Chapter 2
Annalise
This can’t be happening. Of course, tonight of all nights there would be a traffic jam that caused my already delayed driver to cross into the part of the South of France, where tonight’s event is held, more than thirty minutes behind schedule.
As if that wouldn’t already cause my stickler-for-time brain to be on edge, I’m reminded that Mr. Taylor is scheduled to be at the fundraiser for a limited amount of time.
According to all of the reports I’ve read on him, he’s notoriously reclusive, only making public appearances a handful of times per year.
Which makes this meeting all the more important.
To keep myself from asking the driver our ETA yet again, and to stop the spiraling thoughts that have the potential to set me off course for the night, I pull up the emails Travis’ agent has sent me regarding this meeting.
Although I’ve read these emails at least five times, each, I scan them again for any details I might’ve missed. According to Norm, Mr. Taylor will be dressed in a Phantom of the Opera themed mask. That shouldn’t be too difficult to spot.
Unless someone else also decided they wanted to play a deranged, scarred stalker who hides out in opera houses.
This thought attempts to send me down a series of what-ifs.
But I cut it off on a deep inhale and exhale. I don’t have time to spiral into what-ifs because they bring on obsessions, and obsessions bring on compulsions, and compulsions pull me away from my objective.
A few deep breaths help me to reorient, and I silently thank my medication and previous therapies for helping me better manage my OCD. I scroll through the notes on my phone to go over the questions I’ve prepared for tonight and get a quick look at the facts of the business.
It takes another twenty minutes before I arrive at the event’s location. By then, I feel well prepared, yet still flustered by my late arrival.
“Thank you,” I thank the driver for helping me out of the car. I take a moment to smooth down my dress with my hand and adjust the mask on my face. An unexpected surprise is that the mask offers a level of comfort. With three-quarters of my face hidden, I feel freer, more relaxed.
As I enter, I give a quick wave to a few drivers from both Formula 1 and Formula 2, as well as a couple of team principals and owners. I can’t identify everyone since some masks obscure faces more than others.
Though I try to brush past a few in search of Luca Taylor, I end up making small talk with some FIA staff who recognize me.
Glancing over their shoulders, I do a sweep of the room, taking in the beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows that line either side of the ballroom, the gold trim along the walls, and stone fireplaces that bookend the room.
The low light streaming from the crystal chandeliers throw off beautiful shadows in the shape of the masks we’re all wearing.
“Annalise, is that you?” a deep male voice inquires behind me.
Despite the rush I’m in to find Mr. Taylor, I turn and smile at Drake Horner, Travis’ team principal.
“The one and only.”
“Great to see you. You remember Letty?” He gestures to his wife at his side.
“Always. How are you, Letty?” I ask with a smile.
“So good to see you.” I brace myself when she leans in for a kiss on the cheek.
I work hard to hold my smile in place and not allow my true emotions to show on my face. Even after years of work on this, I still hesitate when it comes to physical contact with people I don’t regularly interact with.
It’s not even due to a current obsession but a force of habit after years of fear from my brain that sometimes likes to work against me instead of with me.
“Excited for the new season?” Drake’s wife asks.
“Can’t wait to see Travis at the top of the podium again,” I reply.
They both smile and agree.
Drake holds up his champagne flute as if cheers-ing. “He wins and I keep my job,” he jokes.
“This season should be interesting, though,” Letty says. “With the new teammate and all.” She raises her eyebrows.
My thoughts shift at the reminder of Travis’ new teammate.
“I wonder how those two will get along this season.” She looks to me as if I have the answer to that musing.
I have nothing new to report on that front. Not like I would try to speak for my brother about a teammate that’s well known he doesn’t get along with. I’ll keep my own opinions about said teammate to myself as well.
“They’ll be fine,” Drake responds when I don’t.
“There’ll be fireworks for sure,” I say without thinking.
I check the time and my heart rate kicks up. Mr. Taylor will only be here for another hour or so, if I’m lucky. I need to find out where he is to speak with him.
“Have you seen Luca Taylor tonight, by chance?” I ask Drake.
“Not certain.” He turns to his wife. “Who was it we just spoke with?”
Letty shakes her head and rolls her eyes, turning to me.
“If the conversation doesn’t involve engines, aerodynamics, or race strategy he spaces out,” she quips. “But I believe Mr. Taylor is over that way.” She points toward the far end of the room.
“Phantom of the Opera mask?” I question.
“That’s him.”
I nod and thank the couple before heading in that direction. In the twenty minutes I’ve been here, the space has filled up, making it more difficult to navigate around the couples twirling on the dance floor. The live band at the front of the room increases the energy and the volume in the room.
The worry of whether or not I’ll be able to have an actual conversation with Mr. Taylor in this space passes through my mind.
I remind myself that I actually have to find him first.
A second later, I need to sidestep a dancing couple to avoid being trampled, which then causes me to bump into a solid body behind me, nearly causing me to fall.
Before I can do a full-on face plant and completely embarrass myself, a strong, firm hand catches my arm, stopping me.
My breath hitches from the embarrassment of almost making a fool of myself.
“Th-Thank you,” I say as I regain my balance and spin into the chest of the man behind me, his hand on my elbow.
To my surprise, it’s a man in a Phantom of the Opera mask.
I brush off the voice that whispers I’ve already ruined this meeting with Mr. Taylor due to my clumsiness. That thought gets squashed like a bug under my heel as I refocus on why I wanted to speak with him in the first place.
This isn’t about me nearly embarrassing myself.
“Mr. Taylor,” I say. “Thank you for your assistance.” He slowly releases my elbow, giving me the ability to take a step back and stick out my hand. “I’m Annalise Townsend, assistant to Travis Townsend.”
Luca Taylor doesn’t respond right away. His hazel eyes—the only visible part of his face—slowly scan their way down the length of my body and back up again until his eyes catch mine.
An eerie familiarity passes over me when I look into those eyes. But Mr. Taylor and I have never met before. Of this, I’m certain.
However, knowing I’m on limited time, I decide to get serious about my reasons for nearly falling into his arms.
“I’m aware that you’re a busy man and won’t be here for much longer tonight. Which is why I found it imperative to discuss with you the deal between Travis and your company. He has been a fan of your company for many y—”
“Deal?” His almost silky voice interrupts my spiel. There’s a South British accent in his tone, unsurprising since he’s from London.
“Yes. Travis and his agent, Norm, couldn’t be here tonight, but please do not take their absence to mean that he’s not interested. As I was just saying, Travis has been a huge supporter of your company for years. Even before—”
“Fancy a dance?”
The question throws me off, sending my mind spinning. All of the accolades of MaxWaters Suits, which I had at the ready to cite and impress Mr. Taylor with, flee my immediate thinking as my eyes drop to his extended hand.
A lump forms in my throat.
“A dance?” I say, as if I didn’t understand the question the first time.
He dips his head elegantly.
“Sure.” I infuse as much cheer as I can muster into that one word. Though, at the precise moment I go to place my hand inside of Luca Taylor’s, I hesitate.
I break through my hesitation and place my hand firmly in Luca Taylor’s.
There’s an awkward, out of place feeling that courses through me when he slips his other hand around my waist, lightly pulling my body closer to his.
Not close enough to be inappropriate or uncomfortable, but it is close enough that I sense the heat emanating off of his body.
In my three-inch heels, I come to five-ten, but Mr. Taylor still has a couple of inches on me. He uses his height advantage to peer down at me, directly into my eyes.
His are a curious hazel that almost borders on golden. Briefly, I wonder if they do turn gold while in the sunshine.
An inappropriate question that I must force my attention away from.
Instead of his eyes, I focus on the gold trimming in the shape of a leaf on the far wall.
My mind floats back to the phone call with Travis earlier tonight.
The image of Lucky falling asleep on his father’s chest brings a slight curl to my lips.
Until a few months ago, I’d never really pictured either one of my brothers as fathers.
Not that I didn’t believe they’d be great fathers. I know both Travis and Tristan—despite his somewhat prickly temperament—would be great at fatherhood because we have the best example in our own dad.
Not to mention our uncles and grandfather.
Somehow in my musings I end up leaning my body into my dance partner’s, unaware of how seamlessly he adjusts to my bodyweight and spins us around the dance floor. It’s almost as if he floats, instead of walks.
I surmise that Mr. Taylor must have been an athlete at some point in his life. His slender yet strong build suggests he continues to work at his physique.
Before I can get too far down that road, I pull back a little to look up into his masked face, while still avoiding his eyes.