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‘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.
