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And would soon be vibrating between hers.
No way was she climbing on board.
And she was getting home…how?
Call a cab, the sensible side of her brain suggested. There had to be an empty cab somewhere in the whole of London.
‘You are chicken,’ the biker insisted, slanting an amused glance Magenta’s way.
She laughed dismissively, longing for a way out. But she’d done ‘sensible’ all her life, and look where that had got her.
‘Well?’
‘Forbidden fruit’ sprang to mind when she looked at him—fruit that was so close, so ripe and so dangerously delicious, she could practically taste it on her tongue. ‘How do I know I’ll be safe with you?’
‘You don’t.’
Her pulse raced. But then, she reasoned, it was only a lift home—why the fuss? ‘Shouldn’t you know my address before we set off?’
‘So, tell me.’
She found herself doing so even as she wondered how his strong white teeth would feel if he used them to lightly nip her skin.
‘It’s time to get on the bike,’ he prompted. ‘I’ve no intention of running out of fuel while I wait for you to make up your mind.’
‘Could you take my briefcase and stow it for me, please?’
‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ He held out his hand.
‘I suppose I should thank you,’ she added belatedly.
‘I suppose you should,’ he agreed.
‘If you’re sure it’s not out of your way?’
‘I’m sure.’
This man would be equally certain about every decision he made. He’d be just as decisive when he left her standing here freezing her butt off, as he’d so elegantly put it, on the basis of her extreme cowardice.
‘Would you like some help?’ he said, looking on in bemusement as she started hopping into position.
All she had to do was throw one leg across his seat. How hard could that be? ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
After one final heave and a lot of unladylike wriggling, she was finally in position—which meant close up to the biker. She tried to shuffle back a bit to maintain the proprieties, but the moment he kicked the stand away, released the brake and gunned the engine she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms as tightly as she could around his waist.
A waist without an ounce of fat on it, Magenta registered, but an awful lot of muscle, and if there was a way to ride pillion behind the biker without allowing her body to mould with his—thankfully, it had escaped her.
By the time they joined the heavy London traffic, she was pretty familiar with the biker’s back and the way his thick hair escaped the helmet to caress the collar on his jacket. She was so familiar she had even started shivering…with cold, Magenta told herself firmly. Having consigned her safety to the hands of a man she hardly knew, that was more than enough risk to take in one day.
He really knew how to handle a bike and wove in and out of the congested streets of London like a man who really knew what he was doing, while Magenta was increasingly conscious of the insistent vibrations beneath her. It was almost a disappointment when they rolled up outside her neatly manicured town house. Dismounting the bike shakily, she removed her helmet and shook out her long, black hair.
‘That’s quite a transformation, lady,’ the biker commented as he lifted off his helmet to stare at her.
‘You think so?’ Magenta laughed as she retrieved her clip as it fell to the ground. She couldn’t remember feeling so carefree in a long time. Her hair had been blown to blazes, like the rest of her—and it felt great. She felt great. ‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’ His face creased in the now-familiar grin.
Did she imagine the curtains in nearby houses were twitching? For once she didn’t care what anyone thought. So she had ridden home on the bike of a tough-looking guy, ditching the power suit and the high-heeled shoes along the way. Short of stripping naked and leaping on top of him in the middle of the street, she was committing no crime.
‘Coffee?’ she said, still in the throws of enthusiasm. It seemed only polite. And when would an opportunity like this come round again?
The man’s laser gaze was every bit as astonishing as she remembered; she was sure he was going to say, ‘why not?’ But what he actually said was, ‘I should get back.’
‘Of course…’ What was she thinking?
Where overtures towards good-looking guys were concerned, she was somewhat out of practice, Magenta conceded. But, as this wasn’t an overture—not even close—but merely a polite invitation to enjoy a hot drink before making a return journey in the cold, she had nothing to worry about, did she? ‘Genuine Blue Mountain coffee.’
