High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

by Jane Linfoot

Anything had to be better than the three-month whirlwind romance Matt just had, that crashed and burned three weeks past the altar. Bryony chided herself for that mean thought.

  ‘I think that might have been Claire’s joke, Matt.’ Except she never had until now. ‘Put it down to bad timing.’ She slid him a conciliatory smile, although if anyone was in shock here, it was her. ‘As for the last resort bit, I’m not sure I’m quite there yet.’ Was this really coming out of her mouth?

  ‘Well, if you change your mind, give me a bell.’ He slid a card into her hand. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think so.’ Burning her boats here too. What the hell had got into her? ‘Sorry, but I really need to go now.’ She moved to go past him.

  ‘Cherry?’

  As Matt melted away into the crowd, Jackson, springing up the stairs three at a time, arrived at her elbow, face blacker than a summer storm.

  ‘Who the hell was that?’

  This guy smelled good. Every time.

  ‘Just the brother of a friend.’ She sighed. Really not ready to expand on this. ‘He’s a journo.’

  ‘Was he hitting on you? His tongue was hanging so far out it was practically down your cleavage.’ Jackson’s growl came through gritted teeth, his body rigid, his hands thrust into his pockets. ‘I can have him thrown out.’

  Testosterone fest or what.

  ‘Chill, Jackson. That really won’t be necessary. Let’s go back in.’

  ‘If you’re sure you’re good?’ He rubbed his hand across the dark stubble on his chin. Cocked his head, and stared deep into her eyes, like he was looking into her soul.

  ‘I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Absolutely fine.’

  Except from the way her heart was clattering in her chest suddenly, she knew she was anything but.

  Chapter 38

  Close up, this evening, she had been finding it hard to keep her hands off Jackson. The scent of him, the push of his leg against hers under the table, every flash of his profile. Near enough to focus on the pores of his skin, make out the individual spikes of his stubble, the buzz of his proximity had been driving her wild. Now that he was up on the stage, about to make a presentation, she was expecting a temporary respite. From her place at the table with the lights dimmed, she took in his skin glistening slightly under the bright lights as he approached the microphone, noticed that half-rub of his chin with his thumb that was so familiar. He was far away yet somehow he seemed larger and more impressive than ever, as if the benefit of distance had sharpened her focus and she was suddenly zapped by the full blast of his charisma. The rest of the audience were also hanging on every gravelly word, eyes glued to every lilt of his lips, every ironic lift of his eyebrows, every wry aside, quite simply awed by his bad-boy charm.

  All the way here in the helicopter she’d been so determined not to succumb, but somehow the moment she was with him she had no choice. All her hard-nosed resolve dissolved, wiped out by the buzz and fluttering that zipped through her. But now she had caved and given in, was it really so bad? His voice burred through the speakers, drawing everyone in the room up close to him. She had five minutes at most to think about this rationally whilst she was out of range of his power charged pheromones. She was here; he was hot, sexy, and irresistible, and he was hers for the taking. And on Monday he’d be flying off to get on with rest of his life.

  What could be safer than that?

  She really hadn’t meant to come back for more. Coming back for more made her so much more vulnerable, but now it had accidentally happened, she could surely make the most of it. Hadn’t Jackson always insisted she needed to lighten up, and what had Cressy said all those weeks ago?

  As Jackson pulled his speech to an end, the applause thundered around the room, and she watched him winding his way back towards her, his dark gaze locking onto her like a heat-seeking missile.

  She shivered, braced herself. Maybe she should look at this weekend as her final gift from Jackson, give herself the green light for forty-eight glorious hours of debauchery. And then she could go away and deal with the fall-out afterwards, on her own.

  ‘Okay, Cherry? How was the speech?’ His voice reverberated against her neck as he slid back into his seat.

  Her blood began to fuzz in her veins. ‘Life affirming?’ Not quite a lie.

  ‘I bet you didn’t even listen.’ He nudged her arm and bent towards her, his warm breath on her ear sending goose bumps pebbling down her spine. ‘By the way, I booked us a suite – I need you, sooner rather than later.’

  She slid him a smile. ‘Me too.’

  ‘I haven’t got many clothes with me for a weekend away.’ Cherry sent him a grimace.

  Midday Saturday, arriving back at his place, and how like Princess Cherry to be bothering about what she was going to wear. He was happy to work with her slinky grey silk left over from last night, given that he planned to take it off her again as soon as; although, whether she’d still be up for that once she saw the full glory of his rudimentary flat, he had no idea.

  ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t be needing clothes.’ He grinned, as he unlocked the door, ushered her up the stairs. ‘Didn’t you ever hear of boyfriend jeans? You can borrow some of mine.’

  Damn. The B word sent her eyebrows shooting skywards as she stepped out into the wide space. He should be more careful, knowing how touchy she was. No point getting her this far into a reunion burn-out-the-heat weekend, then ruining it. He watched her eyes widen to saucers as they swept around the bare room, then narrow quickly, and for the first time in his life, he felt compelled to cobble together some explanation for the emptiness.

  ‘I’m rocking the man-cave thing here. Bare essentials, bike on rollers, TV, fridge, sofa, bed, in order of importance.’ A throwaway comment, and aware that he was holding his breath, anxious for her approval.

  ‘Wow, Jackson. You’ve got a great outlook across the gardens and over-the-garage translates perfectly to the loft-look.’

  He knew she was being generous here. The flat he hadn’t given a second thought to for years seemed achingly stark now it was being exposed to female scrutiny for the first time. ‘So,,you aren’t going to berate me for my lack of designer pieces?’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling there’s more designer here than you realise.’

  He gave a shrug. ‘I wouldn’t know, I asked for a sofa and someone delivered it. And the lack of comfort?’

  ‘It’s just nice to see you in your own place at last.’ Her voice was soft as her touch on his arm. ‘At home, I mean.’

  His turn to flinch now, this time at the H word. ‘It’s mine, but it’s not exactly home.’ No need to tell her nowhere had felt like home since the day his mother walked out when he was seventeen.

  ‘Whereas you seemed very much at home in the five star hotel this morning, comfortable enough to order condoms from room service, along with breakfast.’ Despite her chiding tone, the corners of her lips were twitching with amusement.

  ‘And a measure of the establishment that they delivered them along with the Full English on their own silver platter.’ He flashed her a wry grin and wondered how the tiniest movement of someone’s mouth could make his insides go molten. Had to be the lust. And with Cherry as edible as she looked this morning a guy couldn’t have enough condoms.

  He watched as she casually flicked off one high-heeled shoe, slid onto the sofa and tucked one foot underneath her. Perhaps he was misreading her body-language, but from the way she draped that arm along the back of the couch, stretched to maximise the thrust of her breasts, the way she was chewing her lip, he was guessing she might just be as out-of-control-amped as him. With any luck this weekend they could finish this thing once and for all. As she turned her gaze on him, he caught the haze of desire in her eyes, saw the heat from her skin radiating into the air. Strange how the whole emptiness of his flat was instantly warmed by her presence. Cherry sitting on his couch, and the whole world taking on a fuzzy glow? High fives to the power of lust. Where the
hell he was going to find the heat to warm his home when he gave up racing, he had no idea. And damn that his mind had slipped to that slap-in-the-face shock realisation he’d come to during the last two weeks of training, when he’d sworn that he wouldn’t even go there until after the weekend.

  ‘Talking of silver platters, where are all your trophies?’

  Cherry’s question inadvertently reinforcing the ice-shower already cascading down his spine. True, individually the trophies had long since lost their shine, simply because he had so many. But if he went through with his decision to quit, the thought that there wouldn’t be any more turned his gut to permafrost. And the way the training camp had panned out this last two weeks, quitting was where he was heading. Seemed like Dan had been right all along with his view of the future.

  ‘All the tinware is either in storage or in a room below here. Except for my first major medal, which is on the wall over there.’ An unscheduled grimace escaped as he cocked his head in the direction of the bike anchored on a turbo-trainer.

  ‘I couldn’t hold it, could I?’

  Cherry asking same question everyone always asked, except his chest hadn’t ever constricted before in quite the way it was doing now.

  ‘Sure.’ Striding across the room, he plucked the ribbon off the wall and swung the heavy gold disc into her hand.

  ‘Thanks Jackson.’ Balancing it carefully on her palm, she scrutinised it then she raised her eyes to lock onto his. ‘It kind of takes my breath away when I touch it.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean.’ Different reason, same result. For him, it was the shine in her eyes that had squeezed every ounce of oxygen out of his lungs. He took the ribbon from her, ignoring the thousand volt jolt as their fingers brushed, then he slid the medal into the pocket of his tux and raked his hand through his hair.

  Bryony watched the hollows of his cheeks flex, took in the clenching of his jaw and made a dive for a swift change of subject.

  ‘So, why do you choose to live here and not in the main house, Jackson?’ She had no idea what she’d done, but the way he’d changed from smouldering to broken in a blink left her feeling somehow responsible.

  ‘Dan’s here all the time. He has the family and the life to fill the place and I don’t. I bought the house as an investment, he enjoys it – it’s win-win. Meanwhile, the man-cave gives me everything I need.’

  ‘I’m sure it does.’

  Great line, but no way she was buying that. Anyone with eyes that sad wasn’t even beginning to get what they wanted. His formal, black leather shoes clicked as he paced across the painted floorboards, and the stripped-back volumes of the apartment seemed to echo Jackson’s emptiness. She scanned the unadorned expanse of pale grey walls, the windows with their black slatted blinds. The only trace of anything personal relating to Jackson were some bike wheels propped in the corner, a couple of pairs of cycling shoes and a Lycra top draped across the saddle of the stationary bike. Strange then, that she’d had an immediate sense of coming home as soon as she stepped through the door, felt almost too comfortable as she sat here now. Maybe it was something to do with the power of smell, because although there was very little of Jackson here in terms of possessions, the whole place smelled good, as if the air was loaded with his achingly familiar scent. She wiggled her toes, readjusted her legs beneath her. Deliciously at ease pretty much summed it up. If she hadn’t been so relaxed, the realisation might have unnerved her, but as it was she was leaning into it, breathing it in, given it would be over in no time. Coming home? Easy? If a teensy alarm bell was ringing in her head she was choosing to ignore it. Just for now.

  She watched his thumb scrape absently across the stubble on his upper lip, thanked God for making Jackson look so edible in his tux, even the morning after. Not so long ago, his strength had driven her to distraction. He had been such a pain in the butt, and dealing with him had been like battering her head against a wall, but that was before things between them had shifted. Somewhere along the line she’d given up her struggle to stay in total charge, and she’d inadvertently trusted him to take control. But the surprise for her was that it didn’t feel bad. On the contrary, it felt strangely easy and comfortable. Relaxing. Enjoyable even. His strength, which once seemed like a wall to kick against, now felt more like a shelter. Just for now it was good not to be out there in the storm, fighting every battle on her own. Just for this short time she’d let herself enjoy the novelty of the protection that wall was offering, not that she’d allow the independent woman in her to hear that thought. Strange how she and Jackson were similar in so many ways – both perhaps too headstrong and stubborn for their own good. She stifled a smile as she clocked the jut of his chin. How many times had she stuck her chin skywards as she struggled to come to terms with something?

  ‘You do know that clenching your teeth isn’t going to make things better, Jackson?’

  ‘Sorry?’ He spun on his heel, arrived to face her.

  ‘If you grind your teeth you’ll just get jaw-ache.’ She drew in a breath, knowing that when she was like this she needed to be challenged head-on.

  ‘I don’t know what you…’

  She rounded on him. ‘There’s no point acting all insouciant and airy. I know something’s wrong.’ Harsh, but confrontation was the only way.

  ‘Whatever.’ He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and rolled his eyes.

  ‘I’m not going to ask what it is.’ Pulling out her trump card she saw his eyes widen in surprise. Great. The last thing he expected was for her to back off here. ‘All I want to say is that when you’re ready to talk about whatever it is, I’m here for you Jackson, and I might even understand.’

  The click of his footsteps moved around behind her, and then his thumb was on her cheek, rubbing, sending shivers to deep, delicious, oh-so-familiar places. A fleeting twist of guilt twanged in her chest, as she remembered all the times he’d phoned her, when she’d cut him short.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll remember that Cherry.’ His deep voice resonated and her shiver situation got a whole load worse as his lips landed at the base of her throat. ‘Hey, what’s this?’ His tone lightened as the words hit her skin, and his arm slid past her elbow towards a colourful carrier bag lying further along the sofa.

  Seizing it, he gave a low laugh. ‘Marge from the photo-shoot kept her promise then.’

  ‘A promise of what?’

  ‘Lingerie left over from the shoot. She said she’d look out a few things in your size.’ He peered into the bag, with a grin that stretched the width of the room. ‘I think this solves your wardrobe problem for the weekend; there’s loads to wear here.’

  So like a guy to say that. ‘How did she know my size?’

  He thrust the bag towards her. ‘One look, and Margie knows. It’s her job.’

  Bryony fumbled in the bag, pulled out something black and sheer, and flipped out the label. ‘Very pretty if you like dominatrix style, fabulous designer, but she’s got my cup size way too big.’

  ‘Marge doesn’t make mistakes. Try them on, and see.’ His eyes darkened, ‘I’ll give you my expert opinion.’

  Bryony ran one silky ribbon between her fingers as she hesitated. ‘You did look very sexy with those women yesterday.’ No need to admit she’d felt like clawing the faces off them, how it had made her want to shag the pants off him. The desperate need she’d had to claim him for hers.

  And now he was here for the taking, what the heck was she waiting for?

  One slight tilt of his head. ‘The bedroom’s that way, if you want to change.’

  His Adam’s apple flexed in the open neck of his shirt as he swallowed, making her tummy flip, and the deepening shudder of his voice sent a flurry of goose bumps down her arms. Her eyes slid, snagged on his trouser zip, which was level with her face, and the shadow of his erection sent a stream of hot syrup to pool at the base of her stomach.

  ‘Cool, I won’t be a minute.’ She grasped the bag of lingerie, pushed herself to her feet,
and slipped towards the bedroom. Though if this was request time, she had one of her own. ‘Sit down, and stay just as you are. I want you in your tux.’

  The smile she shot over her shoulder collided with his grin.

  ‘Anything you say, Cherry.’ His cheek creased into a wink. ‘Happy Saturday, I think this flat’s about to get a whole lot more decorative.’

  Chapter 39

  Jackson was as good as his word. When she clicked back into the room five minutes later, wobbling slightly on the precipitous heels, the way she found him, on the sofa, jacket open, long legs pushed out in front of him, all laid back and relaxed, made her want to eat him.

  ‘Nice one, Cherry.’

  Taking it from his growl that he liked what he saw.

  ‘You were right – everything fits.’ She’d been surprised to find she’d gone up a cup size, but designer-wear was notorious for being undersized. Taking a deep breath, she slowed her walk, fiddled with a stocking top, as the unnerving sense of her own sexuality pulled her up short. The Calendar Girl look was working wonders for her ego, and today her guy was here, begging to be claimed. When had she ever felt this alluring, or empowered? And so damned turned-on.

  Three strides and she’d be kneeling over him, unzipping him, straddling him, as she dipped onto the tower of his erection. And the same as every time before, she’d be in charge, because that was how she liked it, how she had to be. She’d watch his eyes blur at the moment that he abandoned himself to her, hear the grate in his throat as she lowered herself to take him deep inside her. A shudder of need jived between her legs.

  ‘Hey, I love those black straps on the bra cups.’ His lips twitched his as he surveyed her. ‘And those patent heels are phenomenal. As for the pants…’

  He’d find out soon enough about the lack of crotch. One more step towards him. She paused, shivered at her own touch, as she realigned a ribbon, took in Jackson, lounging like a cover model with his morning after stubble. Cover model? Make that a Sex God.