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‘No, probably not—they were too busy thinking what a pain in the arse you were to fly with.’
Her chin wobbled. ‘Do you get something out of insulting me?’
‘Sí, it takes the edge off.’
She stared at him. He’d silenced her. Good. The truth was she still looked very pale, and he didn’t want to argue with her any more.
‘If you must know,’ she said, clearly unable or unwilling to let this go, ‘I had some analgesics on the plane on an empty stomach and they disagreed with me. They’re to blame.’
Alejandro was ready to dismiss this out of hand, only then he remembered the medication he’d seen delivered to her.
‘Well, that was stupid,’ he said.
He ignored the wounded look on her face. She could save it. He’d been manipulated by women who made this one look like a rank amateur. Besides, he wasn’t playing Sir Galahad to her fair maiden. Been there, done that—had the divorce papers to prove it. The problem was she was already getting to him.
He swung the car out into the traffic. ‘Almost as stupid as not giving up your seat on the flight,’ he reiterated.
Lulu realised she was cornered. How on earth did she answer that?
‘It’s not your business,’ she muttered, looking away.
There was no way she could tell him that whatever had been in her stomach had ended up in the plane toilet, because that was going to lead to more questions.
Questions with answers that had nothing whatsoever to do with him.
It was her private business. Her mother had drummed that into her years ago.
‘If you weren’t drunk there’s nowhere to hide, querida. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. But you behaved like a spoilt brat. Forgive me if I choose to treat you like one.’
Lulu wanted to die of shame.
‘You’re an awful man,’ she muttered, ‘I hope we have nothing to do with each other this weekend at the castle.’
‘Sweetheart, you took the words out of my mouth.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_34d46bce-99f1-54d8-a3c0-306fdbcfa164)
THEY STOPPED TO fuel up the car after a couple of hours on the road. Lulu wound down her window and saw a newspaper headline behind the glass of the service station window: Celebrity Wedding. Oligarch Brings in Private Army of Security.
It was a little daunting to realise she was heading into all that.
The other daunting reality was striding back towards the car. His superbly fit and powerful frame was gloved in an understated but clearly expensive set of dark trousers and a navy shirt. Like a man who went on secret missions with the armed forces and climbed walls without ropes, just using his weapon of a body as all the equipment he required.
Lulu looked away.
Ah, oui, this was her new little problem. She had discovered now she felt physically better that she was responding to that Latin machismo thing some women went a little silly over. She might not have a boyfriend as such, but she did have hormones.
She really needed to make a big effort to curb her imagination.
People were looking his way as he approached the car. So maybe she wasn’t the only one. She had to admit he had the impervious aura of confidence that belonged to someone for whom the small stuff of life was taken care of. She imagined Alejandro du Crozier rarely fuelled up his own car, although he’d taken care of it easily enough.
She had watched him do it through the side mirror—watched him sticking the petrol gun into the tank. There was something about a man’s broad forearm, a chunk of watch, a powerful wrist and a strong hand gripping the nozzle that put all sorts of erotic images into a woman’s head.
Admittedly they were images mostly gleaned from books she’d read. Her personal notebook of erotic experiences was fairly limited.
Alejandro tossed a wrapped sandwich onto her lap as he eased in beside her and turned the engine over.
‘Ham salad. It’s not much, but it should tide you over until we reach Dunlosie.’
Lulu wondered if this was him thawing towards her. Whatever it was, it was a thoughtful gesture. ‘Thank you,’ she said uncertainly, and busied herself with unwrapping her sandwich.
She could feel his eyes on her.
‘Would you like half?’ she offered.
Alejandro had bought the sandwich with an eye to her turning up her pert little nose at plastic-wrapped food. His preconceptions took a solid hit.
‘I had a king’s breakfast,’ he said shortly. ‘Eat up.’
Lulu gave an internal sigh. So much for the thaw.
Half an hour up the road, Alejandro flipped his phone onto speaker.
A male voice began to speak in Spanish, and Alejandro replied in the same language.
Lulu found herself transfixed by the deep, mellifluous quality of his voice as he spoke his own language. Then a Scot’s voice came on the line.
‘We’re pleased to have you here in Edinburgh, Mr du Crozier. Congratulations on captaining South America to that win in Palermo. It warms a Scotsman’s heart to see the English floundering on a field.’
Lulu’s head snapped around at that. What was this?
Alejandro chuckled. ‘No problem at all,’ he said easily in his smooth, deep voice. ‘It was a good match.’
Lulu felt as if she’d had the rug pulled out from under her. Where had this come from? The smile, the ease, the charm?
‘We will be sending our principal to you tomorrow, at your convenience and we’ll give you an aerial viewing of the property. Will it be just you, Mr du Crozier?’
‘Possibly one other.’ Alejandro glanced her way. ‘Two o’clock looks good.’
As he ended the call Lulu told herself not to make any enquiries—she would only look nosey.
‘I’m looking at property while I’m here,’ he said, his eyes on the road. ‘I’m thinking of investing in a golf course. It’s on a picturesque strip of land along the coast near Dunlosie.’
He didn’t look like a golfer. Although she suspected those broad shoulders and strong arms could hit a golf ball to the moon and back.
‘Do you play golf professionally?’ she ventured. When he raised an eyebrow she added hurriedly, so that she didn’t look stupid, ‘That man said something about you captaining a team?’
He smiled slightly. ‘Polo. I captained South America.’ He was watching her as if gauging her reaction. ‘It received some press coverage.’
Vaguely his name stirred a memory. She rather thought she ought to know it.
‘I have a little fame, Lulu.’
He must have read her frown.
‘Ah, oui.’
She tried not to look curious or impressed, or as if she cared. He was smiling to himself, and she wanted to tell him she didn’t care if he was famous, or who he knew. It wasn’t as if she was angling to spend any time with him when they reached the castle. She wasn’t interested in him. He was just transport.
She leaned forward and rummaged in her bag.
It was almost a relief to have her phone in her hand and something to concentrate on other than the magnetism of the man beside her.
He flicked on the sound system.
‘Is that necessary?’
Alejandro spared her a glance. ‘It passes the time.’
‘I’m trying to do some work.’
‘Games on your phone?’
‘Wedding plans. See.’ She held it up but he kept his eye on the wet road.
‘Isn’t that the bride and groom’s prerogative?’
‘I’m maid of honour,’ she said proudly. ‘I have responsibilities.’
Alejandro thumped the wheel with the heel of his hand.
‘What’s wrong?’ she demanded.
‘Santa Maria,’ he said under his breath, and after a moment began to chuckle.
‘What’s so funny?’
When he kept laughing her expression took on a look of bafflement, and for a moment she looked very young and decidedly adorable.
He didn’t want her to look adorable. He took another look. Definitely adorable. No wonder she had entitlement issues. He doubted there was a man alive who could resist those big brown eyes or her air of fragility.
It would bother him. If he was considering taking this anywhere. But since the day he had learned he’d inherited everything, in the form of the estancia and all the debts his father had collected, and gained nothing but his mother’s endless demands for more money, his wife’s desire for freedom and the everlasting dissatisfaction of his disinherited sisters he’d carried around the feeling that he’d let them all down.
Fragile women required a lot more than he was able to give.
‘I want to know why you’re laughing at me,’ she insisted.
‘I’m going to kill him.’
‘Kill who? What are you talking about?’
‘Fate. The universe. Khaled Kitaev.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘I’m padrino de boda, querida.’
She had a blank look on her face that made him want to spin this out a little longer, because watching her lose a little of that tight composure was almost worth the hassle.
He relented and filled her in. ‘Best man.’
She dropped her device and it slithered through her satin skirt and thumped at her feet.
‘You can’t be!’
‘I am.’
‘But we don’t like each other.’ She clamped her mouth shut, as if she couldn’t believe that had just slipped out.
No, maybe not, but he’d just discovered he did like her. She might be spoiled and self-centred, but he lived in a world where most women fell at his feet.
Lulu Lachaille would fall, if he applied the right pressure here and there, but she wasn’t going to trip herself up.
She might just be what he was looking for this weekend after all.
Distraction from the spectacle that was a wedding, where everybody mouthed belief in fidelity and love ever after but nobody in his world practised it.
Although he had to admit Khaled and Gigi did seem to be that rarest of unions—a couple who genuinely liked one another.
And he liked Gigi’s little friend, with her pretty curls and her rosebud pout and her French girl’s way of looking as if she was bored and it was his job to entertain her.
‘I wouldn’t say I don’t like you,’ he said, checking out her pretty knees, just visible under the froth of her netted underskirt. Her hands went there immediately, smoothing it down.
‘Not in that way,’ she said crossly. ‘I don’t want you to like me that way at all. I mean in a platonic sense. In a maid of honour and best man duty sense.’
‘Now I’m a duty? Careful, querida, you’ll damage my ego.’
‘I doubt that,’ she said repressively.
He grinned.
She looked decidedly flummoxed.
‘You’ll need to make an effort, then,’ she blurted out almost defensively.
‘I intend to.’
Lulu tried to ignore the fact that she felt hot all over. Was he flirting with her?
