That grin spread from his mouth to his eyes, making her wonder if he'd read that thought.
'You look to me like you badly need a ride.'
Where had that thought come from?
She wished she had the guts to throw him the same grin he had given her earlier. But no, this was how she was, clumsy with men, which made her grumpy and defensive. She might be heavily into studying the sixties for the ad campaign, but it would never occur to her to embrace the concept of free love. And from what she'd seen to date nothing about love was free, Magenta reflected as the biker continued to study her with amused interest.
'I thought I might come back and see if you still needed rescuing.'
'Not then and not now.'
'A man is programmed to play the white knight-it's built into the genes.'
The only thing that was built into his jeans was a warning that she was out of her depth. 'I can look after myself, thank you.'
'And so you prove this by standing out here, freezing your butt off?'
Just the mention of her butt caused her body to heat. 'I haven't been standing outside all this time. And, anyway, I'm going home now.'
'And how do you intend to do that?'
'On the underground, or in a cab.'
'You'll be lucky.'
'Meaning?'
'Delays on the line; buses bulging at the seams. And there's not a taxi to found. Not a free one, at least.'
She tried not to notice how beautiful the biker's eyes were. They were aquamarine with steely grey rims around the iris, the whites very white and his lashes completely wasted on a man. While his tongue was firmly lodged in his cheek, Magenta suspected. 'What are you?' she demanded. 'Some sort of information clerk for the city of London?
'Just observant. Have you worked up the courage to take a ride with me yet?'
Unfortunately, he was right. She could stay here and freeze or she could take her chances with public transport. But hadn't she been lectured on the dangers of taking life too seriously? Shouldn't she at least consider the biker's offer?
Absolutely not.
She turned her back, only to find herself checking the road for black ice. The mystery biker might be the most infuriating, the most arrogant, overbearing and impossible man she'd ever met, but the thought of finding him mashed up in a gutter made her heart race with fear for him. 'Take care-it's slippery,' she mumbled and, putting her head down, she marched towards the exit.
Wheeling his bike in front of her, he stopped dead.
'What are you doing?' Magenta demanded.
'I don't take no for an answer.' His eyes glinted with laughter.
'I can see that. Does everything amuse you?' she demanded, stepping round his bike.
'You make me smile.'
She kept on walking, but as she dragged her jacket a little closer it occurred to Magenta that she was perhaps being a little ungracious. 'If you're looking for someone … '
The biker's eyes glinted.
'I'm just trying to say, if I can help you in any way … '
'Get on the bike.'
No! Yes. What should she do? She had been fascinated by the beacon of freedom women lit in the sixties and talked a good battle when it came to championing the cause-but did she ever seize the moment and take action? Or did she always play it safe?
Too damn safe. 'Helmet?'
The biker produced a spare and then patted the seat behind him.
'You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?' she commented as she buckled it on.
'Sure of you. You can't resist a challenge, can you?'
'And how do you know that?'
He shrugged.
'The helmet seems like it might fit-'
'Then climb on board.'
The husky voice suggested a chastity belt might be a useful piece of kit too.
'Before I change my mind … ' He revved the engine.
'Are you always so forceful?'
'Yes.'
The master of the one word answer drowned out the demented timpanist in charge of her heart by taking the revs up to danger level. And now she took a proper look at his monster machine she wasn't even sure she could climb on board, as the biker put it. Did her legs even stretch that wide?
'Chicken?' The smile was masculine and mocking.
'I am not.' She played for time. 'That's a Royal Enfield, isn't it?'
'You know motorbikes?'
Her attention flew to a very sexy mouth. 'I know the brand, thanks to my research into the sixties,' she said primly. She might have known someone as cool as the biker wouldn't ride a pimped-up, over-hyped modern machine. The Enfield was a serious motorbike for serious riders. Big and black, it was vibrating insistently between his leather-clad thighs.
And would soon be vibrating between hers.
No way was she climbing on board.
And she was getting home … how?
Call a cab, the sensible side of her brain suggested. There had to be an empty cab somewhere in the whole of London.
'You are chicken,' the biker insisted, slanting an amused glance Magenta's way.
She laughed dismissively, longing for a way out. But she'd done 'sensible' all her life, and look where that had got her.
'Well?'
'Forbidden fruit' sprang to mind when she looked at him-fruit that was so close, so ripe and so dangerously delicious, she could practically taste it on her tongue. 'How do I know I'll be safe with you?'
'You don't.'
Her pulse raced. But then, she reasoned, it was only a lift home-why the fuss? 'Shouldn't you know my address before we set off?'
'So, tell me.'
She found herself doing so even as she wondered how his strong white teeth would feel if he used them to lightly nip her skin.
'It's time to get on the bike,' he prompted. 'I've no intention of running out of fuel while I wait for you to make up your mind.'
'Could you take my briefcase and stow it for me, please?'
'My pleasure, ma'am.' He held out his hand.
'I suppose I should thank you,' she added belatedly.
'I suppose you should,' he agreed.
'If you're sure it's not out of your way?'
'I'm sure.'
This man would be equally certain about every decision he made. He'd be just as decisive when he left her standing here freezing her butt off, as he'd so elegantly put it, on the basis of her extreme cowardice.
'Would you like some help?' he said, looking on in bemusement as she started hopping into position.
All she had to do was throw one leg across his seat. How hard could that be? 'I'm fine, thank you.'
After one final heave and a lot of unladylike wriggling, she was finally in position-which meant close up to the biker. She tried to shuffle back a bit to maintain the proprieties, but the moment he kicked the stand away, released the brake and gunned the engine she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms as tightly as she could around his waist.
A waist without an ounce of fat on it, Magenta registered, but an awful lot of muscle, and if there was a way to ride pillion behind the biker without allowing her body to mould with his-thankfully, it had escaped her.
By the time they joined the heavy London traffic, she was pretty familiar with the biker's back and the way his thick hair escaped the helmet to caress the collar on his jacket. She was so familiar she had even started shivering … with cold, Magenta told herself firmly. Having consigned her safety to the hands of a man she hardly knew, that was more than enough risk to take in one day.
He really knew how to handle a bike and wove in and out of the congested streets of London like a man who really knew what he was doing, while Magenta was increasingly conscious of the insistent vibrations beneath her. It was almost a disappointment when they rolled up outside her neatly manicured town house. Dismounting the bike shakily, she removed her helmet and shook out her long, black hair.
'That's quite a transformation, lady,' the biker commented as he lifted off his helmet to stare at her.
'You think so?' Magenta laughed as she retrieved her clip as it fell to the ground. She couldn't remember feeling so carefree in a long time. Her hair had been blown to blazes, like the rest of her-and it felt great. She felt great. 'Thanks.'
'My pleasure.' His face creased in the now-familiar grin.
Did she imagine the curtains in nearby houses were twitching? For once she didn't care what anyone thought. So she had ridden home on the bike of a tough-looking guy, ditching the power suit and the high-heeled shoes along the way. Short of stripping naked and leaping on top of him in the middle of the street, she was committing no crime.
'Coffee?' she said, still in the throws of enthusiasm. It seemed only polite. And when would an opportunity like this come round again?
The man's laser gaze was every bit as astonishing as she remembered; she was sure he was going to say, 'why not?' But what he actually said was, 'I should get back.'
'Of course … ' What was she thinking?
Where overtures towards good-looking guys were concerned, she was somewhat out of practice, Magenta conceded. But, as this wasn't an overture-not even close-but merely a polite invitation to enjoy a hot drink before making a return journey in the cold, she had nothing to worry about, did she? 'Genuine Blue Mountain coffee.'