quite close to the barrier and a little space had opened up. She slipped in and looked out across the track.
Nash had his back to her and was hunkering down to fit a helmet over the head of a young girl of about ten or so, with long dark hair. She had that po-faced look on her face Lorelei recognised from her young students when they were about to mount up for the first time.
He said something to her and she smiled, let him settle the helmet over her small dark head, and even from this distance Lorelei could see the care with which he buckled up the strap under her chin.
Something fluttered strangely in her chest, and she found herself unconsciously touching the back of her neck where he’d stroked it yesterday.
He straightened and put his hand lightly behind the child’s shoulders, ushering her towards the crew who were going to strap her in. Almost casually Nash glanced over his shoulder and their eyes met, locked.
Time seemed to slow down. The noise and jostling died away and Lorelei faced the undeniable truth that wild horses couldn’t have stopped her coming down here today. As she ate him up with her eyes he turned around, those wide shoulders thrown into relief by his arms hanging at his sides—a typical masculine pose.
Vaguely Lorelei was aware of cameras going off around her as people lifted their phones to frame what anyone with an eye could see was a great shot. A male athlete at the top of his game, with the racing car just over to the right and Nash filling the foreground with his presence. Bigger, stronger, more impressive than just about any other athlete on the world stage.
His eyes were on her.
Lorelei lifted her chin. Now she knew what Simone was talking about.
He was a legend.
She’d just been distracted by the man.
* * *
Nash saw the defiance in her fine-boned chin as it poked in the air and thought, No, you don’t, mate. That little number is off the menu.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. After the incident with Massena last night he’d figured he had her pretty much read. She was a beautiful, privileged woman used to being pursued by wealthy men. Cullinan’s tacky information had got her wrong. He’d been looking at the bottom of the survival chain when it came to women living by their wits. Lorelei St James was very definitely at the top.
He would have expected her to have moved on. Yet here she was, poised like a lily of the field behind the safety barrier, amidst a crowd of onlookers, looking as if she’d stepped out of Vogue.
In jeans.
But very expensive couture jeans, wrapped around a pair of impossibly long slender legs, lithe hips and a perfect peach of a derrière. She had a jaunty short blue scarf tied around her neck.
Despite the American accent he could hear underlying her voice she was every inch the Frenchwoman this afternoon. She’d dressed for a day at the marina, not a racetrack. This was probably as far inland as she’d ever been.
A golden girl in every sense of the word.
And she was gazing at him as if she expected him to stroll on over, swing her up into his arms and carry her off like the prize she was.
He couldn’t say it hadn’t crossed his mind.
She was so long and lovely, taller than most of the women standing around her, and possessing a fine-boned elegance that drew a man. Made him want to protect her, shelter her...do a great deal for her.
But he’d been down that road with this girl.
He’d spent yesterday mopping up her messes. Last night contributing to one of his own.
No more. Even if he had to take fifty cold showers, no more.
Let Massena or whoever take care of her.
He had some kids to run around the track, some photos to pose for and then he was taking off up the highway to his house in the Cap d’Ail for some well-deserved R’n’R before he flew out to Mauritius for meetings, then lockdown for training.
He was about to turn away when she raised her hand. It was just a little gesture, a half wave arrested by uncertainty, and
Nash had his back to her and was hunkering down to fit a helmet over the head of a young girl of about ten or so, with long dark hair. She had that po-faced look on her face Lorelei recognised from her young students when they were about to mount up for the first time.
He said something to her and she smiled, let him settle the helmet over her small dark head, and even from this distance Lorelei could see the care with which he buckled up the strap under her chin.
Something fluttered strangely in her chest, and she found herself unconsciously touching the back of her neck where he’d stroked it yesterday.
He straightened and put his hand lightly behind the child’s shoulders, ushering her towards the crew who were going to strap her in. Almost casually Nash glanced over his shoulder and their eyes met, locked.
Time seemed to slow down. The noise and jostling died away and Lorelei faced the undeniable truth that wild horses couldn’t have stopped her coming down here today. As she ate him up with her eyes he turned around, those wide shoulders thrown into relief by his arms hanging at his sides—a typical masculine pose.
Vaguely Lorelei was aware of cameras going off around her as people lifted their phones to frame what anyone with an eye could see was a great shot. A male athlete at the top of his game, with the racing car just over to the right and Nash filling the foreground with his presence. Bigger, stronger, more impressive than just about any other athlete on the world stage.
His eyes were on her.
Lorelei lifted her chin. Now she knew what Simone was talking about.
He was a legend.
She’d just been distracted by the man.
* * *
Nash saw the defiance in her fine-boned chin as it poked in the air and thought, No, you don’t, mate. That little number is off the menu.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. After the incident with Massena last night he’d figured he had her pretty much read. She was a beautiful, privileged woman used to being pursued by wealthy men. Cullinan’s tacky information had got her wrong. He’d been looking at the bottom of the survival chain when it came to women living by their wits. Lorelei St James was very definitely at the top.
He would have expected her to have moved on. Yet here she was, poised like a lily of the field behind the safety barrier, amidst a crowd of onlookers, looking as if she’d stepped out of Vogue.
In jeans.
But very expensive couture jeans, wrapped around a pair of impossibly long slender legs, lithe hips and a perfect peach of a derrière. She had a jaunty short blue scarf tied around her neck.
Despite the American accent he could hear underlying her voice she was every inch the Frenchwoman this afternoon. She’d dressed for a day at the marina, not a racetrack. This was probably as far inland as she’d ever been.
A golden girl in every sense of the word.
And she was gazing at him as if she expected him to stroll on over, swing her up into his arms and carry her off like the prize she was.
He couldn’t say it hadn’t crossed his mind.
She was so long and lovely, taller than most of the women standing around her, and possessing a fine-boned elegance that drew a man. Made him want to protect her, shelter her...do a great deal for her.
But he’d been down that road with this girl.
He’d spent yesterday mopping up her messes. Last night contributing to one of his own.
No more. Even if he had to take fifty cold showers, no more.
Let Massena or whoever take care of her.
He had some kids to run around the track, some photos to pose for and then he was taking off up the highway to his house in the Cap d’Ail for some well-deserved R’n’R before he flew out to Mauritius for meetings, then lockdown for training.
He was about to turn away when she raised her hand. It was just a little gesture, a half wave arrested by uncertainty, and
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