High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

‘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 (#ud846b7ad-119b-5645-a760-22801099d197)

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.