LITMIR.BIZ

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for bedrooms, not bike riding, and this woman looked about as fluffy as candy-floss.

      Somewhere deep in his psyche, the twanging ache of lust morphed into the molten lava of anger.

      ‘You are joking?’ His words slammed off the tarmac louder than he’d imagined, shot through with bitter tarnish that had so much more to do with resentment for what he’d waded through these last eighteen months than the woman standing there now.

      Through the apparition-haze he sensed her flinch, and the slight drop of her jaw wrenched his twisted guts another turn. Was he feeling guilty? Sorry for her? Then motor-mouth beside her jumped in.

      ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but due to the kit problems, this is the best we can come up with.’ The dizzy one, suddenly not so ditsy any more. Ostensibly apologising, but packing a punch; spinning him a resounding smile, presumably to sweeten the awful truth. ‘This is it, Jackson. Take it or leave it.’

      So that told him. Whose mouth was gaping now?

      ‘She’s just not the girl for the job.’ When in trouble, make the same point a different way. This would never have happened in his victory days.

      ‘And you think I don’t know this?’ Bryony cut in, eyes flashing. ‘At least we agree on that. And please stop discussing me as if I’m not here.’

      He clawed back control of his jaw. Prepared to negotiate.

      ‘Have you ever even ridden a bike, Britney?’

      From her speech hesitation, and shrug, that’d be a ‘No’.

      ‘For God’s sake, it’s not Britney, it’s Bryony. And of course I’ve ridden a bike.’ Avoiding eye contact, she studied her feet feverishly. ‘When I was younger.’

      Younger? She already looked like she belonged on a nappy night. Close up, she couldn’t be more than twenty-six.

      ‘At playgroup?’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘What do you know about cycling, anyway?’

      One flash of her eyes told him Barbie had left the building and Wonder Woman had sprung into action. It warned him that he might need to take cover and fast.

      ‘What? Do I have to have qualifying times to sit behind you?’ She gave a disparaging sniff. ‘For crying out loud, it’s a bit of fun, not London bloody 2012!’

      Ouch. One sideswipe that hit him full in the thorax.

      He caught Cressy landing Bryony a swift kick on the ankle and shooting her a ‘face’, no doubt telling her she’d jumped in with both feet about the London Games that he’d missed.

      Damn. The last thing he wanted was to be saved. Saving went hand in hand with pity and he had zero time for that either.

      Hell, he should be beyond all that now. Served him right for failing on all counts there. Failing by having that stupid accident in the first place, failing to make the damned Games and then failing to come to terms with it all. He should have put it behind him when it happened. All those years of work, all the anticipation, one careless slip, and he’d missed the whole damn show. The event of a lifetime, ten years working towards it, and he stuffed it up.

      Swallowing a mouthful of sour saliva, he braced himself for total climb-down.

      ‘Okay, point taken.’ He watched Bryony’s pale curls flick as her chin whipped up, no doubt marking some kind of personal victory, which was going to be short-lived. ‘So, if you’re that experienced, then you’ll know you need a helmet…’

      ‘Oh, damn.’ Her confident flounce was instantly replaced with the squawk of panic. ‘Cressy?’

      Point to him. Worth it, if only to see the whites of her eyes as her face crumpled. Not so sure of herself now, was she?

      ‘No worries, the helmet’s in the kitbag, Bry.’ Cressy posted him a mocking dead-eye as she triumphantly pulled the hat out of the holdall and thrust it at Bryony.

      ‘One last thing—’ And it had to be said. ‘From your VPL I’d say you’re wearing a thong?’ From the way she coloured up, he knew he’d scored a bulls-eye there. ‘Are you sure that’s wise? Cutting in and all that? There’s a reason I go commando.’

      ‘Too much information.’ She vaulted in, glaring at him like she’d love to throttle him and finish off with a happy dance. ‘I know you think you’re God’s gift, Jackson, but, honestly, my underwear choice is up to me.’

      ‘Okay, it’s your call, I’m only trying to help.’ Eyes snagging on Bryon, as she fiddled alternately with her chin strap and – God help him – her thong elastic, he wheeled the tandem out to an open patch of car park. ‘If you insist you’re up for it, then climb aboard.’

      He braced himself. Stood back, holding the handlebars at arm’s length as she approached. Something about the way her steps hung back screwed up his stomach again. What was it with this woman and the way she tipped his guts upside down?

      Definitely committed then. His pulse picked up speed as she arrived beside him, grasped the rear handgrips and shot him a hesitant scowl; yet he was still totally unprepared for the scent of her. One sweet, warm, blast of pure sex hit him as she bumped against his hip and swung her leg up, fumbling her way onto the saddle.

       Guts on full spin now.

      ‘Seat at the right height?’ He had to ask, though getting in close enough to raise it might be beyond him.

      ‘Errr. I guess so.’

      ‘Bemused of Scarborough’ speaking there, but giving the right answer from his point of view. No way could he cope with the up close and personal that adjusting her saddle would involve. Even though it was obviously too low, he wasn’t about to force the issue.

      She sat up shakily, one toe on the ground, and stopped biting her lip long enough to manage a slip of a smile. ‘So where do I put my feet?’

      A question to make his heart sink if it hadn’t been pounding so fast. Experienced bike rider? What a load of…

      ‘You need to clip the cleats on the base of your shoes into the pedals.’

      Easy. If you weren’t a high-maintenance female who couldn’t tell a bottom bracket from a chainset.

      ‘What?’

      Nice move. Neatly making it sound like he was the one over-complicating this.

      ‘Twist your feet and attach them to the pedals.’ Watching the clouds scudding across the bright blue sky, he counted to ten.

      ‘No, not happening.’

      No surprise there then. Dammit.

      His pulse already in overdrive, anticipating the next bit. Taking the weight of the bike on one arm, he bent to help, sliding his face down, mentally blocking the slippery heat of her Lycra-clad thigh perilously close to his cheek. Grasping her foot and yanking it into place on the pedal.

      ‘Not so hard, is it?’ Not for her, at least. ‘Twist your foot on and off. Get the idea?’ He aimed for nonchalant, rather than ready-to-take-her-against-the-wall.

      ‘Cool. They seem to be clipped in now.’ She dragged in a deep breath, pushed him an accusing stare.

      The full heat and weight of her body plus the bike rammed up against his as he straightened to stand, and the surge in his groin came as a firm reminder to him to somehow sort the desert of his sex life as he disentangled himself from the scent of clean hair. Moved hand over hand, towards the front of the tandem.

      Why the hell was he going ahead with this? More to the point, why was she? She could act as feisty as she liked, but he’d felt the nerves juddering through her, heard the rattle of her chattering teeth, even though her jaw was clamped tight shut. He had an idea that, despite her bravado, Cherry Bomb was silently freaking out here.

      He was suddenly aware as he swung his own leg over the crossbar and

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