glass between them, and with a resigned shrug of her shoulders she touched the handle of the door. It was unlocked, and feeling distinctly like a criminal, Rachel swung it open.
The man did not stir, but in the illumination cast by the courtesy light, she was able to examine him more closely. He was, she surmised, in his late twenties or early thirties, with straight wheat-coloured hair that looked silver at present, and unusually dark skin. She guessed that either he was not English or he spent much of his life out of doors to account for his dark colouring, but as he was lying face-down on the steering wheel, it wasn't easy to make an accurate assessment. The watch on his wrist was made by Cartier, and his jacket, like the car and the gold bracelet on his other wrist, bore the imprint of wealth and influence. Other than that, she had no clues to his identity, and once again her eyes swept the Square searching for assistance.
But there was still no one else within calling distance, and bending down she put a tentative hand on his sleeve. As she drew nearer, she could smell the unmistakable tang of leather and good tobacco that drifted from inside the car—that, and something else, something Rachel was slow to identify, but which became evident when she shook his sleeve. A bottle rolled from his lap on to the floor of the car, and although she automatically bent to retrieve it, she guessed before she lifted it what it was.
Gin! she murmured to herself, staring at the bottle, which was almost empty. That the man might be blind drunk had seemed such an uncharitable conclusion, but now she gripped the bottle impatiently, strongly tempted to bring it down upon the unconscious man's head. He must be crazy, she thought scornfully, shaking her head. If a policeman strolled across Kimbel Square and observed him, he could face a criminal conviction. Being drunk in charge of a car was not consequent upon one actually driving the vehicle, and these days such offences were given the maximum penalty.
With a helpless shrug, she bent and pushed the empty bottle behind the front seat. It was nothing to do with her if he chose to invite prosecution, she told herself. But as she straightened, the man stirred and groaned, and her initial intention to close the door again was hindered when he slumped sideways towards her.
‘Oh, lord!'
His weight almost threw her off her feet, and she had to grasp the roof of the car to save herself and him. Luckily, she was quite a strong girl and she was able to use her knees to propel him back into his seat, but the rocking motion had aroused him and when she attempted to draw away, his hand fastened tenaciously about her wrist.
‘Bon sang!' he swore, in a muffled voice, confirming her opinion that he might not be English. ‘Qu'est-ce que vous ětes en train de faire?'
Trying rather unsuccessfully to pull her wrist away, Rachel realised belatedly that her efforts could be misconstrued. It was possible that he might think she had been trying to rob him, and she was glad she had interpreted the situation before trying to unfasten his tie or loosen his collar.
‘I was trying to stop you from falling out of the car,’ she declared now, albeit a little unsteadily as he lifted his head and looked at her. ‘I'm sorry—I thought you were ill. It serves me right for being so inquisitive.'
‘Ill?’ he echoed, speaking good English now, though with a slight accent overlaying his drawling tone. ‘How was I ill?’ His eyes grew sardonic. ‘Do you often open the doors of strangers’ cars?'
‘Of course not.’ Rachel shifted rather uncomfortably beneath his appraising gaze. ‘You were slumped over the wheel. I was—concerned.'
‘The good Samaritan!'
‘If you like.’ Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Now, will you let me go? It's late, and one of us has to work tomorrow.'
The man hesitated a moment and then, with a faint grimace, he let her hand free, flexing his shoulders against the back of his seat as if his unconventional repose had left him feeling rather stiff. Rachel didn't wait to find out. With an unwelcome sense of anticlimax, she started towards her car, only to halt uncertainly when the man's voice arrested her.
‘Wait!'
He had extricated himself from behind the wheel now, and was standing on the pavement, supporting himself with the roof of the sports car. He was taller than average, Rachel saw, and leaner than she had thought, judging from the width of his shoulders. He was attractive, too, his lean dark features contrasting effectively with his pale hair, and Rachel guessed she wasn't the first woman to think so. Hooded eyes, which could be any shade from grey to blue to hazel, acknowledged her hesitation, and the thin lips below the narrow cheekbones twisted mockingly.
‘What is your name?’ he asked, arching one dark brow. ‘I should know the name of my saviour. Without your intervention, I might have slept much longer, and to be found in that position could have been embarrassing.'
‘Slept?' Rachel's mouth compressed. ‘You weren't asleep! You were out—cold! You're lucky it was me and not a policeman who brought you back to consciousness.'
‘You think that?’ He left the car to walk towards her, moving easily, if slightly unsteadily. ‘You think I was—drunk, hmm? Isn't that what you mean by—out cold?'
Rachel glanced behind her. Her car was still some yards away along the pavement, and she instinctively measured the distance should she have to make a run for it.
Drawing the suede holdall hanging from her shoulder in front of her, Rachel wrapped her arms about it as she replied: ‘I found the bottle. On your knee?’ she prompted, with a mock sweet smile. ‘I'm sorry, but I don't buy that story about feeling sleepy and putting your head down.'
The man pushed his hands into his trouser pockets as he halted in front of her. ‘You didn't tell me your name,’ he reminded her tolerantly. ‘Let me guess—it's Pandora, isn't it?'
‘It's Fleming,’ she retorted, annoyed that he had not attempted to argue with her. ‘Rachel Fleming. Goodnight.'
‘One moment ...’ Once again he detained her, and she turned to look at him more coolly than she felt, irritatingly aware that her pulse rate had quickened. ‘I would like to explain.'
‘It's not necessary——'
‘I think it is.’ He inclined his head back to where the door of his car still gaped open. ‘I was not unconscious, as you seem to think. The bottle was not mine. I—took it from someone else.'
‘Oh, really?'
‘Yes, really.’ He shrugged. ‘You will have noticed that it was uncapped. I intended to pour it away, but I was tired and I must have got into the car and flaked out.'
Rachel gasped. ‘You mean you're saying you hadn't been drinking?’ she exclaimed disbelievingly.
‘No.’ He lifted his shoulder. ‘On the plane I drank a good deal of wine, I think.'
‘On the plane?'
‘From New York,’ he explained levelly. ‘That was why I was so tired, I guess. It is more than twenty-four hours since I saw a bed.'
Rachel sighed, tempted to point out that the journey from New York took a lot less than twenty-four hours. But to do so would imply that she required further explanation, and in all honesty he had had no need to explain anything to her.
‘Well——’ she said now, forcing a polite smile, ‘it seems I made a mistake. I'm sorry. I'll be
