Be My Bride. Natalie AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
be stuck in a car with the guy who’d once tempted her so completely? She’d be mad to contemplate it. She had to think of some excuse.
‘With you driving?’ she tried to tease archly. ‘You always travelled too fast, Liam. So I’d say all kinds of harm could come.’
‘Oh, well.’ His answer came lazy and insolent. ‘If it’s speed you’re afraid of, why don’t you drive?’
Liam tried not to hold his breath as he waited for her answer. Victoria Rutherford—the only woman he’d wanted, but had never had. The one who’d got away. It was such a cliché, but face to face with her for the first time in five years?
He still wanted.
She was even more beautiful now. Until today he wouldn’t have thought that was possible.
‘Sure.’ Her very pretty chin tilted upwards as she finally gave him an answer.
Liam had to suppress more than a sigh of satisfaction—there was a burn in his blood and in his gut as well. Last time he’d asked her something it had been a denial she’d issued. Not today. And, as crazy as it was, Liam had more to ask of her. Much more. He wanted to hear ‘yes’ from her mouth many times over.
Maybe then his mind would be freed from all those memories.
Victoria willed confidence. Of course she could drive that big black car. It might have power but it’d also have every safety feature ever invented. And no doubt it had a fancy sat-nav system and automatic clutch. It’d be a cinch. ‘I’d love to drive.’
Yeah, she just oozed faux confidence—refusing to show how flustered she was.
She carefully packed her gear into her bag. Shame she didn’t have some light leather driving gloves to don with chic aplomb. Gloves would hide the almost permanent ink stains. ‘Let’s get going. I’ve got a lot of work to do.’
But the car that an assistant brought to the front entrance of the chateau wasn’t the big black machine she’d seen from the window. It was a tiny two-seater.
Victoria eyed the sleek gleaming silver with its explicit promise of speed and seduction and turned to Liam. ‘Who do you think you are—James Bond?’
Even she, no car fiend, recognised a vintage Aston Martin when she saw it. No automatic clutch, no sat-nav, no airbags. No roof even. And no chance she was driving it.
He held open the driver’s door for her. ‘You don’t think it’s gorgeous?’
That wasn’t the point. ‘Is it yours?’
Of course he had some zippy racing thing. The guy only knew one speed—supersonic.
He shook his head. ‘It’s a rental. But I figure that’s no reason to be boring.’
As if he could ever be boring. Still, the ownership gave her an out from the nightmare. ‘Then insurance won’t cover me. I’m not taking the chance of damaging a rental car.’
‘But you wouldn’t mind damaging mine?’
Her gaze clashed with his. He didn’t look away. Nor did she. Like swords crossed to the hilt, their eyes were locked. Neither would disengage.
‘You’re driving,’ she spoke through lips that barely moved.
‘See, you are a coward,’ he answered equally softly.
‘I choose not to take unnecessary risks.’ She broke the fierce challenge by walking round to the passenger side, yanking open the door and sliding into the seat. She really couldn’t afford a bill if she pranged. And given how shaky her hands were right now, a prang seemed inevitable.
After a minute that felt like an hour, she glanced over to where he still stood by the open driver’s door. He was smiling as he stared at her.
‘If you’re not willing to drive either, please let me know so I can catch a train,’ she said impatiently. ‘I need to get home to get on with my work.’
‘Of course,’ he answered ever so politely.
Frankly, she didn’t see how a guy with legs as long as his could actually fit into a tiny roadster like this. But he did with a way-too-sensual ease, pulling sunglasses from a small compartment and putting them on. That was when she registered the next problem. The two-seater was a close fit. It wasn’t big enough for her to be able to slink into the far corner. Instead his shoulder was merely inches from hers.
Too intimate.
Swallowing, she glared out of the window. She’d focus on the external view, not the Greek-god-gorgeous guy sitting so close.
He revved the engine and cruised down the gravel driveway. Victoria breathed again, inhaling the fresh summer air. They’d be on the motorway and he’d put his foot down and they’d be back in Paris in no time and this would all be over. As they reached the end of the drive she braced herself for the acceleration. But when they hit the road, Liam didn’t quit the leisurely pace.
‘What’s with the speed, Grandpa?’ she finally asked. She wanted away from him as soon as possible. ‘Are we anywhere near the speed limit?’
‘If I drive too fast, I won’t be able to hear you.’
Hear her what? Breathe? She wasn’t about to have any kind of deep and meaningful conversation with the man. As far as she was concerned, the less they talked, the better. Her overly sensitive nerves didn’t need to hear more of the laughter that was always audible in his voice. So she sat silent, keeping her eyeballs glued to the window. After five minutes they were still going at that ridiculous pace.
‘You’ll get pulled over for holding up the traffic,’ she finally muttered.
‘There aren’t any cars behind me and, if there were, there’s a lane for them to overtake me.’
See, there it was. That latent lazy humour. As if everything was warm and easy with him. Well, if he was going to insist on the snail’s pace—and he clearly was—then she might as well quench some of the curiosity burning out her brain. ‘Why are you at the chateau so far ahead of the wedding? Isn’t your life so busy you could only fly in the day before?’
‘I’m on holiday. Thought I’d help her out with some arrangements.’
As he’d helped prepare for that Christmas years ago? He’d worked alongside her—helping out in all kinds of ways. As if he, like she, couldn’t cope with sitting around idly all day. She’d always wanted to feel needed. But she didn’t think he craved other people’s approval in the same way she did. ‘You don’t want to laze on the beach?’
He shook his head. ‘I’d want to be on the water.’
‘You’re not good at having a holiday.’ He’d always sought out something to do.
‘I prefer to keep busy.’
‘Why’s that? You can’t relax?’
She glanced at him. His eyes were hidden by the sunglasses, but his mouth curved into that wicked grin.
‘I can relax,’ he said softly.
‘By ‘getting busy’, right?’ she asked sarcastically, knowing that was exactly what he was thinking of. ‘But you can’t cope with quiet? You scared of being alone with your thoughts?
‘I’m a professional sportsman, right? Therefore I don’t have thoughts.’
Oh, he was no brainless jock type. He was smart, successful—you didn’t need to note the expensive watch and discreet-but-mega-expensive clothing labels to know that.
‘So what have you been keeping busy with these last five years?’ Once more she gave into her urges and asked.
‘You don’t