Driven to Distraction

1.

“Your four-thirty appointment is here, Mr. Darcy.”

“Thank you, Janice. Give me five minutes, will you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Pushing my chair away from the desk, I stood slowly and wandered over to the large picture window; stretching my legs and massaging the crick in my spine with my fingers as my eyes roamed across the familiar skyline. I’d been poring over budgets, statements and projected sales forecasts for the past three hours. My neck ached; my back ached; I desperately needed a long soak in a hot bath. It was a Friday afternoon. I owned the company. Why the hell wasn’t I at home already?

I knew the answer. I hadn’t left because I had one last meeting to deal with. I’d asked Janice to slot it in at the end of the day because it was a personal matter; a purchase that had nothing to do with the company; something, ironically, that I didn’t even want.

I needed to buy a car.

Not that I would use it for getting to work. The company’s chauffeur picked me up from Chelsea every morning and was waiting outside my office every evening. Tony and his Bentley were at my beck and call from eight a.m. until the end of the day; whatever time of night that might be. I didn’t have to pay for it, maintain it, or find somewhere safe to park it at night. For me, working in the centre of London as I do, it’s the perfect arrangement.

So what moved me to consider buying a car of my own? It was all due to my interfering family who, regardless of the fact that I was now in sole charge of my grandfather’s company, with its seven-figure turnover and buoyant prospects, still seem incapable of seeing me as a responsible adult.

Despite their old-fashioned views, I like my Aunt Catherine and Aunt Eleanor, and I respect the advice and opinions of Uncle Henry. They have been a tower of strength since the loss of my parents, but I’ve recently begun to wonder if the three of them aren’t becoming a little senile. My visits had, of late, been punctuated by the same tired litany. Yes, I am comfortably situated and yes, at twenty-eight, I am still single. No, I’m not getting any younger, and no, I don’t hate children.

And I most definitely am not gay!

They were forever on at me to settle down. There was a very good reason why I had not yet met a woman who could interest me enough to commit for longer than one date, and it had nothing to do with wanting to play the field. (I leave that particular activity to Richard) No, the reason why I was still single was because none of the society beauties I had dated so far had been the one; that mystical paragon of womanhood who could set my soul on fire.

Every woman I had previously associated with had lacked that certain something. I wasn’t completely convinced that I even knew what that something was, but I sure as hell knew when it was missing.

Regardless of what my aunts might think, my lack of achievement in the marital sphere had absolutely nothing to do with my preferred mode of transport. Neither was my family’s request wholly unreasonable. I knew that they were only trying to help. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite understand how buying a car would bring me any closer to providing them with the great nieces and nephews they so eagerly awaited.

Hence the appointment with someone from a car sourcing company. I had no time to research the massive choice of cars that were available. I wasn’t terribly bothered what I bought. All I needed was something suitably impressive; something that would enable me to take my dates out to dinner without turning their stomach in the process and keep the family quiet for another year or so.

The intercom buzzed again. “Are you ready now, Mr. Darcy?”

I sighed and returned to the chair, settling myself into the soft leather. “Okay, Janice. Show him in.”

Thirty seconds later the door opened. “Miss Bennet, from Bennet Vehicle Sourcing, to see you, sir.”

Catching the subtle stress Janice had placed on the visitor’s title, I looked up. The woman walking into my office was young, and quite pretty too. She was smartly dressed in a charcoal suit, with a crisp white blouse open at the neck.

Okay, so she was easy to look at, but I had been expecting someone else; someone who, according to Richard, knew the new car market inside and out. The very man for the job, he had said. “I take it you are not Mr. Bennet.”

She smiled as she sat in the chair in front of my desk and crossed her legs. “No. I’m afraid my father was unavoidably detained. I hope you don’t mind that I came in his place?”

I took the opportunity to survey the woman in front of me, from the shiny, nut-brown curls piled on top of her head to the shapely calves in those black stockings. “Well, that all depends on whether you can advise me as well as he would have done. Your father came highly recommended by my cousin.”

“Your cousin?”

“Richard Fitzwilliam.”

Her brow furrowed for a moment, and then cleared. “Ah, yes! Mr. Fitzwilliam. He chose the Murciélago ... in lime green.” Her voice held a faint note of disapproval.

I shrugged in a vaguely apologetic manner. I shouldn’t really feel embarrassed on Richard’s behalf, but knowing that didn’t make any difference. “He sometimes struggles to remember where he parks his car. Having a bright colour makes it ... well, easier for him to spot, I suppose,” I joked.

She didn’t laugh. “Yes. I understand he’s the sort of gentleman who prefers to stand out from the crowd. What about you, Mr. Darcy? Do you prefer to stand out as well?”

“No.” Although I had to admit that some parts of me wanted to stand out more than others at that moment.

“Then you are looking for something more elegant?”

I glanced at her and smiled. She looked extremely elegant in that skirt, the hem of which now lay slightly above her knee. “I would say so, yes.”

“Good. In that case we will have no trouble working together.” As though I had passed some sort of test, she lifted a briefcase onto her lap and removed a file. Inside was a pad of lined paper and a pen. “What type of car did you have in mind, or do you have a preference for a particular marque?”

She returned the briefcase to the floor by her chair, unwittingly favouring me with a brief glimpse down the front of her blouse. “I ... I don’t really know. Just a car. Any car will do.”

“That’s not very specific. What do you drive at the moment?”

“I don’t.”

She frowned. “You don’t own a car, or you don’t drive?”

“Neither. The company provides me with a car and a driver.” Was that a disappointed sigh I heard?

“If that’s the case, perhaps you can explain why you contacted Bennet Vehicle Sourcing.”

Ah, now this was the question I’d been hoping to avoid. I tried to stall. “Do you interrogate all your clients so closely?”

Her eyes flashed as her voice cut through the space between us like one of those ultra sharp knives they’re always trying to flog on TV. “No, Mr. Darcy. Only those I suspect of wasting my time.”

I couldn’t respond to that. I wanted to, but I’d been struck dumb; not by the chill in her voice but the fire in her eyes. She was clearly annoyed with me.

My God! She was beautiful when she was angry.

I’d conditioned myself not to look at women too closely when at work, because it invariably led to trouble, and that trouble was currently sitting up and definitely taking notice. I’d never been so glad that I had the desk to hide behind. I’d feigned disinterest in the women around me for so long it had become almost second nature to me now. They were rarely as interesting as they were beautiful, which made this sudden awareness of her so unexpected, so unplanned.

So stimulating.

Relaxing in my seat, I studied her for a moment longer before replying to her question. “You misunderstand me, Miss Bennet. It’s true that I don’t own a car, but you are wrong in thinking that I don’t need one. That is why I invited your company here to advise me.”

She observed me critically for a few seconds in silence before she spoke again. “You do hold a valid driving licence don’t you, Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And how long is it since you’ve driven yourself anywhere? I have to ask for insurance purposes, you understand. Our insurance covers you during the hire of any vehicles you may care to test drive, but we do expect our clients to have a certain level of ... experience.”

What the hell did she mean by that? I had experience in abundance and was willing to prove it. “I’m usually out on the roads every weekend, when I return to the country.”

“Driving what? A tractor?”

I sighed. “No, a Ducati.” After a few seconds I realised that I ought to clarify my statement. Ducati did start out making tractors, after all. “It’s a motorbike.”

“No kidding,” she replied with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Which one?”

As if she’d know the difference. “A 1098s.”

Miss Bennet relaxed back into her chair. “A ten ninety-eight S? I’m impressed. It has those lightweight Marchesini wheels, doesn’t it? How does it handle?”

Perhaps she did know something about bikes after all. Interesting. “Very nicely, thank you.” I was going to offer her a ride, so that she could judge for herself, but I was worried that my suggestion might be misconstrued. Instead, I smiled and raised an eyebrow. “You consider me suitably experienced now, Miss Bennet?”

She favoured me with a smile of her own. “Yes, Mr. Darcy. Any man who can cope with one of the most powerful twin cylinder production engines in history is more than experienced as far as I’m concerned.”

Her voice was smooth, like warm honey, and the glint in her eyes when she spoke of the L-twin engine sent my blood pressure skywards. I’d never met a woman who knew anything about bikes, beyond the fact that they only had two wheels and no illuminated vanity mirror. Shifting in my chair, I tried to position myself more comfortably. “And you’ll assist me to find something suitable?”

“I will ... if you’ll answer one more question. You have the Duke for fun and the limo for travelling to work and back. Why do you need anything else?”

I sighed as I ran a shaky hand through my hair. She seemed genuinely puzzled. It was only fair that I told her the truth, no matter how embarrassing. “I’m twenty eight years old and unmarried. Would you understand if I said that my family have asked me to replace—or at the very least supplement—the bike with something that has four wheels?”

This time a laughing warmth in her eyes accompanied her smile. “Because your mother is wondering when she’ll see some grandchildren, and you can’t make out on the back of a bike?”

“Something like that,” I replied, unwilling at this time to disabuse her of the notion that I still had parents around to beg for grandchildren.

Miss Bennet sat up straighter, her pen poised over the pad. “So, do you need two seats or four?” She was clearly happiest when getting down to business. “Are you planning for the future here, or just something to impress your bride to be?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have a ‘bride-to-be’ ... yet, and I’m not big on forward planning, but yes, I suppose that I am after something to impress. There are few ladies of my acquaintance who are comfortable on the back of a bike.”

She remained silent, but her eyebrows rose in unspoken scepticism.

I held her stare for a few seconds, before bowing to the inevitable. “Fine ... there are no ladies I know who are happy to ride pillion.”

She had to work hard to stifle a grin. “How narrow minded of them.”

Obviously she’d never met the débutante set my family associated with. They were so narrow minded that any new idea had to be forced in sideways. I was sure it had something to do with all that inbreeding. “I know, but what can I do? I prefer two wheels, but my family assure me that I would be unreasonable to expect my future wife to, ah ... appreciate my hobby. Therefore, I need something more conventional ... but not boring.” Something I could take a date to dinner in without her wanting to throw up on the way home.

Miss Bennet made another note on the pad in front of her. “I think I can help with that. What about your budget? How much do you want to spend?”

Ah, now we were getting down to business. “It really doesn’t matter. I’m not a car fanatic, like Richard, but I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes to find the right car for me; whether it’s seventy five thousand or seven hundred and fifty thousand. Cost isn’t an issue.”

Accepting an unlimited budget without batting an eyelid, she moved on to the next question. “What about styling? Are you looking for a car that will stand out from the crowd, such as a Pagani or a Lamborghini, or something more subtle, like a Jaguar or an Aston Martin?”

“I don’t really mind, as long as it gets me from A to B.”

“Mr. Darcy, it will make my job easier if you’re honest about what you need and it will simplify matters in the long run. You’re used to riding a very powerful motorbike; one that can do nought to sixty in three point two seconds. Can you honestly say that you would settle for just anything?”

I held her gaze for a few seconds, my heart beating like a military tattoo. “No, Miss Bennet. I never settle for just anything.”

She was the first to look away and I was pleased to see a faint blush on her cheek as she made another note. “Right, so you’ll need something with a decent power to weight ratio, good torque and a respectable nought to sixty time, otherwise, after the Duke, you’ll feel like you’re standing still.”

Is there anything more erotic than listening to a beautiful woman talking technical? “Yes,” I agreed lamely. “You’re probably right.”

“What about design? How do you feel about convertibles? They’re surprisingly popular in the UK, despite our climate. Do you like to feel the wind blowing through your hair, Mr. Darcy?”

My breath caught in my chest as I conjured the image of her glossy brown hair streaming in the wind. “I don’t have much experience with having the wind in my hair, as I usually wear a full-faced helmet. However, I am prepared to consider all the options.” The longer the list the better if it meant spending more time in her company.

“Mmm.” She made a few more notes. Her handwriting was frustratingly small and neat.

I gave up trying to read upside down. “So ...” I twisted my pen between my fingers. “Do you think you’ll be able to help me?”

She stowed the paper back into her briefcase. “Yes, Mr. Darcy, I think so. Bennet Vehicle Sourcing can obtain any car produced anywhere in the world, subject to availability. However, your requirements are rather broad, and it will take me a few days to draw up a short-list. I’ll make another appointment with your secretary, if I may.”

The thought of spending more time with her in the office was intolerable. The next time we met I knew it had to be less business and far more personal. “As this is a private matter, unconnected with the company, it would be more convenient for me to deal with this away from the office.” Faint heart never won fair lady. It was time for some drastic action, so I took a leaf out of Richard’s book. “Perhaps we could discuss your suggestions ... over dinner?”

I heard her sigh, but wasn’t sure whether it was a good or bad sign. “I don’t know if that would be wise. I make a point of not mixing business with pleasure.”

Under normal circumstances I would have agreed entirely, but these were far from normal circumstances for me. “This purchase is purely for my own pleasure and has nothing to do with the company, therefore it would be wrong of me to deal with it in company time.” I was proud of my excuse, given that I’d made it up on the spur of the moment.

She still appeared reluctant, so I was surprised when she said, “I’ll think about it, and let your secretary know.”

I let her leave without argument, but only because I knew that one way or the other I was certain to see her again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Leaving Mr. Darcy’s office, I gave every appearance of the calm, cool businesswoman, even wishing his secretary a friendly good evening as I walked towards the lift, but inside my heart was pounding.

It should be illegal for one man to be that gorgeous.

Would I have offered to help my Dad with his appointments if I had known what I was letting myself in for? Probably. Even in our business, where rich young men with cash to burn were ten a penny, you didn’t get to meet many men like Fitzwilliam Darcy.

My father was very strict about us keeping everything on a professional footing. When your clientele is predominantly male, it’s important to maintain a distance, and that’s much easier to do when you’ve got a large desk between you and a secretary acting as chaperone. But when he had talked about discussing the project over dinner my brain seized and I couldn’t think of one good reason to say no.

Probably because, deep down, I didn’t want to.

My biggest concern about meeting him in a less formal setting was my worry that I’d struggle to keep my attention on the business in hand. Let’s face it, no man wants a dinner date who spends all night drooling on the tablecloth. If he brought up the subject of his motorbike again, I knew I couldn’t be held accountable for my actions. Just the mental image of him straddling the seat of the Ducati had made me so hot that the the first thing I had to do when I got home that night was jump in the shower.

Working through the weekend, I prepared an impressive portfolio of cars for Mr. Darcy. I’m sure, if he’d seen it, my Dad would have been proud of me for being so thorough, but I have to admit that my primary focus wasn’t on the possible sale, or the resulting commission it would bring. The longer the list, I thought, the more time I would have gazing into those gorgeous blue eyes of his.

All the while trying to convince myself that he was just another client.

Although I’d not met his cousin, all the reports I’d heard suggested that Richard Fitzwilliam was smooth, cocky, and well aware of how his good looks, charm and family money drew in the ladies like an evening with the Chippendales. However, the man I had met on Friday had seemed the complete opposite. Handsome without being obviously aware of the fact, modest and completely charming, without exerting any effort.

I only hoped I’d be able to conclude our business before my feelings overrode my good sense.

2.

On Monday I telephoned Mr. Darcy’s secretary, explaining that I would be prepared to meet her boss on either the Tuesday or Wednesday of that week. She rang me back barely five minutes later with a choice of three different restaurants on the Tuesday night. They were all on my side of town and were known to be popular. I went for the Italian.

She then began to explain the travel arrangements—how a car would pick me up from home at seven—but I swiftly put a stop to that. This wasn’t a date ... it was business. She seemed reluctant when I explained that I would meet Mr. Darcy at the restaurant, as though her boss wasn’t used to having his plans rearranged, but she didn’t attempt to change my mind.

On Tuesday evening, I drove the Mercedes McLaren SLR into the car park. For business meetings such as this, I have my pick of the demonstrators and the multi-hinged dihedral doors impress the easily impressible. Not that I had any misconceptions that my client was part of that particular group. In fact, I had the feeling that he was going to be harder to please than I had first envisaged. He might say that he didn’t have anything particular in mind, but once we got down to specifics I could imagine him being rather choosy.

I parked the Merc in the better lit end of the car park and walked up the steps to the restaurant doors. Inside, the mere mention of his name seemed to cast a magic spell over the staff and they immediately escorted me to a quiet corner table where Mr. Darcy was waiting. He had dressed casually, wearing a blue jacket over stone chinos and a soft cream shirt, open at the neck. It made me feel slightly overdressed in my more conservative mid-grey suit. Standing, he pulled my chair out before the waiter had the chance.

It made a refreshing change to be in the company of such a gentleman.

Our table wasn’t in a particularly dark or romantic spot; in fact it was a perfect place to eat and talk about the subject of our meeting. After placing our order he sat back in his chair, relaxed; a maddening half-smile playing over his lips, as though he knew something that I didn’t. “So, Miss Bennet, what do you have for me?”

Pulling my briefcase up and onto the table, I brought out the portfolio I had spent so long working on. “This is a list of recommendations based on the requirements we agreed on Friday. I thought that we could go through them one by one and you could give me your opinion. That way, we can narrow it down to three or four possibles you might like to test drive.”

“By all means ... please continue.” He settled himself more comfortably, one hand propping up his chin, as he listened to my sales pitch as though it was the most interesting thing he’d heard all year. His hair had fallen forward onto his face, making him look younger; almost boyish.

My fingers itched to brush it back for him.

I began by confirming the few parameters we had managed to agree on Friday, pointing out that the only way he could match the quick acceleration he had grown used to with his bike was with what we in the trade termed a Supercar. Therefore, they would form the bulk of the portfolio, along with some of the better performing Grand Tourers. A photograph accompanied each of the vehicles I had put forward for consideration, and as the waiter delivered the starters, I handed Mr. Darcy the pictures to see whether he would reject any of the options on the grounds of design alone.

He immediately picked out the Zonda. “Do you really see this as my style?” He seemed hurt that I would consider him capable of buying something that looked so ridiculous.

“Short of preferring two wheels over four, I have no idea of your style, Mr. Darcy. That’s what this meeting aims to address.”

Looking up from his soup, he said, “If you want to address me as anything, I’d rather you called me Will.”

His tone was soft, but it was the earnest expression in those blue eyes that sent my stomach into freefall. “That’s a little informal for a business meeting, don’t you think?”

“If we were in my office I’d be inclined to agree, but it seems a shame to spoil a pleasant meal with stuffy formality. You can call me Will, and I’ll call you ...” His eyes held mine as he waited patiently for an answer.

They had the implacable look of someone prepared to wait all day if necessary.

“Elizabeth,” I said after a long pause. “My name’s Elizabeth, although most of my family call me Lizzy.”

“Don’t you like Elizabeth?”

“I prefer it, but very few people can be bothered to use my full name.”

“I think it’s a very nice name ... Elizabeth.” He rolled the word off his tongue as though he was declaiming Shakespeare. “Far prettier than this ... this Batmobile clone.” He pushed the Zonda towards me. “I don’t think that one will be on my short list.”

“Right.” I slipped the first reject into my briefcase. “Is there anything else here that you have a problem with?”

As we ate he scanned the other images carefully. After a few minutes, he picked up another picture. “This one looks a little like Richard’s, doesn’t it?”

“It is a Lamborghini, but not the Murciélago. This is the Reventón; a limited edition model. It improves on the LP640 in a number of key areas, but keeps the impressive all-wheel drive system, and raises the power to 650bhp.”

William's face reminded me of Lydia's ... when she found Brussels sprouts on her plate. “That colour is disgusting. I assume there are other options.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “No, that’s it I’m afraid. Lamborghini created that mid-opaque green-grey specifically for the Reventón. The paint finish includes tiny metal particles, which gives a very impressive effect in daylight … or so I understand.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter if they offered me a whole rainbow of colours; I can’t buy a Lamborghini. If Richard found out, I’d become the butt of his very pointed brand of sarcasm.”

“Why?”

His expression turned slightly sheepish. “I may have teased him ... a little ... about his choice. Seriously, it’s not worth the hassle I’d get. That one will have to go.” He handed the image across to me before picking up another.

“What’s wrong with this door? Is it broken?”

“No, it’s not broken. You’ll find that a lot of modern super cars have butterfly or scissor doors. That’s the Saleen S7.”

“Saleen? I’ve never heard of them.”

I made no comment until the waiter had finished clearing the table, and laying the cutlery for the next course. “It’s American. Built in California.”

The waiter returned swiftly with the main course and the conversation paused by mutual consent until we were alone again.

“Perfect for driving in Derbyshire then.” His tone was as dry as sand. “Because we all know that the U.S. is just full of narrow, winding roads.”

I felt as though I’d been left behind somewhere in the conversation. “Derbyshire?”

“The car will be used most often when I’m at Pemberley. That’s my home in Derbyshire,” he added helpfully. “I thought I’d mentioned it on Friday.”

“No, Mr. Darcy, you didn’t—”

He interrupted. “It’s Will. Or William, if you prefer. What car do you drive, Elizabeth?”

The question was so unexpected that it took a moment for me to mentally change track. “Do you interrogate all your business associates so closely?” I replied using his own words, buying myself a little thinking time.

The smile he returned was disconcerting. “I thought my enquiry quite apt under the circumstances.”

“We’re here to find a car for you Mr. ... er, William. My own mode of transportation has no bearing on this conversation.”

He sat back in his chair, waving a hand towards the photographs that remained on the table top, dotted between the plates and glasses. “Fine. Let me ask a different question then. If you were going out on a date, which of these cars would you not want to see pulling up outside your house?”

“Not want to see?” It was very rare that any man asked my opinion. They were usually far too full of their own to admit another’s point of view. “Well, the first one that would put me off is the Bugatti, I’m afraid. A beautiful looking car, with breathtaking performance; it’s only recently been superseded as the fastest production car in the world, with a top speed of 253 miles per hour. Unfortunately, there are so few Veyrons in the UK that they must create a stir wherever they go. Any man who buys one desires only to be the object of everyone’s attention. If I spend time with a man, I like to think that he’s more interested in me than how many people are admiring his car.”

“That’s an interesting point; I’ve never thought of it like that. The Veyron’s out then. I’m not one for drawing attention to myself. Besides, it’s not like I’d be able to get even close to its top speed on British roads. Any others?”

I hesitated; my position as an unbiased adviser warring strongly with my sense of good taste. After a few moments taste won, and I picked up one of the pictures.

“I’m not sure I’d care to be seen in one of these. The Spyker Zagato is not the prettiest car in the world ... especially with the double bubble roof. It’s almost like a fifties idea of what a car of the future might look like; in fact the whole thing—particularly from the back—is just ugly. For £360,000 you can buy many cars that are just as powerful but more aesthetically pleasing, but of course, that’s only my personal opinion.”

“In that case, the Spyker has to go ... I wouldn’t want to ruin my chances.”

My first thought was that he was referring to those future dates he was planning, but when I caught him staring at me as I ate, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of something very different.

“What’s this?” he asked after a few minutes, dragging me out of my reverie.

“A Porsche.”

“Yes, even I can recognise a Porsche when I see one, but this is a convertible.”

“Not just a convertible; the 997 turbo cabriolet is one of the fastest drop-tops currently in production. It can do nought to sixty in 3.8 seconds and it has a top speed of 192 miles per hour.”

William laughed. “With the top down? Are you kidding me? Who would want to travel at over one hundred and ninety miles an hour with the top down?”

I knew that I didn’t, but there was no accounting for taste and I wasn’t going to criticise the idea. That wasn’t what I was here for.

“Anyway,” he added, “A convertible probably isn’t the best choice for me, given my reason for buying. I’d get in as much trouble for taking a date out in one of those as I would asking them to ride pillion. You know how most girls don’t like their hair to get all messed up.” His eyes narrowed as he studied me more closely. “You’re not going to tell me that you’ve got one of these cabriolets, are you?”

I laughed. “No, and I don’t have a Porsche either.”

His attention was firmly on the photographs as he said, “But you drove here in something tonight ... unless, of course, your fiancé gave you a lift.”

“I’m not engaged.” I cursed myself for answering so quickly. He must have known that already by the lack of rings on my fingers.

He looked up then, his eyes locking onto mine, his expression inscrutable. “Boyfriend then?”

I dragged my attention away from his piercing blue eyes, focussing instead on my glass of water. “No.”

“Is that no, your boyfriend didn’t drive you here, or no, you don’t have one?”

“I don’t ...” It was only then that I realised just how personal the conversation had turned. What was I doing? The soft tone of his voice was hypnotic, but that was no excuse for my melting into a puddle when I was supposed to be working. I mentally shook myself. “That information doesn’t have any bearing on the business at hand, does it?”

He shrugged. “So what did you park in the car park tonight?”

I searched through the photographs until I found the SLR and held it up for him. “One of these. We have a demo on loan at the moment.”

Plucking the picture from my fingers he studied it for a moment before looking up. “Any good?”

I smiled. “It has a hand built, 5.4 litre V8 engine and will accelerate to sixty mph in 3.5 seconds, partly thanks to its light-weight carbon fibre body. If you want to go one up on your cousin, it also has better fuel economy that the Murciélago and happens to be the fastest car in the world with automatic transmission.”

“Ah … does it come with a manual option?”

“I don’t think so.”

He handed the photo back to me. “In that case it’s no good. I prefer to be in complete control as I drive. I don’t want some computer chip deciding when I’m going to change gear.”

I had to admit that my preference was for a manual gearbox as well, although I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how closely our opinions coincided.

By the end of the night we had gradually moved away from discussing cars altogether. Of course, it had started innocently enough when he had asked about Bennet Vehicle Sourcing, and how the company had begun. As a valid question for a client to ask, I had no qualms about revealing my father’s early rallying career and his lifelong love of fast cars and the technology behind them. Somehow, from there, it didn’t seem odd when we moved onto families in general. After I had explained how my four sisters and I handled different aspects of the company, it felt entirely natural for William to talk about his own younger sister. It wasn’t until he began arguing with me over who was paying the bill that I realised that I hadn’t yet got his opinion on the remaining cars in the portfolio.

I looked down at the pictures that lay across the table. There were still too many that he hadn’t even looked at. Calling it a ‘short list’ at this time would be a definite misnomer.

Following my gaze to the table top, he started to pick them up. “We still have a few to go through, don’t we? It looks like we’ll have to meet again.” He didn’t seem particularly upset by the idea. Shuffling the photos into a pile he held them out to me, grinning. “How about Thursday?”

“I ... um.” I had a feeling in my gut that there was more meaning in those three words than I could hear. I’d been serious when I‘d told him that I didn’t mix business with pleasure—I wasn’t interested in one night stands with clients; no matter how handsome they were— which left me in an awkward position. “Perhaps you’d prefer to take the portfolio home and study the cars at your leisure?”

“I can’t do that. Georgiana says I bring too much work home with me as it is.” He twirled his unused desert fork absently. “Your company is based in Hertfordshire, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I usually ride north on Friday afternoons. What if I take a small detour and meet up with you somewhere nearby? We could grab lunch, look over the rest of these and perhaps end up with a few cars to test drive. How does that sound?”

It sounded very appealing. I would have to build up a stronger guard around my heart if I was going to spend any more time with William Darcy. It didn’t matter how attractive I found him, or how well we got on together. He was just another customer; one I was unlikely to ever see again once he’d completed his purchase.

I provided him with directions to a pub just outside Meryton, where the food was good but it didn’t get too busy on Friday lunchtimes. Then he offered to walk me to the car park. Leaving the restaurant, I heard an engine rumble into life and looked around to see a sleek Bentley loitering on the far left. It hadn’t been there earlier, so I assumed he must have ordered it to pick him up at a certain time.

Instead of parting at the bottom of the steps, as I’d half expected, he accompanied me across to the Merc. When I opened the driver’s side door, it floated out and up until it was at a forty-five degree angle above the car’s roof.

He looked at it suspiciously. “Do you really like doors that hang suspended in mid-air?”

“I don’t mind.”

He ran his fingers over the lowest corner. “That could take someone’s eye out.”

I had to stop myself from smiling; he seemed so serious. “I thought you didn’t have any kids? You sound just like my father.”

William laughed; a rich warm sound that made my heart swell. Putting his hand on the edge of the door he leaned against it, as though testing how much provocation it would take to move it. Coincidentally, his position also made it very difficult for me to climb into the driver’s seat without brushing against him. As appealing as that idea was, I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression about me. “Excuse me.”

“What? Oh ... yes.” He stepped back, allowing me to sit down. I swung my legs into the car and fastened the seat belt. When I turned to say goodnight, he was closer than I’d expected; crouching underneath the open door. I thought he might be curious to see the car’s interior, but William barely gave it a glance. “I ... ah, I just wanted to thank you for breaking your own rule and agreeing to meet me here tonight. I think this evening has been quite productive.”

I watched his hand as it reached out towards me, but instead of touching my shoulder, as I feared, he caressed the soft leather of the seat, just inches from my jacket. I relaxed, cursing my overactive imagination. Leaning forward, I turned the key before flicking the top of the gear stick back to access the starter button; the engine roared into life with a loud growl. “According to Jeremy Clarkson, the SLR’s engine sounds like the God of Thunder, gargling with nails,”* I said, trying to diffuse an uncomfortable situation that I was sure was purely in my mind.

William smiled and nodded his head appreciatively. “That sounds like a fair description.” Standing up he only just missed catching his head on the door. He threw me a rueful grin; his lips quirking upwards on one side in a way that turned my knees to jelly. “I’ll see you Friday then.”

I nodded, and he pulled the door closed with a satisfying thunk.

As I drove out of the car park and headed home, I tried to forget the last image I had of him through the car window, and wondered how I was going to manage another meeting, without making a complete fool of myself.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My eyes followed Elizabeth as she drove away, until her car was nothing more than two pinpricks of red light in the distance. I couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed myself so much on any date before.

Except it wasn’t a date ... it was business.

When she’d left my office the previous week, I’d been sufficiently intrigued to want to learn more about the woman who was unlike any female I had ever met. Well, now I did know more, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

Her clothes; her demeanour; her conversation. Everything about Elizabeth had screamed her insistence that she was working. Most women I dated wore clothes designed to ensnare, but Elizabeth’s dress told me better than words could that she wasn’t thinking of this as anything other than a business meeting. In the past, many of my dates had spent the whole evening flirting aggressively, in a way that left me feeling like a hunted animal. With Elizabeth, I’d been more comfortable than I had with any other female for a very long time.

It felt more like Elizabeth and I were old friends, who hadn’t seen each other for many years. I was anxious to reacquaint myself; and I wasn’t sure I could wait until the end of the week. Why had I suggested Friday and not tomorrow morning?

I walked over to the limo just as Tony stepped out to open the door. “Evening, Mr. Darcy,” he said, touching his cap.

“Evening, Tony.” I settled into the seat, and leaned back against the head-rest, remembering the way her eyes had sparkled in the semi-darkness of the restaurant as she had described each vehicle with an intelligence and honesty that I’d found refreshing.

It had been a surprise to learn that she was single ... well, probably single anyway. I’d regretted my enquiry about her boyfriend almost as soon as it had passed my lips—we’d been getting on well until that point—but I needed to know where I stood. I’d finally managed to loosen her up by turning the conversation around to our families. She obviously cared for those sisters of hers a great deal, and the smile I’d been treated to as she’d spoken so fondly about her father had made me curious to meet the man who commanded such love and adoration.

I’ve never felt quite so jealous of anyone before.

* You can watch Jeremy's full review of the SLR here.

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