Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Charlie

Oh shite.

I look at Laurant, standing a few feet away from me, just inside the door of the temporary gym, an expression I can't decipher on his handsome face.

Handsome? Ha. His gorgeous face. Admit it, he might be a pain in the arse, but he's so very pretty to look at.

And phenomenal behind the wheel. The only thing hampering his podium places this season is his car. So many drivers complain their car is what's preventing them from winning. In Anton's case, it's one hundred percent the truth.

If only he'd deign a meeting to discuss it.

He's here now.

Sure. Tell him I'm going to change his specific settings, the ones he demands no one adjusts, a few seconds after he busts me unloading on a punching bag with his face stuck to it? Ha!

"Well," I wipe the back of my boxing glove across my forehead, my breath ragged, and meet his direct gaze, "this is awkward."

His nostrils flare. Just that. No other response.

There should be. He's busted me being highly unprofessional. He has every right to be furious. Equis HR is going to have a field day. What was I thinking ?

"Look," I say, taking a step toward him, guilt throbbing in my temples. "This isn't what it… Well, it is what it looks like, but…"

I falter. Bite my bottom lip.

Why hasn't he said anything?

I don't squirm, but my stomach clenches. I can make his car the fastest on the track. I can hand him podium after podium. I can help Equis be untouchable. And I've jeopardised it all because one arrogant Frenchman too good-looking for my highly intelligent brain to compute got under my skin.

He rakes a look over me, before returning his stare to my face. Thank God, I'd spent an absurd amount of time trying to find tape to fix his image to the top of the bag. I'd only begun taking out my frustration on it a few minutes ago, so I know I'm not sweaty. When I really work out, my face turns beet red.

Sighing, I drop my head and let my shoulders slump. I'm going to have to do the one thing I'm not good at: beg for forgiveness.

"Anton," I say, looking up at him.

And gasp.

He's removed the space between us, now standing so close to me his cologne slips into my breath.

"Oui?" he murmurs, piercing blue eyes capturing mine. "You want me?"

My heart rockets up into my throat, and a tight, hot ribbon curls deep in my core.

Yes. I do.

"What?" I whisper, stunned at the perfidious thought.

His gaze drops to my lips, and a wave of concentrated lust—a physical response I've never felt in my life—rushes through me. "You said my name," he says, lifting his attention to my face again. "You want me, no? I am here."

Heart thumping, body…burning, I take a step back. If I don't, I might take a step forward and press my body to his.

"I want…" I stop. Swallow. Lick my lips. I'm so unsettled my Yorkshire accent—normally curbed by years of education in a private girls' school—slips free.

Anton's nostrils flare, and a strange tension darkens his face.

"I want to apologise," I finish, accent reined in, even if my unexpected and thoroughly disquieting lust isn't. If I had no impulse control, I'd have my hands buried in his hair and my lips in possession of his by now.

But thankfully, impulse control is one of my super-powers.

Don't you mean, alas?

Spine snapping straight, I take another step back, lifting my chin.

No. I do not.

Do I?

"Pour quoi?" he asks, blue eyes refusing to let me go. Why does his voice sound like aural sex?

Frowning, I shake my head. "I don't speak French."

I do. A little bit. But I'm so shaken by my bewildering response to him I don't catch what he says.

A small smile curls the corners of his lips, and oh wow, I'm in trouble.

His smile…his voice…his eyes… I've seen him interviewed and read everything about him before I even joined Equis. I know he's considered one of the sexiest men in Formula One. But being in his presence… How was I not prepared for the sheer sensual force of the man?

His gaze drops to my mouth again for a fleeting moment. "Why are you apologizing to me ?" he says in English.

"For…" I lick my lips before I can stop myself, and the sound he makes, a low, carnal groan, awakes something equally raw inside me. I'm not just in trouble here; I'm in dire straits.

Our stares clash again, and my heart hammers into wild flight. He's looking at me like he wants to…to…

Fuck my brains out?

"For my unprofessional behaviour," I finish on a shaky breath.

He draws his head closer to mine. "Do you want to experience truly unprofessional behaviour, chérie?" He pulls in a slow, shaky breath. "With your permission, I can make that?—"

"Charlie?" Sergio's voice cuts between us and, cheeks aflame, I jolt away from Anton.

His jaw bunches and something unreadable passes across his face.

"Everyone's ready for the meeting," Sergio continues, walking into the gym, his focus on the iPad he's carrying. "Although still no sign or word from…" He lifts his head, eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Anton. "Laurant, what are you doing here?"

"Sergio." Anton dips his head in a slight bow. "You want a word from me?"

Frowning, Sergio slides a look at me before returning his attention to Anton, pointing a steady finger at him. "Be at the meeting. Ms Madigan doesn't have time for your ego."

Anton's Adam's apple jerks up and down his throat. "Consider my ego warned."

Sergio narrows his eyes, part turns, and then looks back at me. Did he see how close Anton and I were standing before he entered the gym? Did he see my wholly unexpected and surprising reaction to Anton? The…the… desire suddenly consuming me for the man?

My mouth dries. If Sergio hadn't interrupted us, would I have lost control of myself and succumbed to it?

Because I am ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain I saw that same desire in Anton's eyes. Which baffles the hell out of me.

He loathes me.

Doesn't he?

"Everything okay, Chief?" Sergio asks.

Pulse pounding in my ears, I nod.

Sergio looks at Anton again.

Anton smiles. "See you at the meeting."

Doubt tugs at Sergio's eyebrows, and then he strides from the gym. Leaving us alone.

Nerves knot in my stomach. Nerves.

What is wrong with me?

Anton lets out a low chuckle, chewing on his bottom lip as he seems to study the world beyond the glass doors. "Charlotte," he says my name as if tasting it.

Don't be attracted to him. Don't. He's a conceited ? —

He turns, blue eyes capturing mine, and all thought vanishes from my mind.

"If you don't walk away from me right now," he says, French accent like velvet against my senses, "I am in genuine danger of kissing you."

My lips part.

His gaze drops to them, and his nostrils flare.

"For the love of God, Charlotte," he murmurs, studying my lips. "Walk away from me. Before I make a fool of myself and take you in my arms and?—"

I step forward, slide my hand—still wearing the boxing glove—over the back of his neck, bring his head down to mine, and kiss him.