of all places.

She allowed herself a latent shudder for what had gone on at the end-of-sixth-form weekend bash, at The Esplanade Hotel in Scarborough, when she was eighteen. Losing her virginity to Aphrodisiac-Alex – who really hadn’t lived up to the name, even though he’d been everyone else’s heart throb at the time – hadn’t been her proudest moment. Drunk on the fire escape at six in the morning – it really had been a just a matter of her wanting to get that milestone out of the way and him being a) there, and b) ready, willing and able, which was more than could be said of the rest of the guys who were largely either spoken for or wasted. Last man standing, so to speak. It didn’t take long and she hadn’t seen him since. And granted that had been back in the day, before she took her teenage grab-all-the-man-you-can tendencies firmly in hand, and before she’d headed off from Lincolnshire to London and channelled her energy into a becoming a go-getting career-success instead. But it would always be there, an indelible shadow on the radar of her memory.

And as if the Scarborough shudders weren’t enough for one girl to handle, this weekend was all being played out against the backdrop of the other biggie she’d promised herself not to think about, the biggie that had sent her fleeing up here in the first place. That would be the biggie she couldn’t possibly dwell on for a whole weekend at home, because, let’s face it, they didn’t come much bigger than the love of your life getting married to someone else. Even if that love had remained completely unrequited, unacknowledged, unreturned and unspoken for the best part of fourteen years, it still hurt like a hole in her side. Not forgetting that tomorrow she was about to start a month off work, and she didn’t have the first idea what she was going to do with herself after she’d popped in on her married girlfriends.

And now this.

A drink with the worst womaniser, possibly in the history of the world, who thanks you for ignoring him, then asks you to his cabin. Presumably not to have sex with him whilst standing on her head, because, to be honest, this weekend the whole world was turning upside down and back to front.

And Cressy’s words pirouetted around her brain. We both know you need to lighten up. This could be your chance… What exactly had that wild-girl teenager Bryony got out of becoming so serious? A successful career? Weekends when you worked because everyone in your social circle was married off? Being in control? Maybe she should have just carried on down Slut Street; at least then she’d have had some decent sex along the way. She cringed to think what a distant memory that was.

‘So?’ The most attractive hunk in the universe was looking at her expectantly as he climbed off his bar stool.

‘Sorry?’

‘If you’ve finished your beer shall we…go?’ Inclining his head, raising his eyebrows, resting the lightest hand in the small of her back.

A convulsive shiver zithered up her spine. Why did he have to speak with that chocolate growl? Could she dare to try what she’d denied herself for so long? Take this outside, and see where it ended up?

Before she knew, she’d flashed him a dazzler of a smile that had nothing to do with professional. ‘Why not?’

Think of it as a gift.

She slipped off her stool, and landed in the crook of his waist.




Chapter 7 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


The sea was sparking blue in the late afternoon sun. Even though the wind was blowing a gale, no pun intended, Bryony had surprisingly plumped for the precipitous walk down the cliff path to the beach, maybe because she judged it to be the least high-risk sport on offer. Energetic sex back at the cabin or cliff-walking, and she’d opted for the latter. A wry grimace from Jackson to that one; although looking at the height of the heels on her boots, walking anywhere off piste in those could be considered crazy dangerous.

Leaning into the crosswind, those heels obviously weren’t proving too much of a handicap as she picked her way between the wet rocks and the seaweed, hands rammed in her puffa-jacket pocket, hair whipping across her face. Almost like he could feel her heartbeat carried by the wind across the space between them. Those go-on-forever legs in those tight leggings made his mouth water. Something about the sheer strength and exuberance of her making his chest twang, not to mention…

‘So, what drives you?’ A gust snatched his words away as he spoke them, but he wanted to ask. Something to do with the gritty determination of the woman.

She whirled around to face him as he caught her up. Amazing how she still managed to look like a supermodel despite the Force Ten gale.

‘I get a buzz from making things happen. Same as you, getting your rocks off by winning.’

‘Succinct and insightful too. Sharp lady.’

‘I do my best.’ She twitched those delectable lips into a grin that showed her perfect teeth.

Funny how he’d missed that this morning. He’d been too busy watching for cracks in the gloss, to see through to the inside and kicking against the stone-wall of her determination. Je’d been aware of the whole explosion of chemistry, which he’d put down solely to his own need in that department, but he hadn’t fully appreciated the long-limbed wow-factor of the whole package. Not that he was going there. She was seriously off limits, but for some reason he couldn’t bear to let her go before he’d found out more about her. There was this inexplicable urge to keep her with him for as long as he could, just because the combination of her layers and her strength was fascinating; not like any woman he’d come across before.

‘Getting your kicks from making people do what you want. That figures, from what I saw earlier.’ Accidentally on purpose, he bumped his hip gently against hers. Gentle flirting was a contact sport, and there was definitely a buzz here. ‘Used to getting your own way from an early age, A.K.A. being spoiled?’

‘Not exactly.’ She screwed up her face, as if weighing things up. ‘It’s complicated.’

And she claimed full marks for not dismissing the ‘spoiled’ taunt out of hand.

‘Try me?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to send you to sleep with my whole mixed-up childhood life story thing. But when I was eleven my older brother ended up inheriting a country estate. It’s way less glamorous than it sounds. We didn’t have a wealthy upbringing at all, we were a disaster as a family; my parents had spilt up, and it was just an accident that a couple of people died and unexpectedly left my brother, Brando, next in line. From quite a young age I used to go to help with events there. In fact, it was lots of hard work, but it taught me how to handle people and that’s where I got hooked on the satisfaction of pulling off the impossible.’ She broke into a guilty smile. ‘And you’re right – I learned how to wind my brother round my little finger. Back in the day I used to commandeer his helicopter all the time, but I’ve pretty much grown out of that now. But isn’t that what baby sisters are for?’

If she was hoping that would make his eyes widen, then she was in luck; but more strangely still, it appeared to have been a throwaway line. Eyes wider still at that thought. And a fellow survivor of a broken family too. He covered his surprise by blurting out the first thing about families that came into his head.

‘I wouldn’t know, I only have brothers.’ A neat line that no way expressed the train wreck that was his family life, or the screwed up state of relationships with his father and brothers and as they stood now. Connor, a golden boy, who hadn’t screwed up when it mattered like he had, who’d been snapping at his heels his whole life, who was still out there now, feeding their father’s insatiable hunger for glory, providing him with the reflected limelight he loved. And Nic, a self-made success. As for his mother, well don’t even go there. Who the hell started talking about families? ‘Connor’s a famous cyclist. You’ll no doubt have heard of him.’ The wind whipped away the bitter laugh he spat out with that last comment.

‘Or maybe not.’ She shot him a shamefaced grin. ‘I don’t know the first thing about cycling, I was blagging it this morning. The last time I went on a bike I was about six.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Anything was better than discussing the Gale clan. Suppressing his mirth at her embarrassed discomfort, he gave her a shoulder nudge as he polished his next spinner. ‘But bike-riding’s like sex. Once you’ve learned how to do it, you don’t forget.’

Only her eyebrows shooting up showed he’d surprised her. One-all in the surprise stakes then.

‘So like a man to make that link. Or are you simply living up to your perennial reputation as a womanizer?’ Tossing back her head, she let out a laugh. ‘I read the biography, you know. What’s your next line? Asking me if my favourite cocktail is “Sex on the beach?”’

‘Let me think. Slimy rocks, the sea approaching… I don’t think so.’ He jumped to avoid the bubbles of tide running up the sand and steered her up the beach a little. ‘Later maybe?’

And joking. Obviously.

‘Dream on, Mister. I gave up on casual sex years ago because it was meaningless and empty, so I learned to say “No”. Maybe you could learn that too.’ She gave a shrug, but posted him a mischievous sideways glance. ‘One tiny word, but it’s powerful.’

And maybe she had a point. If the faceless sex was so great, how come he’d hardly missed it when he called a halt? Until today, of course, when his groin had been jumping like a jack-in-a box. Still was. Put it down to the adrenalin surge of a win, or more likely, the Cherry Bomb at his side and her explosive promise, which strangely hadn’t lessened any since she swapped her silky pink wrapper for leggings and padded jacket. Still that same bewitching scent, screamingly strong, regardless of the salty, biting air.

‘So I take it you’re not propositioning me, then?’ No idea why he needed to push it, but he did.

Now it was her turn to jump as the surf rushed towards her toes. ‘We’ve already established that.’

A few more hand-in-pocket strides at his side, this human dynamo was walking so fast he could barely keep up, despite her precipitous heels.

She glanced back at him. ‘To be honest I’m so far out of the couples game, my mother has offered to pay to freeze my eggs.’

Conversation stopper or what? Though judging by the way she was chewing her lip and furrowing her brow, she’d shocked herself as much as him with that one. Laying it on the line. Making it clear, her hurling herself at him wasn’t going to happen.

Leaving the first move down to him. When had he ever had to make the first move? Though that wasn’t really happening either, even if he had taken every precaution to keep the press off his tail.

‘So what do you do if you don’t date? Are you implying that you work all the time?’ And when did he become this big on interrogation?

She might be an organisational whizz, but what a waste of all that energy.

She smiled up at him, making the pit of his stomach fizz, making him ache to taste her. ‘A professional cyclist should understand about non-stop work better than most, from what I read.’

So she’d been reading up, had she? When did he ever ache like this? ‘Didn’t you read about the extra-curricular bits?’ Mind reverting automatically. Too bad he wasn’t going to taste.

‘There you go again. You and your one-track, extra-curricular mind.’

Grabbing her was his last intention, but he threw an easy arm around her shoulder anyway. No excuses, other than the caveman in him stepping up to stake his claim. One slight jolt from her. A strike before she organised her opposition may work to his advantage – if he didn’t move in fast enough, he suspected she may well deck him.

Easy. Spinning around, heading for her lips, he pushed away the salty strands of her hair. Her gasp of surprise drew him straight into the luscious heat of her mouth as he traced his tongue along her lip, pushed beyond those perfect teeth. Soft, delicious, sweet as raspberry muffin. And hungry too. One second of hesitation, then she came to meet him, tangling, like he knew instinctively she would, her vitality surging into him. Forging her body against his, strong and arousingly urgent as he dragged her, crushed her against his pelvis. Embracing her exuberance, and doubting he’d ever held anyone this real, this human, her energy flooding through, making him amazingly, resoundingly alive. The ache in his groin thumping as she ground her hip against the thud of his erection. Barely pausing as he tugged past the soft wool of her cardigan, through the yielding cotton of her t-shirt to the hot skin beneath. The bang of his pulse, resounding in his ears, drowning out the wind, hearing that small groan of affirmation vibrating from her throat as he cupped her heavy breast in his hand. The full perk of her nipple strong enough to jut through the padded silk.

The thunder of desire galloped through his body as he slipped down the bra-cup, lightly scratching with his nail to bring her nipple to amazing standing attention. Then, as he rolled it between his fingers, her body sagged against him and the mewing from her throat told him that he’d hit the spot. Dragging the oxygen into his lungs to cope with the double speed pounding of the blood around his body, heart rate racked off the scale by the moans of the woman leaning heavy in his arms.

‘Jackson!’ With a squawk, she yanked away from him. ‘The sea!’

The chill of water engulfed his feet as a wave rolled over his sneakers. Opening his eyes, he took a second to register the ocean fringe advancing towards them and another to decide he didn’t even give a damn. Wanting to carry on pushing the Cherry Bomb past the point of no return, until she exploded and came apart in his arms.

‘Holy crap.We could drown here.’ His survival head coming late to the party, yanking down caveman’s ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice. In a few minutes the tide rushing into the bay would be far enough up the beach to cut off their way back. Where the hell was protective caveman? Significantly AWOL apparently, whilst pillage-caveman got his rocks off.

Grabbing her wrist, he began to run. ‘Come on, we need to get back to the cliff path. Fast.’ Dragging her along the foaming edge of the sea, staying as far away from the mud cliffs as they could. A second super-charge of adrenalin surged through his limbs now as he hauled her into the headwind across the amphitheatre of the bay. Struggling, bumping, sliding, stumbling over the rocks, soupy water up to their ankles, looking up long enough to pinpoint the place on the cliffs they were heading for, where the diagonal line of the path stretched upwards to safety.

Her dead weight pulled on his arm, and he turned to see her, hair strewn across her mouth, hauling her breath in huge gasps. ‘You go on.’ Her panting words, torn away by the gale, as she bent, groaning, hands on her knees. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

‘No way, we’ll go together.’ Catching her arm again, forging forward. ‘Come on, you can make it – it’s not far now.’

The familiar burn in his limbs. Unaware they’d walked this far, the length of the beach foreshortening, playing tricks, like the stones that were repeating beneath their feet in a continuous unending loop. Brine sticky on his face, his chest bursting as he hauled her on. The sun still glinting on the solid mass of the water beside them. Rocks and wind, wind and rocks, splashing, slithering. And then they were there, and he was heaving her up in front of him, shouldering her backside. With one lunge, he propelled her to the safety of the mud and grass on the cliffside path, and scrambled after her.




Chapter 8 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


‘Is my head too heavy?’

Bryony was lying on the ragged grass on the cliff top, limbs in a heap, staring at the sky, which, incidentally, was broad as any she’d seen lately. The heat of Jackson’s chest was solid against her skull as she watched the cloud wisps and waited to get her wild jiving heartbeats back into line.

‘Your hair’s tangling in my stubble again. Does it hurt?’ His gruff tones reverberated through his ribs.

Hair caught in a guy’s stubble? OMG. How far off-limits was she?

‘Nope’

And how darned okay it was. It was almost as if neither of them had wanted to break the moment by speaking, and then it had slipped into minutes and then a whole lot longer. The wind rushed over her ears, pushing the smell of damp ground up her nose and coating her lips with salt. She tried not to think how easy this felt, how she didn’t want to move ever again.

‘Here, have this, I picked it up on the beach before.’ He shifted under her, pushed a small stone into the palm of her hand. ‘It’s a fossil, an ammonite. So you remember today. ’

As if she’d ever forget it.

‘Thanks.’ She ran her index finger around the curl of the spiral. Still warm from the ride in his pocket. ‘How old is it?’

‘Possibly two hundred million years. Sorry, they don’t make them any newer.’

A fossil from womanising Jackson Gale. Who’d have thought?

‘It’s perfect. Thanks.’

And then there was the tiny matter of that major snog down on the beach. Talking of perfect. Was that really her back there? Diving down his throat and loving it?

She shuddered at the thought of what he’d been doing to her nipples, shut her eyes and shook her head, just to check she was here. In person. Five minutes of ecstasy, then Jackson went on to save her life. Maybe the biography hadn’t been exaggerating about his multi-faceted talents in all areas. Let’s face it; some guys had it all.

Beneath her head his chest heaved in a comfortable sigh. ‘Almost drowning kind of cements you together. Like we’re lying under this sun as it slides down and, not wanting to be melodramatic, but it could have been the last sunset we saw.’ His voice was gravelly, as one thumb grazed across the back of her hand and brought out the goosebumps in places she couldn’t imagine. ‘We might just have become a lost-at-sea statistic. When you get your breath back, we need to go and do something spectacular to celebrate.’

Interesting… what might that be exactly. This guy had charm by the shedload, and it was mighty hard to resist. You only have to say ‘no’. One tiny word. Wasn’t that what she’d told him? Whatever, she needed to make herself clear here.

‘Back on the beach, the last thing I remember talking about was your one-track mind. I’m hoping we haven’t gone there again.’ She dragged in a breath, hating her sensible-self just for a moment. ‘But, on the upside, a man who saves you from getting swept out to sea and then gives you a fossil has to be worth getting to know a little bit more. Possibly.’ Grinning upwards, catching a glimpse of his chin. Capitulating, slightly. ‘Dinner might be nice.’

‘Dinner’s a possibility.’ He grinned back down at her, his teeth up close just as even and spectacular as her tongue already told her. ‘Why don’t we take it as it comes?’ Bringing out those to-die-for wrinkles in his cheeks, he sent her on-the-ground stomach down to the basement.

‘And to think, back there I was taking the flak for making people do what I want.’ Laughing now, she gave him a soft poke in the ribs. ‘It takes a manipulator to know a manipulator, wouldn’t you agree?’

Easing her upwards, he got to his feet. ‘I prefer to think of it as my incurable desire to win.’

Letting her gaze meander up the whole of his beautiful body, she locked him in a dead-eye gaze, lifting an eyebrow. Important to keep the man who knew he was best at everything in line, despite the fact that her head was whirling. Especially because her head was whirling.

He offered her a hand, ‘C’mon then, Cherry Bomb, let’s go.’ One yank, and she flew to her feet. ‘We’ll get you into some dry clothes.’

More crazy talking that flipped her stomach into a triple somersault. Where the hell had her ‘professional’ gone when she needed it? And definitely not reacting to the clothes comment. Apart from with her racing pulse, obviously. Winning? Manipulating? Hot sex?

Whatever.

After a near-death experience anything was excusable.

She only had to say ‘No’.




Chapter 9 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


‘Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. Made out of Swedish pinewood. It’s a no-brainer. The TV company’s paying, so strictly it’s your place more than mine.’

So that was how Jackson had talked her into the log cabin, which apparently wasn’t his at all anymore. Nice work. Thoughtfully, after this afternoon’s near disaster, he’d omitted all mention of sea views from the list of facilities on offer. Add smooth talking and persuasive argument to his ever-growing list of attributes, and, no question, the guy was a killer opponent. Wheedling his way further into her good books, he propelled her straight in the direction of the en-suite with the spa bath and told her he’d be happy not to see her for the next hour or two, and inadvertently picked up more points when he didn’t offer to throw in a personal massage service. Although, mentioning that thereafter the dress-code was relaxed. Bathrobes would do.

Nice try, Jackson. Dream on.

Pulling on some sweat pants and a slouchy top now, definitely the least sexy of the clothes she had here, she berated herself for only having thongs in her overnight bag. Somehow granny pants would have made her feel better equipped for the challenge ahead, because, regardless of what went on down on the beach, no matter how spectacular that kiss, now that she was back on the cliff top, her land-legs had taken over again – along with her common sense. So much easier to take refuge in the familiar persona of Bryony Marshall, workaholic man-avoider.

‘How’re the aching muscles?’ Jackson was sprawled across the large corner sofa, entirely relaxed, half buried under a confusion of Sunday papers, as she emerged into the open-plan living area.

‘Good.’ Perching on the edge of the coffee table, she flashed him a smile. ‘Considering what they’ve been through.’

Unnervingly, she felt as if she’d walked into her all-time favourite daydream. The one where she came down to Sunday breakfast to find her forever-fantasy-man sitting waiting for her… in their house… because they were married. Just this was the wrong man.

And yesterday the real man of her dreams had married someone else. Not that he’d ever noticed her, all the years she’d known him, even though he was her fallback man. Fall-back man? Who was she kidding? Matt had been her number-one choice, dammit, since she’d set eyes on him at the age of fourteen. Although close friends who knew her secret maintained he was nothing more than a vessel to place her affections in until the real guy came along, as and when she started to look for him, which she knew would be never. Good friend’s brothers? Whoever said you were onto a loser with them was right. Gutting, all the same.

‘You okay?’ Jackson was scrutinising her through narrowed eyes. ‘You look like someone walked on your grave?’

Maybe they just did. Who the hell said men couldn’t be perceptive?

‘Fine.’ Lying through her teeth, for all the right reasons. She’d promised herself not to think about Matt, if not ever again, at least for this weekend. Although, strangely, that kiss on the beach had done a great job of dispatching all thoughts of him and his wedding tux, and his lovely new wife Tia, who, judging by the Facebook pics, was tiny and impossibly beautiful. But, thanks to the beach snog, there was a different man in her head now, which made a change, and he was occupying all of it. But something told her that wasn’t healthy either.

‘May seem better after a drink?’ Jackson dipped into to an ice bucket on the table beside him, and pulled out a bottle. ‘Sparkling white, the best way to smooth the race pains away, and I’ve started without you. Unless you’d prefer something else? Plenty of everything in the kitchen.’

‘Sparkling white’s cool.’ Chilled. Like he was. ‘Only a glass, though.’

He filled two glasses and handed her one. Funny how Jackson in the flesh was a hundred times more mesmerising than Matt had ever been, even though she’d spent the best part of ten years being hooked on him from afar. Although being here with Jackson didn’t exactly feel real either, it was unusual enough to make her shivery in a dangerous kind of way. There was something compelling about the strangeness of the situation. She took a sip of wine, hoping the bubbles that spiked her nose would make it seem more concrete.

‘Cutting back on the alcohol? I thought we were meant to be celebrating.’ Jackson, totally edible in his slouch pants and white tee, smouldering like he was about to devour her.

And her central nervous system on crazy-time, making her whole body buzz every time his gaze traversed her boobs – which seemed to be a lot. Add in that the air felt like it had an electric charge, and she was in weird-city. He had to be mocking her as he studied her through narrowed eyes.

‘One drink, and after that, I really should get going.’ Doing a complete U-turn on what she’d implied earlier, but on reflection a whole night in the same cabin with Jackson and she couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t jump the guy and grind his bones to dust, however well-disciplined her good-girl act was.

‘Going to where exactly?’ His brow wrinkled into a frown. ‘I thought we’d agreed you’d stay here? The two room guarantee and all that?’ He tilted his head in query.

‘You agreed. I didn’t.’

One sniff, and he was onto her.

‘I get it. Polar-bear feet. I can feel the ice from here.’ He rubbed his chin, and slid her a sly grin. ‘And talking of cold, I’m guessing a girl whose mother has given up all hope of a son-in-law is maybe a little out of practice on the one-to-one social front, which might explain why you’re feeling jittery, but there’s no need to be scared or run out on me. I’ve got quite enough experience for both of us, as you pointed out. Charm skills are the upside of having played the field.’

His grin split into a laugh. Bad move, because that exposed the column of his neck, and the hollow at the base, which made her toes go all wiggly. Oh my. Rumbled completely, by the guy with the confidence in bucket-loads. And second-guessing her like he really was a mind reader. Except he’d missed the bit about her not being able to keep her hands off him, or maybe he took that as a given, which would be where all that confidence came from.

‘Super-sure of yourself aren’t you?’ She found herself laughing too. ‘Like I said this afternoon.’

Leaning back on the sofa, he held both hands in the air.

‘Okay, I get the message. Whatever you think, I’m not the cavemen you’ve got me down for. You have my word – I won’t touch you. No action replays of what went down on the beach, I promise, if that’s what it takes to make you comfortable. You come and sit on the sofa.’ He jumped to his feet, steering her across the room, being extra careful to keep outside her personal-space zone. ‘I’ll grab the phone and we’ll order some dinner, watch a movie. You have a look to see what’s on.’ He shot her another wicked smile. ‘I’m exceptionally house-trained, I’ll even let you hold the controls.’ With a final satisfied grin, he flipped the TV controller in her direction, headed for the doorway to the kitchen, and disappeared.

Bemused, Bryony leaned to pick up the controller, dazed like an express train had just ran over her. What a man. Full-on didn’t begin to cover it.

‘Oh, and just to be clear…’ his head reappeared around the door frame. ‘I know you were just as turned on by that kiss as I was.’

Hanging in the air long enough to register her mouth drop open and hear the gulp that came when her heart leaped into fast-forward.

What?

All gravelly voice and hollow cheeks and stubble.Gone before she gathered her senses enough to reply. Rolling her eyes, snorting at the barefaced cheek of the man. Except he’d got it righter than she’d ever admit. Even to herself.

‘And another thing…’

Back again, dammit. But this time she was ready.

‘This had better be good.’ She hit back with the don’t-mess-with-me offensive, growled through gritted teeth. Always worked a treat on sound technicians who took the piss.

‘Don’t worry, it is.’ He posted a beyond-satisfied smirk around the doorframe, tapped his fingers, playing for time and maximum impact. ‘As I recall, you were the one who suggested dinner, so technically you’re the one who asked me on this date. Thought it was worth a mention.’

Worth a mention? Worthy of a full-blown eye roll more like. Nothing else. Except a very weary sigh.

‘Have you finished?’ Firm, in control here, and letting him know it.

‘Yes. Er, no, actually. Not yet.’ And judging by the hesitation he was backing into line. Nicely.

‘What now?’ Exasperated was a definite put-down. Not that she meant to be nasty, but this guy took some handling. She couldn’t afford to let him get one-over on her.

‘I found the room service menu if you’d like to come and choose.’

Okay. Easy as. He just did.

#lookingstupid or what?




Chapter 10 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


Dinner. Steak, chips and salad, on lap trays in front of the TV, with Jackson foregoing the chips. High-fat, bad carbs apparently. A body like a superman obviously didn’t happen without a measure of deprivation and care. Enough fizzy wine to live up to its name, but not put her under the table. And two hours rolling around, howling with laughter, watching Despicable Me on DVD, which Jackson conjured from his room. Who’d have thought?

‘Cartoon collection, never travel without it. Think yourself lucky I didn’t make you sit through Happy Feet.’

She guessed that was his way of excusing himself for inflicting her with his childlike taste, not that she’d minded a Disneyfest at all. She could imagine, now she knew him better. Pin-up hottie of the century, morphed into one big kid. And trying not to think how engaging that was, and conveniently easy, as laughter diffused the sexual tension which crackled across the gap between them. Took her mind off the heat of the man, who’d moved next to her on the sofa, stretching those long sexy legs of his to rest tantalisingly on the coffee table. Making a deal with herself: Look but don’t touch.

Made sure she didn’t admit that after tonight Despicable Me had zoomed onto her list of favourite movies too, or give him the opportunity to seize on the fact they found the same things hilarious. It was important to play down how comfy she was in his company – give this guy any nugget he could vaguely interpret as a compliment, and he would be in danger of getting stuck in the building, given that his head would be too swollen to get through the door. His self-belief was not in short supply. Honing in now on his languid profile as he leaned by the open door to the terrace. Cressy would be disgusted at her for what she was throwing way. Sex on legs, think of it as a gift. Maybe she’d regret it too, tomorrow.

‘So how did you get into cycling?’ Suddenly reluctant for the evening to finish, she threw Jackson a carefully chosen, open-ended question.

‘I’ve been at it for as long as I remember. When we showed some promise as lads, our dad seized on that, more for himself than for us. He got his kicks from our success, and he drove us pretty relentlessly.’ He gave a pensive shrug. ‘My old man’s a bit of a fucked-up guy, I’m afraid.’

She assumed that last excuse had to be in response to her appalled expression. ‘But didn’t it make you want to rebel?’

Was a dad who was fucked-up and alive better or worse than one like hers, who’d broken her heart when he left, then died?

‘My dad’s regime didn’t allow questions, let alone rebellion. His methods were harsh, but I guess we came through in the end. By the time we were old enough to stand up to him, we were hooked on winning. Signing up to a pro team was the fast way out, and I went when I was eighteen. Other young riders found the team life a shock, with the hard training, the discipline and being away from home, but for me it was like a holiday camp after my dad.’

‘It all sounds rough.’ Poor Jackson. Who’d have thought he’d had such a bad time. It made what she’d always thought of as her own raw deal seem easy.

‘It toughened me up, made me what I am, and to be honest I don’t often talk about it.’ He gave a sigh and moved towards the open French doors. ‘Coming out to see the moonshine on the sea?’ A casual invitation, flipped over his shoulder as he sidled out, moving the conversation to somewhere safer for him, but less safe for her.

What a corny line! But innocuous all the same. They were both adults here; they both knew the score. Any moves that were going to happen would have been made hours ago. Since she laid down the unspoken rules, he’d backed right off, and now she’d got her own rampant woman back in the box, she was well out of the danger zone. Easing herself off the sofa, she padded across the polished boards. One last glimpse of the clouds scudding across the night sky before she went to bed slotted neatly into the low-risk category. Good-girl Bryony could manage that.

‘It’s breezy out here.’ Keeping it light, the wind snatching her hair as she stepped into the small courtyard. ‘And so bright. Amazing how the moon splashes across the water.’ She moved across to where Jackson was leaning on the waist-high wall, scanning the horizon, t-shirt flapping.

‘Hey, look.’ She stooped to examine something moving on the ground at the edge of the planted area. ‘I thought it was a leaf, but it’s a frog.’

Two seconds, and Jackson was crouching beside her, hunky shoulder uncomfortably close to her cheek, extending a finger towards the ground. ‘Ahhh, it’s a toad.’

Trust Mr. Know-it-all.

‘There’s a difference?’

‘Toads have more warty skin – and they don’t hop, they crawl, although technically they’re all frogs.’ He tickled the top of its head gently with a leaf as it moved to take cover under a stone. ‘We used to spend all summer collecting them on holidays in Cornwall when we were kids – when we weren’t cycling that was.’

‘Typical boy.’ Smiling, she gave a shrug, ‘Toad, frog, whatever, he’s pretty.’

Jackson let out a snort. ‘Typical contrarian woman. A frog and a prince to choose between, and you hone in on the damned frog.’

Laughing, she stood up, moving to take a last look at the sea over the wall.

‘Not big-headed at all then, putting yourself in the prince category?’

‘Prince of darkness maybe?’ He raised his eyebrows, voice husky, sending prickles down her spine as he came to stand behind her. Not touching, but close enough for her to breathe in the scent of clean male, to sense the shadow of his warmth on her back. ‘Cold?’ His breath brushing her neck sent a skitter through her body.

‘No.’

So close, she should be legging it. Except her legs were frozen, and nothing to do with the temperature. If she dragged her arms tight around her ribs she might get the juddering under control.

‘Your teeth are chattering.’ Not much of a warning from him, but the only one she got. Then the breath left her body as he folded his arms around her. ‘I’ll warm you up.’

Noooooooooooo. Bracing herself to protest. Too late.

Or, how about yes? The sensuous slide of skin on skin as his muscled arms closed over hers… Reason flew out the window, and lust won hands down. She leaned into him, and as his lips traced an exploratory path below her ear, a silver avalanche began at her scalp, and tumbled over every inch of her skin to her toes.

‘Jackson.’ Standing rigid, she braced herself against the onslaught. Delicious, compelling. Wanting this frozen moment to last forever. And then his hands were strong on her shoulders, as he spun her to face him. One graze of stubble on her upper-lip and his mouth landed on hers like a heat-seeking missile, turning her legs to molten syrup with the taste of him. She sagged against him as he whipped the oxygen out of her. Sweet. Achingly sweet. Peaches and cream, raspberry cupcakes, white-chocolate cheesecake. Feeding her the sugar-rush of her life, all wrapped up with the power of pure, unadulterated man.

The out-of-control brunt of his erection crushing up against her stomach, making the need pool between her legs. The aching pleasure of those strong male fingers as he slid his hand inside her top, and scraped his nails across her back. Dying as he moved around the front and teased a nail across her breast, then pulling down her bra cup, still kissing her as if his life depended on it, groaning his pleasure deep into her throat. Her knees sinking as he toyed with her nipple. Then, with his hand on her back, her bra clip twanged, and she gasped for air as he broke from the kiss. One yank and her t-shirt was up. She gave a small cry as his mouth landed on her nipple, shooting sharp judders of pleasure through her as his tongue tangled, sucking and circling, sending her cross-eyed, as his fingers deftly worked her other side.

‘O my.’ Back against the wall, lifting her leg, locking it over his hip, so she could thrust her pelvis and grind the heart of her pulsing wetness against the throbbing head of his erection. Meeting its heat through the fabric, every nudge forging a rocket of desire deep into her core. Searching, sliding her hand down the rock-hard muscle of his stomach, past the edge of his slouch pants, hearing him moan again as her hand closed around the length of his shaft.

Hot skin. Grappling with the elastic, tugging down his pants, and the dusky smell of male rising as she freed him. Closing her hand around his length, sliding up and down the hugeness of it, panting, aching for the whole beautiful rock-hard length of it.

‘Can’t wait.’ Her mumbling was urgent. ‘I need you. Now.’

Jackson, bleary, lifting his head. ‘Here? Sure?’

Running her hand over the slippery arc, finding the tip, already sticky, a primeval force within her driving her to take what she had to have. ‘Now Jackson.’

With one lift he’d swung her hips round to rest on the terrace table, a tug and he’d whipped down her sweat pants, flung her thong to who knows where.

‘Protection.’ A grunt, a fumble in his pocket, then he’d ripped the foil and rolled on, torn off his tee.

Bending her knees up, leaning back, feeling her eyes widen as she took in the size of him. Muscles shining in the shadows, and the massive thrust of his erection reaching for the sky.

Slick and wet and desperate to suck him inside her. He waited, just a second, a smile playing around his lips as he registered the ache in her. She lay back, shuddering, knowing that one touch was going to send her to heaven. Then she felt the glorious nudge of the tip of him. An inch was all it took. Pulsing on her, rocking into her, pushing her over the cliff edge, and she exploded around him, her whole body erupting in a volcano, pleasure throbbing and resonating through her.

Heart banging, dragging in her breath, and he was still, poised, shuddering a little, waiting.

‘Hey…easy there…’ His lips curled into a soft smile as he breathed into her ear. ‘If that was anything like as awesome for you as it was for me…’

Leaning forward, burying her fingers in the muscle of his buttocks, she pulled him towards her, her first storm over, but knowing she wasn’t done. The heat rising again inside her as she opened and he pushed into her. Slowly, screamingly slowly at first, then pulling back, teasing her, tangling with her, pushing and pulling as she gulped through the glorious agony of it. Then halfway in he stopped, cupped a breast in each hand and scraped his nails across her nipples. Scraping until she thought he was going to drive her crazy. Just at the point where she was sure she was going to go wild, he thrust deeper into her. One slide, and she had the whole damned length of him, no idea how she was going to breathe, no idea how she was going to exist. Then as he began to move, faster, faster, suddenly she knew she was going to go again, not able to help herself, throwing herself back, lying, arching herself to the sky, as he impaled her over and over again, driving her on. Then, suddenly, above her the sky split open, and as her climax erupted; her whole world disintegrated. Clamping onto him, and through her choking gasps, she felt the final thrust of his ejaculation, heard the howl of his orgasmic groan as he collapsed on top of her.




Chapter 11 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


‘What are you doing?’

Stuffing the last crumbs of a muffin into her mouth, knees up, feet on the sofa, Bryony looked up from her phone in response to Jackson’s question.

‘Tweeting. Why? I always tweet before bed, if I don’t my friends will wonder what’s happened.’ Her defensive tone was no doubt a reaction to his eyebrows hitting the ceiling at that piece of news. ‘And answering the text from my brother, who expends way too much energy trying to make sure I don’t spend evenings like this with guys like you.’

Jackson grimaced. ‘That’s a bit crap. So what are you putting in your tweet?’ He stifled a grin. ‘Just had crazy terrace-sex with guess who? It was well worth the wait by the way. The wild, crazy sex, I mean.’

Not that he’d had a four minute table-ender on a terrace before, though he’d keep that bit to himself. Neither had he encountered anyone who insisted on fast-forward, then came apart twice in as many seconds. Polar bear feet not only coming in from the cold but getting super-heated on the way came as one big surprise – and fast as it was, the orgasm had blasted him out of this world. Wow to that one. Put it down to the sexual desert of the previous year.

‘Fab moonlight on the sea hashtag east-coast-joys.’ That’ll cover it.’ Looking up, she sent a flash of a smile over the top of her phone. ‘Crazy’s one way of describing it. I couldn’t help noticing you had a condom at the ready out there.’

Nice tweet, then straight onto him. Nothing he wasn’t prepared for though. Apology at the ready.

‘Old habits. Nothing to do with my expectations about tonight, I promise.’ Added hurriedly, in the vain hope she’d buy the truth, even if it did sound unlikely. ‘With guys in cycling, carrying condoms is one way you look out for each other. That way no one’s ever disappointed, and everyone stays healthy.’

‘Hmmmm. Sounding a lot like an ad for an STD charity there. I believe you, thousands wouldn’t.’ She tapped her phone on her lip, thoughtfully. ‘It was crazy, wasn’t it? Why was it so wild?’

Good question. He’d never had sex that feral.

‘No idea.’ Shrugging, feigning ignorance, because he had an idea the blame lay entirely with her, but no way could he say that. ‘Maybe it was the adrenalin hanging round from the ride or after running to beat the tide on the beach. Who knows? Maybe it’s that basic human survival instinct that kicks in when there’s danger around. The same way people shag like rabbits when there’s a war on, and everyone bonks after funerals.’

‘Like a celebration of being alive, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Maybe you should commemorate your survival by having a muffin. I brought them in from the car. No one should die before they’ve tasted one of these.’ Sucking a finger of one hand, she shoved an open cake box towards him with the other. ‘No arguments, I insist.’

Firm. Bossy. Or just plain domineering? He took a moment to adjust to the railroading.

‘Diets are the norm for a pro-cyclist. You learn to live with the hunger. It’s a way of life that takes a lot of sacrifice.’

‘So for a pro it really is like it says in the books?’

‘Depends on the books you read.’ He jumped at the opportunity to derail her efforts to force feed him, and fill her in on his life instead. God knows, there was so much to say about it he could keep her quiet all evening. ‘You get to travel, you train with the team for months on end in warm places, cycling hundreds of miles a week. It’s usually somewhere in the mountain. Think hairpin bends and zigzag roads, heat beating off the tarmac, deep blue skies, Italy, France, Spain, Portugal or somewhere. You race with the team on races that last weeks at a time, and then when it’s winter you do it all over again in the southern hemisphere. Your body is in an extreme and heightened state of fitness, you’re at risk of injury from crashes every day of your life, your whole life is carefully controlled, from pretty much every calorie you eat to how long you sleep, and the more successful you get, the more the control. The team thing is incredible. Sometimes you’re working for guys in the team, sometimes they’re working for you, you’re supporting each other, but at the same time it’s hugely competitive. If you’re successful, the pay is phenomenal, it’s the roughest, toughest thing in the world to do, some days you love it, some you hate it, but the adrenalin rushes and the endorphin highs are totally addictive, so you never want to stop. And with all that at stake does it sound like I’d reach for the cookie jar?’

The life of a pro-cyclist in a nutshell. Missing out the bit about adoring women hurling themselves at him, obviously. And how much he’d missed it all since he’d been away from it since the accident. And how he didn’t know what the hell he was going to replace it with if his damned knee didn’t get the thumbs up from the surgeons and the physios soon. And what the crap he was going to do if the unthinkable happened and he had to give up. Given her gaping mouth, opening and closing, it had surely stopped her in her tracks. Hadn’t it?

‘Calorie-wise you have to have earned it today.’ She shot him a wicked grin. ‘One way or another. Can’t the Prince of Darkness come over to the nutritional dark side just this once?’

Seemed like she was unstoppable. Nice reference to half an hour ago when his claim to be the Prince of Darkness had got him straight into her pants. After a whole lifetime of deprivation one way and another, suddenly the novelty of submitting overcame his natural instinct to refuse.

‘Go on then.’ He plucked a muffin from the box, threw himself down on the sofa beside her. ‘On one condition.’

‘Which is?’

Loving the way her eyes, narrowing in suspicion, sent an unexpected shiver whistling down his spine as he slowly teased the paper away from the cake.

‘You come to the dark side again too, when I’ve finished this.’ Stretching across, he slid a finger under her top, traced a line across her side under the elastic of her waistband. Felt her squirm against him. Running his finger over the bumps of her ribs, slipping over the silky cup of her bra. A rush of blood hit his groin as he found her nipple already quivering on high alert. Sinking his teeth deep into the muffin, he let the raspberry sweetness zing his taste buds.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’

The sugar-high hit him instantaneously, sent his pulse into overdrive, and his erection too – although that was already well established. No one could be immune, sitting next to nipples like those. Her workplace must have more hard-ons per square foot than most. Pity any red-blooded male who had to spend their days being tantalised by that view. And this time sex was going to be different. Long, and very slow.

Easing to his feet, he grasped her hand, spun her a smile. ‘Coming?’

‘Where?’ The tension in her hand flashed up her resistance.

‘I thought we might take advantage of the king-size bed?’

Or maybe not, judging from her appalled frown.

‘Definitely not bed.’

Jumpy as hell then, and massive back-pedalling called for.

‘Fine by me.’ He let out a mental whistle of relief for the fact she hadn’t ruled out the sex. ‘You know what? I’m going to sit right on here, and we’ll take it from there, okay? Anything goes, apart from bed.’

Easing down next to her. No sudden movements in case she ran. Happy to play it her way. Raising his arms, he stretched back on the sofa, feeling her gaze already locked onto the bulge of his erection. Leaving it up to her, the bang of his heart reverberating through the sofa. Waiting. Knowing, from the dark dilation of her pupils behind her faltering eyelashes, she wouldn’t be resisting for long.

Too right.

One hand, inching across the sofa, winding under his t-shirt, sending his pulse rate off the scale in anticipation. One finger, achingly slow, tracing the line of hair down from his navel. Then the full-blown twang of her palm hitting his shaft, almost making him lift off.

Shifting a little, he snatched his breath at the agonising pleasure hit.

‘All ready then…’ More of a statement than a question, her voice all husky now.

His mouth was dry with anticipation. ‘Whenever you are…’

His fingertips closed on the condom in his pocket. Taking his mind off the excruciating wait. Thinking slow, thinking moody, thinking maybe they should lower the lights to go with the smoulder.

So wrong.

Wham. One leap, she jumped to standing. A bob, and a kick, her joggers hit the coffee table, and he was staring at thighs, lush, tanned, taut. And the teensiest triangle of a thong. Midnight-blue silk. Made his mouth water. Those perfect russet nails feathering on the hem of her top. He swallowed. Bit his lip to stop himself grabbing hold of her, dragged in a breath to get control. Wham again.

One twist, and she was out of her top. Aware of his jaw hitting the floor as he locked onto her breasts, bursting over the silky balcony of her bra cups. He closed his sweating fingers around the edge of the sofa cushions, preparing for the white-knuckle ride of his life.

She flicked her hair out of her eyes, accidentally brushing his knee as she strode across him, to plant one leg either side of his calves. The deepening of her cleavage cranked his already bursting erection up another notch, as she bent to grasp his slouch pants. One excruciating tug from her, he was kicking his pants away and free to rise. His sudden view of the incredible size of what he had to offer knocked his arousal further into orbit.

‘Oh, my.’ Her breathy gasp of appreciation was low against the roaring of his blood through his ears.

Bryony, fist covering the sensuous pucker of her mouth, chest heaving, hesitated. Legs wide, eyes bleary, no doubt working on her next move. Shifting his pelvis, he tightened his grip on the cushions. Dying to touch her, exploding for her to touch him, he watched the hairs escaping where the thong cut into the delicious crease between her legs. Counting to ten. He got as far as eight. In one fluid movement she whipped off her thong, and snapped it around the end of him. Heaven. Sliding, teasing, tugging. Aching amazing heaven.

‘Stop.’ Releasing his fingers, he grasped her wrist.

‘Not good?

He shook his head. ‘Too good, too much.’ Stone chips in his throat. ‘I won’t last if you do that.’

Lasting? That just went out the window. He watched her tongue slide over her lips.

‘You could try sitting on me?’ Just an idea, he tossed out.

‘Maybe I will.’ The trembling of her torso the only giveaway that she wasn’t completely in control.

Climbing onto the sofa, placing one foot either side of him, the scent of hot sex engulfing him as she lowered herself to crouch over him. Natural blonde too. His stomach gyrated as her legs opened.

One moment to sheathe himself, then reaching up, he slipped her bra cups down, to leave her breasts jutting gloriously above his head.

‘Hands away!’ Shooting him a blurry half-smile, she pushed his wrist, pinned his hand back onto the sofa. ‘No touching. It’s more fun. Just this once.’

Not even minding she was bossing him around, as she nudged down onto the tip of him. One high-voltage zap. Wet, slick, sticky. Plunging deep, he groaned, as she impaled herself on his length. Then, as she dipped forward, her breast grazed his cheek. Opening his mouth, he captured the nipple she offered. Clamped it between his lips, ravaging with his tongue as she weakened against him, mewing. The throb of his penis excruciating as her muscles clamped onto him. Gently placing a hand each side of her hips to slide her up and down the tower of his erection.

Slowly at first. Aching to hang on here, vibrating to burst into her. Then building as she took over. Riding him, tearing at his shoulders, pounding as she thrashed above him, moaning as she writhed. Grinding him, milking him, extracting her pleasure, her eyes half closed, her half-smile merged onto a moan that sent him into orbit.

‘Coming…’

One sharp cry as she rose, threw back her head, and screwed her pelvis hard down on him. The view of her breasts jutting above him, disintegrated as his final thrust came. One huge surge of ecstatic acceleration propelled him, and his world shattered as he shot into her with the force of a tidal wave.




Chapter 12 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


So, there had been a sea change in Scarborough in Bryony’s head, but it was taking some getting used to. The whole cringing memory of losing her virginity was now eclipsed by another. One scorching hot encounter with Jackson Gale. A decade’s worth of sexual pleasure crammed into one crazy night. Her skin came out in white-hot goosebumps whenever she thought about it, not to mention the tender bit between her legs – knickers sticky wet every time she remembered. Knees buckling a bit even now, as she pushed open the door of her flat to hear the landline ring off.

It was good to be back. The creak of the floorboard just inside the door, the single scuff mark on the white wall where Cressy fell over when they were moving the new TV in, were all reassuringly concrete and familiar. Hopefully, she’d left all things Jackson Gale right back in Yorkshire.

She suppressed a shudder.

Crazy was the only word for it.

Bryony Marshall. Getting down and dirty? And oh, how dirty! A one-night stand, with arguably the most arrogant man on the planet. And the most sexually gifted. Sexually gifted? What was she thinking? Still reeling at the shock, obviously, if her brain was throwing up phrases like that.

Eight hours of personality transplant… How else did you explain a night that began with an explosive clinch on a terrace, ended with a sizzling coupling in the shower just before he left, and visited all places ecstasy in between? For a woman who didn’t do dating, it was off the wall. For a woman who rarely had any sex at all, let alone sizzling hot, raw, rip-the-roof-off sex, it was unbelievable. Inexcusable. She shuddered every time yet another graphic image flipped into her brain. Had she really…? Unfortunately, yes. She had. And with every flickering image she was simultaneously horrified, shocked and appalled all over again. Embarrassing didn’t begin to cover it. In fact, nothing much was covered. That was the whole trouble. Lucky then that she hadn’t been working this week because no way would her mind have been on the job.

As it was, a few days visiting girl-friends had provided the space for reflection, even if it did mean she was mentally absent from the catch-up conversation a lot of the time. Frankly, a little jarring too to see mental flashes of a naked Jackson in all his animal glory whilst she moseyed around kitchens, playgroups, and school gates with first Claire, then Cat, then Jess, her three settled best friends, busily absorbed in their happy-ever-afters.

She was always slightly ambivalent about visiting her settled friends. One by one, they’d all got their grown up lives together, leaving her lagging, woefully far behind. She often mused over why this was, wondering if the lack of stability and upheaval in her home life when she was small meant she’d somehow missed out on some vital stage of her development. She always tried to avoid telling people, about the way her dad had left home so abruptly and then died a few years later; and his alcohol problems were something she rarely mentioned even to her closest friends. Although her mum remarried and had more children, somehow her second family never inspired her to build a family unit of her own. The yearning-for-a-baby thing was a different matter altogether – that part of her development was not impaired at all, as she knew to her cost.

Despite the fact that all traces of gloss and adult fun seemed to have disappeared down her friends domestic plug-holes as their homes filled up with offspring, she might have had more than a pang of regret for the cosy domesticity they had and she didn’t, had she not been preoccupied with playbacks of Jackson’s extraordinary assets. The only plus was that she and Jackson hadn’t actually ended up in bed. She’d made damned sure of that. Bed was just too intimate of a place to go. Too dangerous. One night in bed with any guy might set a girl thinking about what she was missing. A night in bed with a guy like Jackson might be enough to blow your mind. Folly, when relationships were right off your personal agenda, and wouldn’t be on there any time soon.

The one saving grace was that it was secret. No one knew. No one was ever going to know. No one that was apart from her and Jackson and she was one-hundred percent confident that he wouldn’t be telling. And she damn well knew she wouldn’t. There was no earthly reason why she’d ever see Jackson again. And she promised herself as of now not to think about him at all, especially not the crinkles in his cheeks when his face cracked into one of those aching smiles. So, that was all good. All over. A week ago now, so it was almost as good as ancient history. She threw her bags down in the bedroom, and began to check her answer phone messages. Six from Brando, filling in the non-urgent gaps between the texts he’d sent. Three bits of news from Edgerton Manor, his place in the Cotswolds, one tip about a work contact at his London company, a warning that their mum was on the lookout for someone to look after her retrievers – and the rest were from Cressy sounding more and more irate with each call. The landline began to ring again the minute she put the phone down.

‘At last. I’ve been desperate for you to come back.’ Cressy, bursting with energy. ‘Did you get the bad boy into bed then?’

Shit, going straight in for the jugular, then. Bryony took a mental deep breath and sprang to her own defense. No way could she afford to let Cressy pounce on a hesitation here.

‘Nope.’ And definitely telling the truth there – sofa, floor, terrace, shower, but definitely not bed.

‘Jackson Gale on a plate and you didn’t end up in the sack with him?’

Bryony held her phone against her shoulder, masking Cressy’s shrieks. ‘I resisted. Like I told you I would.’ Dicing, with that last bit.

Trying not to think about falling asleep on the floor of the cabin, head clamped in the delicious crook of Jackson’s neck, waking to find he’d covered them with a quilt, because she’d promised herself she wasn’t going to go there again, and – way more pertinent – in case Cressy managed to pick up on her daydreaming.

She braced herself for Cressy’s ‘I’m disgusted with how you’ve letting down womankind by passing up a chance like that’ tirade. Surprised a little, when it didn’t roll down the phone.

‘So, lots of great news for you…’ Cressy’s voice was uncharacteristically restrained. ‘You’re going to love it.’

‘Yes?’ Having to wheedle it out of Cressy now. Like Cressy’d had a personality transplant too while Bryony had been away.

‘First, fab news about your interview with Jackson.’

That? She’d almost forgotten about it. Bryony wished her stomach would stop leap-frogging over her shoulder every time Cressy mentioned him. Guilt about the deception making her nervous.

‘That interview was such a mess; talk about newbie falling at the first hurdle. The arrogance of the guy totally rubbed me up the wrong way.’

‘Or the right way, depending who you are.’ What the? Cressy was purring now. ‘You should see it – you’re amazing in front of the camera. Management can’t think why they haven’t put you there before. And the chemistry between you and Jackson is something else.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Nope. It’s fantastic. So fantastic that they want you to do some presenting.’

‘Wow.’ Bryony taking a minute to let that sink in.

‘Presenting’s such a great career hike for you. I wasn’t sure about your plans…’ Cressy, hesitated, then blurted. ‘But I blagged it and told them you’d be available to work right away. I knew you wouldn’t mind?’

So that explained the holding back.

‘You know me, I don’t exactly have a lot of plans to ruin.’ Sad or what? Whatever happened to the world tour she hadn’t had the enthusiasm to book? When she was doing eighteen-hour days working on a reality show, a month off when she finished had sounded like bliss, but now it was here she didn’t know what to do with herself. Other than a bit of tweaking around her flat, the three weeks Bryony had scheduled as free time were looking horribly empty. As for presenting, Cressy was right that it would be fab for her career.

‘Phew. It’s great to hear that.’ Down the phone, she heard Cressy exhaling with relief. ‘You’ve no idea how hard we’ve worked this last week to pull this thing together. It’s the mega-coup Sporting Chances has been trying to line up for ages.’

‘Sorry, what thing’s this?’ Cressy was losing her now.

‘Nabbing Jackson Gale.’

Jackson?

Eeeek. Jaw on the floor. Trying not to hyperventilate.

‘What’s he got to do with this?’ Bryony’s stomach had given up leaping, and was on its way, slowly, but surely, to somewhere around her ankles.

‘He’s been so difficult to pin down. Then, on Tuesday, his management rang and agreed that in addition to us following his return to racing, Jackson would film a feature ride for every programme in the series from different places. It’s phenomenal – that guy is such a star.’

‘Sorry to sound dense, but where do I come in?’

Was that Cressy sucking in a huge breath? As if she were bracing herself?

‘Seems it’s his manager, Dan’s idea. He wants Jackson to do tandem rides, and Dan’s insisting it’s you on the back. And Dan’s rock-solid firm that he wants you to do the research with Jackson too. It’s the only way they’ll consider it.’ As Cressy’s words tumbled out, Bryony’s brain began to spin.

‘What?’ That would explain the huge intake of breath on Cressy’s part, and her own involuntary shriek.

‘Chill, babe. It’s cool. You don’t need to start until next week. It’s all sorted, you’ll have a ball. He’s got a camper van lined up and everything.’

Bryony gulped. ‘A camper van…?’ Heart thumping. Hands clammy. Adrenalin coursing through her system, her body instinctively leaping into action, all on its own, on red alert for the Jackson Gale one-man danger zone. Bryony opened and shut her mouth. What could she say? No way could she spill her secret, but no way either could she mosey round the countryside with Jackson blasted Gale. Not after… She’d only survived since that night because she knew she’d never have to face him again.

‘I’m sorry, it’s out of the question.’ Bryony racked her brain for a sensible reason to put forward. Because he’d shagged her senseless and she never wanted to see him again wasn’t going to cut it here. ‘I barely survived the last time. That tandem was terrifying. Plus I’d murder the man for being so cocky.’ Ouch to that word choice and the images it conjured. ‘If he didn’t kill me first that is. He hated me because I wasn’t sporty.’

‘Seems like he’s changed his tune. Big time. You know I’d swap places with you in a heartbeat, but sadly it isn’t me they’re asking for. ’

Bryony jumped in before Cressy could begin to speculate further.

‘I’m happy to try some stuff in front of the camera.’ Bryony desperately trying to appease Cressy here. ‘I just don’t think I can work with Gale.’

When Bryony held her ground firmly enough, Cressy knew to back off. It was an unspoken agreement. One more moment of silence, and Bryony knew Cressy would retreat, gracefully, like she always did in their stand-offs. Except this time Cressy wasn’t retreating.

‘Okay, I’ll lay it on the line. It’s important or I wouldn’t be pushing you.’ Cressy, not backing down. What the heck? ‘We need Jackson, Bry. He’ll raise the profile, and pump up the ratings. Without him Sporting Chances is going to struggle, so the whole team is counting on you here.’

No pressure there, then?

‘What’s in it for Gale?’

‘Cash, and the exposure will be good for him too. The company will pay for a name like his and I think his manager liked what he saw of the two of you on the rushes.’

‘What? He saw the film of the interview?’ And she’d thought it couldn’t be any worse.

‘One of his conditions – he vets every scrap of film we take. But I guess he saw how great you were together, and realised it wouldn’t harm Jackson’s profile to grab some of that. There was something about the two of you on screen, Bry. Talk about sparks. Believe me, you two sizzled, the public will lap it up. It’s a no-brainer. Gale’s man is astute, and he’s onto it.’

‘Give me a day to think about it?’

As if twenty-four hours would make any difference.

‘Pleeeeeeeease, Bry. Do it for me. It’s my first big programme – I’d hate to lose it. You can’t leave me hanging, say “yes” now.’

Emotional blackmail wasn’t Cressy’s style. Nor was begging. This had to be important.

‘You might like Jackson better when you see more of him…’ Cressy hesitated. No idea how deeply she was putting her foot in things. As she began again her voice deepened with concern. ‘He didn’t push you to do anything you didn’t want to, did he?’

Oh, no. Everything she’d done was with complete, unencumbered abandon, a hundred percent willingly. Her choice all the way. Hey, she might even have been the one doing the asking, and, what’s more, she’d wanted everything he had to give. No doubts there. Shivers zipping up her spine at that thought. Strange that afterwards she hadn’t been able to work out who pushed who, who instigated what. Details lost in the sex-fuelled heat haze, all definitely on the understanding that it was a once-in-a-lifetime blowout. So, right now she had to man up, put it behind her, and stop being such a drama-queen about it. But how the hell could she face the guy again after that?

‘Bry? What happened with Gale that you can’t work with him?’

Cressy’s insistent tone dragged her back to reality. Her London flat, polished and pimped to within an inch of its life. An excess of styled perfection and interest. Vintage pieces, perfectly amassed to look like they had happened by accident, because that’s all she had to do outside of work. Maybe that was why she was making such an issue out of what was technically one night of lust, which was definitely over and done.

‘Bry, I won’t give in ’til you tell me.’ Cressy with her terrier-with-a-bone voice? There was only one sure way to shut Cressy up.

‘Okay. You win. I’ll work with Jackson.’

Knowing, as she said it, she was letting herself in for the nightmare of her life. Just not knowing how to avert it.

Lord knows how she was going to pull this off.




Chapter 13 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)


‘So, Jackson…’

Jackson braced himself. Two weeks since he’d seen Bryony. That final image of her, eyes closed, face upturned to the shower jets, rivulets of water flooding down her curves, as he’d pulled out of her to run off to his early meeting, had been burned onto his retinas ever since. And now she was here, in the flesh, those long, delectable thighs he’d dreamed about incessantly pushing taut against the denim of her jeans. Playing havoc with his peripheral vision as she crossed one high-heeled foot across the other in the front seat of his camper van. And given the determined jut of her chin, poised to give him a hard time. Of entirely the wrong sort.

‘Bryony…?’ Catching the five hundred-watt publicity smile she flashed at him, he made sure he returned it twofold. No idea how the hell a guy was expected to drive from London to Brighton next to distraction like that, and cursing Dan a) for having the idea in the first place, and b) for forcing him to go through with it. So well-meaning Dan, with all his good ideas and flair for grabbing opportunities by the balls, had somehow decided that he should come along on this trip rather than heading back to the team, arguing that it would be great to capitalise on any opening in TV. Jackson suspected it was as much about keeping him occupied, whilst his injuries healed further, but Dan wasn’t coming clean on that one. And Dan also knew that as much as Jackson was protesting about having Ms Dominatrix come along for the ride, he wouldn’t have entertained taking anyone else. This was both the up side and the down side of having his best mate working on your management team – Dan knew Jackson almost as well as he knew himself, or sometimes even more scarily, he seemed to know him better than he knew himself. It wasn’t that Jackson minded the idea of being close to Bryony’s scorching body, which, if he was honest, had been playing on his mind a lot the last couple of weeks. Pretty much non-stop since that night of white hot meltdown, in fact. But the down side was, that from what he’d seen in Scarborough, Bryony might be physically and sexually delectable, but she was also hell bent on doing things her way. He’d had enough of doing as he was told, and bending to his dad’s will when he was a kid. He forced himself to work within the team discipline simply because it was a means to an end. But no way was he, as an adult, being ordered around by some jumped up TV woman. Call her strong-willed, call her spoiled, call her driven and talented – however you looked at it, she would be a pain in the arse to spend two weeks working with. Make that two weeks of non-stop contact in a camper van, and he’d be vapourising on all fronts.

‘A few things we need to get straight before we set off.’ Her tone couldn’t have been any more snippy or bossy.

Which underlined his point entirely.

That tone backed up every howling protest he’d made to Dan about this trip, but it was too late now, dammit. Although, given they were already well on their way, this put him at an immediate advantage. Anyone who took the best part of an hour stuck in traffic to get around to making their point was not half as sure of themselves as they were pretending.

‘Namely?’ He smoothed her a compliant smile.

‘You need to know I don’t mix work and pleasure.’

Taking every illicit fantasy he’d had in the last two weeks and stamping on it. Firmly. Trying to ignore that his stomach had hit the road with immediate disappointment. How had he expected anything different?

‘Fine by me.’ He reined in an escaping grin. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to do both at the same time.’

Beyond her fingers rearranging all that shiny hair on top of her head, he caught an OMG eye-roll.

‘The point I’m making is I’m not here to provide sex on tap.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘That’s definitely not what this trip’s about.’

‘Did I say it was?’ No harm in playing innocent here, but he wasn’t going to let on that he was only here because Dan had held a metaphorical gun to his head.

‘So why did you insist on bringing me then? Surely there was someone else? Anyone.’

And Jackson definitely wasn’t about to tell her how annoyed he was that he was having to come at all.

‘Maybe because we share the same taste in cartoons.’ That, she was not expecting, judging by her jumping eyebrows. He flashed her a triumphant grin. ‘You’ve no idea how the cycling roomies complain when I ask them to sit through Happy Feet. You, on the other hand, seemed more than pleased to watch it if I remember rightly.’ Naked on the sofa at one a.m., recovering between bouts. He’d been very appreciative at the time. ‘Stuff like that counts for a lot when you have to spend time with someone. No point making something difficult when it can be easy.’





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