Pride After Her Fall

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.