Free Pride After Her Fall by Lucy Ellis Page B

we clear?’
    ‘Clear.’
    Nash cut the connection, running a hand through his damp hair.
    He didn’t want this information. But now he had it, what was he going to do with it?
    There was one option, he thought. He didn’t have to do anything about it. So she had a crim for an old man? Big deal. So did he. She had a past. Again, big deal. So did he. She was a beautiful grown-up woman who had lived in the world just like him, not a boring ingénue. Part of what attracted him to her was that life experience, her maturity.
    It would be highly suspicious if she didn’t have a past.
    She had a past with ‘a string of high-profile men.’
    He stood over his suit, laid out over the back of a chair—the suit he’d pictured Lorelei pressing her long, lithe body against, with him in it, as he danced with her, resting his hand on that sweet place at the bottom of her spine.
    He laid that same hand on the back of his neck, where the tension seemed to be gathering at a rate of knots.
    He pictured Lorelei in the arms of another man, and another. The woman in the backless gown remained the same, the suit was the same, but different guys. He frowned and dismissed it.
    He reasoned that Cullinan didn’t like her because she’d shown him up in the American Bar. The recollection of which had a bit of a smile tugging on his lips.
    Relaxing, he retreated into the bathroom, palmed his electric razor and went to work on a beard that would be back in the morning.
    Besides, if she was after some limelight wouldn’t she have jumped at Paris?
    How many media-savvy socialite blondes had he walked out of restaurants and into a posse of click-happy paparazzi who’d just happened to get a clue as to where he was dining and with whom?
    He was accustomed to women with agendas. Years ago, when he’d still been green about the limelight, a young banking heiress had decided she wanted a racing-car driver. He’d been twenty-four, idealistic and he’d put a ring on her finger. Not an engagement ring—he hadn’t been that naive—but he’d imagined that was what it took to assure her fidelity. She’d slept around on him from the beginning, and when they’d broken up she’d hit the media with the credentials of a seasoned campaigner.
    It was the origin of all the stories about him. His heiress had turned him into a legend of infidelity, citing women he had never known. Her public profile had assured that she’d gone on to a career as consort to a series of high-profile men.
    He’d gone on to a legendary driving career and a reputation for moving through women faster than he sped around any track. The media had been insatiable for stories about him. He had fed them with his policy of never lingering with one particular woman too long, there was no getting away from that, but he had never courted public attention. It had come after him, and consequently he had no illusions left about the negative side of publicity, about its effect on his attempts to lead a semi-normal life, and especially about the women who hustled their way into that life.
    Yet here he was, deluding himself...
    The razor dropped into the basin and he let it buzz there uselessly, leaning the heels of his hands on the sink and eyeing himself in the mirror.
    Did he really need to give himself the lecture? At this stage in his life? Hadn’t he already been here before?
    If Cullinan was right, this was a woman who liked the limelight, who liked famous men, and she’d turned up at that hotel today and lied to his face that she had no idea who he was.
    He vented a dry laugh. He’d been here so many times it was like a stuck record. In former days he would have just taken what was on offer and ignored the fallout. But he had more to protect this time around. Because right now, with his racing career once again poised in the wings, he was going to do things differently.
    His expression hardened.
    He knew what he had to do. He just didn’t want to do it. But he couldn’t in good