Pride After Her Fall

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.’