High Heels & Bicycle Wheels. Jane Linfoot
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‘Is my head too heavy?’
Bryony was lying on the ragged grass on the cliff top, limbs in a heap, staring at the sky, which, incidentally, was broad as any she’d seen lately. The heat of Jackson’s chest was solid against her skull as she watched the cloud wisps and waited to get her wild jiving heartbeats back into line.
‘Your hair’s tangling in my stubble again. Does it hurt?’ His gruff tones reverberated through his ribs.
Hair caught in a guy’s stubble? OMG. How far off-limits was she?
‘Nope’
And how darned okay it was. It was almost as if neither of them had wanted to break the moment by speaking, and then it had slipped into minutes and then a whole lot longer. The wind rushed over her ears, pushing the smell of damp ground up her nose and coating her lips with salt. She tried not to think how easy this felt, how she didn’t want to move ever again.
‘Here, have this, I picked it up on the beach before.’ He shifted under her, pushed a small stone into the palm of her hand. ‘It’s a fossil, an ammonite. So you remember today. ’
As if she’d ever forget it.
‘Thanks.’ She ran her index finger around the curl of the spiral. Still warm from the ride in his pocket. ‘How old is it?’
‘Possibly two hundred million years. Sorry, they don’t make them any newer.’
A fossil from womanising Jackson Gale. Who’d have thought?
‘It’s perfect. Thanks.’
And then there was the tiny matter of that major snog down on the beach. Talking of perfect. Was that really her back there? Diving down his throat and loving it?
She shuddered at the thought of what he’d been doing to her nipples, shut her eyes and shook her head, just to check she was here. In person. Five minutes of ecstasy, then Jackson went on to save her life. Maybe the biography hadn’t been exaggerating about his multi-faceted talents in all areas. Let’s face it; some guys had it all.
Beneath her head his chest heaved in a comfortable sigh. ‘Almost drowning kind of cements you together. Like we’re lying under this sun as it slides down and, not wanting to be melodramatic, but it could have been the last sunset we saw.’ His voice was gravelly, as one thumb grazed across the back of her hand and brought out the goosebumps in places she couldn’t imagine. ‘We might just have become a lost-at-sea statistic. When you get your breath back, we need to go and do something spectacular to celebrate.’
Interesting… what might that be exactly. This guy had charm by the shedload, and it was mighty hard to resist. You only have to say ‘no’. One tiny word. Wasn’t that what she’d told him? Whatever, she needed to make herself clear here.
‘Back on the beach, the last thing I remember talking about was your one-track mind. I’m hoping we haven’t gone there again.’ She dragged in a breath, hating her sensible-self just for a moment. ‘But, on the upside, a man who saves you from getting swept out to sea and then gives you a fossil has to be worth getting to know a little bit more. Possibly.’ Grinning upwards, catching a glimpse of his chin. Capitulating, slightly. ‘Dinner might be nice.’
‘Dinner’s a possibility.’ He grinned back down at her, his teeth up close just as even and spectacular as her tongue already told her. ‘Why don’t we take it as it comes?’ Bringing out those to-die-for wrinkles in his cheeks, he sent her on-the-ground stomach down to the basement.
‘And to think, back there I was taking the flak for making people do what I want.’ Laughing now, she gave him a soft poke in the ribs. ‘It takes a manipulator to know a manipulator, wouldn’t you agree?’
Easing her upwards, he got to his feet. ‘I prefer to think of it as my incurable desire to win.’
Letting her gaze meander up the whole of his beautiful body, she locked him in a dead-eye gaze, lifting an eyebrow. Important to keep the man who knew he was best at everything in line, despite the fact that her head was whirling. Especially because her head was whirling.
He offered her a hand, ‘C’mon then, Cherry Bomb, let’s go.’ One yank, and she flew to her feet. ‘We’ll get you into some dry clothes.’
More crazy talking that flipped her stomach into a triple somersault. Where the hell had her ‘professional’ gone when she needed it? And definitely not reacting to the clothes comment. Apart from with her racing pulse, obviously. Winning? Manipulating? Hot sex?
Whatever.
After a near-death experience anything was excusable.
She only had to say ‘No’.
‘Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. Made out of Swedish pinewood. It’s a no-brainer. The TV company’s paying, so strictly it’s your place more than mine.’
So that was how Jackson had talked her into the log cabin, which apparently wasn’t his at all anymore. Nice work. Thoughtfully, after this afternoon’s near disaster, he’d omitted all mention of sea views from the list of facilities on offer. Add smooth talking and persuasive argument to his ever-growing list of attributes, and, no question, the guy was a killer opponent. Wheedling his way further into her good books, he propelled her straight in the direction of the en-suite with the spa bath and told her he’d be happy not to see her for the next hour or two, and inadvertently picked up more points when he didn’t offer to throw in a personal massage service. Although, mentioning that thereafter the dress-code was relaxed. Bathrobes would do.
Nice try, Jackson. Dream on.
Pulling on some sweat pants and a slouchy top now, definitely the least sexy of the clothes she had here, she berated herself for only having thongs in her overnight bag. Somehow granny pants would have made her feel better equipped for the challenge ahead, because, regardless of what went on down on the beach, no matter how spectacular that kiss, now that she was back on the cliff top, her land-legs had taken over again – along with her common sense. So much easier to take refuge in the familiar persona of Bryony Marshall, workaholic man-avoider.
‘How’re the aching muscles?’ Jackson was sprawled across the large corner sofa, entirely relaxed, half buried under a confusion of Sunday papers, as she emerged into the open-plan living area.
‘Good.’ Perching on the edge of the coffee table, she flashed him a smile. ‘Considering what they’ve been through.’
Unnervingly, she felt as if she’d walked into her all-time favourite daydream. The one where she came down to Sunday breakfast to find her forever-fantasy-man sitting waiting for her… in their house… because they were married. Just this was the wrong man.
And yesterday the real man of her dreams had married someone else. Not that he’d ever noticed her, all the years she’d known him, even though he was her fallback man. Fall-back man? Who was she kidding? Matt had been her number-one choice, dammit, since she’d set eyes on him at the age of fourteen. Although close friends who knew her secret maintained he was nothing more than a vessel to place her affections in until the real guy came along, as and when she started to look for him, which she knew would be never. Good friend’s brothers? Whoever said you were onto a loser with them was right. Gutting, all the same.
‘You okay?’ Jackson was scrutinising her through narrowed eyes. ‘You look like someone walked on your grave?’
Maybe they just did. Who the hell said men couldn’t be perceptive?
‘Fine.’ Lying through her teeth, for all the right reasons. She’d promised herself not to think about Matt, if not ever again, at least for this weekend. Although, strangely, that kiss on the beach had done a great job of dispatching