Kept at the Argentine's Command

Flustered, she made a production of sitting down on the rug and surveying their dinner. It was stew and dumplings. The kind of food she would have been careful around if she hadn’t been on a break.

‘What’s that?’ she asked rather desperately as he uncorked the bottle.

‘It’s one of the bottles of burgundy I brought over for Khaled and Gigi. They won’t miss one.’

Lulu held out her hand and examined the old faded label. ‘1945?’ she said.

‘It was produced at the end of World War II—I sourced a handful of bottles through Christie’s.’

‘You bought wine at an auction?’

‘Why not?’

‘Wasn’t it a little expensive?’

He angled a speculative look her way that set all the hormones in her body aquiver. ‘Just a little.’

‘This feels so wasteful,’ Lulu half whispered as she watched him expertly decant the blood-dark wine into goblets. ‘I’m sure Mrs Bailey’s stew isn’t up to the standards of a forty-five burgundy.’

‘Good wine improves everything,’ he told her, and she knew he wasn’t talking about the wine.

She found herself checking to see that none of her buttons had come undone.

Non, all accounted for. To settle her nerves Lulu concentrated on sipping her wine. It slid down like heaven, and she gave a soft sigh of approval and looked over at him—only to discover he hadn’t touched his. He was watching her, and she was instantly back in the car with him, his hand at the back of her head, his mouth making all kinds of magic with hers, leaving her breathless and flustered all over again.

‘So,’ he said with intent, ‘from ballerina to topless showgirl. How did you get there?’

*

Lulu glared at him. Sprawled against the post at the end of the bed, long powerful legs stretched out across the rug, bare feet idling in the firelight, he looked like every fantasy any woman could ever have. And he knew it.

Not hers, though. She wanted Gregory Peck. She wanted someone decent and reliable who would always give up his bed to a lady and would not expect her to share it—and he certainly wouldn’t make assumptions about her profession.

Although she guessed half the dancers at L’Oiseau Bleu were topless—nude—there wasn’t anything wrong with that; it was artistic. There was a whole heritage behind it. But Alejandro probably didn’t care much about the history of things. He just liked naked women.

Which shouldn’t have her gaze lingering just a little too long on the wide, sensual line of his mouth. That dark shadow was already making itself known around it and along his jaw, hinting at a heavy beard. She wondered if it would scratch a little if he kissed her again…

Lulu fanned herself. ‘The fire is very warm.’

‘You’ll be glad of it later tonight, when the temperature plummets,’ he commented.

She glanced at the bed and then met his eyes. She waited for him to volunteer to take the chair. He didn’t.

Tightening her lips, she reached for her glass of wine.

‘So, from completely rude man to professional polo player. How did that happen?’

He didn’t even flinch. ‘I was put on a horse when I was four years old and my father handed me a mallet, I didn’t have much choice.’

Against her will, Lulu’s sympathies were stirred. She tried to picture him at four. She failed. He was so big and testosterone-fuelled it was hard to imagine him small and vulnerable.

‘Even if I hadn’t been, my family has bred horses in Argentina for many generations and the sport is popular in my country. It’s in the blood.’

‘So you inherited everything?’ she said, still annoyed about the bed.

If he behaved like a gentleman she might—might—consider sharing it with him. Platonically.

Although Alejandro du Crozier did not strike her as the platonic type.