A Heat of the Moment Thing

  A HEAT OF THE MOMENT THING

  By

  Maggie Le Page

  Becky Jordan has had it with relationships. From now on her time and dedication won’t be lavished on her latest Mr. Wrong—or, worse, Mr. Hell-No!—just the dream travel job which has unexpectedly leapt into her lap. Finally, life is looking great.

  Unfortunately, not as great as her sizzling-hot, take-charge new boss. Matt Frobisher is everything she doesn't want him to be, but if anyone thinks she'll risk her career on a workplace fling they can think again. No amount of Superman behaviour from him will make her roll over and play Lois.

  Her heart, however, doesn't do logical. In desperation she finds herself a Mr Distraction, one with no strings and plenty of appeal. But Mr Distraction also comes with unforeseen complications. Kryptonite complications, like Becky’s sister. And when she shows up there’s only one sure thing: not even Superman can prevent the Disaster Fest that’s about to blow Becky’s life apart.

  Connect with Maggie:

  http://www.maggielepage.com

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  For Ev

  For believing in me, even when I didn’t.

  For putting up with the lonely evenings and crazy hours and wild mood swings.

  For reminding me to sleep every now and then.

  For being you.

  Chapter One

  Feathers of anxiety fluttered in my gut as I took in the busy swimming lanes. Why did I keep putting myself through this? “Liz, I don’t think—”

  “No thinking allowed. Forty laps, then coffee. Right?” Her smile sweetened her words but she had that don’t-muck-with-me look in her eyes and, best friend or not, she wasn’t letting me off the hook.

  The feathers moved up, nasty tickles of nerves making straight for my throat. “Um . . .”

  Liz frowned, cocked her head to one side. “You okay, Becs?”

  “I—it’s busy. You know I hate crowded pools.”

  She glanced at my lane. “Six swimmers. That’s not bad.”

  Only six? I squinted down at the blurry blobs, doing my own head-count. Three swimmers coming at me each lap. It could be worse.

  It could be a lot better, too. I always wore my contacts under my goggles. Why, oh why, had I forgotten them? Even with twenty-twenty vision, lane-swimming wasn’t my idea of fun. But short-sighted?

  “I’ll come back this evening,” I said.

  “Hey.” She squeezed my hand. “You’ll be fine. You’ve been doing this for months now.”

  “Yeah, but today I’m half-blind.”

  She sighed. “Becs. You can’t back out now. We made a commitment.”

  Sheesh, we were swimming for fitness, not the Olympics.

  I cast around for a better excuse as I drew my hair—miraculously straight, thanks to my genius hairdresser—into a ponytail. “I didn’t bring a swimming cap. What if my hair turns green? Or goes back to halo-frizz?” Then, “If I start my new job looking like a freak I’ll blame you.”

  “Come on.” Liz made for the fast lane as usual and dived in.

  Damn. I faced my blurry, congested lane.

  It wasn’t like I really needed to see, right? If I could feel my way through London’s infamous fogs, I could make it down a swimming lane. I plopped into the water, adjusted my goggles, waved a swimmer on. Okay—now. With a nervous glance at the next swimmer I pushed off, doing something approximating freestyle.

  Next New Year’s there would be no resolutions, no good intentions, and if I had to drink soda water all night to avoid Liz’s pinkie promises, then so be it. Seriously—swimming? What the hell kind of New Year’s resolution was that?

  Warning bubbles fizzed past my cheeks. I lifted my head and stared as some lane-hogging idiot approached in a mess of arms and churned-up water. What was he doing? Oh, for goodness sake . . . butterfly? I held my breath, thought thin and scraped past, earning a poke in the ribs and a clipped ankle.

  I switched to backstroke, plunging my annoyance into my strokes.

  Get fit, to hell with men, have a life. It had sounded good at the time, but the fitness thing? Big mistake. Even so, lose that resolution and I’d still be winning. Fancy new haircut, fancy new job, and as for asshole Mickey—Mickey who?

  Butterfly guy’s next attack was an arm-thunk to the head that knocked my goggles askew and turned my in-breath into an in-water. I floundered, spluttering. No time to rest, though: behind me approached another swimmer, then another. I did a one-handed goggle adjustment and reverted to freestyle, but I’d lost my rhythm. Each breath became a gasp. My legs sank, my arms slowed. Come on. I forced my head down, counting the strokes, kicking faster, regulating my breathing.

  Poker-hot pain exploded in my head. I gasped, taking in a mouthful of water that burned a fiery route straight down to my lungs. I choked.

  Air! I clawed for oxygen. Surfaced. Floundered.

  Pain. Pain everywhere.

  Lazy swirls of red blended with the water. My world kaleidoscoped then shattered into dizzy blackness. Thunder in my head. Rocks in my limbs. Inferno in my lungs.

  Everything decelerated. White noise pressed in, closer and closer. Fear mutated into raw panic. Oh God. Please don’t let me die. Not now. Not ready. Too young.

  My heart pumped louder and faster, louder and faster. Shite. Maybe thirty-one wasn’t too young.

  Louder and faster, louder and faster, louder and faster, until the din obliterated everything . . . obliterated me.

  * * *

  Flying, floating, swirling with the current.

  Where was I? Somewhere dark. Black hole dark.

  Icy knowledge inched up my spine. I’d died. I’d really gone and died.

  Regret and anger washed over me, and on their heels, confusion.

  Why? What had happened?

  The floaty sensation stopped with a jolt. This was it, then. The Heaven/Hell decision. A way bigger deal than sitting my A-levels, and look how badly I’d screwed them up. This wasn’t going to end well.

  Then, like dawn infiltrating the night sky, I realised I could feel. Poolside tiles, cool and rough against my skin. Pain—the same shrieking pain I’d felt earlier. And my heartbeat, fast and erratic, sweet certain proof I wasn’t dead at all.

  Which should have been a relief, but I had other things to deal with. Like breathing. And—oh, dear God—something was wrong. Where was the air? My eyes bulged in panic. Dying once was bad enough, but twice in one day?

  Strong arms manhandled me into the recovery position. I coughed and retched and brought up half a swimming pool of water, my head bouncing off the tiles. Agony rippled through me. I groaned.

  “Try to relax. Just breathe. Focus in, and breathe.” A chocolate-y voice seeped through my senses. Rich, smooth, compelling.

  Oh, the effort of breathing.

  “That’s it.” I felt a warm hand on my back. “You’re doing really well.”

  Idiot. I didn’t feel even remotely well.

  And would everyone just shut up? What was their problem? Shouting, screams, people dashing this way and that. “So much blood!”; “Get help!”; “Bloody hell! What happened to her?”; and even “She’s dead!”, to which the chocolate voice, near my head, replied, “No, she’s not.”

  Crap. Was this cacophony about me?

  “Don’t try to sit,” said Chocolate. “Take it easy. You’ll be fine.” Then louder, “We need a lifeguard. And an ambulance. Someone call 999.” And to me, “Good girl. Keep breathing. An ambulance is on its way.” He stroked my back.

  I began to shiver, and even that hurt. I whimpered. My head felt as if someone had picked me up and used me as a battering ram.

  Chocolate arranged a towel over me and,
somehow, his comforting touch soothed the hurt in my head. In the distance a siren wailed. What had happened? Swimming, that’s right. The swimmer’s arm had come down on me, but then what? Pain in my head. I must’ve swum into something. Another swimmer? The wall?

  I attempted to prop myself upright. Made it painstakingly to all fours and willed my body not to collapse.

  “Careful there,” Chocolate warned.

  I waited for the dizziness to clear. It didn’t.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, falling back against him.

  “No bother.” He shifted into a sitting position behind me, his legs and arms enveloping me. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

  Gently, rhythmically, he stroked my arms and I relaxed into him. Eventually, quietly, steadily, his hands moved up to my head. I stiffened.

  “Don’t forget to breathe,” he said. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”

  His fingers sifted through my matted hair and I winced as he found the spot, on top of my head, where I’d obviously connected with whatever-it-was.

  “I think,” he murmured in my ear, so close I could feel his heartbeat against my back, “you’ll need a few stitches, but you’re going to be fine.”

  “Okay, folks. Give us some space, please.” A gruff voice took control. “The lady needs air.”

  This must be the paramedics, then. I tried to sit up straighter.

  “Take your time,” Chocolate told me, staying exactly where he was. “No need to rush.”

  Indeed not; not when I had him at my back. It was an Arctic blast when he gently squeezed my shoulders, removed his hands, and stood.

  The paramedics took over, briskly checking my wound before flashing an interrogation-strength light in my eyes. I flinched. They watched intently.

  The dark, weedy one spoke up. “What’s your name, Love?”

  I closed my eyes against the light. “Rebecca Jordan. Becky.”

  “And what day is it, Becky?”

  Clearly he was checking I still had all my faculties. I did. Every last one hurt. “Saturday. Fifteenth July.”

  “Excellent.” He inspected first one, then the other, eye. “Hmm.”

  ‘Hmm’ what? But I never found out because, at that moment, Liz appeared.

  “Becky!” she shrieked, pushing her way to the front of the oglers.

  “You’re bleeding!” She sank to her knees, all but elbowing the medic out of the way. “What happened?”

  Good question.

  “She hit the end of the pool,” said Chocolate. “I was in the next lane.”

  Oh no! Shame ripped through my body. How could I be so stupid?

  Liz touched my arm. “You what? Why?”

  I looked at her, shrugged an I-don’t-know. My lip trembled.

  “Hey, it doesn’t matter,” she said, then grimaced. “Sorry, Becs. Headache. I was off taking painkillers.”

  She backed off as the second paramedic, a chubby fresh-faced kid, brought over a stretcher.

  Excited murmurs from the crowd. Horror from me. Stretchers were for half-dead rugby heroes, not me.

  I wiped my eyes, took a shaky breath. “I’m okay now, thanks.” A barefaced lie, but I didn’t want to make any more of a spectacle of myself than I already had, half-naked and all.

  I eased myself to all fours. Standing would be a challenge. Even breathing wasn’t high on my list of favourites.

  The staring masses reminded me of beady-eyed seagulls, creeping ever closer. I wanted to yell at them, wave my arms, scare them off, but I had to make do with closing my eyes.

  “Becky, we’re taking you to A&E,” said Chubby Kid, displaying an unexpected assertive streak. “You need stitches, and you may have concussion.”

  Nice.

  They manoeuvred me onto the stretcher and I felt like a six-year-old who’d just wet her pants in front of the whole class.

  Liz hovered at my shoulder, a sympathetic hand on my arm. “I’ll go get our gear,” she said, and disappeared.

  Where was Chocolate? I missed him. Everything seemed easier when he was near. I opened my eyes and scanned the crowd.

  Ah, there. He stood at a discreet distance, just in front of the onlookers. My blurred vision definitely didn’t do him justice—he looked sort-of blended and abstract—but I could see he was tall and tanned, with swimmer’s shoulders tapering down to slim hips. Mmm.

  I smiled. Saw a flash of teeth as he smiled back.

  “I think my swim’s over,” he said and tugged off his black swimming cap.

  Ooh! Tanned and blond: my favourite Man Combo.

  Liz reappeared at my side, packhorse-ish with all our gear, as the paramedics trundled me out of the leisure centre.

  Hang on a minute! That man—Chocolate—had just saved my life. Blond, tanned, fantastic hands, and a hero to boot. I needed to at least thank him.

  “Stop,” I commanded my stretcher-bearers. “Just for a second,” I pleaded. “I need to thank my rescuer.”

  They paused, but didn’t lower the stretcher. Make it quick, lady—the message was clear.

  I lifted my head. Chocolate had turned to go.

  “Excuse me,” I croaked.

  Oh no. He hadn’t heard.

  “Hey, Mister!” The weedy one called out. “Lady got somethin’ to say.”

  Chocolate stopped, looked back at us, then walked over to my stretcher.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You saved my life.” I lifted a hand towards him. “I . . . Well, thanks. Thanks so much.”

  He smiled at me and, even without my lenses in, I felt warmed. Then he squeezed my hand. My limbs turned weak and this time I couldn’t blame it on drowning.

  “Glad I could help,” he said in that chocolate voice, then turned and headed to the changing rooms.

  “Hold on a—hey! Stop! Please! Let me buy you a . . .”

  Too late. Chocolate had just walked out of my life as quickly as he had walked—or, rather, swam—into it.

  Chapter Two

  “Did you get his number?”

  Liz frowned at me as if I’d just asked her to run naked through the hospital. “No. Was I meant to?”

  “Of course you were. How can I ring him if I don’t have his number? Ouch!” I glanced down at the offending needle, then up at my nurse. “I think you’ve drained me now.”

  She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Not much longer,” she said, but I’d already turned back to Liz. “Tell me you at least know his name.”

  “Becs, I barely saw him. I was getting in the ambulance with you, remember?”

  “All done,” murmured the nurse.

  “So,” I said. “No name and no number. Some friend you turned out to be.”

  Liz arched an eyebrow. “Hey, I’m not psychic. Anyway, I thought you said you weren’t dating anymore.”

  “I’m not.”

  The nurse briskly taped some cotton-wool to my arm, then secured a blood pressure cuff to the other arm.

  “It’s just typical,” I grumbled, “that when a decent man finally turns up in my life I’m in no fit state to do anything about it.” Pump, pump, pump. The pressure built in my arm. “Do you think he’s married?”

  “No idea.”

  “I think he’s single.”

  “You would.” Liz’s tone was parchment-dry.

  Phsssht. The pressure slowly released.

  I glared at her. “You’re making fun of me!”

  She laughed.

  “Liz, I know you think I’m a sap, but I really felt a connection with him. I’m sure he felt it, too.”

  “Of course you felt a freaking connection. He was saving your life.”

  “Gosh,” the nurse murmured as she noted my blood pressure. Then, more loudly, “I think we’d better take another reading. Are you relaxing, Rebecca?”

  Warm, considerate, strong, determined, good-looking, great hands . . . How often did I meet a guy with a near-perfect score?

  I leaned forward, my voice urgent. “Liz, I have to find him again. Be a pal. Dash back t
o the pool and get his name and number.”

  “He’ll be long gone.”

  “Someone will know him. Go!”

  “I’m not leaving you here on your own.”

  The nurse huffed and puffed. “I’ll take it again later, then.” She whipped the blood pressure cuff off with bad grace. “Rebecca. Please. No more talking. Just for a few minutes. I’m going to dress the wound and I need you to be still.”

  “Oh, okay.” I widened my eyes at Liz and jerked my head toward the door.

  Liz responded with a loud “No” and folded her arms.

  I shot her a mutinous look. She looked away. The nurse hummed as she applied the dressing to my scalp, securing it with a stupendous bandage that looped under my chin. I eventually recognised the tune: Just My Imagination. Great. Even the nurse was picking on me.

  “Right,” Nursie concluded, “that’ll do until Doctor Palmer can do your stitches.”

  My stomach clenched with raw fear. Stitches?

  With a forced smile she departed, her sensible shoes squeak-squeaking on the linoleum.

  I shot Liz a panicked look.

  She grimaced.

  We were silent a few moments.

  “Thanks for staying,” I muttered.

  “Oh, Becs.” She bridged the gap between us and gave me a much-needed but ever-so-gentle hug. “You don’t need to thank me.”

  All hints of teasing gone, she perched on the edge of the bed and looked at me, her face etched with worry. “I should never have pushed you into swimming.”

  “Rubbish. It’s good for me.”

  Her chin trembled. She sucked in her lips, breathed deep. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Hardly.” I reached out and nudged her arm. “I was whining too much.”

  “All I could see was blood. Your blood.” She shuddered, closed her eyes.

  “Everywhere,” she added in a whisper.

  Oh dear. I squeezed her hand, then tugged at my bandage with a forced a grin. “Do I look as stupid as I feel?”

  She took in my headgear and her lips moved in a faint echo of a smile. “Yes.”