Cathy Williams - One Night with Her Brooding Boss

When Magenta got down to the car park it was full of recovery vehicles with red lights flashing and men in high-vis jackets.

Why was nothing ever straightforward? Magenta wondered, urging herself to remain calm as the mechanics explained to her that, as hers was a vintage car, they couldn’t repair it now but would have to order a tyre. They were going to recover the vehicle and keep it in the garage over Christmas and she could collect it some time in the New Year. No, they couldn’t be more specific than that, the mechanic in charge told her, scratching his head.

Pulling up her collar against a sudden squall of icy wind, Magenta thanked the men for turning out in such diabolical weather and insisted on giving each of them a crisp new note. Why shouldn’t someone enjoy their day?

Wrapping her arms around her body to keep warm, she watched as her car was loaded onto the transporter. She was just bending down to retrieve her bag and briefcase when a familiar roar made her jump, and a familiar boot stamping down by her feet made her scowl.

‘Don’t tell me,’ she managed as the biker lifted off his helmet. ‘You didn’t get me the first time around, so you’ve come back to finish me off with a heart attack? ‘

‘Your heart’s safe from me.’

Oh…

Was she supposed to feel quite so disappointed? Magenta’s brain raced as the biker lifted one ebony eyebrow, sending a tidal wave of hot, feral lust rushing through her veins. Removing one protective leather glove, the man stretched out his hand for her to shake.

‘You surely don’t expect me to shake your hand after you’ve frightened me half to death, not once but twice?’

He grinned. ‘You’re not that feeble, I’m sure. But my apologies, if I frightened you.’

The mock bow made her heart thunder into action. But what exactly did he find so funny?

‘Something tells me we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other,’ the biker said, closing one warm, strong hand around Magenta’s frozen fingers.

Yeah, right. In your dreams, she thought.

AS THE biker dismounted his machine and straightened up, Magenta felt her cheeks fire red. He was a lot taller than she had expected and had the type of shoulders that blotted out the light. She had to fight the desire to give him a comprehensive twice-over. She already knew he was an amazing-looking man and that tight black leathers were no respecters of female sensibilities. She dropped her gaze as a dangerous stare levelled on her face.

‘Lost your voice?’ The voice was low and amused, husky and compelling.

And leather didn’t conceal or contain, it stretched and moulded shapes lovingly…

‘Well? Have you?’ he prompted.

No, but she had been struck by one too many thunderbolts in a single day, Magenta concluded, whipping her head up to stare the man in the eyes. He curved a smile in response that threw her totally, a smile that made his eyes crinkle attractively at the corners.

‘I’m glad you think this is funny,’ she said, covering her growing feeling of awkwardness with a scowl. ‘I don’t care who you are, what you just did was dangerous.’ Now she sounded like his headmistress and felt old enough to hold the post.

That grin spread from his mouth to his eyes, making her wonder if he’d read that thought.

‘You look to me like you badly need a ride.’

Where had that thought come from?

She wished she had the guts to throw him the same grin he had given her earlier. But no, this was how she was, clumsy with men, which made her grumpy and defensive. She might be heavily into studying the sixties for the ad campaign, but it would never occur to her to embrace the concept of free love. And from what she’d seen to date nothing about love was free, Magenta reflected as the biker continued to study her with amused interest.

‘I thought I might come back and see if you still needed rescuing.’

‘Not then and not now.’

‘A man is programmed to play the white knight—it’s built into the genes.’

The only thing that was built into his jeans was a warning that she was out of her depth. ‘I can look after myself, thank you.’

‘And so you prove this by standing out here, freezing your butt off?’

Just the mention of her butt caused her body to heat. ‘I haven’t been standing outside all this time. And, anyway, I’m going home now.’

‘And how do you intend to do that?’

‘On the underground, or in a cab.’

‘You’ll be lucky.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Delays on the line; buses bulging at the seams. And there’s not a taxi to found. Not a free one, at least.’

She tried not to notice how beautiful the biker’s eyes were. They were aquamarine with steely grey rims around the iris, the whites very white and his lashes completely wasted on a man. While his tongue was firmly lodged in his cheek, Magenta suspected. ‘What are you? ‘ she demanded. ‘Some sort of information clerk for the city of London?

‘Just observant. Have you worked up the courage to take a ride with me yet? ‘

Unfortunately, he was right. She could stay here and freeze or she could take her chances with public transport. But hadn’t she been lectured on the dangers of taking life too seriously? Shouldn’t she at least consider the biker’s offer?

Absolutely not.

She turned her back, only to find herself checking the road for black ice. The mystery biker might be the most infuriating, the most arrogant, overbearing and impossible man she’d ever met, but the thought of finding him mashed up in a gutter made her heart race with fear for him. ‘Take care—it’s slippery,’ she mumbled and, putting her head down, she marched towards the exit.

Wheeling his bike in front of her, he stopped dead.

‘What are you doing?’ Magenta demanded.

‘I don’t take no for an answer.’ His eyes glinted with laughter.

‘I can see that. Does everything amuse you?’ she demanded, stepping round his bike.

‘You make me smile.’

She kept on walking, but as she dragged her jacket a little closer it occurred to Magenta that she was perhaps being a little ungracious. ‘If you’re looking for someone…’

The biker’s eyes glinted.

‘I’m just trying to say, if I can help you in any way…’

‘Get on the bike.’

No! Yes. What should she do? She had been fascinated by the beacon of freedom women lit in the sixties and talked a good battle when it came to championing the cause—but did she ever seize the moment and take action? Or did she always play it safe?

Too damn safe. ‘Helmet?’

The biker produced a spare and then patted the seat behind him.

‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you? ‘ she commented as she buckled it on.

‘Sure of you. You can’t resist a challenge, can you?’

‘And how do you know that?’

He shrugged.

‘The helmet seems like it might fit—’

‘Then climb on board.’

The husky voice suggested a chastity belt might be a useful piece of kit too.

‘Before I change my mind…’ He revved the engine.

‘Are you always so forceful? ‘

‘Yes.’

The master of the one word answer drowned out the demented timpanist in charge of her heart by taking the revs up to danger level. And now she took a proper look at his monster machine she wasn’t even sure she could climb on board, as the biker put it. Did her legs even stretch that wide?

‘Chicken?’ The smile was masculine and mocking.

‘I am not.’ She played for time. ‘That’s a Royal Enfield, isn’t it?’

‘You know motorbikes?’

Her attention flew to a very sexy mouth. ‘I know the brand, thanks to my research into the sixties,’ she said primly. She might have known someone as cool as the biker wouldn’t ride a pimped-up, over-hyped modern machine. The Enfield was a serious motorbike for serious riders. Big and black, it was vibrating insistently between his leather-clad thighs.