One Night with Her Brooding Boss: Ruthless Boss, Dream Baby / Her Impossible Boss / The Secretary’s Bossman Bargain

She kept on walking, but as she dragged her jacket a little closer it occurred to Magenta that she was perhaps being a little ungracious. ‘If you’re looking for someone…’

The biker’s eyes glinted.

‘I’m just trying to say, if I can help you in any way…’

‘Get on the bike.’

No! Yes. What should she do? She had been fascinated by the beacon of freedom women lit in the sixties and talked a good battle when it came to championing the cause—but did she ever seize the moment and take action? Or did she always play it safe?

Too damn safe. ‘Helmet?’

The biker produced a spare and then patted the seat behind him.

‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you? ‘ she commented as she buckled it on.

‘Sure of you. You can’t resist a challenge, can you?’

‘And how do you know that?’

He shrugged.

‘The helmet seems like it might fit—’

‘Then climb on board.’

The husky voice suggested a chastity belt might be a useful piece of kit too.

‘Before I change my mind…’ He revved the engine.

‘Are you always so forceful? ‘

‘Yes.’

The master of the one word answer drowned out the demented timpanist in charge of her heart by taking the revs up to danger level. And now she took a proper look at his monster machine she wasn’t even sure she could climb on board, as the biker put it. Did her legs even stretch that wide?

‘Chicken?’ The smile was masculine and mocking.

‘I am not.’ She played for time. ‘That’s a Royal Enfield, isn’t it?’

‘You know motorbikes?’

Her attention flew to a very sexy mouth. ‘I know the brand, thanks to my research into the sixties,’ she said primly. She might have known someone as cool as the biker wouldn’t ride a pimped-up, over-hyped modern machine. The Enfield was a serious motorbike for serious riders. Big and black, it was vibrating insistently between his leather-clad thighs.

And would soon be vibrating between hers.

No way was she climbing on board.

And she was getting home…how?

Call a cab, the sensible side of her brain suggested. There had to be an empty cab somewhere in the whole of London.

‘You are chicken,’ the biker insisted, slanting an amused glance Magenta’s way.

She laughed dismissively, longing for a way out. But she’d done ‘sensible’ all her life, and look where that had got her.

‘Well?’

‘Forbidden fruit’ sprang to mind when she looked at him—fruit that was so close, so ripe and so dangerously delicious, she could practically taste it on her tongue. ‘How do I know I’ll be safe with you?’

‘You don’t.’

Her pulse raced. But then, she reasoned, it was only a lift home—why the fuss? ‘Shouldn’t you know my address before we set off?’

‘So, tell me.’

She found herself doing so even as she wondered how his strong white teeth would feel if he used them to lightly nip her skin.

‘It’s time to get on the bike,’ he prompted. ‘I’ve no intention of running out of fuel while I wait for you to make up your mind.’

‘Could you take my briefcase and stow it for me, please? ‘

‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ He held out his hand.

‘I suppose I should thank you,’ she added belatedly.

‘I suppose you should,’ he agreed.

‘If you’re sure it’s not out of your way?’

‘I’m sure.’

This man would be equally certain about every decision he made. He’d be just as decisive when he left her standing here freezing her butt off, as he’d so elegantly put it, on the basis of her extreme cowardice.

‘Would you like some help?’ he said, looking on in bemusement as she started hopping into position.

All she had to do was throw one leg across his seat. How hard could that be? ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

After one final heave and a lot of unladylike wriggling, she was finally in position—which meant close up to the biker. She tried to shuffle back a bit to maintain the proprieties, but the moment he kicked the stand away, released the brake and gunned the engine she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms as tightly as she could around his waist.

A waist without an ounce of fat on it, Magenta registered, but an awful lot of muscle, and if there was a way to ride pillion behind the biker without allowing her body to mould with his—thankfully, it had escaped her.

By the time they joined the heavy London traffic, she was pretty familiar with the biker’s back and the way his thick hair escaped the helmet to caress the collar on his jacket. She was so familiar she had even started shivering…with cold, Magenta told herself firmly. Having consigned her safety to the hands of a man she hardly knew, that was more than enough risk to take in one day.

He really knew how to handle a bike and wove in and out of the congested streets of London like a man who really knew what he was doing, while Magenta was increasingly conscious of the insistent vibrations beneath her. It was almost a disappointment when they rolled up outside her neatly manicured town house. Dismounting the bike shakily, she removed her helmet and shook out her long, black hair.

‘That’s quite a transformation, lady,’ the biker commented as he lifted off his helmet to stare at her.

‘You think so?’ Magenta laughed as she retrieved her clip as it fell to the ground. She couldn’t remember feeling so carefree in a long time. Her hair had been blown to blazes, like the rest of her—and it felt great. She felt great. ‘Thanks.’