The Good, the Bad and the Wild

‘A ride.’ He buried his hands in his back pockets, hunched against the cold in the crewneck sweater and nodded down the alleyway. ‘I’ve got my bike round the corner. And I was looking for an excuse to escape myself.’

‘You mean a motorbike?’

Placing a warm palm on the small of her back, he directed her towards the end of the alleyway, subtly leading her in the direction he wanted to go. ‘It’s a great way to see the city. You’re a Londoner, right? Like me.’

‘Um, yes,’ she said, dazed by the little sizzles of electrical energy where his palm rested on her lower back.

‘So when did you arrive?’

‘I…’ She paused. She should tell him now. But her tongue seemed to get stuck in neutral again. ‘This afternoon. I’m visiting my friend Tess.’

‘The other nosey one?’

She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Yes, sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ he said as they drew level with a monstrous black motorbike, its swirling logo and silver trim gleaming dangerously in the street lamp light. ‘I like getting talked about by beautiful women.’

‘Oh,’ she said, not sure how to take the compliment. Was he trying to be funny? She looked good tonight, but no one would mistake her for beautiful, not unless they were seriously myopic.

Unlocking the box at the back of the bike, he lifted out a helmet. ‘Put this on.’

She took the helmet without thinking. Standing dumbfounded as he mounted the huge machine with easy grace.

He glanced back at her. ‘Hop on.’

‘But I’m wearing a dress,’ she said, struggling to slow things down a little. She’d never been on a motorbike before, especially not with a man of his… Power. ‘And heels,’ she added. ‘What if I fall off?’

Placing a proprietary hand on her hip, he nudged her round to face him, took the helmet from her, and plopped it on her head. ‘You won’t.’ He tucked the tendrils of hair into the helmet with a focused concentration that had her pulse throbbing in her throat. ‘Not as long as you hold on tight.’

Fastening the helmet’s strap, he ran his thumb across her chin. The tiny touch made her shiver and her tongue slipped out of its own accord, licking lips that had gone dry as a desert.

His gaze dipped and she pressed her lips together, the buzz of anticipation almost unbearable. When his eyes lifted back to her face, she could see amusement. And a disturbing intensity.

‘Where do you want to go?’ he murmured.

Anywhere you want to take me.

She slammed down on the impulsive thought and the much more impulsive thrum of tension that had her whole body vibrating.

She shouldn’t be doing this. It wasn’t just impulsive, it was reckless—bordering on inappropriate. And she’d never done anything before that bordered on reckless, let alone inappropriate.

But maybe that was exactly the problem, she realised, as the thrum of tension refused to subside. In that split second of indecision, her whole well-ordered and completely appropriate life seemed to stretch out before her in a rolling canvas of total and extreme boredom and the impulsiveness took hold of her tongue.

‘I don’t know. You decide,’ she said, the whispered words so liberating she heard a strange sound come out of her mouth, which sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

Niccolo Delisantro chuckled back. ‘See, that wasn’t so hard,’ he said, with surprising intuition.

Eva stiffened. Did he know how big a deal this was for her? That adventures were something she’d only ever read about in books? That her life was about as dynamic as magnolia wallpaper?

‘Climb aboard and let’s get this show on the road,’ he added, and she shook off the humiliating thought. How could he know? He didn’t know the first thing about her.

She stifled the little pang of guilt at the thought of how much she knew about him. As soon as the ride was over, she’d tell him who she was. And face the consequences. But just this once, she wanted to give in to impulse.

She adjusted the helmet on her head, then hesitated, studying the enormous machine and the small segment of leather seat available to her.

Adventure was one thing, but how on earth did you climb onto a motorbike that large? In four-inch heels and a figure-hugging designer dress?

He stood up to stamp on one of the pedals and the monster roared to life. She jumped at the explosion of sound.

‘Um… I’m not sure how to…’ She shouted above the engine noise. ‘How do I…?’ He adjusted his wrist and the noise subsided to a dull rumble. ‘Do you have any instructions?’

The colour charged back into her cheeks at the easy grin he sent her over his shoulder.

So much for Eva Redmond, wild child. What kind of a loser asks for instructions on how to mount a motorbike?

Swivelling round, he lowered his gaze to her legs. ‘I’m guessing you’ll have to hike the skirt up.’ The mischievous glint in his golden eyes made colour race over her scalp and stand the fine hair on the back of her neck on end. He leaned over and flipped open a short rubber pedal that stuck out above the gleaming silver exhaust pipe. ‘Step on that and then take my arm.’ So saying he held out his hand.

Biting into her bottom lip, she gathered the skirt clumsily up her legs. ‘Here goes,’ she mumbled as she gripped his arm. Feeling the muscles of his forearm tense, she slipped while placing her instep onto the pedal.

‘Easy,’ he soothed. ‘There’s no hurry.’

She gave him a hopeful smile, praying that her blush was dimmed somewhat by the low lighting and that she wasn’t about to knock the two of them into a heap on the pavement. Then took a deep breath and launched her leg over the bike.

He gave a sharp tug as she did so, and she landed on the leather bench with a huff. Her breath sucked into her lungs at the sudden, explosive mix of sensations. The bike’s heavy vibrations shuddered up through her backside, her nipples hardening into peaks as they touched the unyielding slopes of his back. The skin of her inner thighs sizzled alarmingly as the dress hitched up and she came into intimate contact with the rough denim of his jeans.

The tight muscular contours of his backside flexed through his clothing and the blush intensified.

Oh, God. She’d never been this close to a man before. Ever. The sensations racing through her were both exquisite and yet petrifying on some elemental level. She leaned back, worried he’d feel her nipples poking him, but that only intensified the pressure of his denim-clad butt pressing into her spread thighs. She fanned her hand in front of her face, convinced she was having her first hot flush thirty years too soon.

What had possessed her to agree to do this? What if she passed out from sensory overload and fell off the bike? Then got flattened by a cable car and ended up horribly mangled in the middle of a San Francisco street?

‘Put your arms round my waist.’ The rough command sliced neatly through her panic attack and she obeyed him instinctively. Circling him, she pressed her cheek against the silky smooth cashmere sweater and linked her fingers, trying desperately to ignore the tensile strength of his abdomen beneath her palms.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the bike jerked forward off its stand. He revved the engine, signalling another sensory overload as the shudder of leashed power made her pulse jump.

‘Relax.’ One large palm covered the back of her hands, still locked round his waist. ‘You’re safe. I swear.’ She felt the rumble of his chuckle through her cheek and tried to loosen her death grip.

‘My name’s Nick, by the way,’ he said, his warm palm letting go of her hands to steer the bike off the pavement and into the road with a jolt. ‘Nick Delisantro. What’s yours?’

‘Eva,’ she said, the renewed stab of guilt going some way to calming her rioting nervous system. ‘Eva Redmond,’ she added, then tensed at the realisation that he might well recognise her name and call a halt to the whole fiasco.

She frowned. The fact that she would be desperately disappointed if he did, despite the mix of terror and anticipation making her stomach churn, had to be yet more evidence that she was probably having some sort of weird emotional meltdown.

‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, clearly oblivious to her deception.

She breathed a ragged sigh. But as her cheek brushed the velvet steel of his back she made herself a solemn promise. She would definitely tell him who she was once their wild ride was over. No more evasions.

Assuming she survived her wild ride.

Her heartbeat slammed into her throat as the bike leapt forward like a savage beast, and reared away from the kerb. Eva’s legs squeezed his backside while her arms tightened around his waist, her fingers clasped so tight she was in danger of dislocating a knuckle.

‘Welcome to San Fransisco, Eva the anthropologist,’ he shouted back at her.

More like Eva the Fraud.

The quick burst of shame did nothing to dim the heady kick of adrenaline as the bike tilted into a turn and then accelerated up the steep hill into the night.

Eva clung on tight and for the first time in her life allowed herself to rejoice in the thrill of doing something reckless. And unwise. And inappropriate.

And completely and utterly intoxicating.

Terror gave way to fascination as the scent of roasted duck and Szechuan spices made Eva’s stomach rumble. She swivelled her head back and forth trying to take in the kaleidoscope of people as the bike wound through the traffic choked thoroughfare. The oriental faces and exotic hieroglyphics on the signs and posters marked the area out as Chinatown. But almost as soon as she had registered the fact, they took a sharp turn and left the crowded street behind. A cable car trundled past on the cross street in front of them, like something out of a bygone era, but for the tourists in shorts and T-shirts with cameras round their necks sandwiched onto the bench seats. Shuddering over the cable-car tracks, the bike climbed and dipped through hills of ornate Victorian town houses, stopping and starting on every corner. Eva’s heart thumped against her chest wall, the emotion swelling in her throat at the overwhelming beauty of the city gilded by the dying sun.

She threw her head back, let the evening air brush a few escaped tendrils of hair against her cheeks.

Her eyes stung with tears. How could she have spent the first twenty-four years of her life never having done anything remotely spontaneous or daring?

Her parents had been in their fifties when they’d had her. Both of them brilliant academics dedicated to their chosen fields. When she’d been conceived by accident, they hadn’t had a clue how to factor a child into their busy lives. So she’d adapted instead. Which had meant being cautious and responsible and respecting the boundaries they set, even when she was a teenager and every other person she knew was busy tearing them down.

No wonder she was such a coward.

But maybe adventure didn’t always have to be bad. Or contained within the pages of the romance novels her parents had always insisted were ‘a foolish indulgence’.

She blinked furiously and clung tighter as they edged down another steep incline. The man in front of her felt so solid, his broad back sheltering her from the lengthening shadows. Then the bike hit a major road. Suddenly they were leaving the picture-postcard houses, the steep slopes and stepped pavements behind. Trees and parklands sped past and then Eva gasped, her eyes widening in wonder as the Golden Gate Bridge reared up before them, a huge geometric monolith of rusty red steel lit by the dying sun.

The bike thundered through the fingers of fog drifting over the road, the rush of air and noise both cold and thrilling as they zipped past the occasional car, and a monstrous shiny yellow eighteen-wheeler. Squeezing her eyes shut, Eva hugged the only still thing in her universe and felt them both take flight through the traffic, hurtling across the water. The ball of emotion broke lose. Firing up her torso, it burst out of her mouth and she let out a gleeful yell that whipped away on the wind.

She’d been walking through a fog her entire life but now the cloying veil of conformity was being ripped away—making every colour more vivid, every scent more acute, every sense more vibrant.

To think she had lived her whole life and never experienced anything as thrilling as a sunset ride across San Francisco Bay?

Adrenaline and affection blossomed as she clung to Nick Delisantro. How could she ever thank him enough, for giving her this?

CHAPTER THREE

AS the bike wound through the nature reserve on the Marin headlands, taking the climb towards Hawk Hill, Nick glanced at the fingers knotted round his waist and smiled.

He’d hazard a guess that Eva the gorgeous anthropologist had never ridden pillion before, given the way she was attached to him like a limpet. Not that he was complaining. Once she’d got the hang of leaning into the turns, the feel of her clinging to him had been very nice indeed. Her shocked little gasp when they’d hit the Bridge on 101, and her spontaneous shout as they’d raced across it had only added to the heat. Seemed the prim and proper Miss Eva had a wild side. When you factored in the familiar adrenaline kick of being on the bike and the awe-inspiring view as they topped the rise and drifted to a stop at the overlook…

No, he definitely didn’t have a single complaint about his split-second decision to invite her along. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed the city like this—or the feel of a woman’s soft, pliant body plastered against his.

He felt her expel another sharp breath as he cut off the bike’s engine.

‘Wow.’ Her hushed murmur sent a delicious tingle through the short hairs at his nape. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

He tilted the bike onto its stand, flattened his feet onto the ground. ‘Yeah. This is the best view of the bridge.’

They sat for a while in silence, admiring the majestic span of the Golden Gate, blazing a trail across the bay in the sunset, the fog sitting like a carpet of mist over the water and the lights of the city laid out behind.

Reluctantly, he placed a hand over hers, glanced round at wind-stung cheeks and wide violet eyes. ‘It’s safe to let go now.’

Pulling her hands out from under his, she sprang back. ‘I’m so sorry. Was I holding on too tight?’

Her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink, and, despite the camouflage of his leather jacket, he caught a tantalising glimpse of her cleavage.

With a figure like that she couldn’t possibly be as innocent as she seemed. Guys would have been all over her since puberty. But it was still an intriguing act.

‘You’ve my permission to hold on as tight as you like,’ he murmured. ‘But if you want to stretch your legs for a minute and enjoy the view…’

‘Yes… Thank you, I would,’ she said in that very proper London accent, but didn’t budge.

He waited a beat. ‘You’ll have to dismount first,’ he prompted, stifling a grin when the colour highlighting her cheekbones flared again in the fading light.

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Shifting back on the seat, she gathered her dress and then bit into her bottom lip as she concentrated on her dismount. It took a moment for her to execute the manoeuvre, during which he got an eyeful of lush thighs and trim calves displayed in silky nylons. He held back a groan, the clumsiness of her dismount making the view even more enticing as her many curves jiggled. Clearly it had been far too long since he’d had that much lush, scented female flesh within touching distance.

Swinging his leg over the bike, he stood behind her as she lifted the helmet off. With her back to him as she gazed out across the city, the top of her head barely reached his chin. Curls of reddish-brown hair, no longer contained by the arrangement at the top, fell in disarray around the graceful column of her neck. Would her hair look all soft and rumpled like that straight out of bed? He stepped close enough to hear the staggered rise and fall of her breathing and to catch a whiff of her through the scent of sea-salt and earth. Spring flowers and soap, the fresh, unsophisticated scent seemed somehow exotic. He wanted to caress the back of her neck so badly he could almost feel her skin against his fingertips.

Burying his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, he tried to recall for about the fiftieth time since he’d spotted her in the gallery why he’d sworn off romantic entanglements a few months ago. Something to do with a script that wasn’t happening, a looming production deadline and the unpleasant scenes when Lisa, his last girlfriend, had finally figured out that he’d meant it when he’d told her he wasn’t that interested in her. But as the once convincing reasons swirled through his mind again, they didn’t stop the urge to reach out and touch.

‘It’s really an astonishing feat of structural engineering,’ she said.

‘Uh-huh,’ he replied. Although it wasn’t the bridge’s astonishing feats of engineering that he was admiring at the moment.

He caught the words ‘truss arches’ and ‘cantilevered suspension’ as she continued to talk, the words rushing out as if she’d swallowed an architectural textbook, and he found the grin tugging at his mouth again. He’d crashed out of school at sixteen and never gone back, so why did he find that serious, studious tone so damn sexy? He let his gaze drift down to the round swell of her backside lovingly spotlit by the bike’s headlamp in rich red velvet—and decided maybe it wasn’t so much the tone, but the contrasting packaging that was so appealing.

As the four-syllable words continued to tumble out she hugged the helmet to her midriff like a long-lost child. She was nervous. The thought added a nice little ego-boost to his attraction. It was kind of intoxicating to get the chance to do the chasing for a change.

As he waited patiently for her to wind down and look at him, something he suspected her lecture on the Golden Gate Bridge was being used to avoid, he pulled one hand out of his pocket.

Time to refocus her attention.

Angling his thumb under the line of dangling curls, he skimmed it across the whisper-soft skin of her neck just above the collar of his jacket.

The lecture cut off and she shot round, her eyes fixing on him at last, her skin pale in the light from the bike’s headlamps.

He smiled. She couldn’t have looked more shocked if he had poked her with a cattle prod. He held out his hand, his thumb still tingling from the subtle contact. ‘You want to give me the helmet? I’ll stick it on the bike.’

She glanced at the helmet, as if she’d forgotten it. She relaxed her hold, and those amazing violet eyes met his again. ‘Thank you,’ she said, passing it to him.

He walked the few steps to the bike and fixed it to the handlebar.

‘Sorry,’ she said again when he turned back to her. ‘I talk too much.’ She looked away. ‘I just…’ Even white teeth worried her bottom lip and he imagined nipping at the plump flesh and then gliding his tongue across to lick it better. ‘I read an article about the bridge’s construction in the in-flight magazine. It was fascinating.’

‘It’s a cool bridge,’ he agreed, letting his gaze linger on her lips. Her bottom lip trembled and then her tongue flicked out to moisten it. The answering jolt of heat hit his groin like an Exocet missile.

His eyes locked on hers as he let out a strained laugh. ‘But right now, I’m finding you a lot more fascinating.’

‘I…’ Eva clamped her mouth shut, before she swallowed her tongue. Or, worse, started spewing loads more twaddle about the Golden Gate Bridge like an overzealous tour guide.

His eyes took another leisurely trip down to her toes and she clasped her arms harder around her midriff, the worn leather of his jacket offering very little protection from the zip and zing of awareness.

Ever since he’d brushed his finger across her nape, she felt as if she’d been wired up to a nuclear reactor. And everywhere his gaze wandered felt as if it were being zapped with several billion kilowatts of energy.

She’d always adored reading about the instant overpowering sexual chemistry between the bold heroines and the impossibly masculine heroes in her favourite romances. But she’d never believed it actually existed in real life. Had simply assumed it was as fictional as all the hyper-real emotions and lavish derring-do. After all, none of her kind and conscientious male colleagues, or Phil, the chess club president she’d dated briefly in college without getting past second base, had ever made her giddy. Her physical reaction to Nick Delisantro, however, was forcing her to reconsider, because it felt every bit as out of control and extraordinary as the most fantastical romantic fantasy.

All this man had to do was look at her, his heavy-lidded eyes dark with erotic promise and warmth flooded every single cell of her body. The skin of her nape was still tingling from the barely there brush of his fingertip, for goodness sake.

She let out a shuddering sigh as she curled her toes in the ankle-breaking heels, forcing herself to meet his gaze. ‘You must be easily fascinated.’

He cocked his head, observing her with nerve-racking intensity. ‘Not true.’ His lips quirked. ‘If you knew me better, you’d know I’m next to impossible to fascinate.’

She pushed out a little laugh, guilty knowledge tying her stomach in knots. She wondered how fascinated he would be if he knew the truth. That underneath the glamorous camouflage of Tess’s designer dress lurked dull and dependable Eva Redmond?

‘I do know who you are,’ she said, quelling the dreadful stab of disappointment. ‘Our meeting tonight wasn’t an accident. I’ve been trying to contact you for over three weeks to make an appointment with you.’ The twist of curiosity on his lips died. ‘I went to that gallery opening tonight because it’s imperative that I speak to you about—’

He touched his finger to her mouth, silencing her confession. ‘Shh.’ To her amazement his lips curved in a wry smile. ‘I get it.’ He shrugged. ‘If all you want is an appointment, we can meet at my agent’s office tomorrow afternoon.’ His hand fell away and he shoved it back in his pocket.

She stared at him, astonished, not only that he was taking her deception so well, but that he seemed to have been expecting it. Then the greasy knots of tension dissolved and she grinned, giddy with relief. He knew who she was. He knew why she was here. He must have recognised her name after all from all the messages she’d left with his agent and his publicist.

‘If, on the other hand, you want more,’ he continued, and giddy relief turned to giddy shock, ‘then I’m happy to explore how much more. Tonight.’ His rough palm cupped her cheek, the husky tone of voice making the erotic intent unmistakeable. ‘But whatever we do tonight has no bearing on what happens tomorrow. I don’t do favours for sex.’ The light tone made the implication that she might have been suggesting such a thing seem amusing rather than insulting. ‘Even really good sex.’

‘What if it’s not really good sex?’ she asked, the question popping out before she could stop it.

His brows flew up and he choked out a laugh. A hot flush fired into her cheeks.

Good grief, Eva, shut up. It’s not like you’re actually going to take him up on his offer.

But then he brushed the callused skin of his thumb across her bottom lip. And every single reason why she couldn’t possibly allow herself to be seduced by a man as dangerous as Nick Delisantro flew right out of her head.

‘Why don’t you let me worry about that?’ he murmured.

She sucked in a breath, the throb of heat between her thighs painful.

Kiss me.

The words echoed in her mind. But his gaze flared, as if he had heard her plea and he leaned close, surrounding her in his spicy scent, then pressed firm lips to hers. She let out a staggered breath, the contact as unexpected as having the silent yearning instantly fulfilled.

His tongue traced her bottom lip then explored in expert strokes, his hand capturing her head. She opened her mouth to let him in, her palms flattening against his chest, fingers clutching at the soft wool of his sweater as heat sizzled across her skin. Her tongue delved back, timid at first, then growing in confidence, coaxed into action by the warm, wet skill of his lips, his tongue.