Page 12 of Daring the Bad Boy

Rosie jumped out at the University of the Arts campus, in front of the Victorian grain warehouses behind the mainline station that had been converted during the St Pancras redevelopment a few years ago. After paying the cabbie with her card, she dug through her pockets again to find her phone and call Tash – she would have to raid the stash of clean lingerie Tash kept in her office – only to discover clean panties was the least of her troubles. Her phone was MIA.

Strong seeking fingers caressing her butt last night in the cab flashed into her memory. And awareness skittered across her bottom, in tandem with the shot of horror.

There was only one place her mobile could be. Back at Cal the badass kisser’s love-shack in Clerkenwell. Bollocks.

Chapter Five

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“Just use your manikin to get a feel for the different poses we might try when the model arrives, everyone. I’m sure Mick will be here any minute.” Rosie pushed her insane hair back from her face, feeling as if her head were about to explode.

Valentine’s Day was beginning to look like a roaring success compared to the day after. At least she’d quite possibly had sex with a really hot guy yesterday, even if she couldn’t remember it.

Today, on the other hand, was turning into a total catastrophe.

Mick, the life model she’d booked months ago and who was usually so reliable, hadn’t turned up for the class, and she didn’t have her phone so she couldn’t find out what had happened to him. Mr. Abernathy was due to arrive in less than an hour and her class had nothing to draw for their exam. So her walk of shame was going to turn into a march straight to the unemployment office if Mick didn’t show, very soon. And she couldn’t stop stressing about Cal and his kisses and his sad look and skipping out on him without leaving a note.

Which had not only been shoddy behavior, even for a trainee bad girl, but also compounded today’s disasters by adding the thorny problem of how she was going to get her phone back.

Her exhausted brain was knotting around that thought, when a tall figure appeared in the studio’s glass door and shoved it open.

Cal? Here?

Heat blossomed in her belly as he walked into the room. He looked even hotter in daylight, clean-shaven, his dark hair damp, still rocking the leather jacket and boots, but this time with a black T-shirt and worn blue jeans.

What did she do now? Act nonchalant? How was she going to pull that off when her pulse had gone into hyperdrive?

But the moment of exhilaration and expectation was quickly followed by trepidation as she took in the rigid line of his jaw, and the storm clouds swirling in his eyes.

He did not look particularly pleased to see her.

“Do you know how many damn Rosie Smiths there are on Facebook?” So that’s how he’d found her. But…

“You know my surname?” she said, still reeling from the sight of him, in all his glory.

“It’s in your cell phone settings,” he said, tugging the missing phone out of his pocket. Lifting her hand, he slapped it into her palm. “The cell you left behind at my place because you were in such a hurry to run out on me. You may think it’s cute to pick up a guy in a bar then vanish the next morning without a goddamn explanation, but I don’t. For all I knew, you could have been kidnapped by aliens.”

The collective gasps of her class were nothing to her own escaped breath.

“I can explain,” she said – except she couldn’t, the guilt almost as huge as the panic. What on earth had made her think it was okay to use this man and then lose him?

“Great, then you can start by telling me who the fuck Michael Carter is?”

The black hole of guilt combined with the supernova of unwanted arousal to give her stress amnesia – and her mind went completely blank. “I don’t know anyone called Michael Carter.”

“Bullshit.” Another collective gasp from her students, who had now abandoned any pretense at drawing to listen to every word. “You’ve had five messages from the guy since yesterday evening. The poor bastard’s been trying to get in touch with you to tell you he’s in the hospital with a busted arm after a wipeout on his bike. When exactly were you planning to let him know you’d come home with me?”

“Oh, my God. Michael Carter.” Enlightenment burst through the smog. “You mean Mick.”

“Now she remembers him,” he said, dripping sarcasm. “You should have told me you had a boyfriend. I don’t like being played.”

“Mick’s not my boyfriend,” she said as she finally made sense of why Cal was looking at her as if she’d just punched a pensioner. Obviously her bad girl act had been a lot more successful than she’d thought. “He’s the model for this class, who was supposed to be coming in today.” And she now knew why he hadn’t turned up. And wasn’t going to. Which was bad.

But the problem of how she was going to explain his absence to Abernathy didn’t seem nearly as pressing as handling the six foot two inches of volatile male standing in front of her exuding pissed-off vibes.

Cal’s scowl turned into a suspicious frown. “He’s not your boyfriend?”

“No. He’s a fifty-year-old ex-punk rocker.” Which was somewhat beside the point, but seemed relevant somehow. “He models regularly for my drawing classes here. I’m an art teacher.” It felt weird having to explain her job to a guy she had slept with last night but that’s what came of letting your inner slut loose after too many strawberry daiquiris. “For what it’s worth…” She touched his arm and lowered her voice, mindful of their audience. “I wouldn’t have picked you up in the bar last night if I did have a boyfriend…” She cleared her throat. This was probably way too much information. It was only supposed to be a one-night stand, but she couldn’t bear for Cal to think she would cheat

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