Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Anton

Tear up my contract? Ha! Who does Charlotte Madigan think she is. I am Anton Laurant. Five times World Champion.

But the podiums have been somewhat sparse these last two seasons, no?

Scowling, I ignore the insidious little voice whispering in my head and return my phone to my back pocket.

I despise that voice. Recently, it whispers in my head every time I line up at the grid, every pit stop I make, every time I close my fucking eyes.

A cool breeze blows across Monaco's Port Hercules, thick with sea salt and brine, and I let out a choppy breath. It's a perfect day to be out on the water. Far better on the water than in a meeting conducted by someone who knows nothing about my relationship with my car.

Do you remember what she did for Diaulos Racing's F2 teams?

"I need to return to the track," I say, turning to the man standing beside me on the deck of his yacht. Even docked in Billionaire's Row, amongst the other super yachts and motorboats here for the Grand Prix, the catamaran stands out as ostentatious luxury. Juan Cruzii lives for attention and exposure. A part of me suspects he manufactured our friendship for that very reason.

The actor, fresh off two back-to-back international blockbusters and capitalizing on the media and paparazzi focus the race brings to Monaco, sniggers. "Mommy calls, you mean? Snap-snap, chop-chop?"

An image of Charlotte Madigan saunters into my mind. Mommy is far from the word I'd use.

Cold. Calculating. Controlling. Those words come to mind.

Cute?

Maybe. Although she's nothing like my type. She's neither tall nor blonde nor demure.

But is that honestly your type? Or the type you think you must have?

Clapping Juan on the shoulder, I let out a sigh, the kind one makes when sacrificing the world for the greater good. "Chop-chop," I say. "I'll be back after the meeting."

Juan sniggers again. "Go get your ass smacked by Mommy, Laurant."

A cold finger slides up my spine, and I shake my head. Perhaps it is time to reassess my relationships.

Failing on the track, failing as a team member, and failing at friendships. Failing at life, oui?

That insidious voice in my head again. How the fuck do I silence it?

Perhaps if I think of something equally annoying?

An image of Charlotte Madigan taping her wrist, dark eyebrow cocked, fills my head and I grunt. Not what I was expecting, but I'll take it. What does she look like in person, I wonder? As…as…uptight? I've only ever seen images of her, and she's never smiling in any of them. Or relaxed.

"Au revoir, Juan," I say, disembarking, a strange tightness in my chest. "Enjoy the race."

"You're not coming back?" Jaun calls. "But my Instagram story!"

For an answer, I toss an indifferent wave over my shoulder and stride down the jetty. I am Anton Laurant. Not an accessory.

It takes only a few moments to traverse the distance from the marina to the restricted-access working zone, aka the F1 Paddock. Monaco is my favorite GP for that reason, you can go from luxury to work in a short walk. And the track itself, of course. No one owns the Monaco track like Anton Laurent.

Weaving my way through the whirl of pre-race activity, I smile and wave at other crews and drivers, feeling sorry for them. This weekend I will crush the other teams on the track. I am Anton Laurant, after all. I'm not failing at any?—

"Laurant." Martin Verhoeven steps directly in my path, his Barnett Racing Team jacket as tailored as his car, his expression as serious as his personality. "I hear you've angered your new chief aerodynamicist already."

Charlotte Madigan flashes into my mind, arms crossed, eyes stern. Curiously, in my head, a wind blows her thick dark hair back from her face.

"If Equis doesn't want her," he continues, Dutch accent blunt and dry, "Barnett does."

I narrow my eyes. Barnett wants her? Really? The current Constructor Championship leaders want Charlotte Madigan?

"Anger her?" I let out a relaxed laugh. "Me?"

Verhoeven regards me. I can't read him at all. Not off the track or on it. "Do you own boxing gloves, Laurant?"

"What?" I frown in return.

He grunts. "Good luck," he says, heading off in the direction of Barnett Racing's HQ.

" What ?" I call at his back.

Instead of answering, he waves a finger toward the general direction of the teams' communal gym/rec hall located at the eastern end of the Paddock.

Frown deepening, a sense of uneasy anticipation creeping over me, I head in that direction. The temporary gym is for the drivers to expel distracting pre-race energy. I've never used it. I expel distracting energy other ways.

An image of Charlotte Madigan fills my head again, and I grit my teeth. For someone I've actively ignored since Carson Willoughby hired her, she seems to be on my mind a lot.

Why?

She thinks she's better than you , the little voice whispers . She's right, and you know ? —

I stop walking.

Just inside the gym's glass door, a woman barely five foot four, with curves and dips in all the places curves and dips should be, is working out on a heavy punching bag, her face fierce, her fists fast and powerful.

Wait. What is that stuck at the top of the bag? Is that… Is that…

A knot twists in my gut as my brain registers exactly what I'm looking at.

Charlotte Madigan, Equis Racing's chief aerodynamicist, is working out on a punching bag with an A4 printed-out image of a face taped to it.

My face.

I stare at her. Watch her. Watch her move. Watch her energy, her passion. Her ferocity.

And suddenly, like fuel injectors firing all at once, the blood in my veins runs hot with a base male hunger I've never experienced before.

C'est quoi cette merde!