Pride After Her Fall

‘Make it half an hour,’ she insisted, pulling down the zipper on her dress. The last thing she wanted to do was sit around on her own.

She ended the call and let the dusky pink romantic confection she had chosen so carefully to wear tonight drop to her feet. She stepped out of it, leaving it puddled on the floor as she headed to the wardrobe. She’d put on something short and funky and guaranteed to get her all the male attention she could handle.

She tugged down a little gold party dress from its hanger. She’d go out, gossip, dance, amuse herself. Forget this had ever happened.

But she’d hold on to the fact he’d spoken so flatly, unemotionally, allowing nothing to alleviate his message: I’ve changed my mind. You’ve got nothing I want.

Turning around, she caught her reflection in the mirror—a tall, slender girl in an ivory slip and a simple string of pearls, who had dressed tonight with a particular man in mind. Her make-up understated, her hair smoothed carefully back into a deceptively simple knot.

The woman she actually was.

Unexpectedly a surge of sadness welled up from some place deep inside her. Was she never going to be allowed to be herself?

Lorelei inhaled sharply, ruthlessly dragging it all back in.

Irritated with her thoughts, and herself, she peeled off the slip and began the process of dressing as the woman she needed to be.

* * *

Santo’s Bar was noisy, but it had shadowy corners where a couple of famous faces and the two founders of one of motor racing’s more famous constructors could blend into the dark maroon leather and oak décor.

Nash sat on a light beer. He’d been off the hard stuff for almost four years. He didn’t miss it, but every now and then a glass of single malt would have hit the spot. This was one of those nights.

He should be enjoying the company. It was all-male, and if they were a little loud and raucous, so was the bar. Antonio Abruzzi, Eagle’s current star driver, was telling a story that had veered from off-colour to frankly pornographic. Nash had half an ear to it, but his attention kept wandering. He noticed a woman across from their table, winding a lock of dark hair idly around her finger as she talked, and instantly he was inhaling honey again, and flowers, and seeing the sun glinting off the sapphire-blue Sunbeam as Lorelei St James leaned back against it and smiled up at him with all the confidence of a very beautiful woman to whom a man had never said no.

Why in the hell had he said no?

He picked up his light beer and smiled grimly. He knew why. He was a goddamned expert on giving up what he liked for the sake of the bottom line.

It was just he was having trouble remembering what the particular bottom line was in this scenario. He’d swapped an evening with a blonde goddess for Abruzzi’s stories and the watchful appraisal of the Eagle team who had signed him.

He stood up.

‘Nash, man, where are you going?’

‘Previous appointment.’

He shook hands with the Eagle guys, embraced Abruzzi and shouldered his way out of there.

He was going out as she was coming in.

Impossibly tall in vertiginous heels, she dwarfed the guy she was with—a thickset, strong-profiled Italian Nash recognised as the financier Damiano Massena. They’d crossed paths several times in both business and leisure.

Massena was dressed in a long black coat, suitable for the cooler evenings, and Lorelei was a living flame in a gold dress. In the overhead neon lights it was difficult to tell where the fabric ended and her long, lithe limbs took over. She looked every inch the trophy, and Nash found he’d ground to a halt. His gut clenched. Because Massena had her and he didn’t, he reasoned brutally.

She brushed past him, didn’t look up, but he saw she had made dark pools of her eyes and a glossy invitation of her mouth. She looked like sin. She looked like every good reason he didn’t want to get involved with her.

And most of the reasons he did.

But he was noticing other things, too. The evening was cool and there was a visible quiver to her bare limbs.

Why in the hell hadn’t Massena given her his coat?

He inclined his head slightly and her gaze moved fleetingly against his. Massena said something to her, gave Nash an amused, man-to-man look, and ushered her forward.

The aggression rushed up from nowhere and he brought his hand down on Massena’s shoulder. The older man turned around in surprise, his expression hardening as he read Nash’s expression.