by Lucy Ellis
He leaned across, slid a hand around the back of Lorelei’s head, meshing his fingers slightly in the silky weight of her hair and releasing more of the fragrance of honey and flowers he could fast become addicted to, angled her astonished face and took her tender mouth with his.
The faint hint of champagne still clung to her lips. The warm sweetness of her breath as she gasped and sighed and made a little moaning noise before kissing him back made him want more. The feel of her, the rise of her response beneath him, suddenly stirred a much more primal urge to take what belonged to him, what was his. To mark her. He’d only known her a handful of hours and yet he felt as if he’d been waiting much longer to kiss her.
He deepened the kiss, invaded her mouth, tasting her, driving into her. He told himself it was sexual chemistry; it would burn itself out fast enough. But right now…he wanted her. He couldn’t get enough of her. Yeah, he’d fetched her shoes for her…she could wear them while he—
The blare of a car horn and Lorelei jerking in response had Nash releasing her. For a second he was caught in the headlights of her eyes, and the analogy of having something not quite tame within his grasp was suddenly very real.
Who was this woman?
‘This isn’t a good idea,’ he imparted roughly.
‘Non?’
Her rather unhappy interrogative took him by surprise and he almost smiled.
He couldn’t believe what he was thinking. He needed to take her where she wanted to go and then forget the whole thing. He was damn lucky someone hadn’t been filming the entire incident in the street—although that was a possibility, given the crowd she’d drawn.
She was running her fingers through her hair, rubbing the spot where he’d had his hand…
He was under time constraints. In a couple of weeks he’d be going into lockdown.
He had to be out of his mind…
But he could see her home.
She seemed to realise what she was doing and pulled her hands back into her lap. The gesture made him smile. Yeah, he could see her home.
*
For a breathless moment all Lorelei had been able to do was hold still, drowning under the skilled pressure of his lips, but she’d never been a passive woman and with a little moan she had kissed him back.
Apparently women who caused scenes in the street didn’t scare all guys away. Well, not this guy, at least, whose mouth needed a contract for insurance purposes. Lorelei guessed not much would scare him. Confidence and certainty didn’t seem to be a problem for Nash.
He hadn’t even asked. He just took.
Lorelei was quite certain his not asking was adding to the outrageously good feelings still slip-sliding through her body. Mon Dieu, the man knew what to do with his mouth—and those fingers, lightly, firmly palpating the sensitive tendons and hollows at the top of her neck, tugging so pleasurably on her hair, were equally skilled. What could they do elsewhere on her body?
When his mouth had released hers she’d been panting slightly, and she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him as his gaze had drifted over her face, down across her bare shoulders.
‘This isn’t a good idea,’ he’d said, in a flatteringly roughened voice.
A cold drop of uncertainty had hit the top of Lorelei’s spine. ‘Non?’
He had smiled then, the charisma of it almost shocking. His blue eyes had filled her line of vision but the light honk of a horn had had her shaking off the spell and indicating vaguely at the windscreen.
‘I think we can go.’
Nash moved lazily back to his side of the car, as if he had all the time in the world, and they shifted forwards, his hands on the gears as assured as they had been when splaying long, strong fingers through her hair. He hadn’t pulled, like a less skilled man might. He’d tugged. And the little answering darts of response had shot like arrows from a quiver through her body.
She threaded her own fingers through her hair and then realised she was trying to recreate the feelings he’d evoked in her. She snatched her hand back, pressing it in her lap.
Feeling as if she might be slumping unattractively, Lorelei tried to sit up a little straighter, assume a more ladylike posture—only to find she was actually still upright. There had been no slippage…only a complete and utter inner landslide…
It was all about how she felt inside, she realized. All loose and relaxed and devil-may-care. The stake of anxiety she’d been tied to all day had gone. Mon Dieu—she ran an unsteady hand through her curls—the man was a miracle-worker. What on earth would it be like if…?
Nash gave her a slashing smile as if he understood exactly how it would be.
*
The courtyard was in full afternoon sun when the Veyron idled to a stop.
Nash killed the engine and without a word to her—not that they had exchanged many words driving up, at least not any important ones, as to what they were doing, if he’d be staying, where this was going—he was out of the car and coming around, lifting her door.
Lorelei tried to think fast. She was more than a little worried about inviting him inside. Most of the rooms in the villa were emptied of furniture, and the general air of neglect that hung over the place was worse on the inside. She hadn’t minded having people in last night, with all the lights and champagne flowing and the rooms thick with people, but in the harsh light of day she knew how bad it looked. And after this morning’s series of disasters she suddenly wanted Nash to think well of her.
But Nash wasn’t paying any attention to the house.
He was looking down at her.
She hadn’t quite appreciated just how big he was until this moment. She’d had a taste of it this morning, but in her heels some of the height discrepancy had been dealt with. Right now, Louboutins dangling from one hand, handbag from the other, she was only too aware of his powerful shoulders, the strength of his arms and how easily he could overpower her.
It was a jolting thought. Not that he had given her any reason to think he was a threat to her safety—on the contrary. But she was a woman who lived alone and he was…
A famous man who was hardly going to turn into Jack the Ripper.
He shut the car door behind her. ‘Shall we go inside?’
‘Ah, oui. Of course.’ She picked her way across the gravel, thinking there was no of course about it.
At the front door he held out his hand.
‘Key?’
‘It’s open,’ she said, struck by his old-fashioned attitude, and pushed open the heavy front door.
Nash shoved his hand against the panelling, holding it wide for her.
‘Anyone else home?’
‘Non. I live alone.’
His eyes found hers. They were so close she could see the unusual darker rim around the blue iris. Suddenly she knew why those eyes gave the impression of such an intense blue.
‘You shouldn’t live alone,’ was all he said.
Her gaze dropped helplessly to the firm line of his mouth.
‘That’s why I throw a lot of parties.’
He didn’t smile as she wanted him to. Nor did he kiss her. But she’d already worked out that Nash wasn’t going to do much of what she wanted him to. He was his own man in ways she hadn’t quite encountered before and it was in equal measures confusing and unbearably exciting.
His heavy tread rang out on the stone floor and the cool emptiness of the house closed in around them. Lorelei shivered slightly as her mood did its usual dip. Almost as if he was reading her, Nash stepped up behind her and she had an odd sensation of his strength and solidity. She rather liked it.
She liked it a lot. And all of a sudden she realised this man didn’t feel like a threat to her. He was making her feel safe. And safety had been the most elusive of conditions in her life.
Her father had taught her to live with risk; her grandmaman had constantly moved the goalposts to keep her forever striving to do her best. Past boyfriends had relied on her to keep the wolf from the door with her inherit
ance, her network of social contacts.
None of them had ever made her feel safe.
It was probably illusory. He was a big, take-charge guy and he’d been sweet to her all along the line. No wonder she was having rescue fantasies.
She took him through to the kitchen. It was one of the few rooms still fully furnished, for which Lorelei was silently grateful. But unfortunately, like her bedroom, it was a shambles. The caterers had taken away most of their debris, but there were still empty bottles and plates and overturned furniture.
‘I had a party last night,’ she felt obliged to explain. She didn’t want him to think she lived in squalor.
‘I’m guessing that’s pretty standard for you.’
It was. It was standard for her role with The Aviary. ‘Not at all,’ she replied smoothly. ‘I’m quite the homebody.’
He gave her a sceptical look. ‘Yeah, the party comes to you.’
Lorelei didn’t know why but there was an edge to what Nash was saying that had her cooling. He should try entertaining eighty people on the budget The Aviary Foundation gave her.
Nash was surveying the room. He wandered over to the counter. Lorelei followed his long muscled back with her eyes.
‘Coffee pot?’
‘My, my—you are domestic.’
Nash shrugged. He had a housekeeping service at all his homes, which made it unnecessary for him to ever approach a kitchen, but he’d grown up regular. As regular as a kid with a drunk for a father and only an older brother to care for him. He’d learned young how to wash his own dishes and scrub a floor and unplug a drainpipe.
Not to mention how to get himself off to school.
‘Yeah, I’m a regular boy scout.’
He looked around. Lorelei had a kitchen and a half. Although he doubted she ever spent any quality time with a dishmop.
Not a domestic bone in that lithe, lovely body, he thought with satisfaction.
Lorelei began opening cupboards, retrieving ground coffee beans, switching on the kettle, pulling out the coffee maker.
‘Cups?’ he asked.
Lorelei indicated one of the cupboards.
‘You’re very practised at this,’ she said.
He appraised her. ‘I know how to make a cup of coffee.’
‘Your maman brought you up right.’
‘Mum walked out when I was nine.’
Nash caught himself. Where in the hell had that come from?
Lorelei’s gaze moved to his. ‘Parents,’ she said carefully. ‘They do muck us up.’
‘Yeah.’
Lorelei noticed he spoke matter-of-factly, but there were hard emotions playing over his face and she kept her attention on the job at hand.
Unavoidably, she began thinking about her own maman—Britt, who had flickered in and out of her life. The mother she’d only known fractionally as a child, on those rare visits to New York and her apartment high above Central Park. A glorious blonde Valkyrie who sang to her Swedish folk songs and let her play dress-up in the ateliers of the best couturiers in Paris and Rome; a mother of sorts, who’d stalked the catwalks with Lorelei sitting front and centre at the shows, dressed up like a little doll to be cooed over by her glamorous, sweet-smelling friends. A mother who had been no mother at all, and was now a sort of friend she spoke to irregularly.
‘I gather someone in your family owns a bank, given the real estate you’re sitting on.’ Nash was leaning back against the counter, muscular arms folded across his chest, displaying the tail of the dragon tattoo down his left arm.
‘Not a bank.’ Lorelei repressed a wry smile. If only. ‘This house belonged to my grandpère. He had a successful import business. When he died it passed to my grandmaman, Antoinette St James, and I inherited it on her death.’
‘I gather you were close? She left you her house.’
Lorelei wanted to say, It’s complicated. ‘She looked after me. Taught me right from wrong. Gave me standards.’
‘And a house?’
‘Oui.’ She sighed. A white elephant.
‘I imagine it’s a burden, given its size?’
He understood. It didn’t surprise her as much as it ought. He gave the impression of being quietly observant. What had Simone said? Monosyllabic? She imagined this was as chatty as Nash got, and it was quite a compliment to her.
She gestured at the ceiling. ‘You don’t need to be kind. It’s clearly falling down around my ears.’
She waited for him to ask her why she didn’t sell it. It was the obvious question.
‘Did you grow up here?’
‘In part. I spent my breaks between school terms with Grandy.’
He nodded. He was examining her as if she were something he was thinking of buying. Lorelei took the burbling coffee jug over to the counter.
‘I take it your parents are gone, given you got this house?’
‘Non, both living. My grandmaman didn’t quite approve of my mother.’
‘But she approved of you?’
‘Ah, oui, in her way. Cream? Sugar?’
‘Black.’
‘Raymond, my father, did not meet with her approval, either.’
‘You call your dad by his given name?’
Lorelei gave a little Gallic shrug. ‘He’s that sort of father. What do you call your papa?’
‘Not much. He’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He watched her pour. ‘Don’t be.’
‘Do you have siblings?’
‘An older brother.’
‘That must be nice. I’m an only child. Are you close?’
He looked down at her. ‘Want to trade family horror stories, Lorelei?’
She froze. For a moment she thought… But, no, he didn’t know. He would have said something. Lorelei lowered her gaze. She didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. She hadn’t broken the law. She was a good person….
‘I don’t have any.’ She spoke too quickly.
Nash watched a tide of faint pink colour move across the surface of her high tilting cheekbones. She suddenly looked a whole lot less certain of herself.
He wondered wryly when his decision to come inside and see where this led had turned into a download of family stories over coffee. Probably about the time she’d climbed out of the car outside and looked up at him with those uncertain eyes. For some reason what had flashed through his head was not an image of her naked on a bed upstairs in this shambles of a house, but a vision of her stepping in front of those two lanes of traffic and the two minutes it had taken off his life.
There was something about this girl that told him she didn’t have much of a clue about looking after herself.
He suspected the little stunt in the street today was the tip of the iceberg. It should be sending him in the opposite direction. With the media circus about to start up around him, his every move monitored, he’d be insane to bring something like this into his life, even for a night.
‘Nash, is this your usual modus operandi with women?’ she enquired, tipping up her chin, all signs of uncertainty gone. ‘Rescue them, drive them home and get them drunk on coffee?’
She’d read his mind.
He’d be a busy boy for the next eight months and he wasn’t looking for a long-term lover. He was looking for what most men wanted but didn’t own up to: a hot blonde who disappeared in the morning. He remembered that over that restaurant table he’d seriously considered Lorelei might be that woman.
He considered it again.
She could make arrangements, pack an overnight bag. He’d sort the plane, show her the nightlife of Paris, acquaint himself with the sweet, sensual weight of what he’d held in his arms momentarily inside the restaurant…
He watched her sashay over to the kitchen table, prop that pert little ass of hers up on the distressed oak surface and dangle a long, lithe leg.
Caution be damned—why the hell not?
He’d suggest dinner, mention the restaurant, wait for her to pack a little bag.
> She was sipping her coffee, twining a glossy curl around a finger, amber eyes busy on him. It might have been his imagination but she seemed to sit a little straighter, and those eyes grew a little warier the closer he came. Yeah, those eyes did all the speaking for her, and if he sensed a raft-load of secrets was lurking behind them it didn’t concern him. He wasn’t interested in uncovering her secrets. He just wanted to know what she was doing tonight.
He stopped in front of her.
‘I’ve been giving tonight some thought.’
‘Ah, oui.’
He’d actually been thinking about some fine dining at a famous first arrondissement hotel, but something a little more cutting edge might be a better setting for Lorelei.
‘If you’re not engaged?’
Lorelei put down her coffee. ‘Mais, non.’
He reached for her hands, turned them over in his. She let him.
‘Dinner?’
‘Oui.’
To his surprise her lashes swept down and for a moment she looked almost demure, rather old-fashioned.
‘Paris?’ He cleared his suddenly husky throat. ‘There’s a restaurant in the fifth arrondissement.’ He named a legendary chef.
Her lashes swept up in surprise. ‘Can you get a table at such short notice?’
He shrugged.
Lorelei was impressed. She’d forgotten. Not only did he have money to burn, he was famous. She wished he would stop stroking her hands. She didn’t want him turning over her palms, finding those calluses again.
She also wished he hadn’t said those words to her in the restaurant: I don’t get in the race if I’m not sure of the outcome. Although forewarned was forearmed.
She tugged her hands away. ‘I’m afraid not tonight, non. Not Paris.’
She didn’t want to wake up tomorrow morning in a hotel room on her own, or with a man who had taken his fill and was only going to transport her home.
He had clearly set the tone of what this was all about for him. This was a race and she was the trophy. No doubt he’d collected a lot of trophies—possibly had a shelf for them, she thought snappishly.
