‘We’ve got a lot in common.’ He settled back, angled in his chair, all shoulders and lean, muscular grace. ‘I like to compete. You’re a serious trophy.’
‘Pardon me?’
He gave her a lazy once over she should have found insulting after the ‘trophy’ description, instead she felt it like a direct hit to her sleeping libido.
‘You’re smart and seriously sexy and I haven’t been bored since I sat down with you. Like I said, you’re a serious trophy.’
Lorelei inhaled sharply.
She knew it, this was how some men saw an attractive woman, she had just never met a man who had the nerve to say it to her in so many words.
‘Nash, a trophy is an inanimate object you sit on a shelf.’
‘A trophy can be anything you want to win,’ he countered, sitting forward and Lorelei had to remind herself not to edge back. He emanated thumping male entitlement. ‘I don’t get in the race, Lorelei, unless I’m confident of the outcome.’
For a breathless moment she considered asking him exactly how confident he was of her? But deep down she feared the answer.
‘How am I doing so far?’
Lorelei paused long enough to take another sip of her drink.
‘Oh, I think you’re in the race.’
About the Author
LUCY ELLIS has four loves in life: books, expensive lingerie, vintage films and big, gorgeous men who have to duck going through doorways. Weaving aspects of them into her fiction is the best part of being a romance writer. Lucy lives in a small cottage in the foothills outside Melbourne.
Recent titles by the same author:
THE MAN SHE SHOULDN’T CRAVE
UNTOUCHED BY HIS DIAMONDS
INNOCENT IN THE IVORY TOWER
Did you know this title is also available as an eBook?
Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Pride After Her Fall
Lucy Ellis
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For Bridie
CHAPTER ONE
NASH as a rule didn’t court publicity, so meeting with a publicist went against the grain. But this was for a charity event and he couldn’t very well say no.
‘I’ll meet her at the American Bar in the Hotel de Paris.’
He checked his watch as he approached his low slung Bugatti Veyron.
‘I’ll be with Demarche until one. I can give her a couple of minutes in the bar. I’ll try to make it, but she may have to cool her heels.’
It was one of the few perks of fame. People would wait. He hooked the door of the Veyron and idled for a moment, looking out over the calm Mediterranean water.
Cullinan was talking about seating.
‘No, mate, don’t book a table. This is a five-minute job. Nobody will be sitting down.’
Blue’s management team was headed up by John Cullinan, a savvy Irishman Nash had used in his early racing career when he was thrust onto the world stage. John had protected him from the worst of the media for over a decade and he trusted him to deal fairly with the public and handle the professionals.
He’d need him in the coming weeks. There was already intense speculation about his future. He hadn’t said a word during the running of the Grand Prix here in Monaco in May, but somehow just his presence trackside with current Eagle heavyweight Antonio Abruzzi had sent the media into a frenzy. Not that it took much. Meat in the water and the piranhas swarmed. That was why this meeting with the construction firm Eagle was taking place in the privacy of a hotel room and security barracudas on both sides had elaborate lock-down procedures in place.
He ended the call and jumped into the Veyron, keen to get out of town.
The flip of a wrist and he had the engine purring. His deep-set blue-grey eyes, which one female sports commentator had called ‘lethal blue’ as if they not only needed colour coding but branding, assessed the traffic and he pulled away from outside the corporate offices of the business that had been his heart and soul for five years.
He had just tied up a deal with Swiss-based car manufacturer Avedon to produce Blue 22, and whilst every vehicle design was a rush this was the car he’d first conceptualised back in his racing days, when nobody would have taken him seriously if he’d spilled his guts on his future plans.
Fortunately he’d never been overly chatty. Being raised by a mean drunk who’d seen a kid’s prattle as an excuse to deal out backhanders had bred in him the habit of silence. To the public he was notoriously impenetrable. ‘Self-contained,’ one journalist reported. ‘A cold sonafabitch,’ countered a disenchanted former lover.
But, however else he was perceived, the world took him seriously nowadays even when they weren’t intrusively curious. At thirty-four, he’d survived as a professional in one of the most dangerous sports in the world for almost a decade before retiring in a blaze of glory—and unlike so many sports pros he’d parlayed his expertise and a passionate love of design into a second career.
An extremely successful second career.
One that overshadowed whatever fame he’d had as a driver—which had been his intention. He could command any price for his work and right now he was in demand—at the top of an elite field of specialists.
Yet he was restless, there was no denying that, and several times in the last year he’d caught himself asking the fateful question: What next?
But
