Bedded for His Pleasure: Bedded by a Bad Boy / In the Gardener's Bed / The Return of the Rebel

‘It’s fantastic!’ Her voice was muffled by the helmet but giddy with pleasure.

‘You liked it, huh?’

She nodded, grinning back at him. As she tried to undo the helmet strap with shaking fingers, he brushed her hands aside and did the job for her, lifting it off her head. ‘You’re a real biker chick now, Red.’

The feel of her lush body wrapped around him had made Monroe’s jeans uncomfortably tight, but he couldn’t help smiling at the look of pure pleasure on her face. Seeing a small mark on her forehead, he rubbed it softly with his thumb. ‘Looks like you could do with a better helmet, though.’

‘Don’t worry about that. It felt wonderful. Everything felt wonderful. It was so exciting. No wonder you’ve spent all those years riding around on your motorbike.’

There was no censure in her words, none of the disdain that she had shown him last night, only joy and enthusiasm. With her emerald eyes sparkling, her hair curling wildly and the pink glow of pleasure flushing her cheeks, she looked gorgeous.

He wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.

Stunned by the sudden reckless urge, Monroe swung back round and concentrated on attaching the helmet to the handlebars.

‘You better climb down first,’ he muttered.

Jessie stared at his back as she hopped off the Harley. What had happened? One minute he’d been smiling at her, enjoying the moment with her, and then, all of a sudden, he’d as good as dismissed her.

She adjusted her bag as he lifted his leg over the bike.

‘Thanks for the ride. It was…’She babbled to a halt, seeing the intensity in his eyes as he turned to her. She wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue and his gaze shot down to her mouth. ‘It was really fun.’ The words came out on a feeble whisper. What was going on here? Why was he staring at her mouth like that? She felt light-headed and she didn’t know why.

‘You’re welcome, Red.’The nickname sounded anything but casual. ‘See that diner?’He nodded across the street. ‘I’ll hang out there when I’m finished till you’re ready to head back.’

The instant thrill at the thought of being back on the bike with him was followed by uncertainty. Maybe she’d enjoyed the ride too much.

‘I might be a while.’

‘Take all the time you need. I’m in no hurry.’

As Jessie walked away from him she was sure she could feel his eyes following her all the way down the street.

After an hour of trying to sell herself to Mrs Belinda Bennett, the proprietor of the Cranford Art Gallery, Jessie was frazzled. She’d chewed off most of her lipstick during the interview, but the hard sell had been worth it. Mrs Bennett had agreed to give her the job of Saturday sales assistant on a trial basis.

Feeling worn out but enthusiastic, Jessie forgot to feel nervous as she wandered into the small coffee house Monroe had indicated. She spotted him immediately, lounging in a booth opposite the door. He looked relaxed and gorgeous with a few sacks of shopping on the seat opposite.

‘Hi.’ She waved. ‘I hope you haven’t been here long.’

He slid out of the booth as she walked up to it. ‘Not long. I was about to order pancakes.’ His gaze took a leisurely journey down to her feet, now encased in the flattering yellow slingbacks, and then came back up again. Jessie’s nerves came back full force when he smiled. ‘It looks even better without the denim,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’ Her voice quivered annoyingly as she slipped into the booth.

‘Move over,’ he said.

She’d expected him to lift up the bags opposite and sit there, but instead he pushed onto the bench seat beside her, nudging her with his hips. When he leant back and put his long, muscled forearm on the seat behind her, she realised she was totally boxed in.

‘So how did it go—you get the job?’

‘Yes, I start on Saturday.’

‘Hey, way to go.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘How about we order pancakes and coffee to celebrate?’

‘That would be lovely, thanks.’

He seemed genuinely pleased for her, so she tried not to notice the way his long, firm thigh was touching her leg. The thin silk of her dress did nothing to protect her against the warm pressure.

As he ordered two short stacks with coffee for them, Jessie noticed the way the teenage waitress blushed profusely. Did he have that potent effect on every woman he met?

‘Looks like you’ve been busy, too.’ She nodded at his purchases, spotting the logo of the town’s expensive art supply shop. ‘What did you get at Melville’s?’

‘Sketching charcoal, a couple of brushes, stuff like that.’

‘Do you paint, then?’

‘Sure, a little.’

‘Really? That’s wonderful. Are you any good?’

He took his arm away from behind her, looked away. ‘I don’t know and I don’t really give a damn.’

The statement was abrupt and rude, and so out of keeping with his usual easygoing manner, Jessie felt instantly contrite. Somehow she’d insulted him.

‘I’m sorry.’ She touched his arm. ‘I only asked because I love art and I’m absolutely useless at it myself.’

He glanced down at her fingers, gave a stiff jerk of his shoulders. ‘No harm done.’

‘Here you go, folks, two short stacks straight up.’ The teenager beamed at Monroe as she placed the pancakes and mugs of coffee in front of them.

‘This looks great, Shelby.’ He smiled at the girl, reading the name off the blue tag on her uniform. Jessie watched the waitress flush again before she rushed off.

‘What sort of things do you paint?’ Jessie asked quietly as Monroe concentrated on drowning his plate in syrup.

He didn’t reply. She waited as he swallowed a generous helping of pancakes and syrup. He nodded towards her plate. ‘You not hungry?’

‘I was just wondering about what you paint,’ she repeated, feeling a little foolish now but determined to get an answer out of him.

‘I haven’t done any yet.’

‘Yes, but, when you have, what will you paint?’

‘They don’t taste as good cold, you know,’ he said, looking at her plate again.

Jessie remained silent. He wasn’t meeting her eyes. Why was he being so evasive? But as she watched him take a sip from his coffee it occurred to her. He was shy about his artwork. It seemed so unlikely, but it was the only answer that made sense. The thought made him seem vulnerable, all of a sudden, maybe even a little bit sweet.

She waited. Finally, he stopped eating, turned to her. ‘Look, it’s no big deal, all right? It’s just a dumb hobby.’

‘I’m still curious what sort of painting you do. I mean, is it abstract, expressionism, more traditional like portraiture, landscapes? I’m really interested in art. Looking at it, appreciating it, visiting art galleries—those are a few of my dumb hobbies.’