High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

by Jane Linfoot

  ‘You don’t have the monopoly on good ideas. Other people have them too.’ It was true. And learning to listen to other people would be no bad lesson for her to learn.

  ‘Hey, too much talking. You’re in the wrong lane here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Playing for time. But what the hell, he was the one driving. He was amazed he’d made it this far without detection.

  ‘I’m following the route on my phone, and the hotel I booked is definitely left.’

  Taking his life in his hands here. ‘How about if I tell you I’ve made other arrangements?’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw her tense. He braced himself for the fall-out.

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that, Jackson?’

  A weaker guy would have shrivelled under her searing sideways look. ‘I sorted something better.’

  ‘I don’t believe this! Better for who?’ Her crescendo of complaint bounced off the van roof and ricocheted round the walls. She puffed out her chest as she drew in a breath, presumably preparing for battle.

  ‘You’ll see when we get there, think of it as a surprise.’ The smile he dared to lob across hit an invisible wall of acrimony.

  ‘I hate surprises.’ She clapped her fists together in frustration.

  ‘Only because you’re a control freak, and because it’s way past time for your four o’clock cupcake. Sugar is addictive, you know, and it’s bad for you. If you didn’t have so much of it you wouldn’t be getting the blood sugar highs and lows.’ Going for broke now.

  Her reply came through gritted teeth. ‘This isn’t about sugar, and you know it.’

  ‘So what is it about?’ Why the hell couldn’t she drop the attitude, go with the flow and enjoy the ride?

  ‘It’s about control, about you wanting to wrestle the power away from me.’ She jabbed the air repeatedly with one bronze finger-nail.

  Difficult, or just plain difficult? Anyone else, and he’d have been out of here. He tried to blank all thoughts of her nails scraping down his backbone as she…

  ‘Interesting interpretation.’ And a shame to spoil the secret he’d spent the best part of the day pulling strings to set up, but he was going to have to spill the beans before Princess Cherry Bomb exploded completely. He gave a shrug, tapped his fingers nonchalantly on the steering wheel, and dropped the bombshell of his own, casual as you like. ‘And here’s me thinking that having run of a luxury mansion at Dartmouth, with hot-and-cold running butlers and an uninterrupted view of the sea was a better bet than a run-of-the-mill hotel in the centre of Bournemouth, complete with bonking rugby teams.’

  He basked in satisfaction as he saw her jaw drop.

  ‘That’s the surprise?’ She looked at him disbelievingly.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  ‘Because I wanted it to be a…’ His words ground to a halt. Why did he care so much about making it a surprise? When had he ever tried to please a woman, especially one as downright awkward as this one? ‘Never mind. It’s not important.’ He scratched his head, let out a sigh. Tried to concentrate on the car in front.

  ‘Jackson?’ Her hand arrived on his forearm.

  His stomach clenched as her fingers slid around the bare skin. ‘What?’

  ‘Dartmouth sounds fab.’ As she squeezed his arm, one nail caught. ‘Thank you. For sorting it I mean.’

  As a shiver of expectation zipped through his body, he stamped on it. Hard. Then he swallowed, shot her a swift sideways glance as he exhaled. ‘No problem.’

  Except the way her tentative smile zapped straight down to his groin, there was every problem in the world as far as he was concerned. In terms of their power struggle, he’d just won the day, dammit. Better than that. He’d won every battle, every step of the way. He’d been prepared, he’d worked out a strategy, come out all guns blazing today, and he’d wiped the floor with Bryony. So why the hell did he feel like a guy in the deepest of trouble?

  Chapter 21

  ‘So how did you blag your way into this place, Jackson?’

  Bryony wandered out of the tall glass kitchen doors, sidled across the decking, and rested her hands on the stainless steel rail on the precipitous balcony edge. All through the lovely seafood dinner they’d had in the restaurant down on the buzzing harbour side, on the clanking ferry that carried them across the river, and even on the narrow road that wound its way along here, she’d had no idea of what was to come. They’d spent the rest of the evening lounging out on the deck, but even now she was in the middle of making her bedtime cocoa, something about the jaw-dropping panoramic view drew her out for one last look. Across the estuary the scattered lights and illumination of houses on the opposite hillside shone out of the darkness, and the sound of rigging clinking on the masts of the yachts anchored in the river mouth below carried on the warm night air.

  As Jackson sauntered across the decking and came to a halt next to her, she eyed the space between them. He was close yet maintained a distance which was fiercely, annoyingly respectable, and damn to the fact she was wishing he’d close the gap. She’d made it totally clear they were keeping things strictly hands-off, especially after her wobble in the hotel room this morning. So why the hell was she so disappointed he was respecting her wishes so meticulously? He’d lost no time switching to sailing resort casual. There was something disgustingly raw about his bleached low-slung jeans, rolled up. His bare feet. And she could so do without him bringing his delicious man-scent with him to engulf her.

  ‘Let’s just say, us being here is a friend returning a favour.’ He clasped his hands, leaned on his forearms, slipped her one of those lazy-boy smiles that flipped her stomach. ‘He doesn’t need the house right now because he’s away racing. Pretty amazing isn’t it.’ He turned, leaned with his back against the rail.

  Still just as far away. Two feet, which might just as well be two miles. Her gaze followed his, as he looked up at the house that towered above them, the huge vertical windows illuminated against the interlocking planes of the walls. Her eyes slid back onto the column of his neck. Bad idea. As she watched him swallow, a shiver dithered down her back, and her own mouth watered. So much more dangerous here than a hotel, given the way Jackson Gale brought her hormones out to play. Bonking rugby players were way less trouble.

  A sudden thought struck her. ‘You don’t have to try to impress me you know.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He shrugged, as if he didn’t quite get where she was coming from. ‘It’s a cool place, better than a hotel in my book. It’ll make a good base.’

  ‘I told you before, my brother has a stately home, so I’m kind of over being wowed by flashy places.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Jackson tilted his head, as if he was suppressing a smile.

  ‘What I’m trying to say is…’ She snatched a breath, jutted her chin to screw up her courage to make the crucial point. ‘Impressing me won’t make me sleep with you.’ She eyeballed him, straight on. Damn to how those dirty brown irises made her knees sag. Sure of what she wanted to say, yet somehow feeling like she was digging herself into a huge hole at the same time. ‘Bringing me to this jaw-dropping, amazing place is not going to make me change my mind.’

  There. That told him. She’d set her stall out fair and square here. No mistake.

  ‘Who said anything about me wanting to make you change your mind?’ A full-blown grin escaped and spread across his face. ‘I really wasn’t planning to do this.’ One step, he’d flipped around behind her. His hands clasped her shoulders and his warm breath hit her neck as his growl reverberated in her ear. ‘This has to be on your mind, or you wouldn’t be talking about it incessantly, and if this is what it takes to shut you up…’ he spun her around.

  Eyes wide, she opened her mouth to protest but his lips crashed onto hers, and he slid right on in. Rough, hot, tasting like salted heaven. So not what she wanted. One moan of protest whipped away as his tongue tangled, and she was closing her eyes, throwing her weight against the thr
ust of his body, hearing the roar of blood through her ears as her heart went into overdrive. Feeling his fingers coursing through her hair, the sting on her scalp as he grasped a handful, dragged her head back, bending her backwards over the balcony rail. His hips grinding against hers, her waist sliding against the steel as she arched into him, his erection hard against her pelvic bone. She dragged in a breath, gasped as a triple shot of desire zapped between her legs, and she shifted her feet to rearrange, clamping herself against the whole muscular heat of him.

  A sudden high-pitched bleeping pierced the air, and she caught the blur of the cloudy night sky as she opened her eyes and they pulled into focus. Her mouth suddenly empty as Jackson pulled out of the kiss, his stubble stinging as his chin brushed against her cheek.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ He dragged the back of his thumb across his mouth, sniffing the air. ‘Is something burning?’

  ‘Shit! My cocoa!’ She shot off towards the open door, high heels skittering as she hit the polished granite floor and launched herself across the kitchen.

  She lunged at the smoking hob, turned off the heat, grabbed the frothing pan and whipped it across to the sink, but the beeping carried on.

  ‘Nothing worse than milk boiling over.’ Jackson appeared, padded across to a bank of switches, flicked one and an industrial-size extractor fan whirred into action. Moments later the smoke alarm fell silent.

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking out there.’ Understatement of the decade. What the hell was she doing snogging him again? After everything she’d said and all her best intentions. It was difficult enough sitting beside the guy in the van all day long with his smoking body and easy laugh. Leaving the pan in the sink, she took refuge behind a monumental kitchen island, wrapping her arms around her chest to steady her hammering heartbeat. Coming to an empty house was always a dangerous move but she’d hoped she’d last longer than an hour before she succumbed to the Jackson Gale effect. That would be the Jackson Gale who had assured her he would be keeping his hands off, the same one who was eyeballing her now with a quizzical stare that cut right though to her solar plexus.

  ‘My fault as much as yours.’ His face creased into a grimace, but above his shrug his eyes were smouldering. ‘I know you said you were no Nigella in the kitchen, but burning cocoa? Here, I’ll make you some, show you how it’s done.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, I really don’t want any.’

  He was already opening the towering stainless fridge. ‘No bother, Cherry Bomb.’ In one easy movement he’d filled a cup with milk and slipped it into a microwave. Punched some buttons on the control panel. ‘Two minutes, you’ll have your cocoa, and no need for firemen.’ He flashed her an inscrutable grin.

  Without that grin she might have let it go, but something about the look on his face made her chest tighten and she turned on him. ‘Never mind the cocoa, what the hell just happened out there Jackson? I thought you said you wouldn’t be making any moves?’

  He drummed his fingers on the stainless steel work surface. ‘That wasn’t a move, Cherry Bomb.’ Only the slightest furrow on his brow giving any indication that he gave a damn at all. ‘That was simply me making a point.’

  Trust him to try to wriggle out of it like this. She gritted her teeth. ‘And what point would that be?’

  ‘You implied I was trying to get into your perfectly ironed knickers by bringing you to somewhere flashy.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Whereas if I was serious about getting access, I’d be relying on other methods entirely. With raw natural talent like mine who needs bricks and mortar? I was simply giving you a taster of how I’d be doing my persuading, and, given your reaction, I’d say you’re much more up for it than you’ve been pretending.’ The knowing grin he slid her sent her heart-rate into overdrive again.

  Something to do with the adrenalin kick that went with being found out crossed with pure lust for the guy who just turned her insides molten, even if he did have an ego the size of Cornwall.

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’ Knowing her protest was phony, but she had to make it anyway. She really couldn’t have him knowing how up for it her body had been.

  ‘Some things even a princess can’t hide.’ The wattage of his grin just doubled. ‘And a hint, something for you to work on – next time you might want to throw out the control and embrace the spontaneity.’ One ping, and he was whipping her hot milk out of the microwave.

  Cocksure didn’t begin to cover it. She blinked, grappled with being speechless, and forced out a reply through gritted teeth. ‘There isn’t going to be a next time, Jackson.’

  Unmoved, he carried on whisking the cocoa.

  ‘Not with me, obviously, given my one-night-only rule, but there might be with someone else.’ Breezy as a force four wind. Then his thousand-watt grin faded. ‘Contrary to what you think, good sex can’t be scheduled on your damned itinerary. Intercourse for the princess at 4.30, scheduled between list writing at 3 o’clock and underwear folding at 4.45? No way will that work. You need to loosen up, let go, then maybe you’d enjoy yourself more.’

  Arrrrrrrgggghhh. How many times had she heard this speech before? Except it was usually Cressy giving the lecture. And more to the point, what the heck gave Jackson the right to dish out Dr Love advice to her?

  ‘Thanks for that.’ She throttled her mental scream, and aimed for low and ironic. ‘Great to get heartfelt advice from someone who is obviously such a relationship expert.’ Not.

  ‘Any time.’ He placed her mug in front of her with a flourish. ‘Enjoy your cocoa, sleep tight, I’ll see you in the morning.’ He backed out of the kitchen with an airy wave, giving one last quip as he turned. ‘The laundry room’s on the second floor. Help yourself there if you need the iron.’ Then he sidled away, nonchalant as you like.

  ‘Thanks.’ Calling down the corridor after him, she swore the flat feeling in the pit of her stomach wasn’t because she was hoping for a backwards glance. At least now her heart-rate could get back to normal.

  She picked up her cocoa, and cursed that he made her so mad. Damn to that perfect butt of his. Damn to those to-die-for cheek-bones, that oh-so mocking smile. Damn to the crazy part of her that had been hoping he’d suggest a movie fest. But the biggest damn of all was due to that huge lust-starved part of her, which was aching for more of Jackson Gale.

  Chapter 22

  When Jackson wandered out onto the deck next morning after his early bike ride, Bryony was already hard at work, stretched out on a lounger, poring over her laptop.

  ‘Coffee, juice, muesli, toast?’ He slid a laden tray onto the table, and began to unload it. ‘I take it you haven’t had breakfast, seeing as there are no firemen in the area.’ He mentally cursed that she was wearing a short dress and hardened himself against the view of those lightly tanned thighs which immediately sent his blood rushing south.

  Way more disturbing than he’d bargained for, given that he’d just ridden the best part of fifty miles, promising himself every inch of the way that he’d show no further interest in the Cherry Bomb, or any part of her oh-so-lush body. That had been one ill-advised kiss last night. He’d tried to justify to himself that it was the only way to shut her up at the time, but it had been blistering enough to fuel his body with an adrenalin flood that kept him up all night.

  ‘Cheeky – fireman quips are below the belt, though seeing you’ve brought coffee I’ll forgive you.’ She flipped back her hair, uncrossed those problematic legs and pushed herself up to stand, wrinkling her nose as she squinted into the sun.

  ‘Help yourself; dig in.’ How could he sound so unperturbed?

  More flicking of that hair. He was determined not to notice how the sharp morning light turned it to gold, or that the way she bit down on that full bottom lip as she piled toast onto a plate made the pit of his stomach ache. Bad luck for him her dress turned out to be some kind of flimsy wrap-around thing that looked like it might unwrap at any moment.

  Pulling up a chair, she sat, adjusted her top to hide her cleavag
e, took one deep breath that undid all her good work, then set about buttering her toast mountain. ‘Have you been bike riding again?’

  He ignored the pucker of her lips, as she sucked a jam smear off her fingertip.

  ‘Yep, just a quick one.’ No matter how delicious she’d tasted last night, no matter how she’d made his head spin, this morning on his ride he’d finally decided she belonged on his list of banned substances. He’d placed her firmly between chocolate éclairs and coconut ice. Despite the short-term enjoyment to be had from an immediate taste sensation, there were some things in life it was wise to forgo. He’d long since worked out that coconut ice wasn’t worth the bother, and his early-morning sensible-head told him that any more tangling with Bryony Marshall wasn’t either.

  ‘This professional cycling sounds like a weird thing to be involved in.’ She wrinkled her brow, gave him a quizzical stare. ‘There was a book in my room, I was reading about it last night.’

  Bryony reading about cycling? Someone else who couldn’t sleep, then.

  ‘Ah, you fell over the piles of signed autobiographies? Another hazard of crashing in a pro-cyclist’s house I’m afraid. All of them ghost-written in case you were wondering, most of them bad, all saying the same thing.’ He gave a grimace. ‘But you’re right. Pro-cycling swallows you up; it demands total dedication, it’s harder than almost anything else a person could choose to do, it wrecks your body. But there’s something about it. Once you win you can’t stop.’

  ‘You really ride over a hundred miles a day on the road, then go to the gym? Then do the physio, and promotional stuff? Haven’t you ever wanted a normal life, without all the hardship?’

  So she’d been reading. And thinking about it.

  He gave a shrug designed to look diffident. ‘I never really thought about it.’ He was lying through his teeth here. This last year as he struggled to recover from his injuries he’d barely thought of anything else, but the thought of trying to adjust to a life that was in any way normal scared the shit out of him.