Marriage in Name Only? Read Free

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 mighthave 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, ‘areyou 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 knows me,’ he said, then,