Читать книгу High Heels & Bicycle Wheels - Jane Linfoot - Страница 7

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.