Page 24

ITALY

ONE MONTH LATER

NATALIA

My coworker Alexander Laskaris—Nefeli’s nepo-twerp son—is the last person I want to see. But here he is with his signature smirk, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway of my hotel room, which I only opened without checking because I hoped it might be Klaus making a surprise appearance.

“Happy birthday,” he says. On his outstretched palm is a USB flash drive, black plastic with a brand name in small red lettering and a key-fob hole at one end.

“It’s not my birthday, and whatever that is, I probably don’t want to see it.”

“Aww, go ahead— touch it ,” he teases in a mock-sultry whisper. “It’s not loaded with dick pics, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He waits while my skeptical gaze moves from the flash drive to his face. “Not even curious?” he goes on. “Want an explanation?”

“Is it worth it? I’m kinda busy.”

“Too busy for the scoop of the season?”

I pluck the USB stick off his hand. “Are you angling for me to invite you in? I might be, uh… busy soon.”

I’m waiting for a call from Klaus, though we haven’t had time to see each other since arriving in Imola, aside from in a business capacity.

The rare times he’s been free in the past month, I’ve been bouncing around the globe, splitting time between F1 grands prix and World Rally Championship races—Sweden to Saudi Arabia to Australia to Croatia to Italy.

The schedule obstacles have created something like slow-motion extended foreplay, and the tension is almost unbearable.

Let’s just say I’m keeping my legs shaved.

Following Alexander to the sofa, I rewrap my silky robe to cover more of my chest and tie the belt tight. He pats a cushion beside himself in invitation, but I opt for the perpendicular wingchair, shielding my neckline with one hand as I set the flash drive on the glass coffee table.

“Okay, start talking.” I arrange my robe to cover my calves. “It’s rude that you showed up unannounced, and at this hour. Why didn’t you just send an email?”

“Because this , pet, is sensitive information. I offer it in hopes of resetting that pretty little nose you’ve stubbornly kept out of joint since the quarrel during our date last year.”

“It wasn’t a date,” I retort. “You tricked me into coming to your family’s art gallery and ambushed me with a dinner I was too embarrassed to decline.”

“Tricked? Ambushed? Tsk , such drama.” He reclines against the cushions, arms stretched across the sofa back. “I think we remember the night differently, sulky puss. No sense of fun, you.”

With a slow smile, he lazily rubs the side of his neck as if scratching an itch, but I can tell it’s actually to open his shirt a little more—already two buttons too low—so I can see his chest. His good looks—floppy auburn hair, beautiful bone structure, full lips, mischievous eyes…

why has nature wasted it on this douche?

He’s such a chameleon. It’s by turns fascinating and annoying.

His accent is fluid, tailored for the person to whom he’s speaking.

When he’s trying to be intimidating, he’s all posh Oxford RP.

When he’s going for badass, a hint of New York creeps in (a type of accent even people from there rarely have anymore—he lived in the Williamsburg neighborhood briefly and thinks it’s a good excuse).

And occasionally his voice reveals a generous splash of the Lake District in Northern England, where he grew up.

“Look, it’s late,” I tell him, “and I don’t much like you even when it’s early. Tell me what’s going on.”

He perches on the edge of the sofa and stretches toward the open bag of Pan di Stelle chocolate biscuits on the table, helping himself.

“It was mailed to me at the ARJ London office.” He takes a bite of cookie and continues to talk around it.

“No return address. Postmark is Merton—southwest London—so that tells us precisely bugger-all.”

I stand and hold out a hand for the cookie bag, and he claims one more before surrendering it.

I fold the top down and set it aside as I sit. “Pick up the pace.”

“That, pet…” he tells me, pointing grandly at the flash drive, “is evidence that a disgruntled individual at Allonby shared engineering blueprints with someone at Emerald.” He spreads his hands. “The ‘EmerAllon’ smoking gun.”

A jet of adrenaline zaps through me. “Wait, what ?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He leans back and crunches on the cookie, looking smug.

“Who are they—the Allonby employee and the person at Emerald?”

“Doesn’t include names.”

I give an indelicate snort. “Well, it’s hardly ‘evidence,’ then. Did you fish your journalism degree out of a claw machine?”

He rolls his eyes, sighing. “Read it. I trust you’ll find the information credible.”

“Sure. No names, anonymous informant, but… ‘credible.’ You’ll forgive me if I don’t dance with glee.”

Another reason I’m not exactly dancing? A sensational story like this would destroy people I care for… even if it could be huge for my career.

Alexander pops the last bite of cookie between his lips and brushes a crumb off his shirt. “Reserve your judgment until you see it.”

“Why are you giving this to me? You’re too selfish to let a scoop like this slip through your fingers, and we both know it.”

He sighs. “Fine. My mother told me to give it to you. For the deep-dive Klaus Franke piece you’re working on.”

“Nefeli weighed in? She saw it?”

“Not specifics. But I told her the gist of it. She said she trusts you to investigate and determine what to do.”

Nefeli Laskaris, queen of the ’90s exposé, thinks it’s worth looking into. Whatever’s on that flash drive must be potentially explosive…

Pausing to think, I rub and pinch my lips with fidgety fingers, until I notice Alexander watching me do it.

I jerk my hand away. “Okay, but why did they send this to you ?”

“I’m a hard-hitting reporter. You’re the decorative one. The new kid in town, with mile-long legs and a supermodel face—”

“Excuse me?” I cut in. “Why would that be—”

“Calm down. I’m trying to give you a compliment. I was going to say, I’ve developed a theory about you. Despite your reputation for ‘fun’ low-stakes writing—”

“ How’s this a compliment? ” I protest.

He gives a huffy sigh at the interruption, then goes on after a corrective pause.

“Natalia, pet… you may write about millionaire pretty boys driving in a circle, but your aggressive approach to research says you’re a secret journalism assassin.

You want to be writing things that change lives .

Punchy pieces that shine light into dark places. You can’t fool me.”

“I don’t need to,” I reply automatically. “You’re already a fool.” My tone is grumpy, but I’m gratified that he’s noticed I’m a serious journalist. Dammit.

“And since I know one should always include a card with a gift, here it is.”

He pulls a business card from his shirt pocket and extends it toward me. I take it, and I’m about to put him on blast for giving me his own card, like he expects I’d want his personal phone number. But he sketches a circle with one finger, prompting me to turn it over. I look at the back.

Tidily handwritten in black ink: I apologize for being an arse that night at the gallery.

I slant a look his way, and he offers a shrug that’s as close to remorseful as I think I’m going to get.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll take a look at the stupid flash drive.”

“Stunning.” As he gets to his feet, he says blandly, “You don’t sound all that excited for a scoop that could make your career.” He saunters toward the door. “What’s the matter? Is the torch you’re carrying for Herr Franke blinding your view?”

It was Alexander giving me shit about Klaus last summer that caused our not-quite-a-date to end in disaster, and it appears he still wants to have the last word on the subject.

“Really, thirty seconds after the apology?” I snap. “Don’t start with me again.”

Alexander peeks back with amusement. “Oh my. Like a little fish she takes the bait— snap snap snap . I’ll see myself out. Enjoy the gift.”

I shove the door shut behind him hard, then stand with my palm splayed on the wood until I hear the ding of the elevator. With trepidation, I walk back to the coffee table. Planting my hands on my hips, I glower at the flash drive.

Depending on how bad this is, it could damage Klaus, Phaedra, Emerald—a thousand people on that team.

Who knows where it could go? It might be anything from silly gossip to a malicious rumor to the kind of corporate espionage for which people are prosecuted…

not just handed a fine by the FIA or stripped of championship points.

I pick it up, turning the device between my fingers. So small, but it could devastate people’s lives.

I could destroy it.

But has it been sent to other journalists too? Burying this won’t stop the story from coming out if the intel is legitimate—it’d just be someone else whose name is attached to breaking the news.

Or it could be me .

I shouldn’t have excitement mixed with my dread, but… not gonna lie, I do . The golden shimmer of ambition rolls through me, and I hate myself for it a little.

We all know how well “ambition” worked out for Julius Caesar.

A sigh of apprehension trembles out of me. I go to the bedroom and open my laptop and plug in the flash drive, feeling sick as I realize that, although it hurt me at the time, Klaus just may have been right not to trust me last summer in Montréal.