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MELBOURNE

THREE MONTHS LATER

NATALIA

I just hope I don’t run into him off the clock.

It’s fine , I reassure myself. So what if you do? You have as much right to be here as he does.

As for Phae, she’s trying to be her usual nonchalant tomboy self, but I catch her checking herself out in one mirrored wall of the elevator as we make our way down to the hotel lounge to meet Cosmin Ardelean—Emerald’s new hotshot driver, for whom she’s the race engineer—for a drink.

“You look gorgeous,” I reassure her.

“Huh?” she asks, feigning bewilderment. “Oh. Like, the shirt? Whatevs.”

I bought the slinky white shirt for her when I was in Paris, because she’s always dressed like a twelve-year-old boy at math camp—ripped jeans, T-shirts with sciencey puns, sneakers—but I had to pretend I’d bought it for myself and it didn’t fit right.

I knew if I just said, “I picked this out for you,” she’d scoff.

There’d be a million reasons why the shirt was all wrong and I was a half-wit for having wasted my money.

“I don’t give a fuck how I look.” She jams both hands into her pockets. “As if I care what that narcissistic dickbag thinks.”

My smile is sly, and I maintain a taunting silence.

“Stop it or I’ll punch you in the tit,” she warns.

“Ardelean may be ‘hot’ to some people, but the only thing I like about him is the ten points he bagged for Emerald. This ‘Let’s have one little drinkie with him’ thing was your idea.

And thank God I’m not trying to catch his eye—I look like shit next to you.

Your legs are a light-year long and you have a rack like Jessica Rabbit.

Who are you trying to impress? Did Formula Fuckboy’s charms during the post-race interview work that well? ”

There’s a brittle edge of jealousy in her tone, but if I point it out, she’ll slaughter me. I tug the plunging neckline of my red velvet dress an inch higher.

The truth is, ever since Klaus spotted me at the press conference days ago, I’ve been nervous about running into him. His eyes that afternoon went forest-animal startled as he scanned the group of journalists and snagged on me.

Guess he remembers me after all , I thought.

I was rattled too. Usually Ed Morgan does the Emerald press conferences. But to his credit, Klaus gave me some dynamic quotes in answer to my question for the panelists. No one would ever guess we had anything but a purely professional relationship.

For the past three months—since our “carnal collision” in Abu Dhabi—I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.

I can’t deny that was the hottest sex of my life, even if I was disgusted by his throwing money at me afterward.

(Okay, technically he set it down neatly, and I threw it. But whatever.)

Something about the man is a puzzle I keep turning over in my mind. When the cyberstalking I did revealed him to be a tragic widower, my heart ached for him in a way that made me frustrated with myself for being such a damned cliché.

Beside me, Phaedra scowls down at the neckline of the white shirt, fussing with it like she can’t decide whether it should show off more or less of her pale, freckled skin.

The elevator bell chimes and the doors glide open on the opulent lobby. Standing there—being venerated by a blonde so hyperfocused on him that I could perform an appendectomy on her sans anesthesia—is none other than Klaus Franke.

His obsidian eyes settle on Phaedra.

“Good evening, Schatzi,” he greets her. With cool courtesy, he deigns to acknowledge me. “And… your name again was…?”

So that’s how we’re playing this?

Squashing down my annoyance, I straighten my shoulders and “reintroduce” myself.

“Natalia Evans.”

As revenge for having given her crap in the elevator about Cosmin, Phae razzes me about the interaction with Klaus, claiming I was blushing as we walked away.

I make some excuse about not liking him because he was rude to me once; then I derail Phae’s teasing by pointing out Cosmin, who’s flirting with some racing fan across the bar.

We order drinks and make chitchat. It’s obvious that Emerald’s new driver is smitten with Phae, showing off for her. His surveyal of me is appreciative, sure. But more like the abstract admiration you’d show to a lovely piece of furniture that wouldn’t look right in your house.

My phone buzzes in my tiny cross-body purse. I dig it out, hoping it isn’t my boss Nefeli, inquiring about a story I have due at midnight.

Forgive my poor manners earlier, kleine Hexe, but I assume you’d prefer Phaedra not know of our degree of familiarity.

My heartbeat is suddenly as fast and arrhythmic as a clumsy tap dance.

How the hell did he get my number? And so quickly…

Phaedra leans in to peek, and I stuff the phone into my purse. A burst of laughter and conversation from Cosmin and the fangirl draws her attention away.

My phone buzzes again.

I’d like to apologize in person for my misstep in Abu Dhabi.

“Who’s that?” Phae asks, swiveling my way again.

“No one. Wrong number.”

When the phone lights up a third time, she snatches it from my hand and I have to pummel her to retrieve it. As I secure it in my purse, I spy the message:

I understand if you’re committed. But if not, meet with me so we can talk.

Does he mean “in a relationship” committed or “already have plans with friends”?

Phae gets grouchy over my “sneaky” phone messages and launches some mean little digs, making me feel stupid in the way that’s always come naturally to her.

We’re low-key bickering when a merciful distraction arises as Cosmin starts to wander off with the cute girl Phae would never admit to seeing as her rival.

I sneak my phone out and reread the messages. Throwing a glance at Phae, I type a stealthy reply.

I’ll wait out front for exactly five minutes. Your window is 9:18-9:23.

Phae isn’t thrilled when I bail, but she might be playing it up. Making each other “the bad guy” has always been part of our Old Married Couple vibe, so I’m not worried. Once she gets back into her room with snacks and pajamas, I figure she’ll be glad for some alone time.

When I go out to the motor lobby, Cosmin is there with the woman from the bar. She’s drunkenly falling all over him, slipping a hand into his suit jacket while he holds her up. They don’t see me, and I discreetly go sit on a bench at one side of the doors. They appear to be waiting for a car.

I check the time on my phone: 9:18.

The countdown begins.

A sleek BMW sedan pulls into the circular drive, but Cosmin makes no move toward it. He checks something on his phone and pockets it. The sedan with its dark-tinted windows sits, quietly purring.

The hotel doors open. A pair of pristine black monk-strap shoes stop to my right, and I slide my eyes in that direction without looking up.

Leisurely, I check my phone. “One minute to spare.”

He chuckles. “You allowed me very little time.”

Damn the sorcery of that deep voice of his…

I lift my gaze, and the sight of him is like an erotic version of static shock.

It all converges on me in a second: the memory of his scent, the texture of his skin, the rock-hard curves of muscle under my fingertips, the delicious sound of every sexy thing he murmured into my ear that night months ago, the subtle rumbles of approval he made when I came.

He extends a hand. “Shall we?”

“Where are we off to?” I ignore his hand and saunter to the car.

“As yet undetermined. I’m thinking on my feet.”

He opens the rear door for me, and I pause to lean on it. I wait, one eyebrow raised. He gives me a look of chagrin, mouth quirking on one side.

“I owe you an apology,” he delivers in a remorseful sigh.

“How much is that worth? More or less than a thousand euros?” I sit carefully—my dress daringly short—and pivot to swing my legs in, scooting over to make room. Klaus gets in and shuts the door.

“Would you like to dine?” he asks. “Have you been to Attica?”

I can’t suppress an unladylike snort of disbelief. “ Attica ? Oh sure, every day. Unless this car is Marty McFly’s time-traveling DeLorean and you’re going to book a reservation six months ago, good luck.”

“I have a standing reservation during the grand prix weekend,” he says with amusement. “My assistant likely did make it six months ago.”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. A fancy dinner would be wasted on me.”

“Nothing could ever be wasted on you, kleine Hexe.”

I hide the shiver that goes through me at the sound of the pet name I haven’t heard out loud since we were naked. I clear my throat and turn forward, examining the motionless, precisely groomed back of a male head—the driver.

“We could go for a walk, I guess,” I tell Klaus.

If we’re walking, I won’t have to look at him.

The thought of being across a table from this man, staring at his tumble of soft, silver-touched wavy hair, his shapely lips, his flashing eyes… I don’t think I could take it.

“A stroll it is. Perhaps the beach?”

I’m about to agree—I was raised to be reflexively accommodating—when I decide to just be myself. “You know where I like to walk most? Neighborhoods with houses, so I can see in the windows. It’s like… dozens of miniature reality TV shows. People are interesting.”

His dark eyebrows dart up. “I’d enjoy that very much, watching these small ‘reality shows’ with you.”

Klaus directs the faceless man in the front seat to find us a neighborhood with walking-friendly streets. The driver spends a minute perusing a map on his phone, then takes off.

It’s late enough on a Sunday night that traffic is easy, and soon the car pulls up curbside to a winding neighborhood road flanked with small homes.

Klaus climbs out, then opens the door and holds it for me, politely keeping his eyes averted as I struggle to stand without my dress slithering up to my waist. The evening breeze is balmy with the scent of eucalyptus trees and pavement.