Even if it was true that NECTAR had never spoken directly with a single client—Jag included—until demanding to meet with Jag face-to-face.
But the success of Jag’s exhibition depended upon that car, and the success of his coup depended on the success of the exhibition, so here he was, waiting for NECTAR while a strange woman pawed his prize.
And on that matter, the clock was ticking. In truth, both he and his car had bigger concerns than smudges and fingerprints, and it was past time they get on with them.
Clearing his throat, surprised at the thickness that had accumulated there while he’d watched the mechanic, Jag managed to get out a low, more or less smooth and ominous, “Careful, there,” though his voice still caught as it exited his throat. Strengthening and carrying more of the original remonstrative disdain than he had intended, he added, “I’m sure your employer wouldn’t appreciate you smudging the finish.”
But rather than startling and pulling her hand back like a thief caught in the act, the woman instead went absolutely still, her hand remaining firmly affixed to the side of his vehicle.
And as she turned to face him, he was forced to admit that she was a risk to him of the oldest and most potent variety.
She was gorgeous.
Her hair was dark, and glossy, and thick.
Her skin was bright and clear, an umber tone that glowed, silky, smooth and warmth.
Her dusky-rose-colored lips matched the rest of her full and expressive beauty, while her nose was well shaped and adorable and her eyes large and brown.
If she weren’t dressed up in mechanic’s gear, she would have looked like a princess from a fairy tale.
Their eyes locked.
Her straight eyebrows drew together, the deep color of her lush lips pressing into a line.
And from the light burning in her dark brown eyes, it was clear that she had the audacity to be offended byhim.Shehad been the one fondlinghiscar.
“Prince Jahangir, I presume,” she said, as ifhisproperty were not the subject of their conversation and his title were simply a superfluous adjective.
Nothing in what she said neared an apology, nor an explanation, nor anything remotely remonstrative. In fact, there was not an ounce of regret in her voice.
If anything, she sounded as if she were disappointed at his behavior, and not just that. Her voice also made it clear that she was additionally disappointed with herself—for expecting better of him.
It had been so long since anyone had used a tone like that on him that it took the Prince a moment to place it.
Only his mother had ever spoken to him like that.And where had a thought like that come from?Shaking his head, he pushed the memory away, rather than let it linger.
“Indeed,” he responded, instead. “I am here to retrieve my vehicle at NECTAR’s...request.”
The woman laughed, and it broke through the irritation on her face. Lifting her lips, her glorious eyes crinkling at the corners, she appeared to emanate her own light, though Jag knew that couldn’t be true. It had to be because she stood beneath the car’s spotlight.
Jag stared, unable to quite adjust to the wattage of her smile as well as a bit taken aback by the whole situation itself.
If he wasn’t mistaken, she was laughing at him.
As her laughter died down, though she remained smiling, she said, “I’m NECTAR. In person, though, people usually call me Rita.”
As though he had not been thrown for a loop, Jag verified, “Youare NECTAR?”
Meeting his eye, which was a feat he had long ago given up on expecting of most people, the woman said, “I sure hope so. Otherwise you just paid the wrong person a lot of money for this car. Not to mention entrusted a car worth its weight in gold to the wrong person.”
Jag blinked once, then nodded as if the information were to be expected when it entirely was not.
NECTAR was a woman.
NECTAR was a beautiful woman. Possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever met.
And her tone was chastising.