can be fixed. It’s only tipped into some roses bushes after all—a little scratched paint at most.’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Nothing to get all worked up about.’
Was it his heated imagination or in that moment did she drop her gaze infinitesimally below his belt?
He could hear one of his people speaking on the other end of the phone. He lifted it momentarily and said, ‘Give us a minute, mate.’
‘Have you changed your mind?’ She paused deliberately—it could only be deliberate with this woman. ‘About the car?’
‘Nothing’s changed, sweetheart, except your fine day.’
He watched the confidence dip slightly out of her body, and oddly it didn’t give him the satisfaction he would have anticipated.
‘Expect a bill.’
She notched up her chin. ‘Can I expect anything else?’
‘Yeah—a lecture from your old man about why messing around with another guy’s wheels can get you into all sorts of trouble.’
For a moment she looked at him as if she was going to say something about that, and for some reason he found he was hanging on her answer.
Instead she pushed back her tousled hair, gave him a distracted smile, as if she knew something he didn’t, and headed back the way she’d come.
He wouldn’t have been a red-blooded man if his gaze hadn’t moved inexorably to what he had noticed before: a very shapely behind. It was like a perfect peach, all high and perky under the clinging silk of whatever it was she was wearing—or not wearing.
Vaguely he became aware that the old Italian bloke was glaring at him, and he dragged his eyes off the view.
‘The car is not so damaged you need to frighten her,’ grumbled the older man, ‘and you can keep your eyes to yourself. Miss St James is a nice woman. She does not ask for all this trouble.’
Nash could hear the disembodied voice coming from his cell, but he was slightly bemused by the lecture being delivered to him in hot, angry Italian. Who was this guy? Her father?
‘I know your type, with the flashy car. You want to find some loose woman, you go into town.’
Loose woman? What was this? 1955?
‘No, mate, I just want the car. Fixed.’
He was tempted to gun the Veyron and leave the Bugatti to its fate. But it went against the few principles he had left. The old girl was a treasure, and she deserved to be treated like the lady she was.
He settled the pick-up details and was strolling over to the Veyron when he was distracted by the very distinctive sound of high heels hitting flagstones.
‘Miss St James’ had re-emerged in silky white pants, which were swishing around her long legs, some sort of floaty, shimmery silky green top, which barely skimmed the tops of her arms and left her shoulders bare, and she’d applied bright crimson lipstick to that smart mouth of hers. Although her eyes were impenetrable behind those ridiculously large sunglasses she had a faint smile on her lips as she headed over to a boat of a convertible parked by the garden wall. He watched her climb in.
He was done here. He still wanted the car, and he wanted it fixed. But first he’d deal with the thorny question of why the Bugatti was nose-down in a bunch of roses.
‘Hold it, sweetheart.’
She paused from rummaging in her bag, pointed chin angled over her shoulder, shades lowered, eyes assessing. ‘Is there something else?’ she enquired civilly.
Yeah, too civil.
He knew how to get his point across—how to use leashed aggression as a weapon in the male-dominated industry in which he’d shouldered his way up to the top.
He was somewhat stymied by the fact that as he approached the car she smiled, and her whole face softened, became sensuously lovely, almost expectant.
‘Before you rip out of here,’ he drawled, leaning in, ‘just a word of advice.’
‘Advice?’
‘Lawyer up.’
Her smile flickered and faded. But before he could read her expression she pushed the shades abruptly up her face.
‘As much as I like being tumbled out of bed by a handsome man and lectured to,’ she shot out rapidly, her words scrambling over one another, ‘I do have an appointment and this is all getting rather complicated.’ She gave him a haughty look. ‘If there is any damage to the car, add it to the bill, why don’t you?’ She zipped up her bag and muttered something about it being just one more thing to add to the list.
She wasn’t stupid, Nash thought, looking down at all those bright pretty curls, but her sense of self-preservation was clearly running on zero. Didn’t she realise if she was a man he would have hauled her out of that car and done what was necessary?
Maybe she did. Maybe she was relying on her woman status to keep her out of harm’s way.
He reached in and palmed her keys.
‘Hey!’
He levelled her with a look and had the satisfaction of seeing her back up in her seat.
‘Yeah, about that. The world doesn’t run on your timetable, princess.’
Her expression was hidden behind those shades, but the pulse at the base of her slender throat was pounding and the old bloke’s accusation about her being a nice woman and him frightening her returned full strength.
He dropped the keys into her lap.
‘Just as a matter of interest—mine, not yours, doll—how did the car end up in the garden?’
She fumbled to start her engine and he frowned. He wanted her to understand the consequences of her carelessness, but he didn’t bully women.
She started up the engine, not looking at him.
‘I think that would be when I left the handbrake off,’ she responded, and without another word reversed fast in a cloud of dust.
Douleur bonne, what did she think she was doing?
Lorelei held on tight to the wheel as she tore up the drive, her heart pounding out of her chest. She just had to get away before the handsome stranger wrecked everything.
Alors, she could have just offered up a standard apology and volunteered to pay for all repairs. A more prudent woman would have done just that. But prudence wasn’t her forte lately …
She just wanted today to be a nice day.
One more day.
Was it too much to ask?
She licked her dry lips, dragged her bag over as she drove, fumbled for her lipstick.
Don’t
