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HarperImpulse an imprint of
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014
Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2014
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Jane Linfoot asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © July 2014
ISBN: 9780008104443
Version 2014-09-24
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
For my own personal hero and tandem partner, Phil
‘Eeek!’
Hot naked tush alert!
Careering round the corner of a hedge in the car park, Bryony Marshall, Sporting Chances’ TV production assistant on-the-run, dug hers heels into the gravel and skidded to a halt. Clutching wildly as the coffees she was carrying flew in all directions, she balked at the startling rear view that confronted her.
Damn. Embarrassing or what? Crashing into today’s bike race celebrity guest-of-honour as he tucked in his shirt in the shelter of his car tailgate was not the ideal way to discover what men wore under their cycling shorts, even if she was delivering resuscitating caffeine. There was no way she was going to live this one down, except… Her eyes locked onto the most delicious butt ever.
Talk about all her Christmases coming at once. With definite emphasis on the ‘come’ bit.
So that would be nothing on then… Underneath the kilt as it were. No boxers, no briefs, not even a teensy-weensy mankini. And all those rumours about professional cyclists waxing their backsides weren’t holding up, either.
Bryony, behave. Look away. Now!
One hard mental kick got her rampant inner-woman back in line. Almost.
But hey, there was every excuse to go wild given the shape of him. This guy was ripped enough to double as a super-human – one hell of a toned back, broad shoulders bursting with muscles under that slippery Lycra top he was finally dragging on.
That was the great thing about being a production assistant – the job was full of surprises. Fighting to rein in her saggy lower lip, Bryony sucked in the drool. Hurriedly arranged her best ‘I’m soooo sorry’ face as he spun around to face her.
Wham! Too late. Her mouth had gone again. This time her whole jaw.
Beautiful didn’t begin to cover it.
All cheekbones and stubble shadows, the laconic twist of his smile instantly acknowledged the eyeful she’d just enjoyed. Permeating the air with delicious early-morning hot-male scent. Body spray mixed with a double dose of testosterone. She watched as he scraped his fingers through his tousled hair. Then, almost as if in retaliation, he surveyed her through narrowed eyes, and sent a shock-shiver zipping down her spine.
Beautiful, hot, with a full torching of arrogance.
Like he was certain he was best.
At everything.
The thought was so far out-of-line that it sent her knees weak.
And he was giving her one thorough, blatant, top-to-toe, mental undressing, which she was lapping up, God help her. Only the sub-zero breeze, slicing off the North Sea was saving her from melting into a syrup pool on the tarmac.
She was so far off her game plan, she couldn’t believe it.
Scarborough in June, 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning and cold enough to freeze …
OMG. Errant nipples leaping to attention under scrutiny
