Lucy Ellis - Pride After Her Fall

Maybe tomorrow.

Unexpectedly the stranger’s comment that she expected the world to run on her timetable flashed to mind. But before she had time to dwell unhappily on the truth of that, and aware that her damn hands were shaking again, she keyed in her best friend Simone’s number and attached ear buds to enable her to drive and talk.

‘You had a car accident? Mon Dieu, Lorelei, are you all right?’

‘No, not an accident.’ She hesitated, knowing how lame it was going to sound. ‘I borrowed it for a theme party and parked it and left the handbrake off.’

There was a pause before Simone said with a suspicion of laughter in her voice, ‘You know I love you, Lorelei, but I would never let you drive my car.’

‘Then perhaps you should talk to the guy I dealt with—this big Australian. He seemed to think I was a disaster waiting to happen.’

‘Poor bébé. I’m sure you charmed him in the end.’

‘He was a little steamed about the car.’

‘I bet.’

‘I don’t think he liked me very much.’

Simone snorted. ‘Men always like you, Lorelei. You wouldn’t be so good at milking them of euros for that charity of yours if they didn’t.’

Lorelei acknowledged the truth of this with a little shrug. ‘I guess this one was the exception. He was different—I don’t know … capable. Manly. He looked over my car.’

‘And—?’

‘I think I liked him.’

Simone was silent. Testimony to the state of Lorelei’s romantic life.

‘I know. I must be crazy, right?’

‘Is he employed?’

‘Oh, honestly.’

‘The last one I heard about didn’t have a sou to his name.’

‘Rupert was an installation artist.’

‘Is that what he called it? I know you’re touchy about this, but for the life of me I can’t work out why you don’t date those guys you schmooze for your grandmother’s charity.’

Lorelei’s heart sank a little. The nature of her charity work meant she was often seen in social situations with powerful men, but she never dated them. Being the daughter of one of the most infamous gigolos on the Riviera had left her wary of men who could pay her bills. She gravitated towards a type: struggling artist—whether it be painter or musician or poet—often in need of propping up, usually with her money. And that was where everything came unstuck.

Well, she didn’t have that problem any more …

‘So no name, no number—?’

‘No hope,’ finished Lorelei, and their laughter mingled over the old joke. ‘I’m on my way as we speak to the Hotel de Paris.’

‘ Ooh, la la, tell me you’re going to use their wonderful spa!’

‘Not today. I’m being Antoinette St James’s granddaughter and fronting for the foundation.’

‘Your grandmaman’ s charity?’

‘ Oui. They’re doing a vintage car rally to raise funds for children with cancer. That’s why I had the Bugatti on loan for last night’s party. As an adjunct a racing driver here in Monaco has a private track a few miles inland, and he’s going to run the kids around it for the day.’

‘Which driver? Do you have a name?’

‘I don’t know. Let me see.’ Lorelei braked at a pedestrian crossing and fumbled with the shiny folder she’d picked up from the Aviary office yesterday. ‘Nash Blue. The name is vaguely familiar …’

The line went quiet.

‘Simone?’

‘I’m here. I’m just taking it in. Nash Blue. Cherie, how can you live in Monaco and not know anything about the Grand Prix?’

Lorelei rumpled her curls distractedly. ‘I’m not very sporty, Simone.’

‘You might want to keep quiet about that when you meet him.’ Simone sounded arch. ‘You didn’t do any research, did you?’

‘I haven’t had time. It was dumped on me yesterday.’

‘You do know Nash Blue is a racing legend?’

‘Really?’ Lorelei asked without interest, concentrating on weighting the folder down on the passenger seat with her handbag.

‘He’s a rock star of the racing world. He’s broken all sorts of records. He retired a few years ago at the height of his career and—listen to this, cherie —he was earning close to fifty million a year. And I’m not talking euros. He was one of the highest paid sportsmen in the world.’

Must be nice, Lorelei thought vaguely.

‘He gave up the track to design supercars—whatever they are. I think the consensus is he’s some kind of genius. But, putting that aside for a moment, he’s utterly gorgeous, Lorelei. I confess I’m a little envious.’

Unexpectedly Lorelei pictured a pair of intense blue eyes and wished she had this morning to do over again.

‘I’m sure I’ll do something to annoy him. I’m on a roll with that, Simone.’

‘He rarely gives interviews. The few times he has he’s been famously monosyllabic.’

Lorelei’s heart sank. So she was going to have to do all the talking?

‘But be en garde, cherie. He has a reputation with the ladies.’

‘Oh, please. If he doesn’t talk how does that even work?’

‘I don’t think much talking is involved.’

Lorelei rolled her eyes. ‘I think I’m quite safe, Simone. You forget—I grew up watching Raymond ply his trade. I have no illusions left.’

‘Not all men are rascals, cherie. ’

‘No, you married the one who wasn’t.’ It was said fondly. Lorelei found solace in Simone’s happy marriage, her family life. But it wasn’t something she ever envisaged for herself. Apart from Simone, her longest relationship had been with her twelve-year-old horses.

‘All I’m saying is Nash Blue was a bit of a player in his racing days, and given his profile I doubt anything has changed.’

‘ Oui, oui. I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘All the parties and famous people you meet—you are one lucky girl, cherie. ’ Simone sounded quite wistful.

‘I guess.’

And now she was lying to her best friend.

For a glancing moment Lorelei wanted to tell Simone about all the unreturned phone calls, the unopened emails …

But she couldn’t tell her. She was so ashamed she had let it get to this point.

The villa was a money pit she couldn’t afford to keep up, and the charity was an ongoing responsibility that took time away from paid work. Her father’s legal fees and creditors had basically stripped her of everything else.

She’d lost so much in the last two years, first Grandy to illness and then her faith in Raymond. Right now the only thing that felt certain in her world was the home she had grown up in, and she was holding on to it by the skin of her teeth.

‘Keep me updated, cherie. ’

‘Absolutement. Je t’aime.’

Lorelei was still thinking about the call as she turned into the Place du Casino and began thinking about where she was going to leave her car. She was running late, and thoughts of what awaited her at home were proving a distraction despite her best efforts to pretend to the contrary. Yet the sun was shining, which lifted her spirits, and she told herself she deserved to cut herself a little slack. Tomorrow she’d deal with all those intrusive emails. She might even front up at her solicitor’s office—although perhaps that was going overboard.

She stilled as she caught sight of a familiar red Veyron parked right outside the hotel entrance. Brakes squealing, she came to a standstill midtraffic. The adrenalin levels spiked in her body, but it wasn’t anything to do with thoughts of bills and creditors. Her heart pounded.

Behind her horns blared. She made a wide go-around-me gesture with her arm, scanning for a spot. She found one and cut across the flow of traffic, wincing at the blare of horns, but it was worth it to back up into the nice wide space. Perfect. All she needed now was to hand over the folder, smile at the racing-car driver and then she could go and find her stranger and apologise, offer to buy him a drink or two and hope her charm would do the trick.

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.