Pride After Her Fall. Lucy Ellis

no angle, she noted on the clipboard propped up on one knee.

      Some of the best equine flesh in the world was on view here most days, ridden by the best of the best, but on Fridays the arena belonged to students such as young Gina, who was making a hash of the most fundamental lesson in advanced dressage. She would improve—Lorelei was confident on her behalf. These were skills that could be learnt. The rest was about your relationship with the horse, and Gina was a natural.

      For the next half hour she took notes, then joined Gina and the bay gelding’s regular handler in the arena. She was working with Gina on top of her usual student load as a favour to another trainer, but she didn’t mind taking on the extra work. It was good to take her head out of her financial troubles and focus on something she could control, and fulfilling to see the progress Gina had made in little over a month.

      She worked with both girl and horse for the rest of their session, then joined Gina and her mother to talk about her progress. It was important, so although she was running late for her appointment at the Hotel de Paris she made the time. It was on half one when she leapt into the Sunbeam, starting her engine as she checked her cell.

      It was never a pleasant experience. So many messages—so few people she actually wanted to talk to. There were several from her solicitor, a raft from legal firms she’d never heard of and one from the agent through whom she was leasing the villa out to strangers. She had a vague hope that the income could be channelled back into the upkeep of the house and grounds. But she wouldn’t think about that right now. She wasn’t ready.

      Maybe tomorrow.

      Unexpectedly the stranger’s comment that she expected the world to run on her timetable flashed to mind. But before she had time to dwell unhappily on the truth of that, and aware that her damn hands were shaking again, she keyed in her best friend Simone’s number and attached ear buds to enable her to drive and talk.

      ‘You had a car accident? Mon Dieu, Lorelei, are you all right?’

      ‘No, not an accident.’ She hesitated, knowing how lame it was going to sound. ‘I borrowed it for a theme party and parked it and left the handbrake off.’

      There was a pause before Simone said with a suspicion of laughter in her voice, ‘You know I love you, Lorelei, but I would never let you drive my car.’

      ‘Then perhaps you should talk to the guy I dealt with—this big Australian. He seemed to think I was a disaster waiting to happen.’

      ‘Poor bébé. I’m sure you charmed him in the end.’

      ‘He was a little steamed about the car.’

      ‘I bet.’

      ‘I don’t think he liked me very much.’

      Simone snorted. ‘Men always like you, Lorelei. You wouldn’t be so good at milking them of euros for that charity of yours if they didn’t.’

      Lorelei acknowledged the truth of this with a little shrug. ‘I guess this one was the exception. He was different—I don’t know … capable. Manly. He looked over my car.’

      ‘And—?’

      ‘I think I liked him.’

      Simone was silent. Testimony to the state of Lorelei’s romantic life.

      ‘I know. I must be crazy, right?’

      ‘Is he employed?’

      ‘Oh, honestly.’

      ‘The last one I heard about didn’t have a sou to his name.’

      ‘Rupert was an installation artist.’

      ‘Is that what he called it? I know you’re touchy about this, but for the life of me I can’t work out why you don’t date those guys you schmooze for your grandmother’s charity.’

      Lorelei’s heart sank a little. The nature of her charity work meant she was often seen in social situations with powerful men, but she never dated them. Being the daughter of one of the most infamous gigolos on the Riviera had left her wary of men who could pay her bills. She gravitated towards a type: struggling artist—whether it be painter or musician or poet—often in need of propping up, usually with her money. And that was where everything came unstuck.

      Well, she didn’t have that problem any more …

      ‘So no name, no number—?’

      ‘No hope,’ finished Lorelei, and their laughter mingled over the old joke. ‘I’m on my way as we speak to the Hotel de Paris.’

      ‘Ooh, la la, tell me you’re going to use their wonderful spa!’

      ‘Not today. I’m being Antoinette St James’s granddaughter and fronting for the foundation.’

      ‘Your grandmaman’s charity?’

      ‘Oui. They’re doing a vintage car rally to raise funds for children with cancer. That’s why I had the Bugatti on loan for last night’s party. As an adjunct a racing driver here in Monaco has a private track a few miles inland, and he’s going to run the kids around it for the day.’

      ‘Which driver? Do you have a name?’

      ‘I don’t know. Let me see.’ Lorelei braked at a pedestrian crossing and fumbled with the shiny folder she’d picked up from the Aviary office yesterday. ‘Nash Blue. The name is vaguely familiar …’

      The line went quiet.

      ‘Simone?’

      ‘I’m here. I’m just taking it in. Nash Blue. Cherie, how can you live in Monaco and not know anything about the Grand Prix?’

      Lorelei rumpled her curls distractedly. ‘I’m not very sporty, Simone.’

      ‘You might want to keep quiet about that when you meet him.’ Simone sounded arch. ‘You didn’t do any research, did you?’

      ‘I haven’t had time. It was dumped on me yesterday.’

      ‘You do know Nash Blue is a racing legend?’

      ‘Really?’ Lorelei asked without interest, concentrating on weighting the folder down on the passenger seat with her handbag.

      ‘He’s a rock star of the racing world. He’s broken all sorts of records. He retired a few years ago at the height of his career and—listen to this, cherie—he was earning close to fifty million a year. And I’m not talking euros. He was one of the highest paid sportsmen in the world.’

      Must be nice, Lorelei thought vaguely.

      ‘He gave up the track to design supercars—whatever they are. I think the consensus is he’s some kind of genius. But, putting that aside for a moment, he’s utterly gorgeous, Lorelei. I confess I’m a little envious.’

      Unexpectedly Lorelei pictured a pair of intense blue eyes and wished she had this morning to do over again.

      ‘I’m sure I’ll do something to annoy him. I’m on a roll with that, Simone.’

      ‘He rarely gives interviews. The few times he has he’s been famously monosyllabic.’

      Lorelei’s heart sank. So she was going to have to do all the talking?

      ‘But be en garde, cherie. He has a reputation with the ladies.’

      ‘Oh, please. If he doesn’t talk how does that even work?’

      ‘I don’t think much talking is involved.’

      Lorelei rolled her eyes. ‘I think I’m quite safe, Simone. You forget—I grew up watching Raymond ply his trade. I have no illusions left.’

      ‘Not all men are rascals, cherie.’

      ‘No, you married the one who wasn’t.’ It was said fondly. Lorelei found solace in Simone’s happy