‘We’ve got a lot in common.’ He settled back, angled in his chair, all shoulders and lean, muscular grace. ‘I like to compete. You’re a serious trophy.’

‘Pardon me?’

He gave her a lazy once over she should have found insulting after the ‘trophy’ description, instead she felt it like a direct hit to her sleeping libido.

‘You’re smart and seriously sexy and I haven’t been bored since I sat down with you. Like I said, you’re a serious trophy.’

Lorelei inhaled sharply.

She knew it, this was how some men saw an attractive woman, she had just never met a man who had the nerve to say it to her in so many words.

‘Nash, a trophy is an inanimate object you sit on a shelf.’

‘A trophy can be anything you want to win,’ he countered, sitting forward and Lorelei had to remind herself not to edge back. He emanated thumping male entitlement. ‘I don’t get in the race, Lorelei, unless I’m confident of the outcome.’

For a breathless moment she considered asking him exactly how confident he was of her? But deep down she feared the answer.

‘How am I doing so far?’

Lorelei paused long enough to take another sip of her drink.

‘Oh, I think you’re in the race.’

About the Author

LUCY ELLIS has four loves in life: books, expensive lingerie, vintage films and big, gorgeous men who have to duck going through doorways. Weaving aspects of them into her fiction is the best part of being a romance writer. Lucy lives in a small cottage in the foothills outside Melbourne.

Recent titles by the same author:

THE MAN SHE SHOULDN’T CRAVE

UNTOUCHED BY HIS DIAMONDS

INNOCENT IN THE IVORY TOWER

Did you know this title is also available as an eBook?

Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Pride After Her Fall
Lucy Ellis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Bridie

CHAPTER ONE

NASH as a rule didn’t court publicity, so meeting with a publicist went against the grain. But this was for a charity event and he couldn’t very well say no.

‘I’ll meet her at the American Bar in the Hotel de Paris.’

He checked his watch as he approached his low slung Bugatti Veyron.

‘I’ll be with Demarche until one. I can give her a couple of minutes in the bar. I’ll try to make it, but she may have to cool her heels.’

It was one of the few perks of fame. People would wait. He hooked the door of the Veyron and idled for a moment, looking out over the calm Mediterranean water.

Cullinan was talking about seating.

‘No, mate, don’t book a table. This is a five-minute job. Nobody will be sitting down.’

Blue’s management team was headed up by John Cullinan, a savvy Irishman Nash had used in his early racing career when he was thrust onto the world stage. John had protected him from the worst of the media for over a decade and he trusted him to deal fairly with the public and handle the professionals.

He’d need him in the coming weeks. There was already intense speculation about his future. He hadn’t said a word during the running of the Grand Prix here in Monaco in May, but somehow just his presence trackside with current Eagle heavyweight Antonio Abruzzi had sent the media into a frenzy. Not that it took much. Meat in the water and the piranhas swarmed. That was why this meeting with the construction firm Eagle was taking place in the privacy of a hotel room and security barracudas on both sides had elaborate lock-down procedures in place.

He ended the call and jumped into the Veyron, keen to get out of town.

The flip of a wrist and he had the engine purring. His deep-set blue-grey eyes, which one female sports commentator had called ‘lethal blue’ as if they not only needed colour coding but branding, assessed the traffic and he pulled away from outside the corporate offices of the business that had been his heart and soul for five years.

He had just tied up a deal with Swiss-based car manufacturer Avedon to produce Blue 22, and whilst every vehicle design was a rush this was the car he’d first conceptualised back in his racing days, when nobody would have taken him seriously if he’d spilled his guts on his future plans.

Fortunately he’d never been overly chatty. Being raised by a mean drunk who’d seen a kid’s prattle as an excuse to deal out backhanders had bred in him the habit of silence. To the public he was notoriously impenetrable. ‘Self-contained,’ one journalist reported. ‘A cold sonafabitch,’ countered a disenchanted former lover.

But, however else he was perceived, the world took him seriously nowadays even when they weren’t intrusively curious. At thirty-four, he’d survived as a professional in one of the most dangerous sports in the world for almost a decade before retiring in a blaze of glory—and unlike so many sports pros he’d parlayed his expertise and a passionate love of design into a second career.

An extremely successful second career.

One that overshadowed whatever fame he’d had as a driver—which had been his intention. He could command any price for his work and right now he was in demand—at the top of an elite field of specialists.

Yet he was restless, there was no denying that, and several times in the last year he’d caught himself asking the fateful question: What next?

But he knew the answer to that question. It was why the Eagle head honchos had flown in last night.

Yeah, he wanted back in the game, but this time on his own terms. His twenties had gone past in a rush of track groupies and speed as he’d raced against the world’s best and outraced his own demons. He’d known when it was time to stop. He also knew this time it would be different. He wasn’t a boy any more. His feelings about racing had undergone a change. He had nothing to prove.

The road cleared. He changed gear and took off up the hill.

He had a date this morning up on the Point, with a genuine glamour-girl car who had it all over this newer model he was driving, and even the stumbling block of dealing with meetings all afternoon couldn’t dull the edge of what promised to be a very nice find. She was reported to be a sweet little number, with curves aplenty, an all-original and he was finally going to see what the fuss was about.

She’d only recently come on the market, and Nash knew he’d have to move quickly, but he didn’t buy without handling the merchandise.

He’d flown in to Monaco that morning after twenty-four hours in the air to hear the news that the owner had loaned her out but she’d be available to look at this afternoon. With the morning to kill he’d decided to take the opportunity to run up the hill and possibly rescue the poor thing from whatever indignities had been visited upon her overnight.

The place overlooked the bay—nice and exclusive. But what address wasn’t exclusive in this town? The house had a little fame for being a silent-film actress’s hideaway in the twenties and he was a little curious to see it. He’d driven past many times, but this was the first occasion he’d had to turn in, idling at the gates—which, to his surprise, were wide open. Security was usually pretty tight in this neck of the woods.

As he eased the sports car down the linden lined gravel drive he slowed to a creep, taking in the state of disrepair. Masses of flowering bougainvillaea couldn’t hide the fact that the old place needed a face-job.

And then he saw her.

Nash barely had his car at a standstill before he was out, slamming the door, advancing on the object of his desire.

Sticking out of a flowerbed.

A 1931 Bugatti T51, currently upended in a parterre of small flowered bushes. As if to add to the indignity one of its doors was hanging open.

Every muscle in his body stiffened. He wasn’t angry. He was beyond anger.

He was appalled.

But he was a man who had made self-control a byword. He reined in the fury—knew it needed to be directed where it could do some good.

Coming towards him was a rotund man in garden greens, shaking his arms towards the sky as if inviting divine intercession.

‘Monsieur! Un accident avec la voiture!’

Yeah, that was one way of putting it.

And that was when the shouting started.

CHAPTER TWO

LORELEI St James came awake with a languorous stretch, sliding her bare arms over silken sheets, revelling sensuously in the luxurious comfort. She made a ‘mmph’ sound, rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, prepared to sleep away the day, if that were possible—only to hear a deep male voice raised in anger somewhere outside her bedroom terrace.

Ignore it, she decided, snuggling in.

The voice lifted.

She snuggled a bit more.

More shouts.

She wrinkled her nose.

A crash.

What now?

Sighing, Lorelei pushed her satin sleep mask haphazardly up her forehead and winced as she copped an eyeful of bright Mediterranean sunshine. The room did a rinse-cycle spin around her—no doubt the product of too much champagne, inadequate sleep and enough financial trouble to sink this house around her ears.

She shoved thoughts about the latter to the back of her mind even as her heart began to beat the band, and she felt about for a glass of water to ease the Sahara Desert that was her throat this morning. She was greeted by a clatter as she clumsily knocked her watch, her cell phone and a tangle of assorted jewellery to the stone floor.

Easing herself into a sitting position, pushing the fall of chin-length blond curls out of her eyes, Lorelei wrinkled her nose and held on to the mattress as the room did another gentle spin.

I will never drink again, she vowed. Although if I do, she revised, only champagne cocktails … and at a pinch G&T’s.

As if sensing she was at her most vulnerable, the phone on the floor gave a judder and began to vibrate. Her heart did that annoying leap and race thing again. She made a pained face. When the phone rang nowadays there was usually somebody angry on the other end …

To dissuade her from getting out of bed it stopped, but the muted sound of male voices coming up from below her terrace lifted to a crescendo. This was what had woken her. Men shouting. Some sort of altercation going on.

Surely she didn’t have to deal with this, too? Not today …

But without the catering staff from last night there was only Giorgio and his wife, Terese, and it was unfair to expect them to deal with interlopers. They’d had a lot of them in the past few weeks—all of them creditors, hunting her down now that her father Raymond was banged up in a low-security prison.

As if she had a cent to her name after two years of legal fees.

It wasn’t that she was exactly ignoring her problems—she preferred to think of it as delegating responsibility. She’d deal with the phone calls later, and the emails and the lawyers who wanted her signature on a mountain of documents. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. It was just such a nice day. The sun was shining. She shouldn’t ruin it. One more day in paradise and then she’d pay the piper.

Just one more day …

And then she remembered. Not only did she have a client booked in at noon, she had an appointment this afternoon at the Hotel de Paris. It was about her grandmother’s charity: the Aviary Foundation. Every year they hosted an event to raise money for cancer research.

This year the feature was a one-day vintage car rally, and a famous racing driver would be giving kids struggling with cancer the pleasure of a spin around the track in a high-powered vehicle. Their usual publicist was ill, and the foundation’s president had personally asked her to do the meet-and-greet with their guest celebrity.

She squeezed her temples. She hadn’t even done any research. What if he expected her to know his stats? She could barely balance her own chequebook …

Last year they had lined up a Hollywood actor who famously had a home here in Monaco. Now, that one would have been easy—watch a few films, gush … Everyone knew actors had egos like mountains. Frowning, she contemplated racing-car drivers. Weren’t they kind of like cowboys? She pictured swagger and ego in equal dimensions. Blah.

Reaching for the eau de nil silk evening gown crumpled at the foot of her bed, Lorelei tugged it over her head. Really, she was happy to do the meet-and-greet—she’d do anything the Aviary Foundation asked of her—just not today …

She gave a shriek as something small and furry tunnelled its way onto her lap, claws digging into her flesh.

‘Fifi,’ she admonished, pulling the silk to her waist, ‘behave, ma chere.’

Lifting her beloved baby, she buried her face in a ball of white fluff.

‘Now, be good and stay here. Maman has things to attend to.’

Fifi sat up expectantly in the pool of white silk sheets, curious eyes on her mistress as she opened the French doors and went to step outside. Lorelei doubled back as she remembered she wasn’t wearing any underwear. She wasn’t prudish about her body, but she knew Giorgio was conservative and she didn’t want to embarrass him unnecessarily.

Belting her robe at the waist, Lorelei wandered out onto the terrace. It was going to be another one of those perfect early September days, and she inhaled the briny breeze filled with lavender and rosemary scents from the garden. She most definitely didn’t want to go and sort this out. As she weaved her way down the stone steps, pulling her sunglasses into place, she told herself that whoever it was couldn’t do anything worse than yell at her.

But it wasn’t easy being shouted at, and she wondered if she was ever going to become inured to other people’s anger. In her defence, she’d been facing more than her fair share lately—and it wasn’t getting any easier. Maybe she was suffering from overload, because this morning it felt harder than ever. But Giorgio didn’t deserve this either, and the buck had to stop somewhere.

It would just be nice if for once it didn’t stop with her.

Lorelei saw the Bugatti first and her heart sank. How on earth had it ended up in the garden? On second thoughts, she had a pretty good idea …

And then she saw the man who had disturbed her slumber.

He was … She was …

Lorelei was vaguely aware that her mouth had formed a little ‘oh’ of wonder. In the next instant she remembered that she hadn’t run a brush through her hair, she wasn’t wearing any make-up and her panties were upstairs.

Too late now. He’d spotted her.

She couldn’t do anything about her wrinkled evening gown, but she smoothed her sleep-mussed hair, glad of the shades—which this morning were hiding a thousand sins. She tried to remember that even if she wasn’t looking her best she wasn’t without her own certain charm.

Besides, men were so easy.

He headed over, all six foot forever of him, with shoulders that would have served a linebacker, a deep chest, a lean waist, tight hips and long, powerful legs—and one of those classically handsome faces that made her think of old-time movie stars.

Lorelei knew better than to be a sitting target. She took the initiative and approached the Bugatti, giving her scowling uninvited guest her back view, which she knew—thanks to riding and an hour a day on her Stairmaster—wasn’t bad, and came up with her best line.

‘Goodness me,’ she drawled, ‘there’s a car in my rose bushes.’

On the other hand, maybe humour hadn’t been the best direction to take this in. As she listened to the crunch of gravel—big, heavy male footsteps coming up behind her—Lorelei experienced that sinking feeling: the one that told her she’d read the situation all wrong.

Giorgio’s expression told her to duck and cover, but after a brief, desperate glance at the older man she decided to stay where she was. It wasn’t her style to cut and run, and she’d come this far—she just needed to brazen it out. And the guy had stopped shouting, which was encouraging.

‘Are you responsible for this?’

Lorelei took in three things. He was Australian, he had a voice that made Russell Crowe sound like a choirboy, and—as she turned around and looked up into a set masculine face—he clearly wasn’t in any mood to be amused or charmed. She couldn’t blame him. The car did look pretty bad.

‘Are you?’ he repeated, snapping off his aviators and revealing a pair of spectacular eyes—navy blue rimmed with grey, surrounded by dense, thick, dark lashes.

Those eyes. They were sort of … amazing. Lorelei couldn’t help gazing helplessly back.

Except they pinned her like a blade to a dissection board. She could almost feel him deciding which part of her to excise first. She came back to earth with a thump and tried to ignore the pinch in her chest. It was a look she was becoming depressingly familiar with of late, and it didn’t mean anything, she told herself. She would have thought she’d be used to it by now.

He shoved the aviators into the back pocket of his jeans and settled his arms by his sides—stance widened, pure masculine intimidation.

‘Anything to say for yourself?’

He was pumping out lots of frustrated testosterone, which was making her a little nervous, but she couldn’t really blame him. He wanted another man to punch on the nose and he’d got her.

He clearly didn’t know what to do about that.

She lifted a trembling hand and smoothed down her hair.

‘Are you high, lady?’

Lorelei was so busy staying her ground that his questions hadn’t quite penetrated, but now that he was turning away the last one landed on her with a thump.

‘Pardon?’

But the guy was already focussing his entire attention back on the car, his hands on those lean, muscled hips of his as he eyed the Bugatti nose-deep in the rose bushes.

Giorgio was muttering in Italian, and the guy said something to him in his own language. Before her eyes the men appeared to be bonding over their shared outrage about the car. Freed from that penetrating stare, Lorelei frowned.

Well, really.

This wasn’t how the man-meets-Lorelei scenario was supposed to play out. Her Italian was minimal, at best, and she didn’t like the feeling of being forcibly held at bay by her inability to understand what was being said.

She was also a little piqued at being ignored.

And she most definitely didn’t like being intimidated.

She cocked a hip, one slender hand resting just below her waist.

‘So, do you think you can extract it before it does any more damage to my flowers?’

Giorgio muttered something like, ‘Madonna!’

Good—now she’d get a little action.

The man’s broad shoulders grew taut, and as he turned around she felt her bravado flicker uneasily. His movements were alarmingly deliberate—as if this was his estate, Giorgio his employee and she was trespassing on his land. A stone-cold stare slammed into her. He suddenly seemed awfully big, and Lorelei knew in that instant he wasn’t amused, he wasn’t charmed and he wasn’t going to be easy.

‘As far as I’m concerned, lady,’ he said, his expression giving no ground, ‘you’re screwed.’

Her reaction was fierce and immediate. She hated this feeling. She’d been dealing with it for too long. It felt as if all she’d done lately was shoulder the blame. So this time it was her fault, but for some reason his anger felt disproportionate and just plain unfair. It was too much, coming on top of everything else.

Who cared about a silly car when her life was coming apart at the seams?

So she did what she always did when a man challenged her, called her to account or tried to make himself king of her mountain. She brought out the big guns. The ones she’d learned from her beloved, irresponsible father.

Wit and sex appeal.

Lorelei dipped her glasses and gave him full wattage.

‘I can hardly wait,’ she purred.

CHAPTER THREE

FROM her rumpled appearance she had clearly just rolled out of bed, and for one out-of-bounds moment Nash had a strong urge to roll her back into it.

Hardly surprising. She was a striking-looking woman who exuded a sultry, knowing sensuality that could have been a combination of her looks and the way she moved her body and displayed it, but he sensed came from the essence of who she was.

In another era she would have embodied the romantic idea of a courtesan. A woman who required a great deal of money to keep the shine on her silky curls, the glow in her honeyed skin and her eyes from straying to the next main chance.

Yeah—another time and another place this could go down a lot differently.

A man like him … a woman like her …

But not today.

Not now.

And it didn’t have a lot to do with the car.

With a media circus about to start up around him again, this smouldering blonde had a little bit too much attitude to burn. He might as well slap a big no-go sticker on that shapely ass of hers. She fairly neon-glowed with sex of a crazy, messy kind, and tempted as he was he couldn’t afford to be indiscriminate—not this close to race-start. He’d do well to remember that.

Although his first impression of this woman had been of something quite different. When she’d first emerged for a timeless instant he’d seen only a tall, delicately built girl as graceful and hesitant as a mountain deer. She’d given him pause. For a moment there he hadn’t wanted to shift a muscle in case he scared her off.

Then she’d looked right at him and headed for the Bugatti.

And right now her hands were on her hips and the glamour-girl in her was in full flow. Which was when he noticed something rather more down to earth. She wasn’t wearing much. Or rather what she was wearing was advertising the lack of anything else.

Trying to be a gentleman, he dragged his attention upwards. But he needn’t have bothered. She was clearly un-fazed, and his cynicism about who she was and the price she put on herself lodged into place—because, despite his initial impression of something better, blondie was pure South of France glamour. If he upended her she probably had “Made on the Riviera” stamped on the soles of her pretty bare feet.

For a moment she’d looked a little thrown. He didn’t know if she was embarrassed to be caught out or simply defensive because she didn’t like being in the wrong. Frankly, he didn’t care.

He cared about the car.

He whipped out his cell, punched in a number.

‘As far as I’m concerned, lady, you’ve committed a felony. That car is a work of art and a treasure, and you’ve trashed it.’

She dragged off the huge sunglasses and a pair of pale-lashed doe eyes regarded him with a fair degree of astonishment. As if he were massively overreacting.

Nash knew he was staring back, but after the clothes and the attitude he just hadn’t expected amber-brown, slightly tip-tilted, lovely … The eyes of a gentle fawn.

‘I haven’t trashed anything,’ she countered in that low, sexy voice of hers.

Nash folded his arms, still shaking off the effect of those eyes. Somehow she was going to try and take the moral high ground. This should be good.

‘It might be a little scratched—that’s all,’ she conceded. ‘I suppose there are only a couple of thousand in the world—’

‘Eight,’ he said grimly. ‘There are eight left in the world.’

For a moment he fancied he saw her take a deep swallow, but she continued on blithely, like a pretty blonde lemming running over a cliff.

‘Seven more than this one—not such a catastrophe, non?’

He stared at her.

‘Besides, it’s man-made.’ She smoothed her hands over the gentle swell of her hips, drawing attention to the obvious fact that she wasn’t.

‘Nice move, doll,’ he drawled, following the movement of her hands. ‘You’re very pretty, and I’m sure you’ve got men lining up down the drive, but conscienceless women do nothing for me.’

Her hands stilled on her hips. She looked slightly shocked, and for a moment he wondered if it was another ploy, then she lifted her chin and said coolly, ‘Perhaps you can get the parts and fix it?’

He could fix it?

Despite his irritation Nash almost laughed. Was she serious?

‘Yeah, that easy,’ he drawled, losing his battle not to pay too much attention to her silk nightgown, or something resembling one, and its faithful adherence to the lines of her body.

In particular when she moved—as she was doing now—it became highly revealing. The silk clung to the long, slender length of her legs, the jut of streamlined hips and the delicate curve of her clearly braless breasts. His body shifted up to speed. She rivalled the Bugatti in terms of fine lines.

He’d lied. She did do something for him.

‘Looking for something?’ Her voice was suddenly sharp, and it had lost its sleepy sexiness.

Nash dragged his gaze from the view to find those amber eyes observing him rather shrewdly. She’d clearly ditched the princess-without-a-clue act.

‘Yeah,’ he responded dryly. ‘A conscience.’

She folded her arms, as if discovering some long-lost modesty.

‘Oh, it’s there,’ she drawled, ‘you just have to rattle around for it a bit.’

It was one hell of a line.

Against Nash’s will a smile ghosted across his mouth. Not such a dumb blonde after all.

‘I’ll take a pass.’

‘Shame.’ This was said with a little toss of those curls as she walked towards the scene of her crime: the rear end of the Bugatti. ‘But I’m sure it can be fixed. It’s only tipped into some roses bushes after all—a little scratched paint at most.’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Nothing to get all worked up about.’

Was it his heated imagination or in that moment did she drop her gaze infinitesimally below his belt?

He could hear one of his people speaking on the other end of the phone. He lifted it momentarily and said, ‘Give us a minute, mate.’

‘Have you changed your mind?’ She paused deliberately—it could only be deliberate with this woman. ‘About the car?’

‘Nothing’s changed, sweetheart, except your fine day.’

He watched the confidence dip slightly out of her body, and oddly it didn’t give him the satisfaction he would have anticipated.

‘Expect a bill.’

She notched up her chin. ‘Can I expect anything else?’

‘Yeah—a lecture from your old man about why messing around with another guy’s wheels can get you into all sorts of trouble.’

For a moment she looked at him as if she was going to say something about that, and for some reason he found he was hanging on her answer.

Instead she pushed back her tousled hair, gave him a distracted smile, as if she knew something he didn’t, and headed back the way she’d come.

He wouldn’t have been a red-blooded man if his gaze hadn’t moved inexorably to what he had noticed before: a very shapely behind. It was like a perfect peach, all high and perky under the clinging silk of whatever it was she was wearing—or not wearing.

Vaguely he became aware that the old Italian bloke was glaring at him, and he dragged his eyes off the view.

‘The car is not so damaged you need to frighten her,’ grumbled the older man, ‘and you can keep your eyes to yourself. Miss St James is a nice woman. She does not ask for all this trouble.’

Nash could hear the disembodied voice coming from his cell, but he was slightly bemused by the lecture being delivered to him in hot, angry Italian. Who was this guy? Her father?

‘I know your type, with the flashy car. You want to find some loose woman, you go into town.’

Loose woman? What was this? 1955?

‘No, mate, I just want the car. Fixed.’

He was tempted to gun the Veyron and leave the Bugatti to its fate. But it went against the few principles he had left. The old girl was a treasure, and she deserved to be treated like the lady she was.

He settled the pick-up details and was strolling over to the Veyron when he was distracted by the very distinctive sound of high heels hitting flagstones.

‘Miss St James’ had re-emerged in silky white pants, which were swishing around her long legs, some sort of floaty, shimmery silky green top, which barely skimmed the tops of her arms and left her shoulders bare, and she’d applied bright crimson lipstick to that smart mouth of hers. Although her eyes were impenetrable behind those ridiculously large sunglasses she had a faint smile on her lips as she headed over to a boat of a convertible parked by the garden wall. He watched her climb in.

He was done here. He still wanted the car, and he wanted it fixed. But first he’d deal with the thorny question of why the Bugatti was nose-down in a bunch of roses.

‘Hold it, sweetheart.’

She paused from rummaging in her bag, pointed chin angled over her shoulder, shades lowered, eyes assessing. ‘Is there something else?’ she enquired civilly.

Yeah, too civil.

He knew how to get his point across—how to use leashed aggression as a weapon in the male-dominated industry in which he’d shouldered his way up to the top.

He was somewhat stymied by the fact that as he approached the car she smiled, and her whole face softened, became sensuously lovely, almost expectant.

‘Before you rip out of here,’ he drawled, leaning in, ‘just a word of advice.’

‘Advice?’

‘Lawyer up.’

Her smile flickered and faded. But before he could read her expression she pushed the shades abruptly up her face.

‘As much as I like being tumbled out of bed by a handsome man and lectured to,’ she shot out rapidly, her words scrambling over one another, ‘I do have an appointment and this is all getting rather complicated.’ She gave him a haughty look. ‘If there is any damage to the car, add it to the bill, why don’t you?’ She zipped up her bag and muttered something about it being just one more thing to add to the list.

She wasn’t stupid, Nash thought, looking down at all those bright pretty curls, but her sense of self-preservation was clearly running on zero. Didn’t she realise if she was a man he would have hauled her out of that car and done what was necessary?

Maybe she did. Maybe she was relying on her woman status to keep her out of harm’s way.

He reached in and palmed her keys.

‘Hey!’

He levelled her with a look and had the satisfaction of seeing her back up in her seat.

‘Yeah, about that. The world doesn’t run on your timetable, princess.’

Her expression was hidden behind those shades, but the pulse at the base of her slender throat was pounding and the old bloke’s accusation about her being a nice woman and him frightening her returned full strength.

He dropped the keys into her lap.

‘Just as a matter of interest—mine, not yours, doll—how did the car end up in the garden?’

She fumbled to start her engine and he frowned. He wanted her to understand the consequences of her carelessness, but he didn’t bully women.

She started up the engine, not looking at him.

‘I think that would be when I left the handbrake off,’ she responded, and without another word reversed fast in a cloud of dust.

Douleur bonne, what did she think she was doing?

Lorelei held on tight to the wheel as she tore up the drive, her heart pounding out of her chest. She just had to get away before the handsome stranger wrecked everything.

Alors, she could have just offered up a standard apology and volunteered to pay for all repairs. A more prudent woman would have done just that. But prudence wasn’t her forte lately …

She just wanted today to be a nice day.

One more day.

Was it too much to ask?

She licked her dry lips, dragged her bag over as she drove, fumbled for her lipstick.

Don’t think about it, she told herself, swiping her lower lip with the crimson colour, making a mess of it.

She braked, dropped the lipstick, fished it from her lap and hooked off her sunglasses impatiently to restore her face with a tissue in the rear-vision mirror.

For a moment all she saw were her eyes, huge and dilated and vulnerable.

Taking a deep breath, she put herself back in order and forged onto the highway, determined to put this behind her. Oui, she’d had a bad start to the day, but that didn’t mean anything, and it wasn’t that bad. Despite the trembling of her hands on the wheel she’d had a little fun, hadn’t she? She was sorry about the car, but it hadn’t been intentional and it was only a little scratched. She was a good person, she’d never hurt anyone on purpose in her life, she wasn’t careless with other people’s property; she wasn’t a criminal …

Her heart had started pounding again.

Best not to think about it.

She depressed the accelerator, the wind tugging at her hair. Perhaps if she drove a little harder it would help.

She was living harder, too. She’d really pushed the boat out last night. In fact thinking about it made her feel a little sick.

She had positively, absolutely drunk too much. She’d flirted with the wrong men and her attention had definitely not been on her borrowed adornment for the twenties-themed party. When someone had pointed out a couple of the younger partygoers, climbing all over it, she had moved it herself, parking the vehicle in the private courtyard. Clearly she hadn’t put the handbrake on.

Why hadn’t she remembered to put the handbrake on?

For that matter, why had she behaved so poorly this morning? Why hadn’t she apologised and done her best to smooth things over? Perhaps the better question was, what was she trying to prove? Was she that desperate for attention? For somebody to realise she needed help?

Brought up short by the thought, Lorelei let her foot retreat from the accelerator.

Did she need help?

The notion buzzed just out of focus. Certainly she wouldn’t be asking any of her friends, none of whom had offered even a word of sensible advice since this whole nightmare began. Could she even call any of those people at her home last night friends? Probably not.

It didn’t matter. At the end of the day a party merely meant she wasn’t alone. She hated being alone. You couldn’t hide when you were alone …

In the rear vision mirror she caught a flash of red. Instinctively she depressed the accelerator. The car did nothing. She tried again and realised she was pumping her foot. Panicking slightly, although this had happened before, she gently stood on the brakes, bringing the car to a slow standstill on the roadside. She saw the sports car flash past in a blur of red and ignored the pinch in her chest because he hadn’t even slowed down. Not that she could blame him.

Had she really expected him to stop?

There was nothing for it but to turn off the engine for five minutes before taking it easy going down into town. The Sunbeam Alpine had been playing up for weeks. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Laying her elbow on the door and pressing her head against her hand, she closed her eyes, allowing the sun on her face to soothe the surging anxiety that threatened to sweep everything before it.

Nash watched the Sunbeam drop speed, weave a little. The brake lights stayed on as it ground to a standstill in a cloud of dust at the roadside.

He sped past.

He didn’t have time for this. For any of it. The banged-up car, the performance in the courtyard … the unreasonable desire to pull over, pluck those shades off her eyes and rattle around for that conscience of hers she’d assured him she had.

He only got a few hundred metres down the road before he was doing a screeching circle and slowly heading back.

She hadn’t got out of the car She seemed to be just sitting there.

Nash already wanted to shake her.

He pulled the Veyron in behind and killed the engine. Shoving his aviators back through his thick brown hair, he advanced on her car. Still she hadn’t shifted.

What did she expect? A valet service?

She was sitting with her head thrown back, as if the sun on her face was a sensual experience, her expression virtually obscured by those ridiculously large sunglasses. He noticed for the first time that she had a dappling of freckles over her bare shoulders. They seemed oddly girlish on such a sophisticated woman. He liked them.

His tread crunched on the gravel but she didn’t shift an inch.

‘Car trouble?’

She slowly lowered the glasses and angled up her face.

‘What do you think?’

Those amber-brown eyes of hers locked on his.

‘What I think is you need a few lessons in driving and personal responsibility.’

A smile, soft and subtle, drifted around the corners of her mouth. ‘Really? And are you the man to give them to me?’

Nash almost returned the smile. She really was playing this out to the last gasp.

‘How about getting out of the car?’

She gave him a speculative look and then slowly began unhooking her seatbelt. Her movements were slow, deliberate. She unlatched the door, hesitated only for a moment and then swung her long legs out. She shut the door with a click behind her and leaned back against it.

‘How can I help you, Officer?’

The scent of her hit him, swarmed through his senses like a hive of pretty bees, all honey and flowers and female.

Expensive, a steadying voice intervened. She smells and looks expensive.

Like any other rich girl on this coast. A dime a dozen if you’d got a spare billion in the bank.

He folded his arms. ‘Going to tell me what’s going on?’

He actually saw the moment the flirtatious persona fell away.

She gave a little shrug. ‘There seems to be a problem with the engine. I accelerate but I lose speed.’

He nodded and headed for the front of her car.

Lorelei found herself following him, hands on her hips. He got the bonnet up with no trouble—something she never could. He leaned in.

‘It’s the original,’ he told her in that deep, male voice.

‘Are you a mechanic?’

‘Near enough.’

Lorelei looked down the road as a couple of cars swished past, then back at the man leaning into the business end of her car.

Her eyes dwelt on the tail of an intricate dragon tattoo running down his flexed left arm, on his muscled shoulders, shifting under the fit of his close-weave black T-shirt, broad and imposing as he bent low, drawing attention to the strong, lean length of his torso and tapering to a hall-of-fame behind—all muscle. Prime male.

She snagged her bottom lip contemplatively, stroking him up and down with her eyes. She couldn’t get over how thick and silky his dark brown hair looked, the wavy ends caressing his broad neck. She wondered how they would feel tangled between her fingers. She wondered what he would say if she apologised, if she told him she wasn’t always this out of control …

‘Whoever looks after it deserves a medal.’

Lorelei wondered a little hopelessly if he was ever going to look up—look at her. She gave a little inner sigh. Probably not. She’d burnt her bridges with this man.

‘What was it?’ he prompted. ‘A gift?’ When she didn’t reply he straightened up and gave her a speculative look. ‘I’d say from a guy who knows his engines.’

Lorelei cleared her throat, aware she’d been staring at him and that he was probably aware of it. ‘I bought it myself. At auction.’

He looked so sceptical her hands twitched all over again on her hips.

‘You need a specialist to run some tests on the engine.’ He was looking at her steadily, as if he expected her to be writing this down. ‘It’s in good nick, so I assume you’ve got a specialist mechanic.’

She found herself recalled to her usual good sense. ‘Oui. I’ll call him.’

‘Everything else looks to be in order.’

As he spoke he set the bonnet down carefully, checked it was locked in place. His movements were assured and methodical and, oddly, Lorelei felt soothed by them. He treated her car with respect. Which was more than she had done with his employer’s Bugatti, a little voice of conscience niggled.

‘What will happen with the Bugatti?’ she found herself asking.

‘I expect the man who owns her will have some questions for you.’

Lorelei shoulders subsided.

‘Do you want me to follow you back?’

No, most definitely not. Because she wasn’t going back. She’d been running the Sunbeam like this for weeks, but she got the impression her handsome stranger would not be best pleased. He might not think much of her, but he was clearly in love with her car.

‘Mais non. You stopped.’ She pushed back a rogue curl dangling over the left side of her face. ‘It’s more than most people would have done. Merci beaucoup.’

Nash hesitated. He hadn’t seen her like this before—calm, almost subdued—and it suited her. She wasn’t quite as young as he’d first assumed—maybe thirty—and there was a maturity about her that he’d missed in all the glamour-girl theatrics.

‘Right. Take care of her. She’s a beauty.’

He ran his hand lightly over the paintwork and for the life of him couldn’t work out why getting back into his car was so hard. Except she was just standing there, looking a little uncertain.

He sat in the Veyron, waiting, watching as she climbed into the sapphire-blue roadster, waiting for her to start the engine, waiting for her to pull out, all the while waiting to feel relief that she was off his hands. She gave him a simple wave and drove slowly back down the road.

Telling himself he was satisfied, he pulled out and took off.

Lorelei watched until she couldn’t see him any more in her mirror, then ignored the pinch in her chest because she wasn’t going to see him again, before turning the big car around and heading back the way he was going. Into town.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘LORELEI, good morning.’ The girl behind the desk beamed. ‘You’re early!’

‘No, I have a client at midday, so I’m running late, chère. Can you be an angel and put a call through to the arena to let them know I’m on my way?’

As she reached her locker Lorelei finished keying her successful morning’s tally into her cell: Smashed up a Bugatti. Met a man. Then she hesitated, because ‘met a man’ implied she would be meeting him again. Monaco was a postage stamp of geography, but person per square foot it was the most densely populated postage stamp in the world, making it highly unlikely …

She sighed, pressed Send to her best friend’s number and dropped the cell into her bag, placing that in her locker. Her love life was fairly, well, non-existent these days. Getting close to a man in her current situation just meant another person to hide things from.

She stripped, pulled on jodhpurs and a white shirt, and crouched down to yank on her riding boots. It was only when she stood up to don the regulation jacket and caught sight of her reflection that she paused to enjoy the little moment when she stepped into this world.

It was almost a moment of relief. She understood this world. There were rules and regulations and they were satisfying. It was what she had always loved about dressage and showjumping. She had had so little structure growing up, and the sport had provided for the lack. Ironically it was fulfilling the same function now.

She smiled wanly as she buttoned herself up. The jacket hung a little on her, but so did everything. She’d lost weight during her father’s trial and somehow never regained it.

Gathering up her clipboard, Lorelei made her way out into the stands to wait for her student.

Once this had been her dream, until a bad fall had put paid to her ambitions. Nowadays she trained up-and-coming equestrians on a freelance basis. It didn’t pay spectacularly well, but it was work for her soul. After the accident she hadn’t thought she would ever saddle up again. Two years of rehabilitation had taught her both patience and determination, and she brought them to her work. It made her a good trainer.

In a couple of years, when she was financially back on her feet again, she hoped to set up her own stables on a property she had her eye on outside Nice. For now, she trained and kept two horses at the nearby Allard Stables, where she also volunteered.

She brought her focus to bear as a glorious bay gelding entered the arena, carrying a long-legged teenager. Lorelei had been working with her for a month. She watched as horse and rider trotted round the perimeter and then came out of the circle, performing a shoulder-in. Her practised gaze narrowed. The rider was using the inside rein to create the bend, rather than her leg, and was pulling the horse off-track.

Too much neck-bend, no angle, she noted on the clipboard propped up on one knee.

Some of the best equine flesh in the world was on view here most days, ridden by the best of the best, but on Fridays the arena belonged to students such as young Gina, who was making a hash of the most fundamental lesson in advanced dressage. She would improve—Lorelei was confident on her behalf. These were skills that could be learnt. The rest was about your relationship with the horse, and Gina was a natural.

For the next half hour she took notes, then joined Gina and the bay gelding’s regular handler in the arena. She was working with Gina on top of her usual student load as a favour to another trainer, but she didn’t mind taking on the extra work. It was good to take her head out of her financial troubles and focus on something she could control, and fulfilling to see the progress Gina had made in little over a month.

She worked with both girl and horse for the rest of their session, then joined Gina and her mother to talk about her progress. It was important, so although she was running late for her appointment at the Hotel de Paris she made the time. It was on half one when she leapt into the Sunbeam, starting her engine as she checked her cell.

It was never a pleasant experience. So many messages—so few people she actually wanted to talk to. There were several from her solicitor, a raft from legal firms she’d never heard of and one from the agent through whom she was leasing the villa out to strangers. She had a vague hope that the income could be channelled back into the upkeep of the house and grounds. But she wouldn’t think about that right now. She wasn’t ready.

Maybe tomorrow.

Unexpectedly the stranger’s comment that she expected the world to run on her timetable flashed to mind. But before she had time to dwell unhappily on the truth of that, and aware that her damn hands were shaking again, she keyed in her best friend Simone’s number and attached ear buds to enable her to drive and talk.

‘You had a car accident? Mon Dieu, Lorelei, are you all right?’

‘No, not an accident.’ She hesitated, knowing how lame it was going to sound. ‘I borrowed it for a theme party and parked it and left the handbrake off.’

There was a pause before Simone said with a suspicion of laughter in her voice, ‘You know I love you, Lorelei, but I would never let you drive my car.’

‘Then perhaps you should talk to the guy I dealt with—this big Australian. He seemed to think I was a disaster waiting to happen.’

‘Poor bébé. I’m sure you charmed him in the end.’

‘He was a little steamed about the car.’

‘I bet.’

‘I don’t think he liked me very much.’

Simone snorted. ‘Men always like you, Lorelei. You wouldn’t be so good at milking them of euros for that charity of yours if they didn’t.’

Lorelei acknowledged the truth of this with a little shrug. ‘I guess this one was the exception. He was different—I don’t know … capable. Manly. He looked over my car.’

‘And—?’

‘I think I liked him.’

Simone was silent. Testimony to the state of Lorelei’s romantic life.

‘I know. I must be crazy, right?’

‘Is he employed?’

‘Oh, honestly.’

‘The last one I heard about didn’t have a sou to his name.’

‘Rupert was an installation artist.’

‘Is that what he called it? I know you’re touchy about this, but for the life of me I can’t work out why you don’t date those guys you schmooze for your grandmother’s charity.’

Lorelei’s heart sank a little. The nature of her charity work meant she was often seen in social situations with powerful men, but she never dated them. Being the daughter of one of the most infamous gigolos on the Riviera had left her wary of men who could pay her bills. She gravitated towards a type: struggling artist—whether it be painter or musician or poet—often in need of propping up, usually with her money. And that was where everything came unstuck.

Well, she didn’t have that problem any more …

‘So no name, no number—?’

‘No hope,’ finished Lorelei, and their laughter mingled over the old joke. ‘I’m on my way as we speak to the Hotel de Paris.’

‘Ooh, la la, tell me you’re going to use their wonderful spa!’

‘Not today. I’m being Antoinette St James’s granddaughter and fronting for the foundation.’

‘Your grandmaman’s charity?’

‘Oui. They’re doing a vintage car rally to raise funds for children with cancer. That’s why I had the Bugatti on loan for last night’s party. As an adjunct a racing driver here in Monaco has a private track a few miles inland, and he’s going to run the kids around it for the day.’

‘Which driver? Do you have a name?’

‘I don’t know. Let me see.’ Lorelei braked at a pedestrian crossing and fumbled with the shiny folder she’d picked up from the Aviary office yesterday. ‘Nash Blue. The name is vaguely familiar …’

The line went quiet.

‘Simone?’

‘I’m here. I’m just taking it in. Nash Blue. Cherie, how can you live in Monaco and not know anything about the Grand Prix?’

Lorelei rumpled her curls distractedly. ‘I’m not very sporty, Simone.’

‘You might want to keep quiet about that when you meet him.’ Simone sounded arch. ‘You didn’t do any research, did you?’

‘I haven’t had time. It was dumped on me yesterday.’

‘You do know Nash Blue is a racing legend?’

‘Really?’ Lorelei asked without interest, concentrating on weighting the folder down on the passenger seat with her handbag.

‘He’s a rock star of the racing world. He’s broken all sorts of records. He retired a few years ago at the height of his career and—listen to this, cherie—he was earning close to fifty million a year. And I’m not talking euros. He was one of the highest paid sportsmen in the world.’

Must be nice, Lorelei thought vaguely.

‘He gave up the track to design supercars—whatever they are. I think the consensus is he’s some kind of genius. But, putting that aside for a moment, he’s utterly gorgeous, Lorelei. I confess I’m a little envious.’

Unexpectedly Lorelei pictured a pair of intense blue eyes and wished she had this morning to do over again.

‘I’m sure I’ll do something to annoy him. I’m on a roll with that, Simone.’

‘He rarely gives interviews. The few times he has he’s been famously monosyllabic.’

Lorelei’s heart sank. So she was going to have to do all the talking?

‘But be en garde, cherie. He has a reputation with the ladies.’

‘Oh, please. If he doesn’t talk how does that even work?’

‘I don’t think much talking is involved.’

Lorelei rolled her eyes. ‘I think I’m quite safe, Simone. You forget—I grew up watching Raymond ply his trade. I have no illusions left.’

‘Not all men are rascals, cherie.’

‘No, you married the one who wasn’t.’ It was said fondly. Lorelei found solace in Simone’s happy marriage, her family life. But it wasn’t something she ever envisaged for herself. Apart from Simone, her longest relationship had been with her twelve-year-old horses.

‘All I’m saying is Nash Blue was a bit of a player in his racing days, and given his profile I doubt anything has changed.’

‘Oui, oui. I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘All the parties and famous people you meet—you are one lucky girl, cherie.’ Simone sounded quite wistful.

‘I guess.’

And now she was lying to her best friend.

For a glancing moment Lorelei wanted to tell Simone about all the unreturned phone calls, the unopened emails …

But she couldn’t tell her. She was so ashamed she had let it get to this point.

The villa was a money pit she couldn’t afford to keep up, and the charity was an ongoing responsibility that took time away from paid work. Her father’s legal fees and creditors had basically stripped her of everything else.

She’d lost so much in the last two years, first Grandy to illness and then her faith in Raymond. Right now the only thing that felt certain in her world was the home she had grown up in, and she was holding on to it by the skin of her teeth.

‘Keep me updated, cherie.’

‘Absolutement. Je t’aime.’

Lorelei was still thinking about the call as she turned into the Place du Casino and began thinking about where she was going to leave her car. She was running late, and thoughts of what awaited her at home were proving a distraction despite her best efforts to pretend to the contrary. Yet the sun was shining, which lifted her spirits, and she told herself she deserved to cut herself a little slack. Tomorrow she’d deal with all those intrusive emails. She might even front up at her solicitor’s office—although perhaps that was going overboard.

She stilled as she caught sight of a familiar red Veyron parked right outside the hotel entrance. Brakes squealing, she came to a standstill midtraffic. The adrenalin levels spiked in her body, but it wasn’t anything to do with thoughts of bills and creditors. Her heart pounded.

Behind her horns blared. She made a wide go-around-me gesture with her arm, scanning for a spot. She found one and cut across the flow of traffic, wincing at the blare of horns, but it was worth it to back up into the nice wide space. Perfect. All she needed now was to hand over the folder, smile at the racing-car driver and then she could go and find her stranger and apologise, offer to buy him a drink or two and hope her charm would do the trick.

She reapplied her lipstick with a steady hand, unravelled the blue scarf she wore to protect her hair from the wind and stepped out onto the road.

This time a car horn gave an appreciative little beep as she sashayed across the Place du Casino towards the maharajah’s jewel box that was the hotel. That was more like it.

The day was looking up.

He was late.

Nash didn’t give it much thought. The publicist would wait. Cullinan would wait. Everyone waited. It was one of the few useful by-products of fame and perversely frustrating. Nash was only too aware of the contradiction. It would be interesting if for once he was stood up.

But another benefit was being able to help out where he could for a worthy cause, and a kids’ cancer charity was pretty high on that list.

That was why he had ridden down from the top floor in the middle of negotiations and now strolled across the lobby into Le Bar Américain. Five minutes of face-time and this charity rep would be keen to get going, given he’d held her up for … Nash glanced at his watch … thirty-five minutes.

He scanned the downlit warm ambience of the bar. John Cullinan was on a stool, leaning into both drink and cell as he cut some throats. He was the best in the business at what he did—as he should be, given what he was paid, Nash reflected. But you got what you paid for. Cullinan was worth every penny.

He killed the call the second he saw Nash. ‘She’s a no-show.’

Nash shrugged. It was of no importance, just a formality.

‘I’ll get onto the foundation—’

‘Just forward the details to the guys at the track and let me know a time and we’ll give the kids something to smile about.’

He was about to move off when he saw her. She had paused in the doorway to speak to the maître d’. Her head was slightly bent, exposing the lovely length of her neck and making those bare shoulders look impossibly seductive. He hadn’t stopped thinking about those delicately boned shoulders, the fine stemmed length of her throat ever since he’d left her up on the highway.

Nash found himself unable to look away.

Was she meeting someone here? For some reason the muscles tightened all through his body as he cast an inclusive once-over across the room, hunting down the guy. No one had moved towards her, although she had pulled a lot of attention, and he knew in that instant she was alone.

For the first time since he’d quit racing professionally Nash felt the same competitive tension he’d used to before a race.

She turned to look across the room, pushing back a rogue curl with that gesture he remembered, and her eyes met his.

Even at this distance he could see her bow lips tighten. She didn’t look happy to see him.

Irritation sparked as a dozen reasons why he should walk on by and forget about her waved themselves like red flags. Yet as every male head in the room turned as she headed his way he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Lorelei found herself unable to look away.

He stood by the bar, stripped to a crisp white shirt stylishly taut along his torso and dark tailored trousers. His shoulders were impossibly broad, and he radiated confidence and money and power.

Lorelei removed her sunglasses and just stood there, trying to make the connection.

But even as she turned to the maître d’ and gave his name she knew what the answer would be.

A shiver ran through her. In this setting it was obvious he was the most powerful man in the room. He was certainly the most attractive, and the chasm between mechanic and the man standing before her was immense. It couldn’t be leapt.

She’d been had.

Lorelei stiffened as his gaze landed on her.

She’d also been seen.

His eyes locked onto her and for a moment he looked as poleaxed as she felt. Then he frowned.

She straightened, determined that not by an inflection in her voice or the blink of an eyelash should he see how angry she was—although she wasn’t quite sure with who, nor how foolish she felt. She headed over.

Men were looking at her. Men always looked at her. She was tall and blonde and for some guys she was a prize. What they didn’t know was that she wasn’t available to be won.

She did the prize-keeping and the awarding.

‘Mr Blue, I presume?’ She offered her hand unsmilingly.

He wasn’t smiling either, but he took her extended hand with common courtesy.

Lorelei told herself to relax. So they’d had a little moment this morning? He was a professional and she was … well, volunteering her time. Surely this could be polite and … oh …

His hand closed around hers, warm and dry and secure, and she melted just a little behind the knees. Was he holding on a little longer than necessary? Lorelei felt the colour mounting her cheeks. As he released her hand his thumb shifted and gently brushed over the hardened skin at the base of her palm.

A faint look of surprise lit those blue eyes and Lorelei snatched her hand back, feeling exposed. She could hear her grandmother’s voice. ‘Lorelei, a lady is known by the softness of her hands.’

Silly, old-fashioned, not true, and yet …

Another man stepped between them. ‘You’ll deal with me, Miss … St James.’ He read her name off an email printout that Lorelei could clearly see had the Aviary Foundation’s logo.

Lorelei wanted to take a step back but she held her ground. She knew a cut-them-down-to-size gesture when she was on the receiving end of one. She’d experienced enough of them over the weeks when she’d attended her father’s trial in Paris. Nobody wanted her to be the unrattled loyal daughter, especially the media, but that was exactly what she had been. Even if it had meant sitting in the shower every night, crying her heart out.

‘Lorelei St James,’ she said coolly, drawing on the self-control she had perfected during that awful period. ‘Let me guess—you must be Mr Cullinan, the delightful man who spoke to our foundation’s receptionist yesterday and left her in tears.’

The guy bristled, but Nash’s cool, deep voice brushed him aside.

‘It goes with the territory, Ms St James. Sometimes John doesn’t know when to turn it off. Do you have paperwork?’

A little thrown by finding herself under the intent scrutiny of those blue eyes again, for a moment Lorelei had to think. What paperwork? Then she pulled herself together and unclasped her handbag, producing the small glossy folder. Nash handed it over, sight unseen, to the scowling Cullinan.

‘You can go, John. I’ll handle this.’

Lorelei tried not to appear startled.

‘Don’t you want to discuss it?’ She indicated the folder being carried away by Mr Cullinan. The foundation’s president had been very clear: she was expected to go over the schedule with Blue’s management.

‘No,’ he said simply.

To the point. Direct. Like any woman, Lorelei liked decisiveness in a man, but it also left her on the back foot. He’d taken away her reason for being here in a single gesture.

Now they were alone she felt even more exposed. Would he think she had some hand in this? That she’d known exactly who she’d been dealing with up at the house?

She decided to come right to the point. ‘Mr Blue, was there a reason why you didn’t introduce yourself this morning?’

Although she already knew the answer …

‘At the time names didn’t seem relevant.’ His eyes moved with interest over her face. ‘And it’s Nash.’

Because he wasn’t going to be seeing her again. Lorelei remembered how obvious she had made her interest in him and found herself cringing. What was it he’d said about not wanting to discuss it? He can’t make it any more clear, Lorelei, a little voice of self-preservation whispered. He’s not interested. He’s seen you at your worst. Nobody wants to be around that …

She was pulled up short. What was that he’d said about calling him Nash?

‘Tell me, Ms St James, have you eaten?’

Suddenly they seemed to be standing so close. Certainly too close for her to think clearly. His blue eyes moved broodingly over her. Lorelei could feel her body actually quivering in response.

‘Are you offering to feed me, Mr Blue?’

A look of amusement flickered unmistakably in those intense blue eyes. ‘It would seem that way.’ He indicated the bar. ‘What’s your poison?’

Fortunately the answer to that question was always there, even as she scrambled to process the fact he was asking her to lunch with him.

He murmured, ‘Champagne cocktail,’ to the bartender and then quite casually slid his broad hand around her bare elbow.

His touch sent a shiver through her erogenous zones and Lorelei found she was wobbling a little on her heels as he began to walk her out of the bar.

‘Should I ask where we’re going?’ Was that appallingly breathless sound her own voice?

His mouth twitched. ‘Why ruin the surprise?’

It was silly to feel trepidatious but their history had been a little rocky today, and that hand on her elbow was a tad possessive for their short acquaintance. He was a take-charge guy, but she was a little apprehensive about what form that might take. She told herself not to be silly. After all, he was hardly going to throw her into a river with crocodiles. Was he? She’d scratched a car he clearly valued, and she’d apologised for that. Had she apologised?

Lorelei glanced up at him. He wasn’t smiling, but she had yet to see him smile. Other guests and patrons were staring at them but Nash appeared oblivious. Simone’s phrase … a rock star of the racing world … bumped into her consciousness. She was with a famous man. She guessed he was used to being stared at. Except the Hotel de Paris wasn’t a place people usually stared …

For the first time in her life Lorelei realised she wasn’t the main event.

The man she was with was.

He led her into the Jardin restaurant. It was impossible just to walk in and get a table—she’d tried once or twice before—but Nash did just that. As he seated her at the best table on the terrace, with the Mediterranean as a backdrop, her cocktail arrived. Hand delivered by the bartender.

This was a new experience.

‘Merci,’ she murmured.

A menu was placed into her hands and a waiter hovered as Nash chose the wine.

French sparkling.

How did he know?

Lorelei glanced at her cocktail and smiled a little at her own foolishness.

Mon Dieu, she was being positively girlish. Anyone would think she’d never sat down across from … a rock star.

She met those intense blue eyes and time trickled to a stop. She knew that look in his eyes. He hadn’t looked at her that way when she’d been playing out her theatrics this morning—or perhaps she’d been too self-absorbed to notice.

No, she would have noticed this.

He was looking at her as if she was worth his time.

A flutter of feminine satisfaction winged through her chest even as her ego reminded her she was worth any man’s time.

But this man wasn’t any man, and he was interested and making no secret of it.

She felt hot and tingly and aware of her body in ways she hadn’t been in such a long time.

Then she remembered what Simone had said about him being a player and she stood on the brakes. She lifted the menu.

‘Did you plan to have lunch with the charity’s representative, Mr Blue?’ she enquired, pleased that her voice continued to be cool and play-by-my-rules.

‘It’s Nash.’ His voice was low and lazy, ‘And no, Lori, it wasn’t on the programme.’

‘It’s Lorelei.’ She didn’t lift her eyes from the menu she was pretending to read. ‘And I wouldn’t want to hold up your important day.’

There was a pause and from the corner of her eye she caught the movement of his arm as he reached into his jacket. ‘Excuse me one moment.’

She lowered the menu. He was keying a number on his cell.

‘Luc, I won’t be back.’ His tone of voice was abrupt and to the point—nothing like the easy male drawl he used with her. ‘Have them send the contracts straight over to Blue. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.’

Lorelei put the menu down.

He pocketed the cell.

‘I take it that was for me,’ she observed, lifting a finely arched brow.

The wine had arrived. He poured her a glass himself, then lifted his tall glass of sparkling wine and touched the flute in her hand.

He didn’t smile, but his eyes caught and held the part of her fighting to get free, and in that instant Lorelei stopped struggling.

His voice was deep and affectingly roughened, as if coming from a part of himself he usually held in check.

‘Consider me all yours for the afternoon.’

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