The Playboy and the Single Mum (Vintage Love Book 2)

by Alexia Adams

  “Yes. Sure. Seven. I’ll be there.”

  With a chuckle, he left. She waited until she heard the bedroom door click closed and then flung off her clothes to try on the blue dress. It took a bit of contorting to do the zip up at the back. Obviously it was a gown meant to be done up, or down, by someone else. Probably the reason Daniel liked it. She found the matching shoes in a box on the nearby shelf. Slipping them on, she released her hair from its tight bun and let it fall around her shoulders. She dared one peek at the full-length mirror, then another. The fat girl she’d always be in her mind refused to believe what her eyes were telling her. Holy heck in a teapot she was sexy, if she did say so herself. She almost went in search of Daniel to see if she could knock that self-assured cocky grin off his face.

  A few more contortions and a possible dislocated shoulder later, she managed to undo the zip. She’d save the dress for when she needed a boost to her self-confidence or she was ready to go after her adventure.

  ***

  The tap-tap of high heels on the wood floor alerted him to Lexy’s arrival. He took a deep breath and then glanced toward the door. She stood in the doorway, wearing the black dress. The fabric hugged her every curve, and although the dress went past her knees the bright red heels she wore drew his eye down the length of her legs. For once her hair was loose, and her curls ran riot around her face. Her beauty was natural, but surprisingly she seemed unaware of how enticing she appeared. More of his blood shifted south and he moved to the bar, hidden in a piece of antique furniture, to disguise his discomfort.

  “Would you like an aperitif? Perhaps a Campari, given your Italian heritage?” he asked.

  “Just a glass of wine will do—red, if you have it.”

  “We’re on a winery. Pretty sure we have red wine.” He poured the drink then handed her the glass, their fingers grazing as he did so. Her eyes widened and she stared up at him, her lips slightly parted. As in the wardrobe, he forced himself to move away before he kissed her. This intense attraction was damn annoying.

  She opened and closed her mouth several times, took a sip of the wine, and finally asked, “So, what made you want to become a Formula 1 driver?”

  At last a topic he could talk on endlessly. “When I was ten years old, my grandfather took me to a race at Magny-Cours, and I fell in love with the sport. It’s all I’ve wanted to do ever since.”

  “I wanted to be a driver once. But my father told me girls can’t drive and I’d be better off following my mother into modeling.”

  “Your father’s an ass, but I guess you already know that. Had you fought for your dream, you could have been the first woman driver. Your father had the clout to make it happen.”

  She shrugged. “I never wanted it badly enough; it was just a passing fancy. And shortly after that my parents split up, so I didn’t stick around F1. Plus, want to know something funny?”

  “Sure.” She’d relaxed enough to settle on the sofa, her dark hair spilling over the back of the cream upholstery. For a second he imagined it spread across his pillow, or better yet, his chest. He sat in the chair opposite so he could watch her face as she revealed her first secret.

  “I’ve never even learned to drive.”

  He put his glass down. “We could fix that. Driving’s easy. I’ll teach you.”

  “Really?” She leaned forward, her hair caressing her face now lit with delight.

  “Of course. We have four days, twelve cars in the garage, and several kilometers of private roads on the estate. It’ll be fun.”

  “‘It’ll be fun.’ Those sound like famous last words. Are you sure you don’t want to add, ‘what could go wrong?’ Like me crashing and you getting seriously injured and unable to drive for the rest of the season?”

  “I’ll wear my crash helmet. And we’ll start by driving my brother’s Land Rover. You could roll that baby several times with no ill effects.”

  “Your brother may have something to say about that.”

  “I won’t tell him if you won’t. Come on, don’t tell me you’re scared.”

  “Of course I’m not scared, I’m just…”

  “Running out of excuses?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, something like that. All right. But if I’m really awful then we’ll give up and never speak of it again.”

  “I never give up. Not when it’s something I want.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are we still talking about me learning to drive?”

  Time for a gear change. “How did you end up in advertising?” He’d met a lot of people in that line of work, and she didn’t fit the mold.

  She bit down on the side of her finger, then, seeming to realize what she was doing, sat on her hand. “I kind of ended up there. I’m working on a psychology degree. Believe it or not, the two fields are related.”

  “And that’s what you really want to do, be a psychologist?”

  “Originally I wanted to be a neuroscientist and study addiction, but even becoming a psychologist seems a distant dream these days.”

  She was back to chewing on her finger. If they weren’t going to spend the next two months discussing the weather, he’d better find something they had in common. Maybe her connection with Formula 1. “You know we’re likely to run into your father at some point in the next two months. He still attends most of the races.”

  “I know. But I doubt he’ll even recognize me.”

  Dieu, this woman was a conversation minefield. He thought his family was screwed up. At least his mother contacted him every so often to try to get money out of him.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “On my sixteenth birthday. The visit didn’t end well and he never came back.”

  “Must have been some argument.”

  “It was.”

  “How old were you when your parents split?”

  “Seven. But I don’t remember them ever being happy. They always argued. My mother told me she deliberately got pregnant so my father would marry her. When they divorced I lost more than my dad … I lost my whole family. I was born into F1. All the drivers and their wives and crews were like my uncles and aunts. I thought every child spoke several languages. Once I started school, though, my mother wanted me to have more stability. So she settled in the UK where she was from, as she’d never become very proficient in Italian. We still went to a few races a year, but it wasn’t the same and the arguing was even worse. One year my mother decided to surprise my father by showing up unexpectedly. She pulled me out of school and we flew to Rio… And walked in on my father having sex with some woman.”

  “Mon Dieu, I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think it was the first time he’d cheated. But she’d had enough. They divorced. I stayed with my mother. My father made a token effort to stay in touch for the first few years. Now he only contacts me when he’s getting married again and tries to pretend I’m still part of his life.” She let out a harsh laugh. “Some people get Christmas cards. I get wedding invitations.”

  “Maybe this will give you two a chance to reconnect.”

  A weary sigh escaped her perfect lips. “Too much time has passed. Too much anger. After the divorce my mother really poisoned my mind against him, and for a long time I hated him, too. But now that I’m an adult I can see there are two sides to every story. My mother was very shallow and self-centered and hard to live with. But I still can’t forgive him for cheating on Mum. If he wanted to end things, he should have done it the honorable way.”

  “Is there an honorable way to end a marriage?”

  “I don’t know. At least wait until the divorce papers are signed to start banging someone else.”

  There was a world of bitterness in her tone. Did she have personal experience aside from that of her parents?

  “Are you divorced?”

  She looked away before replying. “Yes. And to answer your next question, no, I wasn’t unfaithful.” She took in a shuddering breath. “What about your parents? I take it
your mother is still alive, albeit unwelcome.”

  “Maman tried the great con and got caught. She was married to Jacques’s father but having affairs on the side. Except she screwed up and got pregnant. Thought she could pass me off as her husband’s child, but unknown to her he’d had a vasectomy so he wouldn’t get any of his lovers pregnant. They separated, but when Jacques’s father died his grandfather asked if I could come live with them so Jacques wasn’t lonely.”

  “Why didn’t your mother just take the two of you? You’re both her sons, aren’t you?” She obviously hadn’t met his mother.

  “Oh, no, she was more than happy to get rid of me. I cramped her lifestyle.”

  “What about your father?”

  “I’ve no idea who he is. Clearly someone who went around knocking up women on the weekend.” Not a person Daniel was interested in meeting, dying or not.

  “That’s a bit harsh for someone with your reputation.”

  “And I’d have thought a woman in your line of work would know better than to believe everything the media spews out. Especially when you’ve capitalized on that particular aspect of my life.”

  She blinked, and, unless he was imagining it, her features softened. “You’re right. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Their gazes locked in a silent battle, each trying to see beyond the other’s mask. Bertrand stood in the doorway and cleared his throat before speaking. “Dinner is ready when you are.”

  Daniel rose, took her now-empty wine glass, and placed it on the tray. They walked side by side to the dining room. The wall was back between them. The delicious meal his chef had prepared would taste like cardboard if he didn’t do something. “What do you usually do after dinner?” he asked.

  “I’m pretty boring. If I don’t have work to do, I read. Books are my addiction.”

  Finally, something they had in common. “In that case, I have a surprise for you.”

  “A good surprise?” Her eyebrows were raised, widening her chocolate pudding eyes.

  Warmth rushed through him. “The best.”

  Chapter 4

  Dinner went better than he’d hoped. He’d taken to eating in the kitchen with the staff since Jacques and Grand-Papa had left. He’d missed the ritual of getting dressed up and eating in the formal dining room—a room that held so many happy memories for him of catching up with his family at the end of a busy day.

  When not berating him for something she knew nothing about, Lexy was interesting and funny and unassuming—a refreshing change from the women he normally dined with. If they could maintain this détente, the next two months might not be too bad.

  She understood his world and could talk intelligently on a number of subjects, including the recent engine changes and the aerodynamic adjustments required to cope with the increase in horsepower. But when it came to discussing her own life and areas of interest, Lexy was surprisingly quiet. She hadn’t been to see any films in the past two years, and her last holiday had been to visit her mother. She’d led a life so far removed from the F1 world—how would she cope with the constant travel, media scrutiny, and endless rounds of parties and events at which he was expected to appear?

  She finished her second glass of wine, which she’d nursed all through dinner, declining when he offered to top it up.

  “I ate all my vegetables. Do I get my surprise now?” Lexy asked, a mischievous smile playing about her lips. There was something infectious about her lack of artifice. He was so used to plastic women who only wanted to be with him to claim some sort of prize in a celebrity scavenger hunt. They didn’t really want him; just to bed a driver.

  “Of course. Although I probably would have shown you even if you hadn’t eaten your vegetables.” He rose from his chair and waited for her at the end of the table.

  “You’re going to be an indulgent father, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t plan to have children. Drivers with families lose their edge. I won’t risk that. Plus, as you can testify, the F1 circuit isn’t the greatest place to bring up little ones.”

  A shadow crossed her eyes; someday he’d learn to think faster before he spoke. There was a limit to the number of times someone wanted to remember their turbulent past in one day.

  “Are you planning on staying in Formula 1 when you’re finished driving?” she asked.

  “I haven’t really given it much thought. I’ve still got at least ten years as a driver; I guess I’ll figure it out when I get closer to retirement.” He paused outside the door to the library. Would she be disappointed? Think this was a lame surprise?

  “This isn’t your bedroom, is it?” She eyed him warily but didn’t step away. Was she game? Standing close, her intoxicating scent drifting over him, lust was reasserting itself.

  “No. Although, if you prefer…” He inched closer to her, but still she didn’t back down. He could read the war going on in her. She was interested but not sure it was a good idea. That made two of them.

  He flung open the door and waited for her to step into the room. It featured floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and Daniel had convinced Jacques to have special airflow units installed to keep the books in the best condition possible. Some of them dated back to the eighteenth century. Those precious editions were housed behind glass at the back of the library.

  “Oh. My. God. This is spectacular.” Her eyes darted from shelf to shelf like a child in a candy store. It was exactly the response he’d hoped for.

  “When I was eight, I set the goal of reading every single book in this room.”

  “How’s that going?” She reached a hand out to touch a book but drew it back before she made contact.

  He pulled his favorite book off a shelf, a first edition of The Great Gatsby. “Not so well. I’m away too much. Plus I keep getting drawn back to my favorites.” Handing her the book, he strolled over to the next bookshelf. He had other fantasies centered in this room, ones developed after he’d hit puberty. Also as yet unfulfilled.

  “Which are your favorites?”

  He took her hand and led her over to the bookshelf next to the mantel. The original wood-burning fireplace had been exchanged for a gas one, and covered in glass to protect the books. Across from the fire he’d moved in an overstuffed, navy-blue sofa. More than one night he’d slept there, his book falling from his fingers onto the Persian carpet.

  He pointed at the ladder that slid on a metal bar around the room. “The third shelf from the top. Aside from Gatsby, I love the writings of Zola, Dumas, de Balzac, and Hugo. Many are first editions. Would you like to see?”

  “May I?” The reverence in her tone set off a flutter in his belly.

  “The thing with books is, if you don’t touch them and love them, they’re just a bunch of papers stuck together.”

  He couldn’t resist going up behind her on the ladder. After all, he wouldn’t want her to fall and injure herself. Yeah, right. When she attained the height of the shelf in question, he reached around her and pulled out a copy of The Three Musketeers. “I was gutted when Grand-Papa told me there were no more musketeers. Good thing he took me to my first F1 race, or I’d have been an unemployed swordsman, looking for a fight.”

  She chuckled and her delectable ass wriggled against his abdomen. The fluttery feeling in his stomach moved south, raising other desires. He inhaled deeply of her scent, and clutched the ladder so he didn’t fall. Dieu, she smelled good. Subtle flowers with a hint of heat. Was that what she was under all that reserve? A passionate tigress just waiting to be released? Now, wasn’t that a mental picture to keep a man from sleeping. Or concentrating when he needed to.

  “Good thing you didn’t read Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde,” she said, her voice breathless.

  He slipped on his playboy smile. “Have you read Madame Bovary? This copy is in French, but I think there’s an English one around here somewhere.” His hand brushed against the side of her breast as he reached to the shelf once more.

  “I’ve read it. In French.” She s
hifted against him again and he nearly lost his grip.

  Falling and breaking his arm was not how he wanted to end his race season. He retreated down the ladder; as she descended after him, his gaze fixed on her ass. It was so perfect he clenched his hands into fists to stop from reaching out.

  When she was finally back on the floor, she turned to him and shook her head. “I can’t get over the fact that the playboy racer loves to read.”

  Should he tell her? No, he needed the illusion for protection. It kept good women, like Lexy seemed to be, from getting too close. Bimbos who liked his man-whore reputation were no risk to his career.

  “I have to have something to do while recovering from all the women I sleep with.”

  Her eyes searched his and the lie burned in his throat. He looked away before she could discover the truth.

  “I don’t believe you,” she eventually said.

  “About reading or sleeping with lots of women?”

  “I’m not sure. One is a lie. I can see it in your eyes. You’re conflicted about something. And the man standing in front of me isn’t the same one I just had dinner with. Which is the real you, Daniel?”

  “As you don’t believe my words, maybe this will answer your question.” His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her body up to his. Her voluptuous breasts pressed against his chest, causing him to drag in a ragged breath. His other hand tilted her chin up before sliding into her hair. Her mouth opened; whether to protest or welcome he wasn’t sure. Either way he took advantage, as a playboy would, and kissed her.

  She tasted of the rich chocolate pudding they’d had for dessert and the red wine she’d sipped throughout dinner. Her lips were soft, full, and completely devoid of all the fillers and injections that made some women’s lips like kissing a bike tire. She was naturally, one-hundred-percent sexy.

  The kiss went on. If he tried to retreat, she’d press forward, and vice versa. Their hands explored, flitting all too briefly over areas that deserved to be savored. When his head swam because he forgot to breathe, he pulled back. Her face was flushed, her chest rose and fell rapidly, and the soft, dreamy look in her eyes almost made him go back for seconds. But he was already in danger of drowning in desire for her. If he wanted to make it through the next eight weeks and claim the championship, he had to keep his focus on driving and off the delectable woman in his arms.