Page 32

HUNGARY

THREE WEEKS LATER

NATALIA

During the week of the French Grand Prix, Klaus and I stayed in a beach cottage twenty minutes from the track, at Saint-Cyr-sur-Mer.

Despite the overwhelming busyness of the GP lead-up, we were, in those precious hours together on the French coast, like the only two people in the world.

He cooked for me, read to me, and we made love with abandon.

It would’ve been paradise if not for the fact that he’s hiding something.

There were a lot of furtive texts, or him wandering off to “take a quick call” alone, pacing the beach in front of the cottage.

I’d watch his body language, his agitated gesturing, and wish I could overhear what was being said.

I confess, one of the times he was outside ranting into his phone about something that had him more emotional than I typically see him, I crept to his laptop and tapped the track pad, hoping some clue might pop up. It was, of course, passworded.

I do feel emotionally safe with him, but as far as business stuff goes, we’re both so cautious.

More than once I’ve idly fantasized about another life we could have where he’s not a team principal and I write books in that cozy home office of my dreams. Lazy days with coffee and conversation and long walks, no pressure…

no secrets. I’ve even pictured it as being at the old Marshall farm in my hometown, which has been for sale for the past year.

But the idea of a jet-set billionaire setting aside his glamorous life and moving to some tiny Kentucky town is pretty silly.

On Nefeli’s not-quite-an-order, I’ve kept my ear to the ground about the issues with the new GP location, but there’s nothing solid.

On fan forums, people discuss the rumors of political instability in the host country.

Once I’m done with this deep-dive article about Klaus, I plan to focus more energy on the topic.

I gained a few new contacts since losing the one from Amnesty International, but I haven’t secured anything concrete enough to be useful.

A trip to the country in question will be necessary, and…

yeah, that’s not a conversation I’m looking forward to having with Klaus.

I didn’t tell him about it last week when I got an anonymous, semi-menacing email telling me to keep my nose out of things.

I turned it over to the IT department at ARJ to see if they could determine whether it was a credible threat.

But I won’t allow myself to feel intimidated when this could be such an important—and career-making—story.

Formula 1 is no stranger to controversy.

The ultra-high stakes aren’t only on track.

It’s a billions-per-year business. As a journalist, I know the rules aren’t the same for me in every race location.

There are questions that would land me firmly on the “persona non grata” list if I dared to ask them during Thursday press days.

The few times I’ve tried to extract info from Klaus on anything hard-hitting rather than merely “entertaining,” I’ve quickly discovered the limit of my alleged “all-access pass.”

Why are you asking me this? he’ll challenge.

Phaedra isn’t any help either. I tiptoed into the new-GP-venue topic once, and she not only got aggressive and mocked me for “having delusions of some Harriet the Spy investigative reporter bullshit,” but minutes later she sent someone a text, and Klaus replied—his text alert noise is the shriek of a 1990s naturally aspirated F1 engine, unmistakable.

So they’re in cahoots, on the same page about leaving me in the dark.

This race week in Hungary, for the first time, Klaus and I are openly rooming together, staying in a suite at the Four Seasons.

We have a balcony with a view of the Danube, and I should be a euphoric puddle of relaxation sitting out here right now—gazing at the sunset, colors melting over the cityscape and reflecting onto the river.

A bottle of Tokaji Aszú is open, and we have a light meal laid out: gorgeous bread, local cheeses, fruit, squares of dark chocolate.

So yeah… I should be relaxed. But the phone calls from Sherri—which stopped for a while after the Canadian Grand Prix—have started up again. She’s pushing me, dammit, and I’m not ready. It’s got me on edge and defensive.

Then a half hour ago, Klaus took a call and hustled off to close himself in the suite’s bedroom.

When I tried to go in to get my bathrobe, the door was locked .

I eavesdropped a little, because I had a paranoid thought: What if it’s Sherri, and she’s trying to enlist Klaus’s help on badgering me into a mother-daughter relationship?

But what I overheard instead was no better—more furtive business stuff, confirming his lack of trust in me where work is concerned.

So I’ve been sitting out here picking at the food and shivering slightly from the breeze off the river in my short silk chemise, arms and legs bare.

As the last of the sunset’s reflection is fading from the Danube, Klaus comes out.

I ignore him, stabbing a bit of melon with a bite of walnut-studded Gomolya cheese and popping it into my mouth.

He stands beside my chair. “I brought this out in case you’re chilly.”

He’s holding the bathrobe I wanted to get from the bedroom, and instead of being touched that he thought of it, I’m irritated that he’s in my head.

I shrug one shoulder. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

First draping the robe along the back of my chair, he goes to the other side of the table and sits. “The gooseflesh on your arms says otherwise, but suit yourself.”

His mildly amused tone says he knows I’m being stubborn.

I’m hoping he’ll ask me what’s wrong, so I can have the satisfaction of saying It’s nothing , but he’s better at this game than I am.

He pours himself a glass of the Tokaji Aszú and takes a strawberry from the tray and eats it before sipping the wine, gazing off the balcony.

“Lovely night,” he tries.

“Mmm-hmm.” I fork up a segment of apricot, and before I get it to my mouth, my phone buzzes again. Sherri. With a sharp sigh, I turn the phone face down.

“Talia.”

I look up, one eyebrow lifted, expression bland.

“Either block the number or let the woman speak,” Klaus counsels soberly. “If the message you’re trying to convey to her with this obstinate silence is that you don’t care, you’re achieving quite the opposite.” He chooses another strawberry. “It’s childish.”

I set my fork down. “Wow, you almost had a point there, until you decided to make it into an insult.”

“I had no—”

“As for what’s ‘childish’? That’d be you , skulking off and locking the door for a phone call. Once again demonstrating that you don’t trust me.”

He sits back and folds his arms— dammit, why does he have the sleeves rolled up, torturing me with his stupid sexy forearms? —and gives a maddeningly cool smile, his shapely lips quirking up on one side. “I wonder why you are trying to start a quarrel.”

“You tell me! I’m sure you have an opinion about it, right?” I jump to my feet and grab my phone. In the other hand I scoop up a chunk of pear and a square of chocolate, putting them into my mouth and chewing as I stalk inside.

I pace a full circuit around the sofa, both wanting Klaus to follow and hoping he’ll leave me the hell alone.

As I make another furious loop around the living room, I see through the windows that he hasn’t moved, sitting pretty as you please with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, leisurely drinking his wine.

Irrational fury goes from a simmer to a boil, and when my phone buzzes again in my hand, I spin away from the windows and throw it hard with a snarl of frustration.

While the phone is mid-flight, my hand claps over my mouth as I spot its inevitable trajectory and know I’m helpless to undo it. It smacks into the mirror behind the bar and bounces into the sink. Somehow I managed to avoid breaking any of the liquor bottles, but the mirror is cracked.

“Dammit… no!” I trot over and fish my phone out of the sink. It’s intact, but the mirror hasn’t fared as well. I lean in to survey the damage. The small starburst of broken glass is obvious—the whole thing will have to be replaced.

Perfect. Could my night get any better?

I straighten, chirping out a yelp as the full reflection of Klaus looms behind me.

“Are you hurt?” he asks. He tries to gather my hands in his to inspect them for injury, and I tear myself away from his grasp.

“I’m fine! Jesus, do I have to lock myself in a room like you to get a minute’s peace?”

He retreats a step, leaning back against the counter. Are his feelings hurt? I don’t want him to be hurt… not because I care about his feelings right now, but because it would make me the bad guy, and that is very unsatisfying.

He studies me seriously. “I’m sorry if you were upset by the locked door,” he says evenly. “I needed freedom from distraction, so I could focus. My Portuguese isn’t strong, and I was speaking to Armando at Harrier.”

My stomach sinks at the casual untruth. I’d love to call him out on what he’s claiming, but it’s better strategy to keep it to myself for now.

“Whatever. But you need to stay out of my business about Sherri. I can’t handle a guilt trip on top of how complicated my feelings already are.”

He pushes off the counter and comes toward me, cupping the elbows of my tightly folded arms in his palms, smoothing his hands up my bare arms. “Understood.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’re in a sour mood tonight, kleine Hexe.”

“I’m allowed,” I grumble, responding to his cautious smile with a faint, reluctant one of my own.

“Certainly.” Another kiss, this time at my temple. “And I hope I’m allowed to sweeten it.” His knuckle curls beneath my chin and he tips my face up, studying my eyes for the invitation before closing in on my mouth for a deep kiss.

As we part, I say, “I’ll bet I know what kind of sugar you’re offering.”