Except for her boss, Chloe was the last to leave the building when she exited through the staff entrance at two a.m. She pulled on the worn leather jacket she’d bought at a charity shop and swung her backpack onto her shoulders, glancing at the sky’s heavy underbelly and hoping she could make it home before it rained. The birthday boy’s wife, Zahira, had stopped by with praise aplenty and a nice fat wad of notes. And Dana had asked her if she wanted to take on regular work. Chloe did a little happy dance right there on the footpath.
What an evening! One minute she’d been swirling raspberry liqueur sauce over the desserts and wondering how she was going to make ends meet, and the next she’d been dangling over a balcony in a borrowed costume and singing in public.
Of course, it hadn’t all gone according to plan. She’d got the wrong guy, after all. And Mr Wrong had smirked at her—she was sure of it. She’d be the first to admit she couldn’t sing, and she was dead scared of heights, but she’d tried, hadn’t she? Jerk.
Then he’d kissed her. Tingles shivered through her body at the memory. The drugging taste of those lips, the way he’d held her safe on his lap so she wouldn’t fall, his musky masculine smell. Until he’d all but pushed her off with some ridiculous accusation that she knew him.
Double jerk.
Chloe dismissed him with a snarl, then jammed on her helmet and headed for her scooter parked a few metres away and looking all the more ancient in front of a shiny new maroon SUV. Forget him. The important thing was she’d come out on top. So it hadn’t been the world’s best performance; she’d made twice as much money in one night than she had since she’d stepped back on Australian soil a fortnight ago, and a regular job with reasonable pay would give her a realistic chance to resave the money she’d lost.
She slowed her steps, rubbed her arms against the chilly winter air. And then it just might be time to consider reconnecting with her family. A friend she’d made while overseas had lost her chance to reconcile with hers when an accident had taken both parents. Chloe didn’t want to have the same regrets.
A sharp meep spiked the air and she glanced at the parked car as its lights blinked, then behind her at the sound of brisk footsteps. A man was approaching, a black overcoat over one shoulder. He was tall and broad with a lanky stride.
As he drew nearer the amber street light turned his shirt a white-gold and washed over his face so she could make out his features. Dark brows, firm jaw. Generous full lips even at this distance.
She stifled a gasp inside her helmet. She knew those lips. She knew how they felt, how they tasted. Her pulse took off on its own wild journey as she watched him cross the footpath, open the door. He glanced at her over the roof as he climbed into his car but didn’t recognise her with her helmet on.
Was she just going to stand there and let him go without giving him a piece of her mind? No, she was not. She was beside his big bad wheels in seconds, stepping off the kerb in front of him, rounding the bonnet as the lights beamed on. ‘Hey!’ She rapped on the driver’s window. ‘Hey.’
The window lowered halfway. Now she could see the blue intensity of his eyes, the thick brows above them raised in concern. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked her. ‘Do you need assistance?’
She lifted her visor and stared at him. Watched the blue in his eyes grow deep and focused as recognition sharpened his features. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, without giving him time to draw breath. ‘No, actually I’m annoyed. You’re arrogant and rude and I don’t know why you’d think I’d know you or why on earth you’d think I’d want to come on to you. Who are you anyway? No—’ She slashed a hand through the air. ‘Don’t tell me—I don’t want to know.’ And flipped her visor down.
She hadn’t given him so much as a microsecond to open his mouth. Jordan leaned back in his seat and watched her walk—rather, stalk—to the decrepit-looking scooter in front of him. She was even smaller than he’d thought and dressed entirely in black leather now with a lumpy backpack on her shoulders. So … He’d got under her skin, had he? Was she itching all over with the memory of that kiss?
He damn well hoped so.
Because he hadn’t been able to rid himself of the feel of her compact body against his. Because she’d distracted him during an important conference call. Because she’d made him forget his coat, which was why he was back here at two o’clock in the morning.
And she was going to give him an exceedingly restless night.
Her scooter sputtered into life and took off down the street in a cloud of fumes. He gave her—and himself—a minute, then pulled away from the kerb and headed for home.
A short time later, he caught sight of her again when he drew up behind her at a red traffic light. The lights changed and she zoomed off ahead, her hair streaming behind her from beneath the helmet. Dammit—he wanted a chance to apologise, preferably while running his hands through that silky gold.
And that was the thing; he didn’t go for blondes—especially small mouthy blondes. He preferred his women tall and dark, poised and sophisticated. But he’d felt the tiny quivers running through her limbs, the surprising fit of her small body against his. The fury in her eyes, all the more eloquent for its silence.
An almost-grin tugged at his lips. Any other night he might have enjoyed the challenge—a night to slake his lust with a nameless woman. A woman who didn’t know him. A feisty woman who’d give as good as she got. He had a feeling the little surprise package riding ahead of him ticked all three boxes.
But his conference call to Dubai hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped and his fist tightened on the steering wheel. Yes, he could have done with a bloody good distraction.
Suddenly, without warning, she veered to the side of the street. By the time Jordan had pulled over and climbed out with the honourable intention of asking if she was okay, she was standing on the footpath, helmet in hand, windswept hair tangled around her face, expression stony. Her free hand was curled into a fist and tapping against her thigh. Music floated from an all-night jazz bar nearby. A light rain misted the air.
‘So I can add stalker to my list.’ She shuffled her feet on the concrete, drawing his attention to clumpy knee-high boots.
He raised his hands to shoulder height. ‘I’m on my way home. Forgot my coat earlier.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘R-i-ght.’
‘Look, I—’
‘No, you look, whoev—’
‘Stop!’ He jabbed the air with a finger. ‘Give me a chance to open my mouth, will you?’
A beat of silence filled the air between them. ‘Fine.’ She huffed out a breath, her spine stiff, mouth tight. ‘Say what you have to say and leave.’
‘This is my usual route home. I am not following you. And I will not follow you.’ He paused, hopeful. ‘Unless you ask me to.’
She didn’t reply but he imagined he saw the tiniest glimmer of that earlier heat in her eyes, instantly doused.
‘Though I do have to ask,’ he continued carefully, ‘are you sure it’s safe for a woman to be riding that thing alone late at night?’
‘I don’t need a bodyguard.’ She glanced skywards. ‘And I’d like to make it home before I drown.’
‘Think that’s possible?’ He glanced at the scooter. ‘That’s not the most reliable-looking transport I ever saw.’
‘The Rolls is in for a service.’ She flicked at her dampening hair as the rain thickened but there was a touch of humour around her mouth and her voice had lost some of its sting.
‘My name’s Jordan. Jordan Blackstone.’
She studied his face a moment. ‘Should I have heard of you?’
‘Dana