Lucy Ellis - Kept At The Argentine's Command

He put his hands around her shoulders to help her back into the car and out of the rain, but her response took him off guard. Her arms shot out and she instantly had them wrapped around his neck as tenaciously as a strangling vine.

He was enveloped in the scent of her, and he wondered for a second if this was her clumsy attempt at a pass. Only the feel of her rapid heartbeat told him she was scared. It was like holding a small nervous bird to his chest—as if what she was feeling was too big for her slight body. And yet what had she to be scared of?

She was overwrought—that was all, he told himself, and possibly a little the worse for wear from her in-flight tippling.

A better question was how had he come to be the only man in Scotland who was saddled with the job of delivering a vodka-wilted bridesmaid to their shared destination?

It had to be vodka, because he couldn’t smell any alcohol on her. All he smelt were those cottage violets—and something warmer and real that was just her.

He tentatively rubbed her back, as he would one of the young kids on the estancia who had taken a fall from a horse and had the wind knocked out of them, and tried to ignore the fact that she was an incredibly appealing full-grown female with her breasts pushed up against his chest.

‘I don’t think I’ll be sick again,’ she confided miserably.

She hadn’t actually done anything other than spit up a little bile, but he didn’t doubt her suffering. She looked more miserable than a human being should.

‘Please don’t tell anybody about this,’ she said in a muffled voice against his neck.

It was a strange request, but she was obviously serious about it.

He cleared his throat. ‘Come on, let’s strap you in. Are you all right to travel?’

She nodded, allowing him to help her.

He went around to the boot to grab a bottle of water from the chiller. He yanked the screw lid off for her and when he offered it to her she took a few grateful sips.

‘Okay now?’ he asked gruffly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said huskily, swallowing deeply and refusing to meet his eyes. ‘It won’t happen again.’

He drove the keys into the ignition.

‘Do you want to stop for coffee? Get something in your stomach?’

She shuddered. ‘I can’t think of anything worse.’

‘It might sober you up.’

Her eyes flashed his way in confusion. ‘I am sober.’

He gave her an old-fashioned look.

‘I am not drunk. I have not been drinking.’

‘You can deny it if you want, querida. It doesn’t change the fact you were stumbling all over that flight, your words were a little slurry and you’ve just been sick.’

She looked at him in horror, her knuckles white around the bottle. ‘I wasn’t— That’s you— I mean, nobody else thought that—’

Lulu tried to control her shaking because it wasn’t helping her case.

‘Maybe I should just find a taxi,’ she said, deeply humiliated, and distressed as she sloshed some of the water on her skirt. Although getting out of this car was the last thing she felt up to doing. ‘This isn’t working for me and it’s clearly not working for you.’

‘Look,’ he said, keeping the car idling while he took the bottle from her hands, lidded it and tossed it onto the back seat. ‘In my experience nobody likes to be confronted with their behaviour while under the influence. You had a few drinks on the flight...they didn’t agree with you. I’m not judging.’

‘Yes, you are judging,’ she burst out unhappily. ‘And nobody thought I was drunk.’

‘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

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.