Tess lay back on the bed and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. She’d been exhausted when she’d climbed beneath the new, clean sheets, but now she was finally able to rest, her mind wouldn’t switch off and allow her to sleep. She’d thought the can of lager she’d drunk would have helped, but instead it just made her need to pee every twenty minutes.

For some reason, she was struggling to tear her thoughts away from the big, tattooed man who ran the place downstairs. He came across as brusque and aggressive, yet he’d drawn the pictures she’d found in the sketch pad.

The pad had been filled with sketch after sketch of the same girl. All in black and white, in pencil, her in different positions, some exposing more skin than the others. The number of hours he’d have put into all those drawings must have run into hundreds, if not thousands.  The man who put that much time and detail into his drawings wasn’t the same one he presented on the outside. Passion had gone into the pictures, and love. Someone didn’t draw another person like that unless they were completely and utterly in love with what they saw.

Who was she, the girl in the pictures? A girlfriend? From the positions and lack of clothing that had been in some of the images, Tess guessed that was probably the case. From the hurt and defensive reaction he’d had to them, she also thought the woman he’d so beautifully drawn twenty or thirty times over, was no longer in his life. What had happened to her? Had Art been the same person he was now before the breakup, or was the body art a reaction to them no longer being together? Losing someone had the power to change a person, she knew that better than anyone. Had the loss of the woman in the pictures changed Art into who he was, or had being who he was caused him the loss of the woman?

Tess sighed and rolled onto her side, sleep still evading her. She stared towards the window, the thin curtains doing little to block out the street light from outside. As well as brightly lit, London was noisy, too. A constant stream of cars passed below the window, and the night was filled with the sound of alarms, sirens, and loud, drunk people walking home from the pubs, laughing or shouting at one another. How did anyone ever get any sleep around here? Would she ever get used to it?

A sudden pang of homesickness hit her, stealing her breath. No, she couldn’t think about home. Home, or thoughts about home, only meant pain. She would call or email her friends tomorrow. They would be worried about her, and she’d already put them through enough worry for one lifetime. She knew if she switched on her phone, she’d be flooded with messages, and she couldn’t face that right now.

***

TESS OPENED HER EYES to find bright light beyond the curtains. She didn’t think she’d ever sleep, but once oblivion had taken hold, she’d slept like the dead. She glanced at her watch, which she’d left on the bedside table, and blinked in surprise at the time. Had she forgotten to change it from the Eastern time zone? It couldn’t be gone eleven in the morning, surely? She never slept that late.

No, she’d definitely changed it. She remembered doing so the moment the plane had landed and they’d been taxiing down the runway.

Damn. She was due to meet with her aunt’s solicitor in less than an hour, and she didn’t even know where she was supposed to be going.

She leapt out of bed, quickly used the bathroom to wash up, scrub her teeth, and dressed in a white shirt and grey suit pants. She knew she wasn’t going for an interview or anything, and that the property was already hers, this was just to dot some ‘i’s and cross some ‘t’s, but she still wanted to look presentable.

Feeling harried, she rushed down the stairs and, not wanting to see anyone, took the rear exit so she didn’t have to walk through the shop.

Scrambling around in her purse to find her phone to call ahead and let the solicitor’s office know she was running late, she slammed into a big, hard body.

Strong hands caught her shoulders. “Whoa, there. You’re in a rush.”

She looked up into a set of steely blue eyes and her heart did an unwelcome flip. “Yes, I’m late. I have a meeting and I don’t even know where I’m going.”

“Show me?” Art said, stepping closer.

She pulled out a photocopied map which she’d been sent in the mail back in the States. He leaned in close so he could see it. She tried not to be affected by how near he was, or the scent of his spicy aftershave wafting over her. She studied his face while he studied the map. The full lips, the squared jaw. The shadow of stubble. Even his neck and shoulders looked strong, where she could see past the multitude of tattoos crawling across his skin.

He looked up and caught her gaze and she quickly glanced away, her cheeks heating.

“What time is your appointment?”

“In forty-five minutes.”

“You’ll never make it on time if you take The Tube, and it’ll take even longer if you get a taxi. You’ll just be sitting in traffic the whole way through central London.”

“Shit.”

“How about I give you a ride?”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ll give you a ride to your appointment.”

“How will that get me there any faster than grabbing a cab?”

He jerked his head to the side of the building. “Come here, I’ll show you.”

She really didn’t have time to be messing around, but she was going to be late anyway, so what the hell. She followed his broad back around the corner to see a motorbike sitting in the alleyway. What he’d meant sank in.

“Oh, no,” she said, lifting both hands and shaking her head. “I’m not going on that thing.”

“I’m an excellent rider. You’ll be completely safe.”

“I don’t think so.”

His dark eyebrows lifted. “Don’t you want to make your meeting?”

“Well, yes,” she hesitated. “I do.”

“Then let me give you a ride.”

Tess sought for another way out of the situation. She didn’t want to be rude to him, or make him angry, but the thought of being on the back of that bike, with this scary-looking guy driving it, made her stomach churn with nerves. “Don’t you have any clients?”

“I already finished with this morning’s, and my afternoon slot isn’t until two. We’re good.”

She grasped around for another excuse. It wasn’t only that she was terrified of riding the bike—which she’d never done before in her life—she also knew it would mean getting up close and personal with Art Fletcher.

“There’s only one helmet,” she pointed out.

“I’ve a spare in the shop.”

She frowned slightly. “You do? You seem to have a lot of your stuff here.”

He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She eyed him curiously. “Right.”

“So are you coming on my bike, or are you gonna miss your meeting?”

Forcing herself to make the decision, she said, “Yes, okay. And thanks.”

He jerked his chin in a nod. “No problem. Wait here a sec.”

He vanished back inside and emerged moments later carrying the helmet he’d mentioned. He handed it to her, and she pulled it on over her head. It was heavier than expected and her neck felt strangely wobbly.

Art climbed onto the seat first then patted the spot behind him for her to climb on. The smart suit she wore wasn’t designed for motorbike riding, but once she’d managed to get her leg over, she settled on comfortably.

Tess hesitated, wondering if she could hold onto the seat without risking falling off. He must have sensed her indecision.

“It’s okay. You can put your arms around my waist. I promise I don’t bite. Much.”

She knew he was teasing, but even so, his words sent a little shiver through her. She wasn’t the type of woman who rode bikes through London, with her arms around some big, tattooed stranger. Self-consciously, she linked her hands across his stomach, trying not to think about the hard muscle that pressed against her palms.

Art kicked the bike to life. They started moving, and her hold tightened, forgetting her self-consciousness, more focused on self-preservation. He pulled out of the alleyway and onto the main road at the front of the shop.

She rode the bike, clinging to him for her life. His muscles moving beneath his t-shirt, the scent of him making her heady. The engine thrumming beneath her. Her heart raced, her breath catching. Art weaved the bike in and out of traffic. They skimmed perilously close to the side of a big, red double-decker bus, and barely made the lights, causing Tess to hold on tighter.

By the time she got off, her legs were shaky and she was lightheaded and not quite herself. Art watched her as though he understood exactly how she felt, as though they’d shared a drug of some kind and now inhabited their own private world. She wasn’t sure she could sit opposite an old, stuffy man in a suit and act normal. Her hair must look like it had been plastered to her scalp after being squashed in the helmet all that time.

“Go on,” Art encouraged her. “You’re gonna be late. I’ll be waiting right here.”

“Oh, you don’t need to wait for me.”

“Are you going back home after?”

Home—the word rang in her ears.

“Umm, yes, I guess so.”

“Well, there’s no point in me going alone when we’re both going to the same place.”

“No, I guess not.”

She stood, staring at him, not wanting to step away from this intimidating and yet somehow fascinating guy on a bike.

“Tess,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You’re gonna be late.” He nodded over her shoulder to the building behind her.

“Oh, shoot. Yes, I am. Okay, thanks.”

Flustered, just as she’d been from the moment she’d woken up, she turned and ran into the building, leaving Art waiting on his bike.