dress, and six-inch heels.
“I’m afraid you’ve no choice, if you want a ride home.” He produced two helmets from the saddlebag and handed her one.
Natalie eyed the gleaming silver-and-black motorbike doubtfully. “I’m really not dressed for it—”
He gave her legs and her strappy shoes a critical once-over. “If you weren’t wearing those bloody stripper heels—”
“They’re not stripper heels!” she protested. “They’re Louboutins, and very expensive.”
“Well, you and your very expensive shoes will have to sit sideways. Put on the helmet. And button up, it’s cold.” He swung one leg over the motorcycle and waited.
“Bloody hell but you’re bossy.” Natalie did up her buttons and sat sideways behind him, shivering in the unseasonably cold night air, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I won’t fall off, will I?” she called out anxiously over the growl of the engine.
“Not if you hold tight. Where do you live?”
“Ladbroke Grove.” She gave him the address and rested her helmeted cheek against his back in mingled trepidation and anticipation. Her head spun, but in a good way. Sod Dominic, and Keeley, and her ginormous engagement ring, she decided. She was ready to have some fun.
He revved the engine, and with a satisfying, throaty roar, they were off. Natalie tightened her hold on him as they turned off Holland Park Avenue onto the A40. It was already unseasonably cold, but with the wind in her face, it felt about three degrees.
As they roared through Notting Hill, Natalie nestled closer, glad of his warm, broad back. He smelt of soap and leather, and also, rather strongly, of Pinot. Strange, she thought as he skillfully wove in and out of the evening traffic and onto her street, since Dominic had dumped her, she ought to feel gutted. But she was having too much fun to care.
The Triumph growled to a stop in front of her building. Natalie slid from the seat, stood up unsteadily, and removed her helmet. “My hair must look a sight.”
He took her helmet and removed his as well, then hung them both on the handlebars. “A bit. But it suits you.”
“Thanks.” She looked up at him with wide grey eyes and murmured, “You know, actually, you’re quite sexy.”
“And you’re quite drunk.” He held out his hand. “Come on, let’s get you inside. It’s cold out here.”
“No, wait.” Natalie pressed herself against him and slid her arms up around his neck. She giggled as she stumbled and his arms came around to steady her. “I’ve never said this to anyone before,” she breathed as her eyes locked with his, “but I really, really want to have sex with you.”
He removed her arms gently but firmly from around his neck. “No, you don’t. You don’t even know me.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To…” she hiccupped “…get to know you.”
“Miss Dashwood—”
“Why don’t you want to have sex, then?” she demanded.
“Because you’re drunk,” he said again, his words patient but firm. “And because you’re mad at that boyfriend of yours—”
“—ex-boyfriend,” she interrupted.
“—and I won’t be your revenge sex.”
Natalie sniffed. “He’s been engaged to Keeley for two weeks! I still can’t believe it.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “It’s not that I care, mind you. It’s just that I – I couldn’t bear the way everyone at the party was looking at me, as if they felt sorry for me.”
“I think it was curiosity, that’s all,” he said. “They wondered how you’d react.” He lifted his brow upwards. “Is Pinot Noir your usual weapon of choice?”
“No. Prosecco.” She giggled and wound her arms round his neck again. He smelled of some deliciously expensive aftershave and, very faintly, of Pinot. “Come upstairs,” she murmured. “I haven’t a flat mate. And I don’t—” she hiccupped again “—I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
He swore under his breath. Her fingers were caressing his hair, and it was getting harder, in more ways than one, to refuse.
“You’re a lovely girl, Miss Dashwood, and your offer’s very tempting; but I have to decline.”
“Decline? But…why?” she asked, bewildered. “Don’t you want to have sex with me? Doesn’t anyone want to have sex with me?” she wailed.
He met Natalie’s wide grey eyes. “Believe me, I’d like nothing better,” he murmured. “But,” he added firmly as he untangled her arms once again from his neck, “that’s the last thing you need tonight. Trust me.”
“Never trust a man who says ‘trust me’,” she mumbled. “Grandfather taught me that.”
“Your grandfather’s a very wise man. Come on, inside with you. Let’s go.”
“Won’t you at least kiss me goodnight?” she asked forlornly, her words softly slurred.
“No.” He put his hands on her arms. “You need a good night’s sleep. You’ll thank me in the morning. Now come along, put your arm around my waist, there’s a good girl.”
And with that, he helped her up the stairs to her flat – really, Natalie thought, the bloody stairs had a mind of their own tonight – unlocked her door, bade her a polite good night, and turned to leave.
Suddenly her sister’s dog shot out the door, a tiny white ball of lightning intent on escape, and made for the stairway.
“Nigella!” she cried, and lurched after her. “My sister Caro’s dog,” she explained breathlessly. “I’m dog-sitting.”
“Got her,” Gordon said, and bent down to grab the teacup-sized ball of fluff as she darted past. She sank her tiny teeth into the fleshy bit between his thumb and forefinger. “Shit!” He dropped her, and she promptly took a wee on his shoe.
Nat gasped, horrified, and picked her up. “Nigella!”
“Have you a towel?” he asked evenly as he eyed his dripping shoe.
“Of course.” She led him inside the flat and returned a moment later with a rumpled, coffee-stained tea towel.
He wiped his shoe and returned the towel. “Thanks. Now I really must go, before you – or your sister’s dog – destroy another article of my clothing.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said again, her eyes luminous and wide as she met his gaze, “I really am—”
“Forget it.” He turned away, his expression unreadable. “It’s been…memorable, Miss Dashwood. Goodnight.”
Dazed, Natalie blinked at the empty doorway. Crikey, but she felt awful. First his shirt, then his shoe…yet he’d
