High Heels & Bicycle Wheels Read online

  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.’<
br />
  ‘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.