by Heidi Rice
She’d captivated him, which was surprising in itself. He didn’t appreciate being watched or whispered about, and he’d spotted her and her friend doing exactly that. But there was something about the way she had peered at him, with none of the usual calculation or confidence he had come to expect from the women that approached him. And then when he’d got a better look at her, his senses had kicked into overdrive like those of a hormonally charged teenager.
He kept his lids closed, picturing her, and tried to determine the trigger. Creamy, translucent skin? Wide blue eyes so dark they were almost violet? The flutter of her pulse visible in the graceful arch of her collarbone? Russet curls that had escaped the mass of hair artfully piled on her head? The swell of her breasts revealed by the plunging neckline of her gown? The fresh, simple scent of soap and spring flowers? The crisp, precise London accent that he hadn’t heard in years?
Any one of those things could have turned him on. He was a guy after all. But still, she wasn’t conventionally beautiful: not particularly tall; her eyes had been maybe too big, she had a slight overbite and her forthright observations about his character had unsettled him. Even though they could only have been a lucky guess.
Weird? There was no explaining the ferocity of attraction. Not really. Except maybe…?
He opened his eyes, found himself shifting round to look at the doors to the rest room.
And realised that by far the most captivating thing about her had been her unguarded response. Her breathing had quickened, her pupils dilating wildly as soon as she stopped in front of him. The truth was he’d always been jaded where women were concerned. Even as a boy. Once he’d grown up, he found himself craving sex as much as any man, but for him it had never been more than a physical release. And as a result in the last few years, ever since The Deadly Touch had made him one of the hottest properties in Hollywood, he’d developed a cynicism about the women he dated that meant while sex was satisfying, it had become less and less exciting.
He knew precisely which buttons to press to get the response from women he wanted. But when was the last time a woman had responded to him so instinctively—and with so little caution? She’d been so transparent, the instant physical connection between them so intense, he was sure it had to be an act. But act or not, he was still captivated. And intrigued. It was certainly a very long time since he’d felt this level of attraction. He glanced round, smiling at his own impatience, then pushed away from the column as he spotted her standing by the rest-room doors, talking into her cell phone. Not talking, pleading by the look of it. She snapped the phone closed, stuffed it into her purse, then rushed out of the back entrance of the gallery.
He was so astonished, it took him a moment to figure out that she’d left. Acting on impulse, he charged after her, snaking his way through the crowd.
Where the hell was she off to in such a hurry? He didn’t even know her name. And he wasn’t finished with her yet. Not by a long shot.
CHAPTER TWO
‘HEY, wait up.’
Eva’s head whipped round at the shout from behind her. She skidded to a halt, stumbling as she recognised the tall silhouette backlit by the light from the open doorway.
Strong fingers grasped her arm, steadying her. ‘You okay?’
The firedoor crashed shut, throwing the alleyway into shadow.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, cursing the guilty blush burning her neck. ‘Thank you. I’m not used to these heels.’
His fingers stroked down her arm, setting off a series of lightning bolts, before he let her go. ‘I always wonder why women wear those ankle-breakers.’
‘To make our legs look longer.’
He gave a gruff chuckle, the sound strangely intimate in the darkness. ‘Is that so?’ She saw his head dip as her eyes adapted to the low light. She took a staggered breath and his tantalising scent engulfed her, masking the aroma of wet pavements and disinfectant.
‘You don’t need any help on that score,’ he remarked, his voice low and amused.
She wrapped her arms around herself, the chilled autumn air not the only thing causing her goosebumps. Was he flirting with her again? Why had he followed her? And why was his attention as intoxicating as it was terrifying?
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘Given that broken ankles are even less attractive than short legs.’
He laughed again, the rough murmur chasing the blush into her cheeks.
Stop being so literal, you muppet.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, mercifully ignoring her pathetic attempts at conversation.
‘I…’ She choked to a stop. She didn’t have an answer. Her instinctive need to flee from him seeming even more ridiculous than her small talk. ‘I wanted some fresh air. It’s stuffy in there,’ she lied.
Unfortunately, the lie didn’t quite come off when she shivered.
‘You’re cold.’ Shrugging off his jacket, he lifted her bag off her shoulder. ‘Here.’ Warm leather surrounded her. His scent clung to the garment, and she had to purse her lips to stop from sighing.
‘Let’s go for a ride.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she stammered, the tone of his voice making all sorts of inappropriate, but far too appealing, thoughts pop into her mind.
‘A ride.’ He buried his hands in his back pockets, hunched against the cold in the crewneck sweater and nodded down the alleyway. ‘I’ve got my bike round the corner. And I was looking for an excuse to escape myself.’
‘You mean a motorbike?’
Placing a warm palm on the small of her back, he directed her towards the end of the alleyway, subtly leading her in the direction he wanted to go. ‘It’s a great way to see the city. You’re a Londoner, right? Like me.’
‘Um, yes,’ she said, dazed by the little sizzles of electrical energy where his palm rested on her lower back.
‘So when did you arrive?’
‘I…’ She paused. She should tell him now. But her tongue seemed to get stuck in neutral again. ‘This afternoon. I’m visiting my friend Tess.’
‘The other nosey one?’
She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Yes, sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ he said as they drew level with a monstrous black motorbike, its swirling logo and silver trim gleaming dangerously in the street lamp light. ‘I like getting talked about by beautiful women.’
‘Oh,’ she said, not sure how to take the compliment. Was he trying to be funny? She looked good tonight, but no one would mistake her for beautiful, not unless they were seriously myopic.
Unlocking the box at the back of the bike, he lifted out a helmet. ‘Put this on.’
She took the helmet without thinking. Standing dumbfounded as he mounted the huge machine with easy grace.
He glanced back at her. ‘Hop on.’
‘But I’m wearing a dress,’ she said, struggling to slow things down a little. She’d never been on a motorbike before, especially not with a man of his… Power. ‘And heels,’ she added. ‘What if I fall off?’
Placing a proprietary hand on her hip, he nudged her round to face him, took the helmet from her, and plopped it on her head. ‘You won’t.’ He tucked the tendrils of hair into the helmet with a focused concentration that had her pulse throbbing in her throat. ‘Not as long as you hold on tight.’
Fastening the helmet’s strap, he ran his thumb across her chin. The tiny touch made her shiver and her tongue slipped out of its own accord, licking lips that had gone dry as a desert.
His gaze dipped and she pressed her lips together, the buzz of anticipation almost unbearable. When his eyes lifted back to her face, she could see amusement. And a disturbing intensity.
‘Where do you want to go?’ he murmured.
Anywhere you want to take me.
She slammed down on the impulsive thought and the much more impulsive thrum of tension that had her whole body vibrating.
She shouldn’t be doing this. It wasn’t just impulsive, it was reckless—bordering on inappropriate.
And she’d never done anything before that bordered on reckless, let alone inappropriate.
But maybe that was exactly the problem, she realised, as the thrum of tension refused to subside. In that split second of indecision, her whole well-ordered and completely appropriate life seemed to stretch out before her in a rolling canvas of total and extreme boredom and the impulsiveness took hold of her tongue.
‘I don’t know. You decide,’ she said, the whispered words so liberating she heard a strange sound come out of her mouth, which sounded suspiciously like a giggle.
Niccolo Delisantro chuckled back. ‘See, that wasn’t so hard,’ he said, with surprising intuition.
Eva stiffened. Did he know how big a deal this was for her? That adventures were something she’d only ever read about in books? That her life was about as dynamic as magnolia wallpaper?
‘Climb aboard and let’s get this show on the road,’ he added, and she shook off the humiliating thought. How could he know? He didn’t know the first thing about her.
She stifled the little pang of guilt at the thought of how much she knew about him. As soon as the ride was over, she’d tell him who she was. And face the consequences. But just this once, she wanted to give in to impulse.
She adjusted the helmet on her head, then hesitated, studying the enormous machine and the small segment of leather seat available to her.
Adventure was one thing, but how on earth did you climb onto a motorbike that large? In four-inch heels and a figure-hugging designer dress?
He stood up to stamp on one of the pedals and the monster roared to life. She jumped at the explosion of sound.
‘Um… I’m not sure how to…’ She shouted above the engine noise. ‘How do I…?’ He adjusted his wrist and the noise subsided to a dull rumble. ‘Do you have any instructions?’
The colour charged back into her cheeks at the easy grin he sent her over his shoulder.
So much for Eva Redmond, wild child. What kind of a loser asks for instructions on how to mount a motorbike?
Swivelling round, he lowered his gaze to her legs. ‘I’m guessing you’ll have to hike the skirt up.’ The mischievous glint in his golden eyes made colour race over her scalp and stand the fine hair on the back of her neck on end. He leaned over and flipped open a short rubber pedal that stuck out above the gleaming silver exhaust pipe. ‘Step on that and then take my arm.’ So saying he held out his hand.
Biting into her bottom lip, she gathered the skirt clumsily up her legs. ‘Here goes,’ she mumbled as she gripped his arm. Feeling the muscles of his forearm tense, she slipped while placing her instep onto the pedal.
‘Easy,’ he soothed. ‘There’s no hurry.’
She gave him a hopeful smile, praying that her blush was dimmed somewhat by the low lighting and that she wasn’t about to knock the two of them into a heap on the pavement. Then took a deep breath and launched her leg over the bike.
He gave a sharp tug as she did so, and she landed on the leather bench with a huff. Her breath sucked into her lungs at the sudden, explosive mix of sensations. The bike’s heavy vibrations shuddered up through her backside, her nipples hardening into peaks as they touched the unyielding slopes of his back. The skin of her inner thighs sizzled alarmingly as the dress hitched up and she came into intimate contact with the rough denim of his jeans.
The tight muscular contours of his backside flexed through his clothing and the blush intensified.
Oh, God. She’d never been this close to a man before. Ever. The sensations racing through her were both exquisite and yet petrifying on some elemental level. She leaned back, worried he’d feel her nipples poking him, but that only intensified the pressure of his denim-clad butt pressing into her spread thighs. She fanned her hand in front of her face, convinced she was having her first hot flush thirty years too soon.
What had possessed her to agree to do this? What if she passed out from sensory overload and fell off the bike? Then got flattened by a cable car and ended up horribly mangled in the middle of a San Francisco street?
‘Put your arms round my waist.’ The rough command sliced neatly through her panic attack and she obeyed him instinctively. Circling him, she pressed her cheek against the silky smooth cashmere sweater and linked her fingers, trying desperately to ignore the tensile strength of his abdomen beneath her palms.
She squeezed her eyes shut as the bike jerked forward off its stand. He revved the engine, signalling another sensory overload as the shudder of leashed power made her pulse jump.
‘Relax.’ One large palm covered the back of her hands, still locked round his waist. ‘You’re safe. I swear.’ She felt the rumble of his chuckle through her cheek and tried to loosen her death grip.
‘My name’s Nick, by the way,’ he said, his warm palm letting go of her hands to steer the bike off the pavement and into the road with a jolt. ‘Nick Delisantro. What’s yours?’
‘Eva,’ she said, the renewed stab of guilt going some way to calming her rioting nervous system. ‘Eva Redmond,’ she added, then tensed at the realisation that he might well recognise her name and call a halt to the whole fiasco.
She frowned. The fact that she would be desperately disappointed if he did, despite the mix of terror and anticipation making her stomach churn, had to be yet more evidence that she was probably having some sort of weird emotional meltdown.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, clearly oblivious to her deception.
She breathed a ragged sigh. But as her cheek brushed the velvet steel of his back she made herself a solemn promise. She would definitely tell him who she was once their wild ride was over. No more evasions.
Assuming she survived her wild ride.
Her heartbeat slammed into her throat as the bike leapt forward like a savage beast, and reared away from the kerb. Eva’s legs squeezed his backside while her arms tightened around his waist, her fingers clasped so tight she was in danger of dislocating a knuckle.
‘Welcome to San Fransisco, Eva the anthropologist,’ he shouted back at her.
More like Eva the Fraud.
The quick burst of shame did nothing to dim the heady kick of adrenaline as the bike tilted into a turn and then accelerated up the steep hill into the night.
Eva clung on tight and for the first time in her life allowed herself to rejoice in the thrill of doing something reckless. And unwise. And inappropriate.
And completely and utterly intoxicating.
Terror gave way to fascination as the scent of roasted duck and Szechuan spices made Eva’s stomach rumble. She swivelled her head back and forth trying to take in the kaleidoscope of people as the bike wound through the traffic choked thoroughfare. The oriental faces and exotic hieroglyphics on the signs and posters marked the area out as Chinatown. But almost as soon as she had registered the fact, they took a sharp turn and left the crowded street behind. A cable car trundled past on the cross street in front of them, like something out of a bygone era, but for the tourists in shorts and T-shirts with cameras round their necks sandwiched onto the bench seats. Shuddering over the cable-car tracks, the bike climbed and dipped through hills of ornate Victorian town houses, stopping and starting on every corner. Eva’s heart thumped against her chest wall, the emotion swelling in her throat at the overwhelming beauty of the city gilded by the dying sun.
She threw her head back, let the evening air brush a few escaped tendrils of hair against her cheeks.
Her eyes stung with tears. How could she have spent the first twenty-four years of her life never having done anything remotely spontaneous or daring?
Her parents had been in their fifties when they’d had her. Both of them brilliant academics dedicated to their chosen fields. When she’d been conceived by accident, they hadn’t had a clue how to factor a child into their busy lives. So she’d adapted instead. Which had meant being cautious and responsible and respecting the boundaries they set, even when she was a teenager and every other person she knew was busy tearing them down.
No wonder she was such a coward.
But maybe adventure didn’t always have to be bad. Or contained within the pages of the romance novels her parents had always insisted were ‘a foolish indulgence’.
She blinked furiously and clung tighter as they edged down another steep incline. The man in front of her felt so solid, his broad back sheltering her from the lengthening shadows. Then the bike hit a major road. Suddenly they were leaving the picture-postcard houses, the steep slopes and stepped pavements behind. Trees and parklands sped past and then Eva gasped, her eyes widening in wonder as the Golden Gate Bridge reared up before them, a huge geometric monolith of rusty red steel lit by the dying sun.
The bike thundered through the fingers of fog drifting over the road, the rush of air and noise both cold and thrilling as they zipped past the occasional car, and a monstrous shiny yellow eighteen-wheeler. Squeezing her eyes shut, Eva hugged the only still thing in her universe and felt them both take flight through the traffic, hurtling across the water. The ball of emotion broke lose. Firing up her torso, it burst out of her mouth and she let out a gleeful yell that whipped away on the wind.
She’d been walking through a fog her entire life but now the cloying veil of conformity was being ripped away—making every colour more vivid, every scent more acute, every sense more vibrant.
To think she had lived her whole life and never experienced anything as thrilling as a sunset ride across San Francisco Bay?
Adrenaline and affection blossomed as she clung to Nick Delisantro. How could she ever thank him enough, for giving her this?
CHAPTER THREE
AS the bike wound through the nature reserve on the Marin headlands, taking the climb towards Hawk Hill, Nick glanced at the fingers knotted round his waist and smiled.
He’d hazard a guess that Eva the gorgeous anthropologist had never ridden pillion before, given the way she was attached to him like a limpet. Not that he was complaining. Once she’d got the hang of leaning into the turns, the feel of her clinging to him had been very nice indeed. Her shocked little gasp when they’d hit the Bridge on 101, and her spontaneous shout as they’d raced across it had only added to the heat. Seemed the prim and proper Miss Eva had a wild side. When you factored in the familiar adrenaline kick of being on the bike and the awe-inspiring view as they topped the rise and drifted to a stop at the overlook…
