Courting Disaster. Kathleen O'Reilly

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      He took in the damage to his car, one of only five experimental versions in the world. Rockefeller couldn’t afford to fix his car. No way was he going to make her pay for it. It had been his fault. He’d be the bigger person. “If you need to settle this under the table, that’d be fine, but I’m not sure you could afford it. Don’t worry about it.” He looked at her, waiting for her to appreciate his generous offer.

      She laughed at him. Laughed at him. It was humbling, demeaning and slightly irritating.

      “When you get an estimate, send it to my assistant, and I’ll take care of it.” She scribbled a phone number on a piece of paper. No name, just a number. If it hadn’t been for the way her mouth bowed up like a flower, or the way her blue eyes reflected turquoise in the afternoon sun, he probably would have left it at that.

      Nah.

      “You’re a friend of the Prestons?” he asked curiously.

      “Family,” she snapped, looking mildly insulted.

      “I’ve never seen you before.”

      “I’ve never seen you, either, but that doesn’t amount to a hill of beans, does it? Next time you should be more careful with that driving. You could get yourself killed that way.”

      “I could give you lessons,” he offered.

      “In how to drive like a crazy person? Thanks, but no.” It was a dismissal, and in case he didn’t get the point, she presented him with a perfect heart-shaped rear, tightly encased in denim. As she walked toward the house, her hips swung back and forth like a pendulum. A connoisseur’s smile flared on his lips. A man could get lost in that rhythm, or at least distracted.

      Maybe better men than him had tried, but probably no one more stubborn. If he were smart, he would ignore his urges, leave her alone, get his car fixed and pocket the bill.

      But Demetri was reckless, and he spent most of his life laughing at the Fates. Habits were hard to break, and some were impossible.

      Once out of sight of the stranger, Elizabeth Innis caught her breath, and resumed fanning her face, because Lord knows, she was overheating, and it had nothing to do with being twentyeight years old and in her first car accident ever. Not that the accident wasn’t traumatizing, but the hot flashes running in her blood weren’t anxiety. That was one hundred percent pure, allnatural lust.

      As a rule, she stayed away from men like that: dark and handsome in those ways of soap-opera villains who were always hiding deep, traumatic secrets. No, Elizabeth had sky-high standards.

      In her world purview, she clung to the idea of true love, but knew that for every prince, there was a whole oceanful of frogs that were green and slimy and caught flies for a living. No, thank you. She was holding out for the one, the only—true love, with a capital T and a capital L. Not that that meant she wouldn’t be picky about finding Mr. Right. None of that high-living, high-loving, hotdogging for Elizabeth, no sir, which meant staying away from exotic-looking men in exotic-looking cars when just the thought set her off fanning again.

      This was going to have to stop, she reminded herself, giving herself one last wave for good measure, and then tucking her hands away. After all, she had a reputation to preserve. The magazines said she wore a chastity belt under her tight-fittin’ jeans and was so clean that she squeaked when she walked. Elizabeth didn’t mind the talk one bit. Her music fans ate it up, and in Elizabeth’s mind, that chastity belt was worth its weight in gold—gold records that is. Still, her reputation had one drawback—men saw it as a challenge.

      Like the exotic-looking driver of the car she’d crumpled.Hopefully he’d contact her assistant and let Elizabeth pay for the damage and then she could put the whole matter behind her. After all, she wasn’t here to puddle at the feet of some dark stranger. She had a wedding to sing for, a woebegone cousin to cheer up and two weeks’ worth of R & R.

      Her chastity belt was staying right where it was, because there wasn’t a place in her life for hot-looking strangers who took darn-foolish chances…

      Even if he could overheat her with a glance.

      Her hand started fanning all over again.

      Shoot.

      The Preston study was an impressive testament to the legacy of Quest Stables, the stables that Hugh Preston had built from scratch, one winner at a time. Dark wooden bookshelves lined the walls, filled with a mix of business books and racing books, the two skills that had made Quest Stables one of the largest racing operations in Kentucky. Hugh had handed over the reins to his son Thomas a long time ago, but was still active in the process, picking out horses with the same eye for a winner.

      As Demetri waited for the old man to arrive, his gaze wandered over the room and all the racing memorabilia that it contained. A trophy case was filled with the old-style, two-handled cups that had been awarded so long ago, and pictures of the horses that had raced under the Quest name. The green walls were covered with framed news clippings of the stable’s winners. And now, all that history, the Preston legacy, was in doubt.

      Not if Demetri could help it.

      As a rule, Demetri didn’t play Sir Galahad well. Racing was a solitary occupation, and kept him moving from place to place. When the cars hit the track, friends turned to competitors, never a good idea. And as for his family, all that was left was his father, and he didn’t speak to Demetri unless he was forced to. It made for a solitary life.

      Yet Hugh Preston had always been there for Demetri—a lot of the times with a sharp rebuke, or a shake of the grizzled head. A poor substitute for family, but Demetri would take what he could get. And for his friend, Demetri would wear the Sir Galahad mantel, no matter how badly it fit.

      “There’s a tow truck dragging a cracked-up car from my drive, and I’m certain it belongs to you. You, a prizewinning Formula Gold driver, with a slew of records behind you. Which leaves me scratching my head, wondering how it came to be in such poor shape?”

      Demetri turned and greeted the old man with a one-armed slap against the shoulder. At eighty-six, Hugh Preston still moved with the hurried pace of a much younger man, and spoke in a voice that was almost musical, with long-ago traces of an Irish brogue, the hard swagger of Brooklyn and the meandering drawl of Kentucky, all blended together in one.

      “The accident wasn’t my fault,” defended Demetri, although technically, if someone wanted to split hairs or argue over “fact,” then yeah, he probably shared some of the burden of responsibility, or most of it.

      Hugh settled his frame in a leather chair and poured out two glasses of bourbon. “That’s what the guilty ones always say,” he said, taking a long sip of bourbon, and ending with a contented sigh.

      “It’ll take a few weeks for my engineering team to repair, but Louisville in the fall has a certain appeal.” A blond appeal, with wide blue eyes and a smart mouth. A smart, extremely kissable mouth…

      Nope. Not going there.

      “Hopefully your driving skills will improve before the race next week. Are you coming to the barbecue dinner tomorrow?”

      “I don’t know,” answered Demetri, because Preston social events were different from the social events of the racing circuit. On the circuit, Demetri was on display, a showman for the cause. The Prestons СКАЧАТЬ