by Lucy Ellis
He should be enjoying the company. It was all-male, and if they were a little loud and raucous, so was the bar. Antonio Abruzzi, Eagle’s current star driver, was telling a story that had veered from off-colour to frankly pornographic. Nash had half an ear to it, but his attention kept wandering. He noticed a woman across from their table, winding a lock of dark hair idly around her finger as she talked, and instantly he was inhaling honey again, and flowers, and seeing the sun glinting off the sapphire-blue Sunbeam as Lorelei St James leaned back against it and smiled up at him with all the confidence of a very beautiful woman to whom a man had never said no.
Why in the hell had he said no?
He picked up his light beer and smiled grimly. He knew why. He was a goddamned expert on giving up what he liked for the sake of the bottom line.
It was just he was having trouble remembering what the particular bottom line was in this scenario. He’d swapped an evening with a blonde goddess for Abruzzi’s stories and the watchful appraisal of the Eagle team who had signed him.
He stood up.
‘Nash, man, where are you going?’
‘Previous appointment.’
He shook hands with the Eagle guys, embraced Abruzzi and shouldered his way out of there.
He was going out as she was coming in.
Impossibly tall in vertiginous heels, she dwarfed the guy she was with—a thickset, strong-profiled Italian Nash recognised as the financier Damiano Massena. They’d crossed paths several times in both business and leisure.
Massena was dressed in a long black coat, suitable for the cooler evenings, and Lorelei was a living flame in a gold dress. In the overhead neon lights it was difficult to tell where the fabric ended and her long, lithe limbs took over. She looked every inch the trophy, and Nash found he’d ground to a halt. His gut clenched. Because Massena had her and he didn’t, he reasoned brutally.
She brushed past him, didn’t look up, but he saw she had made dark pools of her eyes and a glossy invitation of her mouth. She looked like sin. She looked like every good reason he didn’t want to get involved with her.
And most of the reasons he did.
But he was noticing other things, too. The evening was cool and there was a visible quiver to her bare limbs.
Why in the hell hadn’t Massena given her his coat?
He inclined his head slightly and her gaze moved fleetingly against his. Massena said something to her, gave Nash an amused, man-to-man look, and ushered her forward.
The aggression rushed up from nowhere and he brought his hand down on Massena’s shoulder. The older man turned around in surprise, his expression hardening as he read Nash’s expression.
What in the hell was he doing?
He jerked his head towards Lorelei, paused in the door with her bare arms wrapped around herself, avoiding his gaze.
‘Get her inside,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘She’s bloody well freezing.’
He kept walking. Yeah, being single-minded had brought him a long way.
*
Lorelei was aware she was talking a little too animatedly in the car, as if the flow of words would stem the rising tide of feeling behind it. Since running into Nash she’d been preoccupied and not much company. Damiano was bringing her home early.
‘Are you seeing him?’
Lorelei didn’t even bother to demur.
‘We only met today,’ she admitted in a low voice. ‘We had arranged to go out to dinner. He cancelled and I—’
‘You phoned me. I’m flattered,’ he drawled.
Lorelei put her hand on his arm. ‘I phoned you because you’re one of my friends and I knew you would be good company.’
‘Will you be seeing him again?’
‘He’s not interested.’
‘For a man who isn’t interested, cara, he has the eyes of a jealous husband.’
Lorelei swallowed, but couldn’t ignore the flutter of excitement that observation engendered in her.
‘A word of advice, Lorelei, from an old friend.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Nash Blue is not a man for you to play with. He has been ruthless in the past with women a lot tougher than you, cara.’
‘Ruthless?’ Lorelei couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her, although the limousine was climate-controlled.
‘More so than me.’ Damiano gave her a smile that reminded her where his own reputation with women had come from. ‘And somewhat more effective with you, I am thinking.’
Lorelei didn’t know what to say. She sat back and looked unseeingly through the dark window. She knew exactly how she felt about any man who was ruthless with women. She’d grown up with one. But she couldn’t put aside all the sweet things Nash had done for her today. She was almost hugging them to herself.
In all the years since men had started following her with their eyes and making all sorts of empty promises no man had ever gone to so much trouble for her.
She could almost forgive him the cancelled date and the reasons he had given her.
Almost.
She had to ask. ‘He’s a womaniser, then?’
Damiano shrugged. ‘Niente—no more than any other rich and famous man, cara. I do know he’s a man renowned for his self-control. He doesn’t drink or smoke or brawl as far as I know. You say you met him just today?’
‘Oui.’
Damiano threw back his head and laughed.
‘I can’t see what’s so funny.’
‘Si, I know, and that is what makes it even more amusing.’
Lorelei shook her head. She would never understand men. She relaxed a little, but as her turn-off grew closer she could feel the darkness edging in and a great unwillingness for the evening to end, for all the noise and activity to stop, to be alone. To think.
Yet when Damiano turned to her, all smooth Italian charm, and asked, ‘Shall I see you inside?’ she shook her head without giving it a second thought.
‘I’m a big girl and I know where the lights are.’
But as she entered alone the cold, empty weight of the house bore down on her.
She made her way upstairs, trying not to think about her debts and those warning letters and threats and what it would all inevitably mean…and somehow what flashed to mind was, What if Nash Blue followed her home? And if he did—if he drew up in her courtyard in that smart car of his, if his heavy tread disturbed the gravel, if he stood there in the dark and called her name like a sober Marlon Brando—what would she do?
What would she do?
‘Tip a bucket of water on him. That’s what I’d do,’ she told Fifi as she flooded her bedroom with light. It was the only fully furnished room in the place, an Art Deco boudoir worthy of the silent-film star who had built this Spanish villa back in 1919.
Fifi stirred from her place of residence on the bed and trotted underfoot as Lorelei washed her face and undressed and cursed a bit.
‘He thinks I’m media happy and looking for a deep pocket,’ she muttered. ‘Well, we’re neither of those things, Fifi.’
She went over to her escritoire and unlocked the deep drawer. Inside were months’ worth of unanswered, unlooked-at correspondence from her solicitor and various legal firms who had handled Raymond’s case.
As she settled herself down, pulling on her reading glasses and taking up a pen, she felt something akin to relief that she had finally started—until she began to read…
It was only when she was lying awake in the dark hours later, resting her chin on top of Fifi’s warm little head, that she realised it had taken someone like Nash to come along today and force her to see her behaviour through his eyes, this house through his eyes and for her to find the courage to face her problems.
She supposed she could thank him for that.
She shivered and drew the coverlet up a little closer to her chin. It was a cold night, and that was another problem with this house—it was drafty.
Get her inside. She’s bloody well freezing.
Had he really said that, or was it wishful
thinking?
*
The next morning she was walking barefoot along the back terrace when her Sunbeam rolled up.
She put down her freshly brewed coffee and hurried out to speak to the two men who had delivered it. The car had been given a certificate of good health, she read, noting a few key parts had been replaced and the car had been tuned.
There was no bill.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said uneasily.
‘Compliments of Nash Blue,’ said the guy with a shrug. ‘She’s a beauty, madame, take good care of her.’
Lorelei’s fingers crumpled the report in her hands slightly before she realised what she was doing. Compliments of Nash Blue? She wasn’t a charity case. She didn’t need to be rescued.
Five minutes later a van was drawing up on the gravel drive. Lorelei looked up from the mechanic’s report, recognised the insignia on the side. A boy leapt out and came towards her, bearing a large bouquet of red roses.
She took them in both arms, burying her nose in the rich scent.
Damiano. How sweet of him—and unnecessary.
She plucked out the card and suddenly the blooms in her arms took on a whole different meaning.
Forgive me. Nash.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LORELEI parked and jumped out of the roadster.
The car was performing like a dream.
Which made staying angry with the man who’d fixed it and sent you flowers all in one morning extremely difficult.
This entire situation was difficult.
She wasn’t sure what she was doing here, but she figured something would occur to her when they came face-to-face. She had a half-formed notion that she would pull out her chequebook and insist he take payment for the car. But Nash, being one of those masters of the universe, probably thought it was his responsibility to make sure all the women in his vicinity didn’t have to lift a little finger to help themselves.
Which just made her eyes roll when she saw his name in big letters on the marquee. Who named their company after themselves anyway? It just proved the enormous size of his…ego.
She made her way through the crowd queuing on the perimeter of the fence. She gave her name at the gate and was handed her pass.
She’d dressed down in canvas top sneakers, skinny white jeans and a flirty gold lamé top that bared her arms and the backs of her shoulders. She’d pulled her hair back with a knotted blue scarf. But perhaps she was not dressed down enough.
People roamed about in windbreakers and casual gear, and as she made her way across the concourse she could feel eyes on her—as if she were some exotic animal released from the zoo come wandering among them.
She didn’t know any of the volunteers, either. This wasn’t her branch of the organisation. She’d actually had to ring the foundation that morning to organise a pass.
Her work for The Aviary was strictly high-end, and consisted of schmoozing for the big bucks at parties and receptions throughout the year. It was how she had met Damiano Massena and cemented her reputation as being impossible to refuse.
Every year she attended The Aviary Foundation’s annual ball with him and set the tongues wagging all over again. But there had never been anything between her and the men she fleeced on behalf of the charity. She didn’t mix business and pleasure.
No, there was no reason for her to be here—yet here she was, making her way through the crowd at a motor-racing track, soaking in the carnival atmosphere…honing in on the cars, the cluster of media, the excited children and their parents…
It wasn’t hard to pick out Nash when he emerged through one of the gates from the track offices. It wasn’t just his height but the way he moved—heavy, purposeful and a little intimidating.
There was a flutter of female speculation and Lorelei saw women literally pushing their way up to the barrier next to the track to get a better look. Fortunately big macho sportsmen had never done much for her.
Nevertheless, she fumbled in her handbag and touched up her lipstick with her compact, removed her scarf, knotted it around her neck and shook out her hair. A woman needed all her weapons about her, entering this arena.
Weaving her way through the crowd, she caught glimpses of Nash with the kids. He wore a black overall with white and green stripes and lettering and carried a bunch of helmets which he was handing out. The parents looked as star-struck as their offspring. The crew were crawling all over the cars in preparation, and there was a faintly vivifying smell of petrol fumes in the air.
She vaguely recognised another racing driver, Antonio Abruzzi, but only because she’d scanned the charity’s internet site on the subject of today this morning, to avoid walking in blind. The lanky Italian was saying something to the media crew set up trackside.
Lorelei found she was quite close to the barrier and a little space had opened up. She slipped in and looked out across the track.
Nash had his back to her and was hunkering down to fit a helmet over the head of a young girl of about ten or so, with long dark hair. She had that po-faced look on her face Lorelei recognised from her young students when they were about to mount up for the first time.
He said something to her and she smiled, let him settle the helmet over her small dark head, and even from this distance Lorelei could see the care with which he buckled up the strap under her chin.
Something fluttered strangely in her chest, and she found herself unconsciously touching the back of her neck where he’d stroked it yesterday.
He straightened and put his hand lightly behind the child’s shoulders, ushering her towards the crew who were going to strap her in. Almost casually Nash glanced over his shoulder and their eyes met, locked.
Time seemed to slow down. The noise and jostling died away and Lorelei faced the undeniable truth that wild horses couldn’t have stopped her coming down here today. As she ate him up with her eyes he turned around, those wide shoulders thrown into relief by his arms hanging at his sides—a typical masculine pose.
Vaguely Lorelei was aware of cameras going off around her as people lifted their phones to frame what anyone with an eye could see was a great shot. A male athlete at the top of his game, with the racing car just over to the right and Nash filling the foreground with his presence. Bigger, stronger, more impressive than just about any other athlete on the world stage.
His eyes were on her.
Lorelei lifted her chin. Now she knew what Simone was talking about.
He was a legend.
She’d just been distracted by the man.
*
Nash saw the defiance in her fine-boned chin as it poked in the air and thought, No, you don’t, mate. That little number is off the menu.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. After the incident with Massena last night he’d figured he had her pretty much read. She was a beautiful, privileged woman used to being pursued by wealthy men. Cullinan’s tacky information had got her wrong. He’d been looking at the bottom of the survival chain when it came to women living by their wits. Lorelei St James was very definitely at the top.
He would have expected her to have moved on. Yet here she was, poised like a lily of the field behind the safety barrier, amidst a crowd of onlookers, looking as if she’d stepped out of Vogue.
In jeans.
But very expensive couture jeans, wrapped around a pair of impossibly long slender legs, lithe hips and a perfect peach of a derrière. She had a jaunty short blue scarf tied around her neck.
Despite the American accent he could hear underlying her voice she was every inch the Frenchwoman this afternoon. She’d dressed for a day at the marina, not a racetrack. This was probably as far inland as she’d ever been.
A golden girl in every sense of the word.
And she was gazing at him as if she expected him to stroll on over, swing her up into his arms and carry her off like the prize she was.
He couldn’t say it hadn’t crossed his mind.
She was so long and lovely, taller than mos
t of the women standing around her, and possessing a fine-boned elegance that drew a man. Made him want to protect her, shelter her…do a great deal for her.
But he’d been down that road with this girl.
He’d spent yesterday mopping up her messes. Last night contributing to one of his own.
No more. Even if he had to take fifty cold showers, no more.
Let Massena or whoever take care of her.
He had some kids to run around the track, some photos to pose for and then he was taking off up the highway to his house in the Cap d’Ail for some well-deserved R’n’R before he flew out to Mauritius for meetings, then lockdown for training.
He was about to turn away when she raised her hand. It was just a little gesture, a half wave arrested by uncertainty, and it was the uncertainty that stilled him. His body suddenly felt tight, the blood in his veins heavy, his muscles tensing one by one in anticipation.
He was vaguely conscious that the crowd had surged forward as he headed over. This was an insanely public gesture to make. He conned himself it was a small event. Everyone was here by invitation. He doubted him chatting up a random blonde at a practice track was even going to make the internet despite all the phones madly going off.
Her expression had frozen. She looked like a mountain deer caught in a spotlight. She looked as if she didn’t know what to expect. Something twisted in his chest.
He hadn’t planned what he was going to say to her. He looked her right in the eye and she gazed unblinkingly back. And then he knew.
His tone was soft, low, deep. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’
Those amber eyes widened fractionally and she gave a slight nod.
He winked at the pair of gawping teenage girls standing next to her and strode off.
*
Most of the crowd had dispersed. Only the volunteers were cleaning up, the track crew coming and going. Nobody had questioned her wandering onto the track, walking alongside the cars, peering in.
It was getting late. Another half hour and it would be dusk. She glanced back towards the buildings. It was growing cooler and she only had her light cotton jacket. Maybe he’d forgotten what he’d said. Or maybe he’d been caught up. Or maybe he’d never intended to come in the first place.
