Kept At The Argentine's Command. Lucy Ellis

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      She recognised that voice.

      Dieu, it was the bully from the plane.

      Run—run!

      But her legs had gone to water. As much as she reminded herself that hostile men didn’t scare her any more—she had rights...she was protected under the law—she still felt incredibly vulnerable. And she hated that feeling. She was trying so hard to be strong.

      Which didn’t explain why she’d fastened her gaze on his wide sensual mouth, noticing the shadow along his jaw where he’d clearly shaved this morning and would probably need to shave again later. He was very masculine.

      Lulu reminded herself that she didn’t like masculine men. She didn’t like the way they pushed and shoved and shouldered their way through the world and got away with things through intimidation. They made her nervous. Only this man didn’t exactly make her nervous—he made her something else.

      It was the something else she was struggling with now, even knowing what a bully he was.

      He was also gorgeously tall and broad-shouldered, with a stunning face—all cheekbones and sensuous mouth and golden-brown eyes that looked magnetic against the olive tint of his skin.

      His tousled chestnut-brown hair was so thick and silky-looking her fingers just itched to touch it. She made fists of her hands.

      She didn’t like him, and he was looking at her as if he didn’t like her very much either.

      Good, it was mutual. The not liking, that was.

      So what if he looked like...? Well, he looked like Gary Cooper. In his rakish early career, when he’d picked up and slept with every starlet who wasn’t nailed down.

      Not Gregory Peck, though. Gregory Peck was reliable and stalwart and...decent. He would never insult a woman.

      Stop staring at him. Stop comparing him to Golden Age Hollywood movie stars.

      ‘Buenas tardes, señorita,’ he said, in a voice that made him sound as if he was making an indecent proposal to her. ‘I believe you’re looking for me.’

      Lulu automatically repressed the responsive curl of smoke in her lower belly raised by the sound of his deep and sexy Spanish accent.

      No, no, no—he would be lighting no fires in her valley.

      She drew herself up. ‘I certainly am not.’

      Alejandro was tempted to shrug and walk away, and let the little princesita discover the hard way that he wasn’t trying to pick her up. But in the end he had a duty to perform for a friend and she was it.

      She continued to regard him as if he would spring at her, so he extended his hand.

      ‘Alejandro du Crozier.’

      She looked at his hand as if he’d pulled a gun on her.

      ‘Please leave me alone,’ she said, a touch furtively, and turned a rigid shoulder on him.

      ‘I’m not trying to pick you up, señorita.’ He tried again with what he considered was remarkable patience.

      Her narrow back told him what she thought about that claim.

      ‘You clearly didn’t get the message. Lulu,’ he added dryly.

      The use of her name had the intended effect. She peered at him cautiously over her shoulder, reminding Alejandro absurdly of a timid creature sticking its head out of a hole.

      ‘H-how do you know my name?’

      He folded his arms.

      ‘I’m your ride,’ he said flatly.

      ‘My ride?’

      As soon as she said it Lulu felt herself go red.

      She didn’t have a dirty mind—truly she didn’t. She was always the last one to get the blue jokes that ran like quicksilver around the dressing room before shows at L’Oiseau Bleu, the Parisian cabaret where she danced in the chorus, but right now something seemed to have gone wrong with her. It had something to do with the way he looked at her—as if he knew exactly how she looked in her underwear.

      Earlier he’d looked at her as if she was a bug he’d wanted to squash. Better to think about being the bug.

      To her embarrassment she stepped back and almost tripped over her hand luggage. His hand shot out and grasped her elbow, saving her from a fall.

      ‘Careful, bella,’ he said, his warm breath brushing the top of her ear.

      Her knees went to jelly.

      She tried to tug herself free, confused. ‘Will you let me pass?’

      ‘Señorita,’ he said, holding her in place, ‘I am Alejandro du Crozier, and I will be driving you to the wedding.’

      Her eyes flew to his. He knew about the wedding? That meant he was a guest too.

      ‘But Susie and Trixie are driving me to the wedding.’ As soon as she said it she realised those plans had possibly changed.

      ‘I know nothing of these women. I only know of you.’ His expression said that this wasn’t making his day.

      Which was fine, Lulu decided. That made two of them. She gave another tug and he let go.

      ‘I don’t make a habit of going off with strange men, Mr—Mr—’

      He pulled out his phone and held it up in front of her. She peered at the message on the screen and then looked at him in mute astonishment.

      ‘Khaled sent you?’

      He gave that question the look it deserved. But he didn’t have to stand so close, did he? And he didn’t have to look at her mouth as if there was something about it that interested him. She most definitely didn’t have anything to interest him.

      Weirdly, her heart was hammering.

      His amber eyes, lushly lashed, met hers with a splintering intensity.

      ‘Unless you’re interested in walking, chica, I suggest you come with me now.’

      He didn’t give her a chance to object. He was walking away. He clearly expected her to follow him.

      Lulu stared after him.

      He was the rudest man.

      She found herself struggling one-handed with her stick-and-stop trolley, her hand luggage banging painfully against her leg.

      She most certainly was not travelling with him in a car for three or four hours.

      She would find a taxi.

      She would entrust her person and her luggage to a man she had paid to do the task—not one who thought he was doing her a big favour.

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