by Sarah Morgan
Then he dismissed it.
She was right. He wasn’t a very nice man and that had brought him a long way.
What remained was the fact he’d blown off two meetings to spend time with a woman he didn’t know, and it was time to play catch up. He hadn’t got anywhere without being single-minded. He needed to get his focus back where it belonged.
He dressed, made the calls necessary to bring the people who could make things happen together.
Santo’s Bar. Half an hour.
* * *
It was a quick drive from his apartment to the waterside bar. Nash, however, found himself taking the scenic route, driving down the glittery Monaco boulevards, remembering the first time he’d raced here. The narrow grid, the excitement of the danger inherent in this course above all other road circuits... He’d won and his life had never been the same again.
It had been an extraordinary ride—that race and all the races that had come before and after it, building up his motor-design business, Blue, the journey to this town, to this moment. It had happened against the odds, given his beginnings. He’d come from a background of squanderers. Money, talent, opportunity—all squandered on drink and women and bad bets. And that was just his old man.
Success had come quickly to him. Probably too quickly. He’d had a raft-load of hangers-on at the beginning of his career whom he’d bailed out financially. His father, his brother, old friends... They’d all viewed him as a lucky bastard, but he knew different. He’d worked bloody hard to get where he was, and he had learned to hold on to what he’d earned. He damn well didn’t need another person who wanted something from him...
And just like that he was thinking about Jack. His brother.
He wasn’t risking it again.
His expression hardened and he told himself if his gut was tied in knots it was only because Lorelei St James was clearly a premium lay and he wouldn’t be having any. Animal attraction. It was why even now he swore the scent of her was still in the car, making him restless, angry, and making it hard to remember why he was denying himself.
* * *
Had she simply imagined it?
Had he really blown her off?
How had he phrased it? She had a media profile.
It was the trial. It could only be the trial.
Lorelei sank down onto the chaise in her bedroom and thought hard. What else could he have discovered? It wouldn’t be difficult. She knew she had a social profile. She never Googled herself but she was aware that, like her friends, her name came up on different gossip websites.
She’d dated some known names in the past, but not seriously. She’d never been serious...or only once, when she was still a young girl and had thought a man telling you he loved you was reason enough to start planning a future—until you discovered he loved what he imagined was your trust fund. She’d never had one. Just a well-to-do grandmaman who’d kept her on a short leash and a small inheritance now gone.
Grandy had left most of her fortune to her charities. Lorelei knew she wouldn’t have been human if she didn’t sometimes think wistfully of how useful even a fraction of that money would be now, but she understood that Antoinette was punishing Raymond and not her. She had known one day Lorelei would be bailing him out.
Inevitably that day had come to pass. Unfortunately it had put the one thing Grandy had left her at risk: the villa.
But she wasn’t thinking about that now. She needed to think about filling her evening, seeing as Nash Blue had changed his mind...
Possibly because he’d found a better option. A woman who was happy to go to Paris with him.
Lorelei’s eyes narrowed. She snatched up her phone and began scrolling through the address book. Two could play at that game. She had simply masses of people she could call up...men who would break their necks tearing up the hill to take her to dinner. Her thumb hovered over names. Her heart fluttered hard in her throat. Why couldn’t she just call?
Because... Because...
Fifi jumped up onto her lap, trying to climb her chest.
‘Because I didn’t want to be with anyone but him tonight,’ she said, burying her face in her baby’s warm fur. ‘Dammit, Fifi, I was looking forward to tonight. I was... Oh, I’m being ridiculous. I’ll make a call.’
She pressed Damiano Massena’s number and he answered almost immediately. Clearly he didn’t have a problem with her being a so-called distraction! But then, they had known each other for years on the party circuit. He was in town. He knew of an opening. It was always fun to go to an opening, and she knew he wouldn’t press for anything more than her company. They’d sorted out that little crease in their friendship years ago. He was a womaniser and she was strictly hearts and flowers—not his type. He’d pick her up in an hour.
‘Make it half an hour,’ she insisted, pulling down the zipper on her dress. The last thing she wanted to do was sit around on her own.
She ended the call and let the dusky pink romantic confection she had chosen so carefully to wear tonight drop to her feet. She stepped out of it, leaving it puddled on the floor as she headed to the wardrobe. She’d put on something short and funky and guaranteed to get her all the male attention she could handle.
She tugged down a little gold party dress from its hanger. She’d go out, gossip, dance, amuse herself. Forget this had ever happened.
But she’d hold on to the fact he’d spoken so flatly, unemotionally, allowing nothing to alleviate his message: I’ve changed my mind. You’ve got nothing I want.
Turning around, she caught her reflection in the mirror—a tall, slender girl in an ivory slip and a simple string of pearls, who had dressed tonight with a particular man in mind. Her make-up understated, her hair smoothed carefully back into a deceptively simple knot.
The woman she actually was.
Unexpectedly a surge of sadness welled up from some place deep inside her. Was she never going to be allowed to be herself?
Lorelei inhaled sharply, ruthlessly dragging it all back in.
Irritated with her thoughts, and herself, she peeled off the slip and began the process of dressing as the woman she needed to be.
* * *
Santo’s Bar was noisy, but it had shadowy corners where a couple of famous faces and the two founders of one of motor racing’s more famous constructors could blend into the dark maroon leather and oak décor.
Nash sat on a light beer. He’d been off the hard stuff for almost four years. He didn’t miss it, but every now and then a glass of single malt would have hit the spot. This was one of those nights.
He should be enjoying the company. It was all-male, and if they were a little loud and raucous, so was the bar. Antonio Abruzzi, Eagle’s current star driver, was telling a story that had veered from off-colour to frankly pornographic. Nash had half an ear to it, but his attention kept wandering. He noticed a woman across from their table, winding a lock of dark hair idly around her finger as she talked, and instantly he was inhaling honey again, and flowers, and seeing the sun glinting off the sapphire-blue Sunbeam as Lorelei St James leaned back against it and smiled up at him with all the confidence of a very beautiful woman to whom a man had never said no.
Why in the hell had he said no?
He picked up his light beer and smiled grimly. He knew why. He was a goddamned expert on giving up what he liked for the sake of the bottom line.
It was just he was having trouble remembering what the particular bottom line was in this scenario. He’d swapped an evening with a blonde goddess for Abruzzi’s stories and the watchful appraisal of the Eagle team who had signed him.
He stood up.
‘Nash, man, where are you going?’
‘Previous appointment.’
He shook hands with the Eagle guys, embraced Abruzzi and shouldered his way out of there.
He was going out as she was coming in.
Impossibly tall in vertiginous heels, she dwarfed the guy she was with—a thickset, strong-profiled Italian Nash recognised as the financier Damiano Massena. They’d crossed paths several times in both business and leisure.
Massena was dressed in a long black coat, suitable for the cooler evenings, and Lorelei was a living flame in a gold dress. In the overhead neon lights it was difficult to tell where the fabric ended and her long, lithe limbs took over. She looked every inch the trophy, and Nash found he’d ground to a halt. His gut clenched. Because Massena had her and he didn’t, he reasoned brutally.
She brushed past him, didn’t look up, but he saw she had made dark pools of her eyes and a glossy invitation of her mouth. She looked like sin. She looked like every good reason he didn’t want to get involved with her.
And most of the reasons he did.
But he was noticing other things, too. The evening was cool and there was a visible quiver to her bare limbs.
Why in the hell hadn’t Massena given her his coat?
He inclined his head slightly and her gaze moved fleetingly against his. Massena said something to her, gave Nash an amused, man-to-man look, and ushered her forward.
The aggression rushed up from nowhere and he brought his hand down on Massena’s shoulder. The older man turned around in surprise, his expression hardening as he read Nash’s expression.
What in the hell was he doing?
He jerked his head towards Lorelei, paused in the door with her bare arms wrapped around herself, avoiding his gaze.
‘Get her inside,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘She’s bloody well freezing.’
He kept walking. Yeah, being single-minded had brought him a long way.
* * *
Lorelei was aware she was talking a little too animatedly in the car, as if the flow of words would stem the rising tide of feeling behind it. Since running into Nash she’d been preoccupied and not much company. Damiano was bringing her home early.
‘Are you seeing him?’
Lorelei didn’t even bother to demur.
‘We only met today,’ she admitted in a low voice. ‘We had arranged to go out to dinner. He cancelled and I—’
‘You phoned me. I’m flattered,’ he drawled.
Lorelei put her hand on his arm. ‘I phoned you because you’re one of my friends and I knew you would be good company.’
‘Will you be seeing him again?’
‘He’s not interested.’
‘For a man who isn’t interested, cara, he has the eyes of a jealous husband.’
Lorelei swallowed, but couldn’t ignore the flutter of excitement that observation engendered in her.
‘A word of advice, Lorelei, from an old friend.’ He gave her a wry look. ‘Nash Blue is not a man for you to play with. He has been ruthless in the past with women a lot tougher than you, cara.’
‘Ruthless?’ Lorelei couldn’t help the shiver that ran through her, although the limousine was climate-controlled.
‘More so than me.’ Damiano gave her a smile that reminded her where his own reputation with women had come from. ‘And somewhat more effective with you, I am thinking.’
Lorelei didn’t know what to say. She sat back and looked unseeingly through the dark window. She knew exactly how she felt about any man who was ruthless with women. She’d grown up with one. But she couldn’t put aside all the sweet things Nash had done for her today. She was almost hugging them to herself.
In all the years since men had started following her with their eyes and making all sorts of empty promises no man had ever gone to so much trouble for her.
She could almost forgive him the cancelled date and the reasons he had given her.
Almost.
She had to ask. ‘He’s a womaniser, then?’
Damiano shrugged. ‘Niente—no more than any other rich and famous man, cara. I do know he’s a man renowned for his self-control. He doesn’t drink or smoke or brawl as far as I know. You say you met him just today?’
‘Oui.’
Damiano threw back his head and laughed.
‘I can’t see what’s so funny.’
‘Si, I know, and that is what makes it even more amusing.’
Lorelei shook her head. She would never understand men. She relaxed a little, but as her turn-off grew closer she could feel the darkness edging in and a great unwillingness for the evening to end, for all the noise and activity to stop, to be alone. To think.
Yet when Damiano turned to her, all smooth Italian charm, and asked, ‘Shall I see you inside?’ she shook her head without giving it a second thought.
‘I’m a big girl and I know where the lights are.’
But as she entered alone the cold, empty weight of the house bore down on her.
She made her way upstairs, trying not to think about her debts and those warning letters and threats and what it would all inevitably mean...and somehow what flashed to mind was, What if Nash Blue followed her home? And if he did—if he drew up in her courtyard in that smart car of his, if his heavy tread disturbed the gravel, if he stood there in the dark and called her name like a sober Marlon Brando—what would she do?
What would she do?
‘Tip a bucket of water on him. That’s what I’d do,’ she told Fifi as she flooded her bedroom with light. It was the only fully furnished room in the place, an Art Deco boudoir worthy of the silent-film star who had built this Spanish villa back in 1919.
Fifi stirred from her place of residence on the bed and trotted underfoot as Lorelei washed her face and undressed and cursed a bit.
‘He thinks I’m media happy and looking for a deep pocket,’ she muttered. ‘Well, we’re neither of those things, Fifi.’
She went over to her escritoire and unlocked the deep drawer. Inside were months’ worth of unanswered, unlooked-at correspondence from her solicitor and various legal firms who had handled Raymond’s case.
As she settled herself down, pulling on her reading glasses and taking up a pen, she felt something akin to relief that she had finally started—until she began to read...
It was only when she was lying awake in the dark hours later, resting her chin on top of Fifi’s warm little head, that she realised it had taken someone like Nash to come along today and force her to see her behaviour through his eyes, this house through his eyes and for her to find the courage to face her problems.
She supposed she could thank him for that.
She shivered and drew the coverlet up a little closer to her chin. It was a cold night, and that was another problem with this house—it was drafty.
Get her inside. She’s bloody well freezing.
Had he really said that, or was it wishful thinking?
* * *
The next morning she was walking barefoot along the back terrace when her Sunbeam rolled up.
She put down her freshly brewed coffee and hurried out to speak to the two men who had delivered it. The car had been given a certificate of good health, she read, noting a few key parts had been replaced and the car had been tuned.
There was no bill.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said uneasily.
‘Compliments of Nash Blue,’ said the guy with a shrug. ‘She’s a beauty, madame, take good care of her.’
Lorelei’s fingers crumpled the report in her hands slightly before she realised what she was doing. Compliments of Nash Blue? She wasn’t a charity case. She didn’t need to be rescued.
Five minutes later a van was drawing up on the gravel drive. Lorelei looked up from the mechanic’s report, recognised the insignia on the side. A boy leapt out and came towards her, bearing a large bouquet of red roses.
She took them in both arms, burying her nose in the ri
ch scent.
Damiano. How sweet of him—and unnecessary.
She plucked out the card and suddenly the blooms in her arms took on a whole different meaning.
Forgive me. Nash.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LORELEI parked and jumped out of the roadster.
The car was performing like a dream.
Which made staying angry with the man who’d fixed it and sent you flowers all in one morning extremely difficult.
This entire situation was difficult.
She wasn’t sure what she was doing here, but she figured something would occur to her when they came face-to-face. She had a half-formed notion that she would pull out her chequebook and insist he take payment for the car. But Nash, being one of those masters of the universe, probably thought it was his responsibility to make sure all the women in his vicinity didn’t have to lift a little finger to help themselves.
Which just made her eyes roll when she saw his name in big letters on the marquee. Who named their company after themselves anyway? It just proved the enormous size of his...ego.
She made her way through the crowd queuing on the perimeter of the fence. She gave her name at the gate and was handed her pass.
She’d dressed down in canvas top sneakers, skinny white jeans and a flirty gold lamé top that bared her arms and the backs of her shoulders. She’d pulled her hair back with a knotted blue scarf. But perhaps she was not dressed down enough.
People roamed about in windbreakers and casual gear, and as she made her way across the concourse she could feel eyes on her—as if she were some exotic animal released from the zoo come wandering among them.
She didn’t know any of the volunteers, either. This wasn’t her branch of the organisation. She’d actually had to ring the foundation that morning to organise a pass.
Her work for The Aviary was strictly high-end, and consisted of schmoozing for the big bucks at parties and receptions throughout the year. It was how she had met Damiano Massena and cemented her reputation as being impossible to refuse.
Every year she attended The Aviary Foundation’s annual ball with him and set the tongues wagging all over again. But there had never been anything between her and the men she fleeced on behalf of the charity. She didn’t mix business and pleasure.