Kept at the Argentine's Command

‘Try not to drip on the upholstery,’ he shot at her as she lodged her furled umbrella at her feet.

Distinctly queasy with the added tension, Lulu looked around in desperation. Where did he expect her to put it?

‘Here.’ He took it from her hand and laid it on the coat he’d tossed on the back seat.

Alejandro then turned back to discover that instead of buckling herself in she had shoved the door open further, so that the rain had begun to slant in.

His temper snapped. ‘Close that damn door!’

She looked for a moment as if she was going to jump right out of the car.

And then she leaned forward and began to dry retch miserably into the gutter.

He wrenched open his door and cut around the car to find her bent double.

He hunkered down. The face she lifted was bone-white. This she couldn’t fake. She clearly wasn’t well, and he suspected he’d got some things wrong. He produced a handkerchief to blot her mouth and soak up the tears that were sliding down her cheeks.

If she’d been hoping for some sympathy it was effective. The big glistening eyes, the silent tears, how fragile she suddenly looked beneath her showy outfit—as if she was trying to shrink into invisibility within it…

He put his hands around her shoulders to help her back into the car and out of the rain, but her response took him off guard. Her arms shot out and she instantly had them wrapped around his neck as tenaciously as a strangling vine.

He was enveloped in the scent of her, and he wondered for a second if this was her clumsy attempt at a pass. Only the feel of her rapid heartbeat told him she was scared. It was like holding a small nervous bird to his chest—as if what she was feeling was too big for her slight body. And yet what had she to be scared of?

She was overwrought—that was all, he told himself, and possibly a little the worse for wear from her in-flight tippling.

A better question was how had he come to be the only man in Scotland who was saddled with the job of delivering a vodka-wilted bridesmaid to their shared destination?

It had to be vodka, because he couldn’t smell any alcohol on her. All he smelt were those cottage violets—and something warmer and real that was just her.

He tentatively rubbed her back, as he would one of the young kids on the estancia who had taken a fall from a horse and had the wind knocked out of them, and tried to ignore the fact that she was an incredibly appealing full-grown female with her breasts pushed up against his chest.

‘I don’t think I’ll be sick again,’ she confided miserably.

She hadn’t actually done anything other than spit up a little bile, but he didn’t doubt her suffering. She looked more miserable than a human being should.

‘Please don’t tell anybody about this,’ she said in a muffled voice against his neck.

It was a strange request, but she was obviously serious about it.

He cleared his throat. ‘Come on, let’s strap you in. Are you all right to travel?’

She nodded, allowing him to help her.

He went around to the boot to grab a bottle of water from the chiller. He yanked the screw lid off for her and when he offered it to her she took a few grateful sips.

‘Okay now?’ he asked gruffly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said huskily, swallowing deeply and refusing to meet his eyes. ‘It won’t happen again.’

He drove the keys into the ignition.

‘Do you want to stop for coffee? Get something in your stomach?’

She shuddered. ‘I can’t think of anything worse.’

‘It might sober you up.’

Her eyes flashed his way in confusion. ‘I am sober.’