How to Win a Guy in 10 Dates. Jane Linfoot

Against the backdrop of the perfect blue sky Ed watched transfixed, as the horse and rider separated, and the rider tumbled downwards, out of view. Then the dust rose, in billowing rolls over the rock-pile, and just before the dust haze turned the blue sky grey, he saw the rider less horse galloping against the horizon.

      ‘There’s a problem in the field up there! Damned stupid riders.’ Ed hurled himself in the direction of the Land Rover, grinding his teeth on grit.

      Within seconds he was roaring towards the quarry gate, powered by a whole mountain of wrath. He was still cursing, minutes later, up in the field, as he jumped down beside the casualty.

      A girl. And the fact she’d left her riding hat on the gatepost suggested she had no brains to protect. A blonde, albeit a dirty one. Spread-eagled on the grass. In tiny shorts, and with curvy, honeyed legs, that sent crackles up his spine and made him remind himself he shouldn’t be noticing.

      His eye snagged on the tendrils of a tattoo that emerged from the top of her boot.

      ‘Can you hear me?' The anger drained from him as he waited for her reply. He made the words clear. ‘I’m Ed, I’m here to help. What’s your name?’ He was going through the routine now, and she damned well wasn’t responding. No chance of ringing for an ambulance either, the way the signal was here.

      She was very still, face to the sky, blanched beneath her freckled tan. He shivered as he saw blood on the grass, already matting in the tangled strands of her hair, his heart banging, as his training kicked in.

       Airways, breathing, circulation.

      Bearing in mind not to move her spine, he squatted beside her, and grasped her wrist, wincing at the tightness of his on-loan jeans. Tried not to notice that she smelled of flowers. Vanilla. Warmth. Woman.

      Nothing. Damn. He was always crap at finding a pulse. He dragged her hair aside, tried again. This time two fingers under her jaw found firm flesh, slightly clammy, but still no pulse.

      He put his cheek to her slightly parted lips. Waited a second to see if she was breathing.

      Nothing.

      Ninety nine percent sure she was just unconscious, her lack of pulse was down to his lousy technique at locating it, and not because she was dead. But what the hell should he do now? He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. He stood up, ran his eyes down the length of her, his brain struggling to remember his first aid training. Whether to go for her chest first, where one top button had pulled undone, and, let’s be honest, he might never find a breastbone. Or her mouth.

      It was never like this on the first-aid dummies.

      He was on his knees now, sizing up lips that were lush, soft, parted, but altogether easier than the alternative. He needed to damn well get on with it before he ran out of time.

      Focusing on the graze of mud on her cheek, he nipped her nostrils, grasped her chin. He drew in one long breath through his nose, clamped his mouth over hers and psyched himself up to blow.

      Wallop!

      One arm flopped up and clamped the back of his head. Then her other landed square on his back.

      What the hell?

      Her tongue feathered his for a moment, and then came in for the kill, as his already thumping heart exploded in his chest. He fought to pull away but she had him in a head lock, exploring, tangling with him. Drawing him in.

      Salty. Gritty. Entirely off limits. And then, in sheer relief that she was alive, he was kissing her back, an ocean-rush of blood hammering in his ears, his whole body on adrenalin-surge, endorphin-pumping, red-alert. Hotter than he could say. Knowing it was out and out wrong, hearing the gentle moans in her throat, but nothing he could do.

      Except go with it.

      ***

      Millie Brown was drifting, and dreaming, a thing she tried her best not to do. Even in her sleep, she liked to stay in control, and largely she managed to keep her sleeping mind a blank. But something odd had happened, and she was plunging headlong into a full-on sexy-scenario dream she was powerless to stop.

      Right now, a guy with a voice like dark chocolate, was capturing her mouth, and tasting delicious. Cappuccino and hot, raw man. Definitely not love-rat-of-the-decade ex, Josh, then. Who she definitely was over, wasn’t she? No, this was a guy who could really kiss. Talk about tongues and technique. Two years without a snog, but she still knew a high quality kiss when it hit her. And he was ramping it up. In for the kill, and boy, she was happy to die and fast-forward to heaven. Heaven was definitely where she’d arrived, as she shifted beneath him, heard herself moan in the distance, aching for more amazing. Even the sting of his stubble on her chin was delectable. Could almost be .…

      Real?

      Slowly, she slid her fingers through the strands of his hair, traced them across the alarmingly tangible thrust of his cheekbone, and brought her palm to rest on a rough jaw that sent tingles up her arm. Horribly real tingles.

      She opened her eyes. Blinked. Blinked again.

      Awwww crap! Her stomach squelched, and her heart did one huge squeeze, then started to hammer, as the very real man who was kissing her tore his face away from hers.

      She put a hand to her mouth. Found the hottest kiss ever had morphed into a gaping chasm. And as her eyes finally pulled into focus she heard that chocolate voice again.

      ‘Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty!’

      Millie struggled to catch her breath.

      ‘Pleased to see you’re not dead then.’ He’d shot backwards, and was towering over her now, face like a storm cloud. ‘And I think we can safely say your arms aren’t broken, given the strength of your grip on my neck.’

      Millie rubbed a hand across her bottom lip, tried to make sense of what she was doing here, and gawped at the vision of glorious manhood before her. Dark, choppy hair, jeans like a second skin that underlined the solid power of the guy. Dusty work boots that hollered rough and ready. A ragged t-shirt that screamed don’t-give-a-damn, or up-for-anything, she wasn’t sure which. And this is what she’d woken up snogging? If ever there was sex on legs, this had to be it.

      ‘What just happened?’ She clasped a palm to her throbbing skull as she tried to piece together fragments of how she got here. ‘I was riding up the hill in the field … ’

      Exercising Cracker, the pony. Thinking how her legs were so tanned they looked like they weren’t hers, how she wouldn’t need the tanning salon this year, how that was the only good thing about living in the country.

      ‘And I was humming ‘Leave your hat on’ … ’ Going through the Burlesque routine she’d been working on earlier this morning, for her up-coming workshop. Singing the tune. Trying to plan out the next bit of the sequence in her head as she rode. ‘Then there was this bang.’

      The pony surging beneath her in panic, the ground whizzing towards her, the slam of her skull as it whacked into the ground. She definitely remembered that.

      ‘Humming ‘Leave your hat on’? Ironic choice then.’ He gave a snort. ‘We were blasting in the quarry, and your horse took off. I assume you fell and hit your head. You were out cold when I found you.’

      ‘So what was that back there, the kiss of life?’ She fixed him with a fierce stare, which dwindled as she relived how darned amazing he’d tasted. And smelled. Still did. She caught a waft of him on the breeze, and fought a sudden desire to seize his leg and bury her face in it.

      His mouth twisted into a wry line. ‘Something like that.’

      ‘Don’t you know it’s wrong to take advantage in situations like this?’ She pushed herself up on her elbows, hurled the accusation at him, and winced at the pain which split through her head.

      ‘Hang on! Let’s get this straight. You were the one who got me in a headlock as you came around.’ He stood his ground, indignant and glowering. ‘I began resuscitation