by Sarah Morgan
No, there was no reason for her to be here—yet here she was, making her way through the crowd at a motor-racing track, soaking in the carnival atmosphere...honing in on the cars, the cluster of media, the excited children and their parents...
It wasn’t hard to pick out Nash when he emerged through one of the gates from the track offices. It wasn’t just his height but the way he moved—heavy, purposeful and a little intimidating.
There was a flutter of female speculation and Lorelei saw women literally pushing their way up to the barrier next to the track to get a better look. Fortunately big macho sportsmen had never done much for her.
Nevertheless, she fumbled in her handbag and touched up her lipstick with her compact, removed her scarf, knotted it around her neck and shook out her hair. A woman needed all her weapons about her, entering this arena.
Weaving her way through the crowd, she caught glimpses of Nash with the kids. He wore a black overall with white and green stripes and lettering and carried a bunch of helmets which he was handing out. The parents looked as star-struck as their offspring. The crew were crawling all over the cars in preparation, and there was a faintly vivifying smell of petrol fumes in the air.
She vaguely recognised another racing driver, Antonio Abruzzi, but only because she’d scanned the charity’s internet site on the subject of today this morning, to avoid walking in blind. The lanky Italian was saying something to the media crew set up trackside.
Lorelei found she was quite close to the barrier and a little space had opened up. She slipped in and looked out across the track.
Nash had his back to her and was hunkering down to fit a helmet over the head of a young girl of about ten or so, with long dark hair. She had that po-faced look on her face Lorelei recognised from her young students when they were about to mount up for the first time.
He said something to her and she smiled, let him settle the helmet over her small dark head, and even from this distance Lorelei could see the care with which he buckled up the strap under her chin.
Something fluttered strangely in her chest, and she found herself unconsciously touching the back of her neck where he’d stroked it yesterday.
He straightened and put his hand lightly behind the child’s shoulders, ushering her towards the crew who were going to strap her in. Almost casually Nash glanced over his shoulder and their eyes met, locked.
Time seemed to slow down. The noise and jostling died away and Lorelei faced the undeniable truth that wild horses couldn’t have stopped her coming down here today. As she ate him up with her eyes he turned around, those wide shoulders thrown into relief by his arms hanging at his sides—a typical masculine pose.
Vaguely Lorelei was aware of cameras going off around her as people lifted their phones to frame what anyone with an eye could see was a great shot. A male athlete at the top of his game, with the racing car just over to the right and Nash filling the foreground with his presence. Bigger, stronger, more impressive than just about any other athlete on the world stage.
His eyes were on her.
Lorelei lifted her chin. Now she knew what Simone was talking about.
He was a legend.
She’d just been distracted by the man.
* * *
Nash saw the defiance in her fine-boned chin as it poked in the air and thought, No, you don’t, mate. That little number is off the menu.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. After the incident with Massena last night he’d figured he had her pretty much read. She was a beautiful, privileged woman used to being pursued by wealthy men. Cullinan’s tacky information had got her wrong. He’d been looking at the bottom of the survival chain when it came to women living by their wits. Lorelei St James was very definitely at the top.
He would have expected her to have moved on. Yet here she was, poised like a lily of the field behind the safety barrier, amidst a crowd of onlookers, looking as if she’d stepped out of Vogue.
In jeans.
But very expensive couture jeans, wrapped around a pair of impossibly long slender legs, lithe hips and a perfect peach of a derrière. She had a jaunty short blue scarf tied around her neck.
Despite the American accent he could hear underlying her voice she was every inch the Frenchwoman this afternoon. She’d dressed for a day at the marina, not a racetrack. This was probably as far inland as she’d ever been.
A golden girl in every sense of the word.
And she was gazing at him as if she expected him to stroll on over, swing her up into his arms and carry her off like the prize she was.
He couldn’t say it hadn’t crossed his mind.
She was so long and lovely, taller than most of the women standing around her, and possessing a fine-boned elegance that drew a man. Made him want to protect her, shelter her...do a great deal for her.
But he’d been down that road with this girl.
He’d spent yesterday mopping up her messes. Last night contributing to one of his own.
No more. Even if he had to take fifty cold showers, no more.
Let Massena or whoever take care of her.
He had some kids to run around the track, some photos to pose for and then he was taking off up the highway to his house in the Cap d’Ail for some well-deserved R’n’R before he flew out to Mauritius for meetings, then lockdown for training.
He was about to turn away when she raised her hand. It was just a little gesture, a half wave arrested by uncertainty, and it was the uncertainty that stilled him. His body suddenly felt tight, the blood in his veins heavy, his muscles tensing one by one in anticipation.
He was vaguely conscious that the crowd had surged forward as he headed over. This was an insanely public gesture to make. He conned himself it was a small event. Everyone was here by invitation. He doubted him chatting up a random blonde at a practice track was even going to make the internet despite all the phones madly going off.
Her expression had frozen. She looked like a mountain deer caught in a spotlight. She looked as if she didn’t know what to expect. Something twisted in his chest.
He hadn’t planned what he was going to say to her. He looked her right in the eye and she gazed unblinkingly back. And then he knew.
His tone was soft, low, deep. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’
Those amber eyes widened fractionally and she gave a slight nod.
He winked at the pair of gawping teenage girls standing next to her and strode off.
* * *
Most of the crowd had dispersed. Only the volunteers were cleaning up, the track crew coming and going. Nobody had questioned her wandering onto the track, walking alongside the cars, peering in.
It was getting late. Another half hour and it would be dusk. She glanced back towards the buildings. It was growing cooler and she only had her light cotton jacket. Maybe he’d forgotten what he’d said. Or maybe he’d been caught up. Or maybe he’d never intended to come in the first place.
She had put herself in this precarious position. She didn’t chase after men. They chased her. Growing up watching Raymond work the female sex like a one-armed bandit had taught her that powerful lesson. To be the object of desire, not the one caught by desire. Therein lay hurt, abandonment and shame.
She knew she should go and get in her car and drive home. This had been a bad idea... Her idea of waving her chequebook at him and forcing him to accept payment for the Sunbeam seemed impossibly naive.
‘Fancy a ride?’
His deep voice wrapped around her, every bit as delicious as the first time she’d heard it.
She turned around and found him a few feet away, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt—so similar to the first time she’d seen him. All that thick dark hair was rumpled and a faint five o’clock shadow etched his strong jaw. His intense blue eyes gleamed in the fad
ing light, watchful as a stealthy animal of prey. He was holding the straps of two helmets in one hand.
‘Careful, Nash, what if someone sees us together?’
‘Sweetheart, about fifty cell-phone cameras went off at once around us this afternoon. I think caution at this point is overrated.’
That wasn’t the answer she wanted. She wanted him to say he didn’t care and put her in his car anyhow.
‘Come on,’ he said abruptly.
He had opened a door. She stepped back. ‘This one?’ She looked doubtfully at the low-slung car.
‘Blue 16. It won’t bite.’ His eyes were on hers, and why the expression in them reminded her of the wolf’s paw reaching for Red Riding Hood she couldn’t have said.
‘Much,’ she added dryly, reaching out a hand for the helmet.
He grinned.
Oui, the wolf.
He laid his helmet on the top of the car and moved in with hers.
Lorelei reached up to free her hair from the scarf but he was tangling his hand in it, tugging it away. Memory of the other time he’d touched her like this made her unbearably conscious of his big hard body only a hand-span from her own.
He must have felt it, too. ‘Your hair,’ he said, leaning in to inhale.
She felt his lips momentarily against the warm top of her head.
‘Silky, soft... It smells like you.’
Breathless, Lorelei barely had time to react before the helmet was coming down, obscuring her pink cheeks, her questioning eyes.
He buckled the strap under her chin and Lorelei realised she’d been waiting for this ever since she saw him helping the little girl.
She’d wanted him to help her with the same attention to detail, deliberateness, care...
She felt like an alien in the helmet. It made her smile.
Nash held the door. ‘Get in.’
* * *
Possession was nine tenths of the law, Nash figured. Once he had her in Blue 16 she was pretty much his. A court of law might argue the toss, but he wasn’t much interested in anyone else’s opinion other than the girl sliding into the high-performance car.
He hadn’t planned any of this, but when he’d seen her standing over here by the cars, just waiting for him, everything male and predatory in him had fired up. If he was going to do this, he might as well do it right.
He couldn’t help tracking her legs in those leave-nothing-to-the-imagination jeans, the curve of her peachy derrière as she slid into place, her small breasts pushing up against the disco-dolly top. Everything about her was lithe, delicate, incredibly sexy. Feminine. Everything about that, about her, got him going.
This was hardly the first time he’d used a touring car and high speed to get a woman in the mood, but it was over ten years since he’d felt it necessary and right now it felt new. It felt like the first time.
It felt incredibly right.
He swung in beside her.
He adjusted his own helmet and ran a soundcheck.
‘How do you feel about a bit of speed?’ he asked through the mike.
‘Exactly how fast are we going to be travelling?’
‘Fast enough.’
She made an I’m-in-your-hands gesture.
How right she was.
He accelerated off down the track, keeping it simple, hugging the edges. Then he ramped it up. He loved this—those first moments when the car leapt from routine into supersonic and then there was just the rush.
The velocity shoved Lorelei back against the seat. She was grabbing the leather under her knees. He was going to scare the bejesus out of the little princess and then take full advantage of the results.
As the car flew down the track he could hear her panting breaths through the amplified mike. He could sense her tiny movements, her shakes and shudders. This was what he wanted. Her response, her subjection to his desires.
‘Are you okay?’ He spoke into the mike above the roar.
‘Mon Dieu!’ she panted.
And he knew, without taking his eyes off the track, that she was loving it. Every minute. And in that moment he wanted to give her the ride of her life.
She gave a shout as he rode the corner hard and tore down the strait. She squealed again, shoulders thrown back by the velocity, and he knew exactly what she was feeling because he’d felt it, too. The first time. Every time after.
This was why he raced.
It didn’t explain why, with her, it felt new.
As he pulled back the speed and gradually rolled the car to a stop he could hear her breathing, her little murmurs of, ‘Oh, my...oh, my...oh, my.’ He knew he had her. What he didn’t understand was why this felt so important.
They got out in silence.
He had his helmet off, but she was still unbuckling hers.
She threw her head forwards and back to release her flattened curls. They fell about her head in a messy tangle she didn’t even try to smooth down as she lifted sparkling eyes to meet his. She was absolutely how he wanted her: messy, confident, excited.
Her lips parted and she was breathing hard and laughing. He knew exactly how she was feeling. The blood was surging through his body but it had nothing to do with speed or the adrenalin rush. She stepped towards him and he found himself making the same move.
Neither of them spoke.
All Nash could think was that he wanted her so badly he would have thrown her across the bonnet of Blue 16 if half a dozen other guys hadn’t been within gawking distance.
Lorelei was looking up at him as if she shared every one of his thoughts.
‘Wow,’ she said softly. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said just as softly.
Lorelei felt herself drift towards him and suddenly Nash was there, in her space, and the atmosphere between them was on fire.
‘Come on,’ was all he said, and she allowed him to take her hand. She knew what he meant.
* * *
He put her in his civilian car, drove the highway just on the limit.
Lorelei didn’t ask him where he was taking her. She was too busy asking herself what she thought she was doing.
He’d barely touched her but her body was literally humming, and the tension in the car was doing her head in.
What was he thinking? Where was this going? Did it really matter?
He’d made it pretty clear he was in charge.
She watched the capable pull and push of his big hand on the gears, his long, strong arm, the cut of musculature running under the high sleeve of his T-shirt, the faint press of his chest as he breathed in and out, the way his jaw settled with precision as he concentrated on his driving. He was driving fast, but he was driving safely. He had made her feel safe since the moment she met him.
They were coming up to the turn-off.
‘Your place or mine?’
It was the first time he’d spoken.
It was a question she couldn’t hide behind, pretending this wasn’t about sex. I came to the track to find you, to let you know I was available to you...
This never happened to her. Never. She was always cautious. She didn’t meet a man and climb into his car and go home with him... Her breath hitched because she realised they’d come to a stop at the turn-off and she still hadn’t answered him.
Nash cupped her chin, lowered his mouth to hers. Kissed her so sweetly she wanted to cling to this moment.
He did let her go. To decide for her.
‘My place. It’s closer.’
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS the longest drive known to man, although practically Nash knew it was barely twenty-five minutes.
Lorelei’s soft, sexy eyes on him driving were about as close to actually being skin to skin without tak
ing their clothes off.
Her quiet bothered him, though.
Was she thinking about Massena? Did he need to go there, ask those questions?
He didn’t share.
He was very, very possessive.
Okay, up until now that hadn’t been the case with other women, but it appeared to be the case with this woman.
He’d been up all night thinking about her, visualising her with another man’s hand on her waist, another man seeing her home. It was unreasonable. He’d blown her off. He’d been the one to call a halt. Everything he knew about her meant this was playing with fire.
The traffic in town was heavy. The light was leaving the sky and the boulevards were twinkling.
Nash shot the Veyron in and out of snags until they were mercifully prowling into the garage under his apartment complex.
Lorelei’s chest was visibly rising and falling as they sank into the spotlit gloom, the darkness making the space between them more intimate and strangely tense. The excitement and adrenalin rush of the track had been infiltrated by reality. Nash remembered the things he’d said to her, virtually accusing her of being a media-whore, and yet here she was, despite all of that.
‘About my car—’ she said suddenly, her voice low and husky.
‘All taken care of.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Why bother your head about those things?’ He cut her off. ‘It’s nothing—a trifle.’
He could sense in her the need to say more, but all of a sudden she just subsided, looking down at her hands in her lap.
‘The flowers were lovely,’ she said instead.
Nash suspected she was trying to tell him something, but he didn’t want to hear it. This wasn’t about him fixing things for her in her no doubt chaotic life. Nor her eminently female desire to turn their liaison into something prettified with flowers and romantic gestures. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only: to work through this unholy desire to have this woman any way he could get her. All. Night. Long. They’d deal with the morning and where they went from there tomorrow.