Pride After Her Fall

She reapplied her lipstick with a steady hand, unravelled the blue scarf she wore to protect her hair from the wind and stepped out onto the road.

This time a car horn gave an appreciative little beep as she sashayed across the Place du Casino towards the maharajah’s jewel box that was the hotel. That was more like it.

The day was looking up.

* * *

He was late.

Nash didn’t give it much thought. The publicist would wait. Cullinan would wait. Everyone waited. It was one of the few useful by-products of fame and perversely frustrating. Nash was only too aware of the contradiction. It would be interesting if for once he was stood up.

But another benefit was being able to help out where he could for a worthy cause, and a kids’ cancer charity was pretty high on that list.

That was why he had ridden down from the top floor in the middle of negotiations and now strolled across the lobby into Le Bar Américain. Five minutes of face-time and this charity rep would be keen to get going, given he’d held her up for...Nash glanced at his watch...thirty-five minutes.

He scanned the downlit warm ambience of the bar. John Cullinan was on a stool, leaning into both drink and cell as he cut some throats. He was the best in the business at what he did—as he should be, given what he was paid, Nash reflected. But you got what you paid for. Cullinan was worth every penny.

He killed the call the second he saw Nash. ‘She’s a no-show.’

Nash shrugged. It was of no importance, just a formality.

‘I’ll get onto the foundation—’

‘Just forward the details to the guys at the track and let me know a time and we’ll give the kids something to smile about.’

He was about to move off when he saw her. She had paused in the doorway to speak to the maître d’. Her head was slightly bent, exposing the lovely length of her neck and making those bare shoulders look impossibly seductive. He hadn’t stopped thinking about those delicately boned shoulders, the fine stemmed length of her throat ever since he’d left her up on the highway.

Nash found himself unable to look away.

Was she meeting someone here? For some reason the muscles tightened all through his body as he cast an inclusive once-over across the room, hunting down the guy. No one had moved towards her, although she had pulled a lot of attention, and he knew in that instant she was alone.

For the first time since he’d quit racing professionally Nash felt the same competitive tension he’d used to before a race.

She turned to look across the room, pushing back a rogue curl with that gesture he remembered, and her eyes met his.

Even at this distance he could see her bow lips tighten. She didn’t look happy to see him.

Irritation sparked as a dozen reasons why he should walk on by and forget about her waved themselves like red flags. Yet as every male head in the room turned as she headed his way he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

* * *

Lorelei found herself unable to look away.

He stood by the bar, stripped to a crisp white shirt stylishly taut along his torso and dark tailored trousers. His shoulders were impossibly broad, and he radiated confidence and money and power.

Lorelei removed her sunglasses and just stood there, trying to make the connection.

But even as she turned to the maître d’ and gave his name she knew what the answer would be.

A shiver ran through her. In this setting it was obvious he was the most powerful man in the room. He was certainly the most attractive, and the chasm between mechanic and the man standing before her was immense. It couldn’t be leapt.

She’d been had.

Lorelei stiffened as his gaze landed on her.

She’d also been seen.

His eyes locked onto her and for a moment he looked as poleaxed as she felt. Then he frowned.

She straightened, determined that not by an inflection in her voice or the blink of an eyelash should he see how angry she was—although she wasn’t quite sure with who, nor how foolish she felt. She headed over.

Men were looking at her. Men always looked at her. She was tall and blonde and for some guys she was a prize. What they didn’t know was that she wasn’t available to be won.

She did the prize-keeping and the awarding.

‘Mr Blue, I presume?’ She offered her hand unsmilingly.