by Jennie Lucas
Miller willed herself not to blow up at him. ‘No.’
‘That’s a relief. You also like reading and visiting art galleries. No mention of what type of underwear you prefer, though.’
Miller channelled the monks of wherever. ‘Because it’s irrelevant.’
‘You know mine.’
‘Not by choice.’ And she was trying very hard not to think about those sexy boxers under his snug-fitting jeans.
‘So what do you prefer?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you a plain cotton or more of a lace girl?’
Miller stifled a cough. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Believe me, it is. I’m not getting caught up in a conversation with your client not knowing my G-strings from my boy-legs.’
‘Potential client. And I thought all men talked about was sport?’
‘We’ve been known to deviate on occasion.’ He threw her a mischievous grin. ‘Since you won’t tell me, I’ll have to use my imagination.’
‘Imagine away,’ she said blithely, and then wished she hadn’t when his eyes settled on her breasts.
‘Now, there’s an invitation a man doesn’t get every day.’
Miller shot him a fulminating glare, alarmed to feel her nipples tightening inside her lace bra.
Striving to steady her nerves, she made the mistake of reading out the next item he’d added to the questionnaire. ‘“Favourite sexual position.”’
‘I haven’t finished imagining your lingerie,’ he complained. ‘Though I’m heading towards sheer little lacy numbers over cotton. Am I right?’
Miller faked a yawn, wondering how on earth he had guessed her little secret and determined that he wouldn’t know that he was getting to her. ‘You’ve written down “all”.’
He threw her a wolfish grin. ‘I might have exaggerated slightly. It was getting late when I wrote that. Probably if I had to name one... Nope. I pretty much like them all equally.’
‘I wasn’t asking.’
‘Although on top is always fun,’ he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘And there’s something wicked about taking a woman from behind.’
His voice had dropped and the throaty purr slid over Miller’s skin like a silken caress.
‘Don’t you think?’
Miller released a pent-up breath. She’d had one sexual partner so far and it hadn’t been nearly exciting enough for them to try variations on the missionary theme. She hated that now all she could visualise was her on top of the sublime male next to her and how it would feel to have him behind her. Inside her.
Her heart thudded heavily in her chest and she suddenly found her attention riveted by the way his long fingers flexed around the steering wheel. Imagining them on her body.
‘What I think is that you should concentrate on driving this beast of a car so we don’t run into one of those semis you’re so determined to fly past.’
‘Nervous, Miller?’
He said her name as if he was tasting it and Miller’s stomach clenched. Oh, this man was a master at sexual repartee, and she’d do well to remember that.
Miller shook her head. ‘Are you ever serious about anything?’
He threw her a bemused look. ‘Plenty. Are you ever not serious about anything?’
‘Plenty.’ Which was so blatantly untrue she half expected her nose to start growing.
He passed another car and Miller absently noted that after her earlier panicked response he was driving marginally less like a racing car driver. That thought triggered something in her mind and her brow furrowed.
Determined to ignore him for the rest of the trip, she pulled her laptop out of her computer bag.
‘What happened to the getting-to-know-you part of our trip?’
He threw her a sexy smile that shot the hazy memory she’d been trying to grab on to out of her head and replaced it with an image of the way he had insolently leant against the bar last night.
‘I know you run, swim, work out, and that you take your coffee black. Your favourite colour is blue and you have four siblings—’
‘I also don’t mind a cuddle after sex.’
‘And you don’t have a serious bone in your body. I, on the other hand, take my life very seriously and I am not interested in whether you like sex straight up or hanging from a chandelier. It’s not relevant. What I’m looking for this weekend is someone to melt into the background and say very little. Starting right now.’
* * *
Tino smiled as he revved the engine and manoeuvred the Aston Martin around a tourist bus. He hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in...he couldn’t remember.
He was in a hot car, driving down a wide country highway on a warm spring afternoon, completely free from having to answer questions about his recent spate of accidents, his car or the coming race. The experience was almost blissful.
With any luck his anonymity would hold and he’d forget the pressure of being the world’s number one racing driver on an unlucky streak. Because, as he’d told Sam, it was all media hoopla and coincidence anyway, and he’d prove it Sunday week.
He glanced at the stiff woman beside him and involuntarily adjusted his jeans. He hadn’t expected her to give him a hard-on but she had. Which was surprising, given that her black linen trousers and matching shirt were about as provocative as a nun’s habit.
His eyes drifted over the blade-straight hair that curtained her delicate profile from his view down over her elegant neck to the gentle swell of her breasts. Was she wearing lace underneath? By the blush that had crept into her face before he’d guess yes. The thought made him smile, and his gaze lingered on her hands as they poised over her computer keys.
She had an effortless sensuality that drew him, and whenever she glared at him hot sparks of sexual arousal threatened to burn him up.
They’d be good together. He knew it. It was just a pity he had no intention of using the weekend to test his theory.
He wasn’t looking for a relationship right now, sexual or otherwise, and he had very strict guidelines about how women fitted into his life. The last thing he wanted was a woman getting into his headspace and worrying about whether or not he was going to buy it on the track every time he raced. He’d seen it too many times before, and no way would anyone land him with that kind of guilty pressure.
He still remembered the day he had watched his father clip the rear wheel of another car, flip over and slam into a concrete barrier. It had been one of those races that had reinvigorated race safety procedures and it had changed Tino’s life for ever. He’d still known that he would follow in his father’s footsteps, but after feeling helpless in the face of his beloved mother’s grief, and fighting his own pain at losing his father, he’d locked his emotions away so tight he wasn’t sure he’d recognise them any more.
Which was a bonus in a sport where emotions were considered dangerous, and his cool, roguish demeanour scared the hell out of most of his rivals.
His approach was so different from his father’s attitude to the sport he’d loved. His father had tried to have it all, but what he should have done was choose family or racing. Emotional attachments and their job didn’t mix. Any fool knew that.
CHAPTER THREE
‘THIS it?’ Valentino pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road and Miller glanced up from following the GPS navigator on her smartphone.
‘Yes.’ Miller read the plaque on the massive brick pillar that housed a set of enormous iron gates: ‘Sunset Boulevard.’ So typical of TJ’s delusions of grandeur, Miller thought tetchily.
Valentino announced them through the security speakers, and the sports car crunched over loose gravel as he pulled around the circular driveway and stopped between an imposing front portico and a burbling fountain filled with frolicking cher
ubs holding gilded bows and arrows.
‘Who’s your client?’
Miller didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the enormous pink-tinged stone mansion that looked as if it had been airlifted directly from the Amalfi Coast in Italy and set down in the middle of this arid Australian beach scrub—lime-green lawns and all.
Her car door opened and she automatically accepted Valentino’s extended hand. And regretted it. A sensation not unlike an electric shock bolted up her arm and shot sparks all the way down her legs.
Her eyes flew to his in surprise, but his expression was so blank she felt slightly stupid. At least that answered her earlier unasked question. No, he didn’t find her attractive; he’d just been enjoying himself at her expense.
She registered the opening of a high white front door in her peripheral vision and felt her world right itself when Valentino dropped her hand.
‘Miller. You made good time.’
She glanced towards her boss.
‘And I can see why.’ Dexter stared at Valentino and then cast his appreciative eyes over the silver bullet they’d driven down in.
A bulky figure followed Dexter down the stone steps and she pasted a confident smile on her face when TJ Lyons ambled forward like a cattle tycoon straight off the station.
‘Well, now, isn’t this a surprise?’ he boomed.
Suddenly conscious of Valentino behind her, Miller nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt his large hand settle on her hip. Both men looked at him, eyes agog, as if he was the Dalai Lama come to pay homage.
‘Dexter, TJ—this is—’
‘We know who he is, Miller.’ Dexter almost blustered, sticking his hand out towards Valentino. ‘Tino Ventura. It’s a pleasure. Dexter Caruthers—partner at OCG. Oracle Consultancy Group.’
Valentino took his hand in a firm handshake and a cog shifted in Miller’s brain.
Tino?
‘Maverick,’ TJ said, addressing Valentino.
Maverick?
Had TJ and Dexter mistaken Valentino for someone they knew?
Valentino smiled and accepted their greetings like an old friend.
No! He couldn’t possibly know her client!
‘Miller, you dark horse,’ TJ guffawed, slapping Valentino on the back. ‘You certainly play your cards close to your chest. I’m impressed.’
Impressed? Miller looked up at Valentino, and just as her boss started asking him about the injury he’d incurred in a motor race in Germany last August his name slotted into place inside Miller’s head.
Tino Ventura—international racing car legend.
She would have stumbled if Valentino hadn’t tightened his hand on her hip to steady her.
She swore under her breath. Valentino must have heard it because he immediately took charge. ‘It’s been a long drive, gents. We’ll save this conversation for dinner.’
Miller smiled through clenched teeth as he took their bags from the car and handed them to a waiting butler.
‘Roger, please show our esteemed guests to their room,’ TJ said, turning to the formally dressed man.
‘Certainly. Sir? Madam?’
Miller refused to meet Dexter’s eyes even though he was burning a hole right through her with his open curiosity.
She deliberately moved out of Valentino’s reach as he went to place his hand at the small of her back. Her skin was still tingling from his earlier unexpected hold on her.
Ignoring his piercing gaze, Miller concentrated on keeping her legs steady as she preceded him up the stone steps.
Tino Ventura!
How had she not put two and two together? It was true that she didn’t follow sport in any capacity, but as the only Australian driver in the most prestigious motor race in the world she should have recognised him. It was being introduced to him as Valentino that had thrown her, but even then, she conceded with an audible sigh, she’d been so stressed and distracted she might not have made the connection.
None of that, however, changed the fact that he should have told her who he was. That thought fired her temper all the way up the ornate rosewood staircase, ruining any appreciation she might have had of the priceless artworks lining the vast hallways of TJ’s house.
Not that she cared about TJ’s house. Right now she didn’t care about anything but giving Valentino Ventura a piece of her mind for deceiving her.
‘Stop thinking, Miller.’
Valentino’s deep voice behind her sent a shiver skittering down her spine.
‘You’re starting to hurt my head.’
‘This is your room, madam. Sir.’
The butler pushed open a door and Miller followed him inside. The room was spacious, and a tasteful combination of modern and old-world. At the far end was a large bay window with sweeping ocean views encompassing paper-white sand and an ocean that shifted from the brightest turquoise to a deep navy.
‘Mr Lyons and his guests are about to adjourn to the rear terrace for cocktails. Dinner is to be served in half an hour.’
‘Thank you.’ Valentino closed the door after the departing butler. ‘Okay, out with it,’ he prompted, mimicking her wide-legged stance with his arms folded across his chest.
Miller stared at him for a minute but said nothing, her mind suddenly taken up by the size of the four-poster bed that dominated the large room. She glanced around for a sofa and found an antique settee, an armchair and a curved wooden bench seat inlaid into the bay window.
She heard Valentino move and her eyes followed his easy gait as he perched on the edge of the bed, testing the mattress. ‘Comfy.’
He smiled, and she fumed even more because she knew he was laughing at her discomfort. ‘I’m not sleeping with you in that,’ she informed him shortly.
‘Oh, come on, Miller. It’s big enough for six people.’
Six people her size, maybe... Why hadn’t she thought of the sleeping arrangements before now?
Probably because her mind had been too concerned with finishing her proposal and she hadn’t wanted to dwell on the fact she was even in this predicament. But she was in it, and it was time to face it and work out how she was going to make this farce work with her fake and very famous boyfriend.
‘It would have been nice if you had thought to let me know who you are,’ she said waspishly.
‘I did tell you my name. And my job.’
Miller pressed her lips together as she took in his cavalier tone and relaxed demeanour. That was true—up to a point. ‘You must have known that I didn’t recognise you.’ She paced away from him, unable to stand still under his disturbing grey-blue gaze.
Valentino shrugged. ‘If I’d thought it was going to be an issue I would have mentioned it.’
‘How could you think it wouldn’t be?’ she fumed, stopping mid-pace to stare at him. ‘Everyone in the country knows who you are.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘That’s because I don’t follow sport, but... Oh, never mind. I need to use the bathroom and think.’
After splashing cold water on her face Miller glanced at her pale reflection and thought about what she knew about her fake boyfriend other than the garbage he’d thrown at her in the car. Taxi driver... How he would laugh if he knew she had entertained that thought for a while.
Okay, no need to rehash that embarrassing notion. It was time to think. Strategise.
She knew he was a world-class athlete and a world-class womaniser with a penchant for blonde model-types—although she couldn’t recall where she’d read that, or how long ago. Regardless, it still made it highly improbable that they would be seeing each other. And she knew everyone who saw them together would be thinking the same thing—including Dexter, who would not be backward in asking the question.
Of course she’d refuse to answer it—sh
e never mixed business with her personal life—but Dexter was shrewd. And he’d be too curious about her “relationship” to take it lying down. Anyone who knew her would. Serious, ambitious Miller Jacobs and international playboy Valentino Ventura a couple?
God, what a mess. They had as much in common as a grasshopper with an elephant.
‘You planning to hide out in there for the rest of the weekend?’
His amused voice brought her head around to stare at the closed door. Wrenching it open, she found herself momentarily breathless when she found him filling the space, one arm raised to rest across the top of the doorjamb, making him seem impossibly tall.
She pushed past him and tried to ignore the skitters of sensation that raced through her as her body brushed his. Anger. It was only anger firing her blood.
Taking a couple of calming breaths, she turned to face him. ‘No one is going to believe we’re a couple.’
‘Why not?’
Miller rolled her eyes. ‘For one, I don’t exactly mix in your circles. And for two, I’m not your type and you’re not mine.’
‘You’re a woman. I’m a man. We share a mutual attraction we can’t ignore. Happens all the time.’
To him, maybe.
Miller smoothed her brows, her mind filled with an endless list of problems. ‘You’re right. We can’t say we met at yoga...’
‘Listen, you’re blowing this out of proportion. Let’s keep it as close to the truth as we can. We met at a bar. Liked each other. End of story. That way you’ll feel more comfortable and it’s highly probable—not to mention true.’
Except for the liking part. Right now Miller couldn’t recall liking anyone less.
Valentino opened his bag on the bed.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked softly.
His eyes met hers. Held. ‘You know why I’m here,’ he said, just as softly. ‘You challenged me to be here.’
Miller arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought you said you were thirty-three, not thirteen.’
A crooked grin kicked up the corners of his mouth and he pulled his shirt up over his rippling chest. Lord, did men really look that good unairbrushed?