2 Melbourne

2

MELBOURNE

RACE DAY

COSMIN

My eyes skim the track, the traffic, making micro-adjustments. The engine’s roar is the blood coursing through my veins. I’m in the zone, my control firm and organic. I don’t fight the car. It’s my body and breath. We flow together, and the rush is incredible.

“Ortiz has a botched pit stop,” Phaedra tells me over the radio in her no-nonsense tone. “You’ll be ahead at pit exit.”

“Copy.” A jet of adrenaline flares in my chest, like a coal that’s been blown on.

Her voice again, smooth and natural, like she’s living in my head: “P5 in sight. Bring it home, Legs.”

Mateo Ortiz is still in the pits, and a psychological shiver goes over me as I pass the exit. Fifth place sharpens from a hazy mirage to steel-cold reality.

I was not born for this, but I was made for it.

First race with Emerald: TEN. FUCKING. POINTS.

My teammate, Jakob, landed P9—two points. I like Jakob. Nice kid, though uptight. Twenty-two, already married, and it’s certain Inge is the first and only girl he’s had. He refuses to enjoy the extracurricular benefits of our career. Absurd. That’s like owning a mansion and living in one room. Champagne would only touch Jakob’s stern lips if someday it’s poured over him on the podium. He’s a reliable, top-ten-finishing workhorse—consistently in the points—but not championship material.

For me? The podium is so close I can taste it, with a strong car under me this year.

Communications manager Reece gives me a bracing clap on the shoulder as we walk toward press gathered outside the corral. She has a critical eye and misses nothing. If cool, composed Team Principal Klaus is Emerald’s father figure, Reece is a demanding mother who doesn’t suffer a fool. Her personality is as direct as her style—short hair, no makeup, quick eyes. She speaks seven languages (including Romanian) and sometimes reminds me of my elder sister, Viorica. They’re both nearing forty.

Reece scans the group with her uncanny ability to untangle a dozen comments at once. “That’s Natalia Evans,” she says near my ear, pointing at a brunette in purple. “New reporter from Auto Racing Journal .”

I give the journalist in the skirt suit a once-over. “I will talk with her first.”

“Don’t tempt me to muzzle you, Cos,” Reece warns.

“They love when I flirt.”

“And you love when you flirt.”

I flash a grin. “Everybody wins.”

The brunette is stunning. Midthirties, tall, hourglass figure, eyes like a cloudless sky, irises ringed in black that matches her lashes. I check her left hand—bare—as she adjusts one earring, fingertips brushing her neck. Subconsciously, she’s imagining my hand there. Moving lower. Undressing her.

Perhaps I’ll spend tonight between those thighs.

“Cosmin! I have questions,” she says, tapping her voice recorder.

I lean on the metal fence and send a wink her way. “I have answers, iubi.”

Combing a hand through my hair, I take a drink of water. She watches the straw in my mouth, and as I remove it, I lick my bottom lip. I know the steps in this dance so well I could do it blindfolded.

“Let’s move straight to the good stuff,” she begins.

I cock one eyebrow. “I’m all for that.”

“Excellent. So. First grand prix, double-digit points. You’re looking good.”

“Glad you noticed.”

“Are you worried it could’ve been luck? Mateo Ortiz had a heartbreaking twenty-three-second pit stop. Akio Ono and Anders Olsson suffered mechanical failure DNFs. Jo?o Valle and Drew Powell, taken out by a collision. Was the fifth-place finish your magic, or merely attrition?”

This just got less fun. I may have to spank her for it later.

I drop my gaze with a smile. “That’s racing. Sometimes you hunt opportunity down, sometimes it shows up with an apple in its mouth. When those circumstances arose, I was the one in the position to take advantage.” I lean closer. “It’s not the tool, but how well you use it. And I’m an exceptionally skilled craftsman.”

She smirks. “Oh?”

“That, iubi,” I say, tapping the back of her hand, “is a promise.”

Reece touches my elbow, pointing at a short man in chinos. “From the Herald Sun ,” she prompts.

I tip my head in the man’s direction, still looking at Natalia. “Everyone wants a piece of me. If you’re hungry for a second slice, I’m at the Park Hyatt. Nine o’clock in the lounge?”

A figure steps into my peripheral vision.

“Nat!” Phaedra leans over the fence, and she and the reporter hug. “What do you think of our leggy libertine here?” she asks Natalia, giving me a backhand slap to the stomach.

“I think he’s going to be disappointed at nine o’clock,” Natalia replies. “And your description was spot-on.”

I might be able to camouflage my annoyance if Phaedra weren’t watching for it like a cat with her green gaze fixed on a mouse’s den.

“Aww, Legs.” Those naturally candy-pink lips tilt, and her little nose with its smattering of freckles wrinkles. “Did you think you were playing with her ? Natalia was playing with you .”

“Clever girls.” I give Natalia a level stare. “Shame—I had quite a story to share with you over a bottle of wine.”

Her eyes narrow in consideration, and she throws a chummy arm around Phaedra. “These boys do hate to lose, Phae. And you and I were going to hang out tonight anyway. Let’s all have a drink in the lounge. We’re in the same hotel—why not?”

Phaedra looks alarmed. “Hells to the nope. Negative. I thought we were going to binge Peaky Blinders and raid the minibar?”

“Just one drinkie,” Natalia tells her in a tone like it’s settled. “It’ll be fun.”

She saunters off to interview Jakob, and the Herald Sun reporter heads my way.

“It would appear we have a date,” I tell Phaedra. Putting my lips near her ear, I add, “Wear white.”

She recoils, frowning. “Oh, suck it. Even if I gave two shits what you think, I don’t own white clothes—they get filthy. Who the fuck wears white?”

“Good girls who don’t mind getting filthy.”

“Is there anything you can’t turn into a double entendre?”

“You’re pouting because I outsmarted you.”

She snorts. “You have to get up pretty early in the morning to outsmart me.”

“For you,” I tell her, “I’d stay up all night.”