Chapter Four #2
Chance would be a fine thing. Millie gritted her teeth.
She’d almost let that phrase slip. She could handle managing his press—press releases, interviews, the usual chaos—but being responsible for his image?
Spinning it, rehabilitating it? That terrified her.
Taz didn’t need a PR manager, he required a miracle worker.
Someone with the nerves of a pro gambler and the skills of an acrobat juggling ten balls on a unicycle.
Someone who exuded confidence, who could command the narrative with unquestioned charm.
How could she possibly reshape his image when she barely understood her own?
Sure, she could write a flawless press release or schedule his interviews down to the second.
But transforming the world’s perception of him?
That required unshakeable confidence and bold, unapologetic chutzpah—qualities she didn’t possess.
‘Why isn’t your PR team here?’ she demanded, still looking for an out and hating herself for not throwing herself into this new challenge like she knew she should after all the promises she’d made to herself and Ben. ‘They have far more experience than me.’
‘They are also set in their ways and have a narrow way of thinking,’ Taz replied. ‘Why are you still trying to talk yourself out of this promotion?’
‘Because you need someone more qualified!’
‘We’re done talking about this, Millie,’ Taz retorted. ‘You’re bright, observant and clear-thinking. Stop putting yourself down, and get on board.’
Millie’s mouth opened and closed in shock. It was an unexpected compliment, and she didn’t know how to respond to it.
‘Tell me about the press coverage.’
His sharp order made her pull her thoughts together. ‘You’re getting annihilated. And the sponsors aren’t happy.’
‘Because any impact on my brand is an impact on theirs. And if they are complaining, then I’m in bigger trouble than I thought.’
His main sponsors were an energy drink company whose advertising was risqué and always controversial and a worldwide travel company whose tag line was that If it wasn’t naughty, it wasn’t nice.
‘It’s a perfect storm,’ Millie admitted. ‘People aren’t happy you went on a date with Meredith—’
‘That’s not what happened, and you know it.’
‘The truth doesn’t matter, perception does.
After the press implied you are sleeping with your brother’s fiancée,’ Millie countered, ‘you crashed, putting your championship in jeopardy. Then you pushed a rookie driver, one of the nicest around, and you punched a wall, putting yourself out of commission. The press and public hate unforced errors, Taz.’
‘I don’t need you to rehash my mistakes,’ he said, black ice frosting his voice and eyes.
‘And regret doesn’t change a damn thing.
’ He raked his hands through his hair and linked his fingers behind his neck.
‘I need to move forward, and that requires solutions and strategies, and I need them right now.’
A discreet knock on the door interrupted their conversation, and Millie let out a long, unsteady breath, grateful for the reprieve.
She might see herself as underqualified, acutely inexperienced, but for some inexplicable reason Taz seemed to believe she could cope with the pressure.
He was putting his faith, and more importantly his reputation, in her hands.
He was Taz De Rossi, famous for hiring the best and firing them when they didn’t live up to his exceedingly high expectations, but… She rubbed her hands over her face.
But if he believed in her, perhaps it was time she stopped doubting her capabilities. At the very least, she owed it to herself, and to Ben, to try.
Taz greeted the room service waiter and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. The waiter poured coffee and left, as quiet on exit as he was on his entrance.
Millie joined Taz at the window, handed him a cup of black coffee and folded her arms. ‘So I’ve been thinking…’
‘Is that dangerous?’ he asked, but Millie caught the delicious, but very unexpected, glimmer of amusement in his eyes. So Taz had a dry sense of humour. Good to know.
‘Look, I think you’re unwise to promote me, but it’s obvious that you need to rehabilitate your reputation.’
‘I am not doing hospital visits or visiting youth groups.’
‘If you did, you would be compared to Alex,’ Millie mused. ‘The public would accuse you of being inauthentic, of trying to ride the coat-tails of your brother’s sterling reputation to restore yours. It would be a disaster.’
His expression hardened, and Millie wondered if she’d hurt his feelings. No, that wasn’t possible. Nobody was sure Taz had feelings. Though his kiss last night suggested otherwise. Don’t think about how his mouth felt on yours, Millie…
‘Please, don’t hold back,’ Taz murmured.
Sarcasm, or not? She didn’t have time to try and figure it, or him, out. Millie put down her cup and paced the area in front of the window, flicking her thumbnail against her front tooth, thinking hard.
‘Apart from racing, what do you do well?’ she asked.
Before he could speak, she answered her question.
‘According to the internet, you are a fantastic skier, a better polo player and a golfer with a plus-one handicap. It’s been said that if you didn’t go into driving, you could’ve made a living in pro polo or golf. ’
Millie couldn’t see Taz doing either: Both were far too tame for a man who lived life at a thousand miles per hour. And drove cars at a third of that speed.
He collected wine and owned a holding company that owned and operated the De Rossi team and its many subsidiaries.
He had a vineyard in France and a villa in Tuscany.
A brownstone in New York—not the same one where his brother died—and a flat in London.
No doubt he had an English country house too. Then it hit her.
‘I have an idea…’
‘Should I be scared?’
Millie narrowed her eyes at him. Please, the man didn’t do scared. ‘Why don’t you do what you do best?’ she asked.
He lifted his cast. ‘Because my hand is out of action,’ he replied at his mocking best.
‘You’re a socialite, an A-list celeb, someone who is as at home at parties and functions as you are on the track. We can use that to rehab your rep.’
Taz closed his eyes. ‘I haven’t even heard your proposal yet, and I know I’m going to hate it.’ He sighed and gestured for her to continue.
‘I think you should offer yourself as a drawcard, for charities to raise money from your presence at their functions. We can contact charities and ask them how they could use you. Maybe it’s to co-host a ball, be the VIP guest at a cocktail party, attend a golf tournament or offer meet-and-greet sessions.
It would qualify as community service, and it’ll help rehab your appalling reputation. ’
‘I’m no Boy Scout, but I don’t quite have a foot in hell,’ he protested.
Millie started ticking off points on her fingers. ‘You and Phoebe have had a tumultuous on-off relationship for years—’
‘I think calling it a relationship is stretching the truth,’ Taz interjected.
‘Noted. You’re rude, impatient and, frankly, uncontrollable.’
‘Who is supposed to be in control of me?’ he shot back. ‘I own my team, I call the shots, I make every decision.’
Good point. ‘You never push back on bad publicity.’
He shrugged. ‘People can write what they like, believe what they want.’
So confident. ‘Up until this point your saving grace, from a PR point of view, has been your exemplary behaviour on and off the track. Journalists have often commended you for not carrying your bad-boy antics onto the track and into your professional life… Until now,’ she concluded.
He tensed, and Millie knew she’d made her point. ‘They—the press and the fans—are asking whether your personal life has spilt over into your professional life. People might excuse your antics off the track, but they won’t stand for it on it.’
He nodded. Was he taking her comments on board? ‘You’re not offended?’ she asked.
‘I’d much rather be hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie,’ Taz replied, lifting his shoulders in a quick shrug. ‘So you think lending my pulling power to charities will redeem me?’
‘Along with an apology to the rookie? Yes. Well, it certainly won’t hurt.’
‘I intended to make my apology to him in private. I think it means more that way.’
Millie agreed. ‘A public statement is also necessary, Taz. A photo of the two of you shaking hands would be even better.’ He was unlikely to agree, but what was the worst he could say? No?
‘I wanted to catch him before he left for the two-week break before Miami, but,’ he said as he held up his cast, ‘the operation delayed me.’
Throughout the F1 season, everything the team needed at a race—from invaluable cars and the team’s headquarters to tyres, fuel and Taz’s preferred brand of coffee—was transported to every location the sport visited around the world.
Their next stop would be Florida, for the Miami Grand Prix.
Formula One was one big moving circus: Set things up, race, take them down. Rinse and repeat.
‘Can you apologise to the rookie by video call? That way we can get a statement out to the press quicker.’
Taz didn’t look happy at the suggestion but finally nodded. Millie did a mental fist pump and, because her luck was holding, pushed for more. ‘And will you consider collaborating with charities?’
His eyes connected with hers, and Millie felt the pop of a champagne cork in her stomach, the fizz of bubbles.
‘Draw up a list of twenty charities, a mixture of established and new, and let them make a one-page pitch or short video message as to how best they could use me. I’ll decide who to support. ’