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.
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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.
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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
‘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.’