by Jane Linfoot
‘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’.
Chapter 9
‘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 all thoughts of him and his wedding tux, and his lovely new wife Tia, who, judging by the Facebook pics, was tiny and impossibly beautiful. But, thanks to the beach snog, there was a different man in her head now, which made a change, and he was occupying all of it. But something told her that wasn’t healthy either.
‘May seem better after a drink?’ Jackson dipped into to an ice bucket on the table beside him, and pulled out a bottle. ‘Sparkling white, the best way to smooth the race pains away, and I’ve started without you. Unless you’d prefer something else? Plenty of everything in the kitchen.’
‘Sparkling white’s cool.’ Chilled. Like he was. ‘Only a glass, though.’
He filled two glasses and handed her one. Funny how Jackson in the flesh was a hundred times more mesmerising than Matt had ever been, even though she’d spent the best part of ten years being hooked on him from afar. Although being here with Jackson didn’t exactly feel real either, it was unusual enough to make her shivery in a dangerous kind of way. There was something compelling about the strangeness of the situation. She took a sip of wine, hoping the bubbles that spiked her nose would make it seem more concrete.
‘Cutting back on the alcohol? I thought we were meant to be celebrating.’ Jackson, totally edible in his slouch pants and white tee, smouldering like he was about to devour her.
And her central nervous system on crazy-time, making her whole body buzz every time his gaze traversed her boobs – which seemed to be a lot. Add in that the air felt like it had an electric charge, and she was in weird-city. He had to be mocking her as he studied her through narrowed eyes.
‘One drink, and after that, I really should get going.’ Doing a complete U-turn on what she’d implied earlier, but on reflection a whole night in the same cabin with Jackson and she couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t jump the guy and grind his bones to dust, however well-disciplined her good-girl act was.
‘Going to where exactly?’ His brow wrinkled into a frown. ‘I thought we’d agreed you’d stay here? The two room guarantee and all that?’ He tilted his head in query.
‘You agreed. I didn’t.’
One sniff, and he was onto her.
‘I get it. Polar-bear feet. I can feel the ice from here.’ He rubbed his chin, and slid her a sly grin. ‘And talking of cold, I’m guessing a girl whose mother has given up all hope of a son-in-law is maybe a little out of practice on the one-to-one social front, which might explain why you’re feeling jittery, but there’s no need to be scared or run out on me. I’ve got quite enough experience for both of us, as you pointed out. Charm skills are the upside of having played the field.’
His grin split into a laugh. Bad move, because that exposed the column of his neck, and the hollow at the base, which made her toes go all wiggly. Oh my. Rumbled completely, by the guy with the confidence in bucket-loads. And second-guessing her like he really was a mind reader. Except he’d missed the bit about her not being able to keep her hands off him, or maybe he took that as a given, which would be where all that confidence came from.
‘Super-sure of yourself aren’t you?’ She found herself laughing too. ‘Like I said this afternoon.’
Leaning back on the sofa, he held both hands in the air.
‘Okay, I get the message. Whatever you think, I’m not the cavemen you’ve got me down for. You have my word – I won’t touch you. No action replays of what went down on the beach, I promise, if that’s what it takes to make you comfortable. You come and sit on the sofa.’ He jumped to his feet, steering her across the room, being extra careful to keep outside her personal-space zone. ‘I’ll grab the phone and we’ll order some dinner, watch a movie. You have a look to see what’s on.’ He shot her another wicked smile. ‘I’m exceptionally house-trained, I’ll even let you hold the controls.’ With a final satisfied grin, he flipped the TV controller in her direction, headed for the doorway to
the kitchen, and disappeared.
Bemused, Bryony leaned to pick up the controller, dazed like an express train had just ran over her. What a man. Full-on didn’t begin to cover it.
‘Oh, and just to be clear…’ his head reappeared around the door frame. ‘I know you were just as turned on by that kiss as I was.’
Hanging in the air long enough to register her mouth drop open and hear the gulp that came when her heart leaped into fast-forward.
What?
All gravelly voice and hollow cheeks and stubble. Gone before she gathered her senses enough to reply. Rolling her eyes, snorting at the barefaced cheek of the man. Except he’d got it righter than she’d ever admit. Even to herself.
‘And another thing…’
Back again, dammit. But this time she was ready.
‘This had better be good.’ She hit back with the don’t-mess-with-me offensive, growled through gritted teeth. Always worked a treat on sound technicians who took the piss.
‘Don’t worry, it is.’ He posted a beyond-satisfied smirk around the doorframe, tapped his fingers, playing for time and maximum impact. ‘As I recall, you were the one who suggested dinner, so technically you’re the one who asked me on this date. Thought it was worth a mention.’
Worth a mention? Worthy of a full-blown eye roll more like. Nothing else. Except a very weary sigh.
‘Have you finished?’ Firm, in control here, and letting him know it.
‘Yes. Er, no, actually. Not yet.’ And judging by the hesitation he was backing into line. Nicely.
‘What now?’ Exasperated was a definite put-down. Not that she meant to be nasty, but this guy took some handling. She couldn’t afford to let him get one-over on her.
‘I found the room service menu if you’d like to come and choose.’
Okay. Easy as. He just did.
#lookingstupid or what?
Chapter 10
Dinner. Steak, chips and salad, on lap trays in front of the TV, with Jackson foregoing the chips. High-fat, bad carbs apparently. A body like a superman obviously didn’t happen without a measure of deprivation and care. Enough fizzy wine to live up to its name, but not put her under the table. And two hours rolling around, howling with laughter, watching Despicable Me on DVD, which Jackson conjured from his room. Who’d have thought?
‘Cartoon collection, never travel without it. Think yourself lucky I didn’t make you sit through Happy Feet.’
She guessed that was his way of excusing himself for inflicting her with his childlike taste, not that she’d minded a Disneyfest at all. She could imagine, now she knew him better. Pin-up hottie of the century, morphed into one big kid. And trying not to think how engaging that was, and conveniently easy, as laughter diffused the sexual tension which crackled across the gap between them. Took her mind off the heat of the man, who’d moved next to her on the sofa, stretching those long sexy legs of his to rest tantalisingly on the coffee table. Making a deal with herself: Look but don’t touch.
Made sure she didn’t admit that after tonight Despicable Me had zoomed onto her list of favourite movies too, or give him the opportunity to seize on the fact they found the same things hilarious. It was important to play down how comfy she was in his company – give this guy any nugget he could vaguely interpret as a compliment, and he would be in danger of getting stuck in the building, given that his head would be too swollen to get through the door. His self-belief was not in short supply. Honing in now on his languid profile as he leaned by the open door to the terrace. Cressy would be disgusted at her for what she was throwing way. Sex on legs, think of it as a gift. Maybe she’d regret it too, tomorrow.
‘So how did you get into cycling?’ Suddenly reluctant for the evening to finish, she threw Jackson a carefully chosen, open-ended question.
‘I’ve been at it for as long as I remember. When we showed some promise as lads, our dad seized on that, more for himself than for us. He got his kicks from our success, and he drove us pretty relentlessly.’ He gave a pensive shrug. ‘My old man’s a bit of a fucked-up guy, I’m afraid.’
She assumed that last excuse had to be in response to her appalled expression. ‘But didn’t it make you want to rebel?’
Was a dad who was fucked-up and alive better or worse than one like hers, who’d broken her heart when he left, then died?
‘My dad’s regime didn’t allow questions, let alone rebellion. His methods were harsh, but I guess we came through in the end. By the time we were old enough to stand up to him, we were hooked on winning. Signing up to a pro team was the fast way out, and I went when I was eighteen. Other young riders found the team life a shock, with the hard training, the discipline and being away from home, but for me it was like a holiday camp after my dad.’
‘It all sounds rough.’ Poor Jackson. Who’d have thought he’d had such a bad time. It made what she’d always thought of as her own raw deal seem easy.
‘It toughened me up, made me what I am, and to be honest I don’t often talk about it.’ He gave a sigh and moved towards the open French doors. ‘Coming out to see the moonshine on the sea?’ A casual invitation, flipped over his shoulder as he sidled out, moving the conversation to somewhere safer for him, but less safe for her.
What a corny line! But innocuous all the same. They were both adults here; they both knew the score. Any moves that were going to happen would have been made hours ago. Since she laid down the unspoken rules, he’d backed right off, and now she’d got her own rampant woman back in the box, she was well out of the danger zone. Easing herself off the sofa, she padded across the polished boards. One last glimpse of the clouds scudding across the night sky before she went to bed slotted neatly into the low-risk category. Good-girl Bryony could manage that.
‘It’s breezy out here.’ Keeping it light, the wind snatching her hair as she stepped into the small courtyard. ‘And so bright. Amazing how the moon splashes across the water.’ She moved across to where Jackson was leaning on the waist-high wall, scanning the horizon, t-shirt flapping.
‘Hey, look.’ She stooped to examine something moving on the ground at the edge of the planted area. ‘I thought it was a leaf, but it’s a frog.’
Two seconds, and Jackson was crouching beside her, hunky shoulder uncomfortably close to her cheek, extending a finger towards the ground. ‘Ahhh, it’s a toad.’
Trust Mr. Know-it-all.
‘There’s a difference?’
‘Toads have more warty skin – and they don’t hop, they crawl, although technically they’re all frogs.’ He tickled the top of its head gently with a leaf as it moved to take cover under a stone. ‘We used to spend all summer collecting them on holidays in Cornwall when we were kids – when we weren’t cycling that was.’
‘Typical boy.’ Smiling, she gave a shrug, ‘Toad, frog, whatever, he’s pretty.’
Jackson let out a snort. ‘Typical contrarian woman. A frog and a prince to choose between, and you hone in on the damned frog.’
Laughing, she stood up, moving to take a last look at the sea over the wall.
‘Not big-headed at all then, putting yourself in the prince category?’
‘Prince of darkness maybe?’ He raised his eyebrows, voice husky, sending prickles down her spine as he came to stand behind her. Not touching, but close enough for her to breathe in the scent of clean male, to sense the shadow of his warmth on her back. ‘Cold?’ His breath brushing her neck sent a skitter through her body.
‘No.’
So close, she should be legging it. Except her legs were frozen, and nothing to do with the temperature. If she dragged her arms tight around her ribs she might get the juddering under control.
‘Your teeth are chattering.’ Not much of a warning from him, but the only one she got. Then the breath left her body as he folded his arms around her. ‘I’ll warm you up.’
Noooooooooooo. Bracing herself to protest. Too late.
Or, how about yes? The sensuous slide of skin on skin as his muscled arms close
d over hers… Reason flew out the window, and lust won hands down. She leaned into him, and as his lips traced an exploratory path below her ear, a silver avalanche began at her scalp, and tumbled over every inch of her skin to her toes.
‘Jackson.’ Standing rigid, she braced herself against the onslaught. Delicious, compelling. Wanting this frozen moment to last forever. And then his hands were strong on her shoulders, as he spun her to face him. One graze of stubble on her upper-lip and his mouth landed on hers like a heat-seeking missile, turning her legs to molten syrup with the taste of him. She sagged against him as he whipped the oxygen out of her. Sweet. Achingly sweet. Peaches and cream, raspberry cupcakes, white-chocolate cheesecake. Feeding her the sugar-rush of her life, all wrapped up with the power of pure, unadulterated man.
The out-of-control brunt of his erection crushing up against her stomach, making the need pool between her legs. The aching pleasure of those strong male fingers as he slid his hand inside her top, and scraped his nails across her back. Dying as he moved around the front and teased a nail across her breast, then pulling down her bra cup, still kissing her as if his life depended on it, groaning his pleasure deep into her throat. Her knees sinking as he toyed with her nipple. Then, with his hand on her back, her bra clip twanged, and she gasped for air as he broke from the kiss. One yank and her t-shirt was up. She gave a small cry as his mouth landed on her nipple, shooting sharp judders of pleasure through her as his tongue tangled, sucking and circling, sending her cross-eyed, as his fingers deftly worked her other side.
‘O my.’ Back against the wall, lifting her leg, locking it over his hip, so she could thrust her pelvis and grind the heart of her pulsing wetness against the throbbing head of his erection. Meeting its heat through the fabric, every nudge forging a rocket of desire deep into her core. Searching, sliding her hand down the rock-hard muscle of his stomach, past the edge of his slouch pants, hearing him moan again as her hand closed around the length of his shaft.
