High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

Jane Linfoot

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Jane Linfoot

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

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

‘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 so wasn’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

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.’