Harlequin Dare May 2021 Box Set

by Jackie Ashenden

  Ten minutes later, we’re standing in the six-car garage behind the main house. I parked my bike here so I could escape without being at the mercy of the valet parkers.

  My bike’s not the flashiest, nor is it the most expensive ride. What it is, is a big, powerful beast. It eats up the road effortlessly and I can make it fly. Peony gravitates to it like a moon to a planet.

  “Is this yours?” She’s already running her hand down the seat, her fingers roaming over the leather. “Because if not, I might be tempted to commit my first felony.”

  “All mine,” I confirm.

  She grins at me before returning her attention to the bike. “In case you haven’t noticed, I just fell in love with your bike.”

  “You believe in love at first sight?” I tip my head at the bike.

  “Of course not,” she says. “Who does?”

  I don’t think I do, either. Not really. I take a step toward the bike, my brain screaming at me to straddle it, to drive away and abandon the whole breakfast idea, but Peony’s right there. She gives the bike a covetous glance—part lust, part greed—and I still want her.

  “Can I drive?” Peony’s practically bouncing in place, she’s so excited. It’s distracting because it makes me think about cheerleaders, and Cheerleader and the Football Player is always fun.

  I’m not sure how I feel about her driving, though. Frankly, I drive in all areas of my life and I like it that way. But she looks so eager, that I hate to tell her no.

  “You have an M1 license?”

  She gooses my side. “I took the road test with a friend’s bike a year ago. I was supposed to be getting my own, but then plans changed.” She waves a hand. “Okay. So more accurately, I changed jobs again and owning my own bike had to wait. I’m a public transit and Lyft girl at the moment. But I meant to get a bike and I’m fully licensed and trained.

  “Trust me?” She pats my bike, running her hand over the leather seat. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. If you want, we can even drive a few loops around this place so you can road test me, but you’ll like it if you let me drive. Swear to God.”

  “Right.” I slide an arm around her waist, tugging her back against me so I can brush a kiss on the top of her head. “Because we all know which part you play in the Good Cop, Bad Girl game.”

  She just grins at me. “You had a good time.”

  “I did.” Because I’m Good Cop, I try not to remember the details about that good time because my dick’s already making it clear that he’d like to do it again.

  “Gimme,” she says, holding out her palm. “Pretty please with a cherry on top.”

  I hand her the keys with a groan. “How did you get here if you didn’t drive?”

  While she makes porn noises over my bike, I rummage around in one of the big metal storage cabinets lining the garage.

  “Peony? Are you going to answer the question?”

  “Lyft. I was going to call for a pickup when I got bored.” She sticks her tongue out at me. “Obviously, I’m not bored yet. Why are you ransacking our host’s shit?”

  I thrust a pair of coveralls at her. “Put these on.”

  She takes them automatically. “Are we playing Dirty Mechanic and the Pit Stop now?”

  “You shouldn’t ride in just that dress. Your legs might get all chewed up.”

  She bites her bottom lip, which is freaking adorable. “Shouldn’t we ask before we just take stuff?”

  “Let me repeat what a very sexy someone just said. ‘Trust me.’ It’s fine.”

  Liam’s my best friend, he’s a billionaire, and I’m about ninety-nine-percent certain he has no idea what’s in his garage cabinets anyhow. As long as we don’t nick his Veyron, it’s all good.

  “We should at least leave a note,” she says. “Not that I think a billionaire is going to sweat the loss of a pair of used coveralls, but it’s the principle of the thing. You have to treat people the way you want to be treated, and I’d be pissed if someone just helped herself to my stuff, even if it was a transportation emergency.

  “I’ll leave a note,” she decides. “And I’ll wash them and return them. That should be okay, right?”

  “Bake him a plate of brownies if you must,” I groan. “But let’s ride?”

  “Do billionaires eat brownies? If I put them on a tinfoil plate, would the foil have to be gold?”

  “Billionaires love brownies. Get dressed.” I mock growl at her, aiming a playful smack at her butt.

  “How many billionaires do you know?” She shakes out the coveralls and unzips them.

  “You got a thing about people with money?” I take the coveralls from her and hold them up so she can step in.

  “Money turns people into assholes.” She goes to work on the zipper, but it’s stuck at crotch level and not budging. “You think Mother Teresa or the Pope would be the same with a billion dollars in the bank?”

  I grunt and take over the zipper. Then, for good measure, I put her into my jacket and a helmet. I won’t let her crash, but there’s no upside to taking chances, either. I don’t like the thought of Peony getting hurt.

  “Note,” she reminds me when I go to get on the bike.

  Right.

  We’re pretending we’re moral, upstanding party guests who are totally not absconding with forty bucks’ worth of protective gear. We leave a quick IOU scrawled on the back of a gas receipt I fish out of my jacket pocket.

  “You’re really sure this is okay, to borrow this?” She smooths a hand down the coveralls, molding the practical, navy-blue cotton against her curves. I’m tempted to yank the zipper back down and bend her over my bike. The problem is that I find her equally sexy all zipped up, nibbling nervously on her lower lip. I’m not sure there’s any way I wouldn’t be attracted to her, and then she straddles my bike, her legs hugging the sides.

  “Promise,” I say, swinging up behind her on the bike. I can’t remember the last time I rode like this and let someone else drive. I generally insist on being in charge.

  And yet here I am, wrapping my arms around her waist, my legs bracing hers. I keep my hands PG. She wants to ride, so we’ll do that.

  This is where I should tell her that Liam’s a great guy and I’ve known him since he was a teenage asshole. But that’s going to lead to the next question, which is how I met him and are we still friends. I don’t think Peony’s going to ask to meet him or suddenly express an interest in his money, but I like being just Jax, her fuck buddy and playmate. I’m not a billionaire businessman who makes and breaks companies. Here in this garage, I’m just her very good time and she’s just the girl I’m interested in.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Peony

  “SIX IMPOSSIBLE THINGS. GO!” I have to speak a little louder than is strictly sexy because the waves slapping at the wet sand a few feet from us have drowned out more than one of my questions.

  “Am I supposed to believe them?” Jax is smiling, his voice a rough growl that sends delicious little flutters through my stomach. And lower.

  “A man who reads.” I feign a clap for him because, honestly, a guy who knows his Alice in Wonderland deserves some positive affirmation.

  “Yeah, I do.” Jax leans back on one arm. His other arm’s wrapped around me. It’s like cozying up to a really sexy Rock of Gibraltar. I’ve had him completely naked and I still can’t believe the man’s size, both in the biceps department and in more personal areas south of the belt border. I realize I’m not making any sense, but the man has magic, brain-frying skills. I want to be confident and sure around him, but I’m still a work in progress and Jax...

  Well, he’s kind of overachieving in the life skills department.

  “Waiting,” I prompt him.

  “Ganghkar Puensum. Muchu Chhish. Sauyr Zhotasy. Tongshanjiabu. Chamar South. Sanglung.” He’s watching me as he talks now, not the ocean. My stomach
clenches a little, or maybe that’s just the gibberish he’s spewing.

  “You’re impossible to understand.”

  “Really tall, unclimbed mountain peaks.” He shrugs. “At least, no one’s proved they’ve climbed them.”

  “You climb?” The closest I’ve come to mountain climbing ever is when I worked temporarily in an office on the tenth floor that had a perpetually broken elevator. Also, I once took the stairs to the galleries above Westminster Abbey, which was a hundred and eight steps of gargoyle-and view-infused goodness.

  “Yeah,” he admits. And then, of course, he freaking stops when I’d like him to elaborate and add a few details to the picture of him I’m building in my head. I know now that he has a playful side, that he loves dirty sex, that he has a mouth on him, and that he owns the best motorcycle in the world. He also refused to let me pay for my own pancakes, and my body lights up like a Tilt-A-Whirl when he’s near.

  “Details.” I poke his ribs. “Give it up.”

  “It’s rock climbing,” he protests. “Quite straightforward. I see a big pile of them. I climb them.”

  I make a face at him. “Do you just climb rocks in California or are you an equal-opportunity climber who scales things in all fifty states? God, I’ll bet you’ve done it on all of the continents, haven’t you?”

  He gives a bark of laughter. “I’m all for doing it.”

  “I married a creep,” I say, laughing.

  He’s the kind of hot that makes me want to throw caution to the wind and ask him out on a second one-night hookup. Not pretty, not a crème brûlée kind of man, but more like a dark, brooding, unexpectedly sweet-sticky toffee cake. Looking at him makes me think about getting naked with him again, which has to go on my own list of impossibilities.

  “Now, let’s do yours.”

  “Well, this week my list includes paying my rent, finding a new job that I love, and running a half marathon.”

  “That’s three.” His thumb strokes the back of my hand.

  “Such a stickler for a total cheater. Are you an accountant?” I blurt the question out without thinking. I don’t like personal questions, so why would he?

  “What if I work for the IRS? I could be the tax guy.”

  Somehow, I don’t think he is. “With that tan? And your love of scaling tall objects? Impossible,” I scoff.

  “Three more impossible things,” he orders. “Come on.”

  “Flying. Cupcakes that are a diet food. Free trips to Bora Bora.”

  He frowns. “I’m not sure any of those are completely impossible. I may need to assess a penalty.”

  We’ve been hanging out at the bottom of a huge sand dune for the last hour, having what’s turned into a sunrise beach picnic. This is my favorite time of day, when everything goes from dark to a shimmering gray and then you blink and sunlight’s slipping up over the horizon. Everything looks different and new, as if I could do anything, go anywhere. Usually I just end up going to work or to bed, but the possibility is there.

  Jax hasn’t said he needs to get going, nor has he suggested dropping me anywhere. Maybe he doesn’t have mad weekend plans, or maybe he’s just enjoying the beach. Strangely, it doesn’t feel awkward and it’s certainly a pretty beach. Scrubby, sea-hardy plants carpet the hills wrapped around the sandy bits and an enormous pile of rocks jut up on one end. They could pass as a mini mountain and I briefly consider climbing on them, but they look wet from the tide and neither my circus costume nor the too large coveralls are really rock climbing gear.

  “I wish I had wings,” I blurt.

  “Where would you fly?” he prompts. “Or are your feathers purely decorative?”

  Bora Bora does sound attractive, but...

  I point to the rocks. “I’d fly up there.”

  He nods, eyeing the rock face. “I’m warning you right now that there’s going to be an abundance of bird shit and other unhygienic stuff.”

  I believe him. The beach isn’t flat. There’s a vast pool of leftover ocean trapped behind us like a mini pond. Jax carried me piggyback over it. I’ve probably overstayed my welcome with him and he’s trying to figure out how to dump the crazy girl, but...it’s nice.

  He’s nice.

  On the other hand, I’d kill for a mattress, a pillow, and a nice light-blocking eye mask right now. The sun’s fully up and I yawn, my jaw cracking. Maybe it’s time for some solo bedtime action with my pillow.

  “I should get back.” It’s better if I end this thing now, rather than wait for him to make up an excuse to leave.

  “I’ll give you a lift.” Jax rises to his feet.

  I’m not sure more time with this man is wise. “I could live in Timbuktu. Or Florida. I can just call for a Lyft.”

  He holds his hand down to me. “Service out here is going to suck.”

  “So I’ll wait. It’s a beach, not the antechamber of hell.”

  “Or we could ride together.”

  “You don’t even know where I live.”

  “I was being a gentleman. You can tell me and then I’ll take you. Or tell me somewhere close enough.”

  I hate strings and commitments. It’s one of the many reasons why I’ve bounced from job to job since graduating from college, and it’s certainly why my relationships have all been quick sprints rather than marathons. Hooking up with Jax was supposed to be fun and quick, so him knowing where I live or being concerned about my getting home safely throws me off-kilter. He has a penis, so I also don’t get why he’s not perfectly happy to have some meaningless sex and then for me to run right out of his life.

  He goes in for the kill. “A Lyft will cost a fortune. Prices will be surging.”

  He can’t know that without checking the phone app, but he’s probably right. Given my newly unemployed state—along with my perpetually broke one—I decide to give in.

  “Okay. If you really don’t mind.”

  He just shakes his head. I get the feeling Jax usually gets his way.

  I’m used to taking care of my business myself. Not having a car sucks, but I’ve got it handled. On the other hand, a quick check of my phone while Jax made a trash run just confirmed that he was right about the lack of rideshare opportunities. I might also have to stop and sell a kidney to cover the ride.

  I consider giving Jax an address that will put me within walking distance of my place, but I’m exhausted. Plus, if he were a serial killer, he’s already had ample opportunity to murder me. I don’t want to be stupid, but I’ve slept with him, he’s been inside me, and we’re pretty much alone on this gorgeous, windswept beach, so I think I’m safe.

  Jax drives this time, and I don’t protest. My late night’s definitely catching up with me. We ride over the Golden Gate Bridge, which is thronged with early morning walkers, and then pick our way through San Francisco. The usual cacophony of car horns, construction equipment and sirens makes it too loud—and hazardous—for conversation, so I just rest my head against his shoulder and watch the world slip by. Jax drives with easy confidence, handling his beast of a bike effortlessly.

  My rental place is on a beach on the western side of the city. It’s a nice stretch of sand with some amazing wave action. The water’s the stormy dark blue of the Pacific, colder than an ice bath, and the beach is pleasantly breezy on a good day. On a bad day, it’s like living in the middle of my own personal typhoon.

  I’m currently staying in the third camper in a long line of beat-up RVs shoehorned into a narrow strip of space between the main road and the beach. The rent is so cheap that I have my doubts about the legality of the parking job, but I’ve kept those suspicions to myself. There’s less doubt about the roofing job. My RV has a blue tarp fastened over the original roof, which has long since sprung a handful of leaks. I direct him to the end of the row and he pulls into an empty parking space.

  I hop off the bike before he’s even
killed the engine. “Thanks! Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

  The queen of awkward small talk, that’s me.

  “Hang on, Firefly.” He double-checks his phone, frowning. Looks at the row of dilapidated, tarp-covered campers. “Something’s not right.”

  Yeah. Not wanting to wait for the Judgment Train to pull into the station, I grin like a demented chipmunk and start shimmying out of his jacket. “We’re good! That’s me.”

  He scrubs a hand over the back of his head while he eyes the ancient RV I’m pointing at. Whatever. I blame his unimpressed state on our night at the faux French palace in Napa. It’s hard for my real-people place to compete with the lifestyles of the rich and almost-famous, after all. I mean, he could know a dozen billionaires. Maybe he has their house keys and waters their plants while they swan around the world in their environment-destroying private jets?

  He puts the kickstand down, killing the bike’s engine. “You live in a camper?”

  “It’s affordable beachfront real estate, which is a miracle in San Francisco.”

  He mutters something under his breath. It’s not complimentary. And sure, the campers themselves are more than a little rough around the edges. They’ve got a lot of miles on them and, when it rains, I’m super grateful for the tarp stretched over mine. I love the sound of raindrops, but not when they’re hitting my bedroom floor. Still, I get to go to the beach whenever I want.

  I’ve lived in a lot of places in the last ten years, but this is one of my favorites. The camper’s small and the solar-heated shower is an interesting challenge, but I have the run of the entire beach.

  “Is it even legal?”

  “You bet.” Honestly, I have no clue, but I learned early that if you say it with confidence, people don’t doubt as much.

  Jax just shakes his gorgeous head and gets off the bike. This was not how I envisioned the end of our night together. He’s supposed to pull up, I hop off, and then he gets gone from my life and I can get on with figuring out how I’m going to handle Monday and its four professional companions: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. He strides around the bike, cupping my elbow with his hand like we’re some kind of geriatric couple headed for the opera.