Exotic Nights

Man, she was an idiot. But relief trickled through her all the same. She had real affection for the car she’d had for years and had painted herself.

She took a deep breath. She could fake it, right? At least try to get through the next two minutes with a scrap of dignity? She got out of the car.

‘Problem?’

Did he have to be so smooth? So calm, so damn well in control? Didn’t he do dumb things on occasion?

‘I forgot something,’ she answered briefly. Now she remembered the warning light had been on—when was that? Yesterday? The day before? But it had gone off. She’d thought it was OK, that it had been a warning and then changed its mind. She mentally gave herself a clunk in the head—as if it had found some more petrol in its back pocket?

Clearly not. It had completely run out of juice. And the nearest garage was … Where was it exactly? The only one she could think of was the one near her flat—the one she should have filled up at this morning, had she had the funds.

‘What?’ he asked—dry, almost bored-sounding.

But she was extremely conscious that he hadn’t taken his eyes off her. And she was doing everything not to have to look into them, because they were that brilliant blue and she knew how well they could mesmerise her.

She tugged her top up again. ‘Petrol.’

‘Oh.’ He looked away from her then, seeming to take an age looking at the other cars. She realised he was barely holding in his amusement. Finally he spoke. ‘The nearest service station is just—’

‘Uh, no, thanks,’ she interrupted. ‘I’ll go home first.’

There was no way she was having him beside her when she put five dollars into a jerry can so she could cough and splutter the car home and leave it there until her cheque cleared. After this final splurge it was going to be a tin of baked beans and stale bread for a couple of days. No bad thing given the way she was spilling out the top of the fairy frock.

‘How far away is home?’

‘Not far.’ A twenty-minute walk. Make that thirty in her sequined, patent leather slippers.

There was a silence. She felt his gaze rake her from head to toes—lingering around the middle before settling back up on her face. Heat filled her and she just knew he was enjoying watching her blush deepen. She stared fixedly at the seam on the neckline of his tee shirt and refused to think of anything but how much she was going to appreciate her ice cream when she got the chance.

And then he asked, ‘Can I give you a ride?’ Mockery twisted his lips, coloured the question and vexed her all the more.

Get a ride with him? Oh, no. She’d already had one ride of sorts and that was plenty, right? She could cope with

this just fine on her own.

She’d call the breakdown service. But then she remembered it was her father’s account and she refused to lean on him again. Independence was her new mantra. They wouldn’t take her seriously until she got herself sorted. Until she proved she was completely capable of succeeding alone. She frowned; she’d have to walk.

‘You trusted me enough to sleep with me, I think you can trust me to run you home safely.’

She looked straight at him then, taken by his soft words. With unwavering intensity, he regarded her. She’d known she’d be stunned if she looked into his eyes—brilliant, blue and beautiful. Good grief, he was gorgeous. So gorgeous and all she could think about was how great he’d felt up close and every cell suddenly yearned for the impact.

Her own eyes widened as she read his deepening expression—was there actually a touch of chagrin there? Why?

‘Thanks.’ It was a whisper. It wasn’t what she’d meant to say at all.

His car sat low to the ground, gleaming black and ultra expensive. The little badge on the bonnet told her that with its yellow background and rearing black horse. He unlocked it, opened the door. She started as the door and seemingly half the roof swung up into the air.

She sent a sarcastic look in his direction. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘No, Bella, that’s ridiculous,’ he said, pointing back to her Bambini.

She bent low and managed to slide in without popping right out of her top. The interior was polished and smooth and impeccably tidy and also surprisingly spartan. She tried to convince herself the seat wasn’t that much more comfortable than the one in her own old banger. But it was—sleek and moulding to her body.

Owen took the driver’s seat, started the engine—a low growl. ‘He’s called Enzo.’

‘I’d have thought it would be more plush.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s the closest thing to a Formula One racing car you can drive on conventional streets.’