High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

Chapter 3

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

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.