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 been quite decent about it all. She brightened. She’d ask grandfather to send a cheque to cover the damages. Except…she didn’t know Mr. Gordon’s proper name, much less his address.
“Wait!” she cried again, and dashed into the hall to run after him. She paused unsteadily at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Gordon – wait! I don’t even know your first name!”
But the roar of his motorbike engine, fading rapidly away into the night, told her that he was already gone.
The blare of the alarm clock woke Natalie from a deep sleep on Monday morning. She opened her eyes – ugh, felt like they were glued shut – and rolled over to turn off the alarm. It was 8:15 a.m.
Bloody hell.
The Dashwood and James board meeting grandfather wanted her to attend started at nine. She had less than forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and make her way to Knightsbridge from Ladbroke Grove in London rush-hour traffic.
Bloody, bloody hell…
She picked up her phone and called a minicab. In twenty minutes flat she showered, dressed, flung some dog kibble into a dish for Nigella, and thrust her feet in a pair of Prada pumps.
“Where to, love?” the driver asked as she rushed down the steps of the mansion flat and flung the door open. Despite his best efforts, they didn’t
