Jane Linfoot - High Heels & Bicycle Wheels

Cressy and her obsessions again.

Although she had a point.

In spades.

Not that she was about to admit to Cressy she’d noticed. No point getting the girl any more over-excited than she was already.

‘Probably just padding.’ Bryony added a derisive sniff to reinforce the deception.

‘That particular bit of him had nothing to do with padding, Bryony Marshall, and you know it.’ Cressy shook her head despairingly. ‘And lucky you for having that rear view for elevenses.’

Bryony shrugged, aiming to look completely disinterested. ‘Whatever.’

‘Don’t knock me out with your excitement. Glory, what I wouldn’t give to be in your saddle.’ Cressy’s teasing nudge hit her full in the ribs. ‘C’mon on then. Unless you want to strip off here like Mr Smart-ass, we’d better head to the Ladies. I’ll pour you into your finery.’

‘Fuchsia! And so tight! What the hell was Annie thinking?’ Bryony, emerging into the sun from the Ladies tripped on the step and landed in a heap on Cressy. ‘At least this dreadful stuffing round my bum will come in handy when I fall on my butt.’

‘Careful!’ Cressy grabbed Bryony’s arm hastily. ‘And in her defence, Annie probably chose the shorts to match the Charity top. They wouldn’t have been quite such a snug fit on her. And the padding is to stop you getting wedgies and saddle sores.’

Snug? That had to be the polite way of putting it. Indecent was more like it. And saddle sores were so not on her agenda. An already-bad day was turning into an indisputable nightmare and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. Bryony grimaced down at her boobs, morphed to melon-size, and her cleavage, squished skywards by the bursting zip.

‘Who’d have thought a stretchy top three sizes too small would zoom a girl to a double G? I look like I’m promoting Breast Enhancement, not Sport for Teens. And it’s not very warm either.’

Nipple alert!

Bryony squinted down, to examine her profile.

‘Don’t worry, it’s an erection-free zone – this far at least.’ Cressy shot her a grin. ‘And you look fab. So lucky we found that matching lippy. I can think of someone not a million miles away who’ll appreciate the look.’

‘Just the kind of support I need.’ Not. Cressy could wiggle her eyebrows all she wanted. That one wasn’t happening. Jackson Gale, with his smouldering, stomach-flipping brand of uninvited flirtation, had already made it onto her personal list of guys to be avoided at all costs. Bryony snorted, determined to distract her. ‘These shoes are crazy. I’ll never be able to walk in them.’

‘Sorry to state the obvious.’ Another rueful grin from Cressy. ‘But you’re not exactly going to be walking…’

Ahhh, shucks.

‘Don’t remind me.’ Another worry zapped into her brain. ‘You have told Jackson that it’s me on the back?’

Ominous silence. Cressy shuffled.

That would be a ‘No’ then.

‘It’s a great opportunity. You need to lighten up, Bry; we both know that. This could be your chance. Look at it as a gift.’

More animated eyebrows.

‘Cressy…’ Was there even any point in admonishing her?

‘At least it’ll be brilliant for that career path you’re so obsessed with. They’ll really owe you after this.’

Bryony dragged in a breath and clutched at her stomach. Somewhere along the line it had dematerialised. ‘This is such a bad idea.’

Why did she say always say ‘yes’ like some over-enthusiastic, cliff-fixated lemming? Why did her irrational need to prove herself override her sensible head every time? Why did she always need to show that she could pull off the impossible? Scared stiff of two wheels and she’d still let herself be railroaded into this. She’d barely ridden a bike since she was six and, even then, she’d been wobbly.

‘Don’t worry, it’ll be over before you know it.’ Cressy, sensing her wavering, whisked into Producer-mode. ‘Let’s go and find Mr Delicious and get you on this bike.’

As Jackson wheeled the tandem out along the edge of the car park half an hour later, the trickle of spectators was increasing, all heading in one direction towards the race start down the road.

Damn to the way today was going.

Damn to how he’d felt obliged to traipse to this wind-lashed desert of a town, simply in an effort to try to reinforce his cleaned-up reputation. His aunt had begged him to come as a favour to a friend of a friend, who was masterminding the event. Accidentally mentioned to Team HQ, who seized on it as part of his personal character-whitening campaign, and here he was. Along with a film crew, also courtesy of the whitewash brigade, who were ostensibly about to begin charting his progress as he returned to fitness with the team.

Guaranteed to annoy the hell out of him, more like. But all the more reason to appear like the new good boy and not the old bad boy. Truth be told, he was beginning to miss bad-boy Jackson more than a little himself. All this ‘best behaviour’ was wearing very thin – his screaming libido could vouch for that. Why the hell his aunt had convinced herself that he’d be a huge draw at what seemed little more than an out of the way fun-run and tandem race was beyond him. Who in their right minds would want to see some washed-up cyclist with a crapped-up knee?

And in Scarborough?

Whichever marketing exec was pushing it as a new-found trendy resort needed their head examining. The location’s charm had certainly by-passed him.

He didn’t even have anything he could give as an excuse right now. It was his fault for letting things slide, for not getting his life sorted, for sitting in limbo, waiting endlessly for his dratted knee to heal. Although the TV talk, vague as it was, did have the whisper of a promise of being financially rewarding down the line. Depending what developed. Not holding his breath on that one either. So, apart from the TV possibilities, the only spark on the dismal grey horizon that purported to be the North Sea was the woman who’d caught him with his shorts down earlier. Literally.

She was the one thing all week that had made him smile. Possibly all year. Worth it for the look on her face and the excuse it gave him to give her the once-over in return.

And PHWOAR to what was waiting for him body wise, even if she was doing an Oscar-worthy performance of making out that she was a superior ice maiden.

Not that he’d needed any encouragement. Far from it. With a body like that wafted in front of him, he practically needed a restraining order. Big shame he was on his mission of self-improvement. The Jackson Gale that the press portrayed, Jackson Gale as he was before the whitewash, would have whisked her into his bed, or possibly not even that far. Hell, that Jackson Gale would most likely have had her in the car park, there and then, up against the wall. In broad daylight.

Ignoring the electric shocks that the image powered to his groin. Ditto his blood, fizzy as shaken cola, since she zoomed into his view-finder.

Ironic, then, that today’s Jackson Gale wasn’t about to run loose, with voltage like that scrambling his radar. Having spent the best part of a year cleaning up his act, he wasn’t about to squander the efforts, however hot the woman. He found it disconcerting that it was even on his mind. The press wrote rubbish about him on a daily basis and he realised that the press guys who knew the truth were lined up, waiting for him to fall off the virtue wagon, just so they could seize a scoop. No way was he going to hand them that satisfaction. He had too much to lose.

But there was something about the lilt of those lips, the quiver of those eyelids, not to mention the oh-so-full-on nipples he’d glimpsed as her coat fell open that sent more shocks zapping south. Doubly ironic given what his out of control libido was howling at him to do. ASAP. If not sooner. He gritted his teeth. Drove the thought of that tongue, teasing a raspberry muffin crumb from her finger end, right out of his…