by Sarah Morgan
Well, she didn’t have that problem any more...
‘So no name, no number—?’
‘No hope,’ finished Lorelei, and their laughter mingled over the old joke. ‘I’m on my way as we speak to the Hotel de Paris.’
‘Ooh, la la, tell me you’re going to use their wonderful spa!’
‘Not today. I’m being Antoinette St James’s granddaughter and fronting for the foundation.’
‘Your grandmaman’s charity?’
‘Oui. They’re doing a vintage car rally to raise funds for children with cancer. That’s why I had the Bugatti on loan for last night’s party. As an adjunct a racing driver here in Monaco has a private track a few miles inland, and he’s going to run the kids around it for the day.’
‘Which driver? Do you have a name?’
‘I don’t know. Let me see.’ Lorelei braked at a pedestrian crossing and fumbled with the shiny folder she’d picked up from the Aviary office yesterday. ‘Nash Blue. The name is vaguely familiar...’
The line went quiet.
‘Simone?’
‘I’m here. I’m just taking it in. Nash Blue. Cherie, how can you live in Monaco and not know anything about the Grand Prix?’
Lorelei rumpled her curls distractedly. ‘I’m not very sporty, Simone.’
‘You might want to keep quiet about that when you meet him.’ Simone sounded arch. ‘You didn’t do any research, did you?’
‘I haven’t had time. It was dumped on me yesterday.’
‘You do know Nash Blue is a racing legend?’
‘Really?’ Lorelei asked without interest, concentrating on weighting the folder down on the passenger seat with her handbag.
‘He’s a rock star of the racing world. He’s broken all sorts of records. He retired a few years ago at the height of his career and—listen to this, cherie—he was earning close to fifty million a year. And I’m not talking euros. He was one of the highest paid sportsmen in the world.’
Must be nice, Lorelei thought vaguely.
‘He gave up the track to design supercars—whatever they are. I think the consensus is he’s some kind of genius. But, putting that aside for a moment, he’s utterly gorgeous, Lorelei. I confess I’m a little envious.’
Unexpectedly Lorelei pictured a pair of intense blue eyes and wished she had this morning to do over again.
‘I’m sure I’ll do something to annoy him. I’m on a roll with that, Simone.’
‘He rarely gives interviews. The few times he has he’s been famously monosyllabic.’
Lorelei’s heart sank. So she was going to have to do all the talking?
‘But be en garde, cherie. He has a reputation with the ladies.’
‘Oh, please. If he doesn’t talk how does that even work?’
‘I don’t think much talking is involved.’
Lorelei rolled her eyes. ‘I think I’m quite safe, Simone. You forget—I grew up watching Raymond ply his trade. I have no illusions left.’
‘Not all men are rascals, cherie.’
‘No, you married the one who wasn’t.’ It was said fondly. Lorelei found solace in Simone’s happy marriage, her family life. But it wasn’t something she ever envisaged for herself. Apart from Simone, her longest relationship had been with her twelve-year-old horses.
‘All I’m saying is Nash Blue was a bit of a player in his racing days, and given his profile I doubt anything has changed.’
‘Oui, oui. I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘All the parties and famous people you meet—you are one lucky girl, cherie.’ Simone sounded quite wistful.
‘I guess.’
And now she was lying to her best friend.
For a glancing moment Lorelei wanted to tell Simone about all the unreturned phone calls, the unopened emails...
But she couldn’t tell her. She was so ashamed she had let it get to this point.
The villa was a money pit she couldn’t afford to keep up, and the charity was an ongoing responsibility that took time away from paid work. Her father’s legal fees and creditors had basically stripped her of everything else.
She’d lost so much in the last two years, first Grandy to illness and then her faith in Raymond. Right now the only thing that felt certain in her world was the home she had grown up in, and she was holding on to it by the skin of her teeth.
‘Keep me updated, cherie.’
‘Absolutement. Je t’aime.’
Lorelei was still thinking about the call as she turned into the Place du Casino and began thinking about where she was going to leave her car. She was running late, and thoughts of what awaited her at home were proving a distraction despite her best efforts to pretend to the contrary. Yet the sun was shining, which lifted her spirits, and she told herself she deserved to cut herself a little slack. Tomorrow she’d deal with all those intrusive emails. She might even front up at her solicitor’s office—although perhaps that was going overboard.
She stilled as she caught sight of a familiar red Veyron parked right outside the hotel entrance. Brakes squealing, she came to a standstill midtraffic. The adrenalin levels spiked in her body, but it wasn’t anything to do with thoughts of bills and creditors. Her heart pounded.
Behind her horns blared. She made a wide go-around-me gesture with her arm, scanning for a spot. She found one and cut across the flow of traffic, wincing at the blare of horns, but it was worth it to back up into the nice wide space. Perfect. All she needed now was to hand over the folder, smile at the racing-car driver and then she could go and find her stranger and apologise, offer to buy him a drink or two and hope her charm would do the trick.
She reapplied her lipstick with a steady hand, unravelled the blue scarf she wore to protect her hair from the wind and stepped out onto the road.
This time a car horn gave an appreciative little beep as she sashayed across the Place du Casino towards the maharajah’s jewel box that was the hotel. That was more like it.
The day was looking up.
* * *
He was late.
Nash didn’t give it much thought. The publicist would wait. Cullinan would wait. Everyone waited. It was one of the few useful by-products of fame and perversely frustrating. Nash was only too aware of the contradiction. It would be interesting if for once he was stood up.
But another benefit was being able to help out where he could for a worthy cause, and a kids’ cancer charity was pretty high on that list.
That was why he had ridden down from the top floor in the middle of negotiations and now strolled across the lobby into Le Bar Américain. Five minutes of face-time and this charity rep would be keen to get going, given he’d held her up for...Nash glanced at his watch...thirty-five minutes.
He scanned the downlit warm ambience of the bar. John Cullinan was on a stool, leaning into both drink and cell as he cut some throats. He was the best in the business at what he did—as he should be, given what he was paid, Nash reflected. But you got what you paid for. Cullinan was worth every penny.
He killed the call the second he saw Nash. ‘She’s a no-show.’
Nash shrugged. It was of no importance, just a formality.
‘I’ll get onto the foundation—’
‘Just forward the details to the guys at the track and let me know a time and we’ll give the kids something to smile about.’
He was about to move off when he saw her. She had paused in the doorway to speak to the maître d’. Her head was slightly bent, exposing the lovely length of her neck and making those bare shoulders look impossibly seductive. He hadn’t stopped thinking about those delicately boned shoulders, the fine stemmed length of her throat ever since he’d left her up on the highway.
Nash found himself unable to look away.
Was she meeting so
meone here? For some reason the muscles tightened all through his body as he cast an inclusive once-over across the room, hunting down the guy. No one had moved towards her, although she had pulled a lot of attention, and he knew in that instant she was alone.
For the first time since he’d quit racing professionally Nash felt the same competitive tension he’d used to before a race.
She turned to look across the room, pushing back a rogue curl with that gesture he remembered, and her eyes met his.
Even at this distance he could see her bow lips tighten. She didn’t look happy to see him.
Irritation sparked as a dozen reasons why he should walk on by and forget about her waved themselves like red flags. Yet as every male head in the room turned as she headed his way he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
* * *
Lorelei found herself unable to look away.
He stood by the bar, stripped to a crisp white shirt stylishly taut along his torso and dark tailored trousers. His shoulders were impossibly broad, and he radiated confidence and money and power.
Lorelei removed her sunglasses and just stood there, trying to make the connection.
But even as she turned to the maître d’ and gave his name she knew what the answer would be.
A shiver ran through her. In this setting it was obvious he was the most powerful man in the room. He was certainly the most attractive, and the chasm between mechanic and the man standing before her was immense. It couldn’t be leapt.
She’d been had.
Lorelei stiffened as his gaze landed on her.
She’d also been seen.
His eyes locked onto her and for a moment he looked as poleaxed as she felt. Then he frowned.
She straightened, determined that not by an inflection in her voice or the blink of an eyelash should he see how angry she was—although she wasn’t quite sure with who, nor how foolish she felt. She headed over.
Men were looking at her. Men always looked at her. She was tall and blonde and for some guys she was a prize. What they didn’t know was that she wasn’t available to be won.
She did the prize-keeping and the awarding.
‘Mr Blue, I presume?’ She offered her hand unsmilingly.
He wasn’t smiling either, but he took her extended hand with common courtesy.
Lorelei told herself to relax. So they’d had a little moment this morning? He was a professional and she was...well, volunteering her time. Surely this could be polite and...oh...
His hand closed around hers, warm and dry and secure, and she melted just a little behind the knees. Was he holding on a little longer than necessary? Lorelei felt the colour mounting her cheeks. As he released her hand his thumb shifted and gently brushed over the hardened skin at the base of her palm.
A faint look of surprise lit those blue eyes and Lorelei snatched her hand back, feeling exposed. She could hear her grandmother’s voice. ‘Lorelei, a lady is known by the softness of her hands.’
Silly, old-fashioned, not true, and yet...
Another man stepped between them. ‘You’ll deal with me, Miss...St James.’ He read her name off an email printout that Lorelei could clearly see had the Aviary Foundation’s logo.
Lorelei wanted to take a step back but she held her ground. She knew a cut-them-down-to-size gesture when she was on the receiving end of one. She’d experienced enough of them over the weeks when she’d attended her father’s trial in Paris. Nobody wanted her to be the unrattled loyal daughter, especially the media, but that was exactly what she had been. Even if it had meant sitting in the shower every night, crying her heart out.
‘Lorelei St James,’ she said coolly, drawing on the self-control she had perfected during that awful period. ‘Let me guess—you must be Mr Cullinan, the delightful man who spoke to our foundation’s receptionist yesterday and left her in tears.’
The guy bristled, but Nash’s cool, deep voice brushed him aside.
‘It goes with the territory, Ms St James. Sometimes John doesn’t know when to turn it off. Do you have paperwork?’
A little thrown by finding herself under the intent scrutiny of those blue eyes again, for a moment Lorelei had to think. What paperwork? Then she pulled herself together and unclasped her handbag, producing the small glossy folder. Nash handed it over, sight unseen, to the scowling Cullinan.
‘You can go, John. I’ll handle this.’
Lorelei tried not to appear startled.
‘Don’t you want to discuss it?’ She indicated the folder being carried away by Mr Cullinan. The foundation’s president had been very clear: she was expected to go over the schedule with Blue’s management.
‘No,’ he said simply.
To the point. Direct. Like any woman, Lorelei liked decisiveness in a man, but it also left her on the back foot. He’d taken away her reason for being here in a single gesture.
Now they were alone she felt even more exposed. Would he think she had some hand in this? That she’d known exactly who she’d been dealing with up at the house?
She decided to come right to the point. ‘Mr Blue, was there a reason why you didn’t introduce yourself this morning?’
Although she already knew the answer...
‘At the time names didn’t seem relevant.’ His eyes moved with interest over her face. ‘And it’s Nash.’
Because he wasn’t going to be seeing her again. Lorelei remembered how obvious she had made her interest in him and found herself cringing. What was it he’d said about not wanting to discuss it? He can’t make it any more clear, Lorelei, a little voice of self-preservation whispered. He’s not interested. He’s seen you at your worst. Nobody wants to be around that...
She was pulled up short. What was that he’d said about calling him Nash?
‘Tell me, Ms St James, have you eaten?’
Suddenly they seemed to be standing so close. Certainly too close for her to think clearly. His blue eyes moved broodingly over her. Lorelei could feel her body actually quivering in response.
‘Are you offering to feed me, Mr Blue?’
A look of amusement flickered unmistakably in those intense blue eyes. ‘It would seem that way.’ He indicated the bar. ‘What’s your poison?’
Fortunately the answer to that question was always there, even as she scrambled to process the fact he was asking her to lunch with him.
He murmured, ‘Champagne cocktail,’ to the bartender and then quite casually slid his broad hand around her bare elbow.
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.’