Pride After Her Fall

by Lucy Ellis

  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?’
r />   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.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WITH the Bugatti long dismissed from his mind as a fake and the over-the-top theatrics she had engaged in difficult to reconcile with the poised woman sitting opposite him, Nash found himself entertaining what would have seemed outrageous a mere couple of hours ago.

  She was a huge distraction, but he would make the time.

  As he had led her to their table he’d appreciated for the second time today the graceful dip of her long, slender back before it gave way to the small curve of her hips, and the subtle sway of those hips as she walked with ease on deathtrap heels. She possessed an innate old-style grace and a hint of athleticism he couldn’t quite link up with the sybaritic lifestyle she seemed to embrace.

  She intrigued him.

  He hadn’t been able to get her out of his head since he’d left her on the highway. In the past if he’d wanted something he’d gone after it. But this something had turned up at exactly the wrong moment.

  In a week’s time his re-entry into racing was going to hit the media like a virus. Everything he did would be scrutinized—the places he went, the parties he attended, the women on his arm. Crazy drama-queen blondes were not part of the package. He intended to keep a low profile and wait out the blood in the water period until the media moved on to the next high-profile sportsman and hounded his private life.

  Any woman he was seen with now needed to be low-key, and preferably without her own media circus. He’d broken off an on again/off again sexual relationship with a well-known British actress earlier in the year for just that reason. He knew the press would dig something out and air it in the months to come, but he also knew she was soon going to be announcing her engagement and that should put paid to any rumours. He wanted his re-entry into the sport to be as low-key as possible—the opposite of the media circus he’d been caught up in during his twenties.

  The woman sitting across from him was exactly what a PR team would order. Cool, classy, understated. Not that he had any interest in involving anyone else in his decision. This was between him and his libido…and the lovely Ms St James. Although he didn’t intend to give her much say. Action, in his experience, was a far more direct method.

  His gaze lingered on her uncovered shoulders.

  There was something about the delicacy of her throat and collarbone and the quiver of those bare shoulders that made him think about her naked under a sheet.

  ‘All mine?’ She echoed his words. ‘You should be careful what you promise, Nash.’

  It was the first ti
me she had used his name and her accent curled enticingly around it. His body tightened.

  But those amber eyes were direct.

  ‘Are you planning a long lunch?’ she enquired sweetly.

  Quiet amusement tugged at his mouth. ‘Isn’t that a requirement of your job description?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Public relations.’

  She looked genuinely surprised. ‘Mais, non, I am not in public relations.’

  He leaned back in his chair, enjoying looking at her, enjoying the game. After spending the last two hours fine-tuning contracts this was a nice reward. Lorelei was certainly easier on the eye.

  ‘What do you call it, then?’

  ‘A favour.’

  He lifted a brow.

  ‘I’m on the board of the Aviary Foundation,’ she explained. ‘The usual publicist broke her ankle and I was deputised as her standin.’

  It fitted. Yet he was disappointed. The idea that she actually worked, held down a career, had weighted those glamorous blonde looks of hers in something concrete. He studied her fine boned face, looking for something else beyond the undeniable beauty.

  ‘It’s an influential charity,’ he said finally. ‘How did you get involved?’

  ‘My grandmaman set up the foundation some years ago. I have her seat on the board.’

  In other words she came from money. She hadn’t lifted a pretty manicured fingertip to earn it. He glanced down at those hands, checked for a ring, then looked again. Her nails were unvarnished and worn down.

  But a seat on the board? She’d merely stepped into the niche carved out for her. Broken nails aside, perhaps there wasn’t anything here beyond the eyes and the smile and the sexy accent.

  He shifted in his chair.

  ‘Do you do a lot of charity work?’