High Heels & Bicycle Wheels Page 2

  ‘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.r />
  ‘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.’

  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.