Kept At The Argentine's Command

Confused and flustered, Lulu looked up.

She encountered his firm chin and the sensuous line of his mouth, which only made her feel more unsettled.

He had a faint frown on his face and she suspected she mirrored it.

She turned her back on him to lodge the bag carefully between two cases to prevent it being bounced around.

Rude, ignorant, appalling, macho jerk.

He waited until she’d stepped back to lower the boot. She waited patiently by the passenger door with her umbrella. But he abruptly headed for the driver’s side of the car.

‘The “macho jerk” wants you to get in the car,’ he said flatly as he yanked open his door.

Lulu realised two things in that moment. One, she’d spoken her thoughts aloud, and, two, he wasn’t going to open her door.

Given he had all her luggage now locked up inside his car, she didn’t have much choice, but she cursed herself for her weakness. She should have waited for a cab.

As if to remind her why she’d made her choice, the rain began to pelt harder.

Why is this happening to me?

She closed her umbrella and opened the door herself.

‘Try not to drip on the upholstery,’ he shot at her as she lodged her furled umbrella at her feet.

Distinctly queasy with the added tension, Lulu looked around in desperation. Where did he expect her to put it?

‘Here.’ He took it from her hand and laid it on the coat he’d tossed on the back seat.

Alejandro then turned back to discover that instead of buckling herself in she had shoved the door open further, so that the rain had begun to slant in.

His temper snapped. ‘Close that damn door!’

She looked for a moment as if she was going to jump right out of the car.

And then she leaned forward and began to dry retch miserably into the gutter.

He wrenched open his door and cut around the car to find her bent double.

He hunkered down. The face she lifted was bone-white. This she couldn’t fake. She clearly wasn’t well, and he suspected he’d got some things wrong. He produced a handkerchief to blot her mouth and soak up the tears that were sliding down her cheeks.

If she’d been hoping for some sympathy it was effective. The big glistening eyes, the silent tears, how fragile she suddenly looked beneath her showy outfit—as if she was trying to shrink into invisibility within it...

He put his hands around her shoulders to help her back into the car and out of the rain, but her response took him off guard. Her arms shot out and she instantly had them wrapped around his neck as tenaciously as a strangling vine.

He was enveloped in the scent of her, and he wondered for a second if this was her clumsy attempt at a pass. Only the feel of her rapid heartbeat told him she was scared. It was like holding a small nervous bird to his chest—as if what she was feeling was too big for her slight body. And yet what had she to be scared of?

She was overwrought—that was all, he told himself, and possibly a little the worse for wear from her in-flight tippling.

A better question was how had he come to be the only man in Scotland who was saddled with the job of delivering a vodka-wilted bridesmaid to their shared destination?

It had to be vodka, because he couldn’t smell any alcohol on her. All he smelt were those cottage violets—and something warmer and real that was just her.

He tentatively rubbed her back, as he would one of the young kids on the estancia who had taken a fall from a horse and had the wind knocked out of them, and tried to ignore the fact that she was an incredibly appealing full-grown female with her breasts pushed up against his chest.

‘I don’t think I’ll be sick again,’ she confided miserably.

She hadn’t actually done anything other than spit up a little bile, but he didn’t doubt her suffering. She looked more miserable than a human being should.

‘Please don’t tell anybody about this,’ she said in a muffled voice against his neck.

It was a strange request, but she was obviously serious about it.

He cleared his throat. ‘Come on, let’s strap you in. Are you all right to travel?’

She nodded, allowing him to help her.

He went around to the boot to grab a bottle of water from the chiller. He yanked the screw lid off for her and when he offered it to her she took a few grateful sips.

‘Okay now?’ he asked gruffly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said huskily, swallowing deeply and refusing to meet his eyes. ‘It won’t happen again.’

He drove the keys into the ignition.

‘Do you want to stop for coffee? Get something in your stomach?’

She shuddered. ‘I can’t think of anything worse.’

‘It might sober you up.’

Her eyes flashed his way in confusion. ‘I am sober.’

He gave her an old-fashioned look.

‘I am not drunk. I have not been drinking.’

‘You can deny it if you want, querida. It doesn’t change the fact you were stumbling all over that flight, your words were a little slurry and you’ve just been sick.’

She looked at him in horror, her knuckles white around the bottle. ‘I wasn’t— That’s you— I mean, nobody else thought that—’

Lulu tried to control her shaking because it wasn’t helping her case.

‘Maybe I should just find a taxi,’ she said, deeply humiliated, and distressed as she sloshed some of the water on her skirt. Although getting out of this car was the last thing she felt up to doing. ‘This isn’t working for me and it’s clearly not working for you.’

‘Look,’ he said, keeping the car idling while he took the bottle from her hands, lidded it and tossed it onto the back seat. ‘In my experience nobody likes to be confronted with their behaviour while under the influence. You had a few drinks on the flight...they didn’t agree with you. I’m not judging.’

‘Yes, you are judging,’ she burst out unhappily. ‘And nobody thought I was drunk.’