Chapter 1
Six months before
It was amazing, Baz thought, what you could ignore when you were minutes away from the biggest race of your career. The eager screams of fans. The whirr of drills. And, at present, the dulcet tones of his girlfriend shouting at a mechanic.
He could tell it was Cam immediately, even listening from the office squashed at the back of the team garage; nobody else savored their words like that, chewing them as if they were truffled caviar.
He’d found it endearing when they’d met, although he’d noticed recently that it was an affectation that Cam only adopted in public.
In fairness, Baz thought warily, she wasn’t really shouting so much as using the sort of acerbic tone that one might find at an airport in December where all the flights had just been canceled. Somehow, that only made it scarier.
Laurel was the first to break. “Did you want to deal with that?”
She was dressed in the green Asteri Stag uniform, sporting her usual golden bangles, which jingled as she tapped away at a phone. A sparkly ruler was shoved behind her ear, although what a PR manager needed with a ruler, Baz wasn’t sure.
He shook his head. “Keep going.”
The voices rose. Laurel lowered the phone.
“Are you sure?”
He suppressed a grimace. “I’m sure it can wait.”
His mind whirred. What was Cam doing here, anyway?
He ran through the events of last night, combing for any glaring missteps.
They’d eaten tortelli with Genovese ragù in a restaurant with a glass floor that stretched above a wine cellar.
Negronis at a posh rooftop bar. If it had been up to him, they would have gone for pizza in Bologna’s lively University District and called it a night, but the evening had been designed to make Cam happy.
Had it been the rooftop bar? Was it too touristy?
“Right.” Laurel turned back to her phone. “So Sky Sports wants an exclusive after the race. You’ll discuss the new Norwegian sponsorship deal”—
“If I get the sponsorship deal.”
Laurel waved a hand, as if this was immaterial. “Anders will be there too, to help field any sticky questions about money. He’s asked that you avoid mentioning the exact sum. Just use words like generous or substantial.”
Sweat trickled down the neck of his race suit.
He wasn’t surprised that Anders Carlson, founder of Scents of Honour—a perfume brand that had gone viral on TikTok a few years ago—didn’t want to disclose what they’d be paying him to advertise their cologne.
When Baz had first seen the sum of money, he’d choked on his protein shake.
Not that it was the money that drew him to the sponsorship deal; his interest in the brand was very… personal.
He had to land the sponsorship.
And it wouldn’t be easy.
Anders was giving the sponsorship deal to whoever was leading the Drivers’ Championship after the race.
And given that he, Alex, and Hunter were neck-and-neck for the title, it could be anyone.
He was starting in pole position today, granted, but that didn’t mean much when it came to the Emilia-Romagna track.
Still.
He was certainly the most invested. And that had to count for something, right?
“Moving on,” Laurel said, tapping away, “I wanted to ask about”—
There was a crash. Cam’s voice grew louder. Laurel’s face remained impeccably neutral, although Baz was beginning to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to throw himself in front of a moving car than face whatever was happening in the garage.
“Sorry. You were saying?”
“Your grandfather,” Laurel said, and his stomach tightened. “Where is he? I’d like to get a photo of the two of you by your car for socials before the race starts.”
“He’s not here yet.”
She blinked: the only betrayal of her surprise. “The race starts in twenty minutes.”
Baz yanked on his gloves. “He must be caught in traffic. They just flew in.”
“It was two of them, right?” Laurel was back to tapping on her phone. “Your grandfather and an ex-cop friend? I put them in the front row.” She glanced up. “Shall I ring him? Make sure they’re both okay?”
Baz shook his head. “I’m sure he’s on his way.” The gloves were lightweight and flexible, designed to keep him safe in a fire, but Dios, he was sweating. “Can we do the photo after the race?”
“No problem.” Laurel must have read something on his face because she added, “It’ll look better with a trophy, anyway.”
“Do you want me to—?”
Silence. Cam had gone quiet, which was never a good sign.
He gestured over his shoulder. “I should…”
Laurel nodded. “Probably wise.”
He braced himself, striding for the team garage.
Gasoline and burnt rubber hung in the air, mixing with Cam’s designer perfume.
Outside, he could hear the dull roar of the crowd, somewhat muffled by the desperate whine of drills and last-minute orders barked into headsets.
He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to formation lap.
His pulse picked up. Either a product of the Italian heat, or because Cam’s expression suggested she was about five minutes away from braining somebody with a wrench.
And he’d seen her apply mascara in the back of a bumpy limousine. Her aim was faultless.
“—but I need to talk to him,” Cam was saying to a mechanic, her voice dangerously soft. “Surely you can make that happen, Gary?”
“You see…the thing is…” The mechanic’s throat bobbed. “We’re not really meant to distract the drivers before the race…”
“I need five minutes.”
“Er.” He scratched his ear. “I can ask my boss, but I don’t think—”
“It’s fine,” Baz said, clapping him on the arm. “Thanks for keeping her company, Gary. I appreciate it.”
The mechanic scuttled off, looking relieved. Cam raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t get my text?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I was in a meeting.”
He was already analyzing her like an oil painting, trying to find the smudge.
Where had he messed up? Where had he gone wrong?
Her blonde hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and she was wearing a white suit.
Not unusual, given that Cam was promoting a film where she played a lawyer, but there was something about the set of her mouth that suggested…
well, imminent braining. Why was she here?
Had she asked for tickets and he’d forgotten?
In the six months they’d been dating, Cam had shown more interest in his private jet than actually attending a Formula 1 race, but that hardly meant anything.
Cam had once had a go at a valet for not bringing her car around fast enough, even though she’d had nowhere to be.
It’s the principle of the thing, she’d said.
He shouldn’t keep us waiting for fifteen minutes.
“What’s going on?”
“Look, is there somewhere we can go?” Her eyes shot to a door leading to a backroom. “Somewhere more…private?”
He paused. “Why?”
“I need to speak with you.”
Her hands were shaking, Baz noted. He doubted that anyone else in the garage had noticed, but he’d known to look.
A zealous male fan had chased her through a designer department store last week demanding her phone number, and Cam had rung him from the loos, her voice shaking.
Can you come meet me here? And walk me home?
Something protective rose in him. Being out in public like this, exposed to fans and cameras…
She hated this sort of thing.
Which meant that whatever she’d come here to say, it had to be important. His gaze flicked to the clock, and then back to her trembling hands. Weighing. Assessing. “Can it wait until after the race?”
Cam followed his gaze and then shoved her hands into her pockets. “It’s important.”
“The national anthem starts in two minutes.”
Annoyance flashed across Cam’s face, but it was gone in an instant. Proof that she hadn’t won the People’s Choice Award for nothing. “I’m getting on a plane in two hours, remember? I have that shoot in India.”
Right. She was filming the next season of her vampire television series. How long was that shoot again? Seven days? Ten? He really ought to know that sort of thing. “I’m not sure if I can really”—
“Moreno.”
Krish, his race engineer, materialized with coffee and a clipboard.
He wore his usual black uniform, which was rolled up to reveal snake tattoos that slithered around his forearms. He was also sporting a fresh bandage, Baz noted with a stab of sympathy, which was never a good sign; Krish got a new tattoo for every family member he lost, and his dadi hadn’t been well lately.
Not that Krish would ever say anything. He treated sentiment like cologne: fine in small doses, but too much was an unforgivable assault on other people’s welfare.
Krish blew on his coffee. “You’re needed on track.” He gave Cam a cursory glance. “Do you mind if I steal him?”
“I do, actually,” Cam said. “We’re in the middle of something.”
Krish gave a bland smile, which Baz just knew would go down badly. If there was one thing Cam hated, it was being dismissed. “It’ll have to wait.” He stopped a passing intern. “Owen, can you get Ms. St. James a glass of champagne? And set her up with the VIP guests?”
Cam’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t bother. I’m not staying.”
Oh, yeah. She was definitely pissed. Baz hesitated. “I really should get a move on”—
“Go ahead.” Cam glanced at her manicured nails. “Walk out that door. See where that gets you.”
The knot tightened. “You’re cross with me.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“I’m not sure…” A sense of helplessness filled him. “Is this about dinner yesterday? Did the sponsored post not go well?”
Wrong answer. He could tell by her face. Outside, the crowd gave a roar, and Krish blew on his coffee. “We need to go.”
Cam crossed her arms. “He can make up his own mind.”
Krish shrugged. Nonchalant as always. “If we miss the anthem, we’ll risk offending the Italians, which would be a mistake”—
“And you’d know all about mistakes,” Cam said coolly. “Just look at those tattoos.”
Horror filled him. “Cam.” Krish flinched. It was small, but Baz caught it, and any guilt was replaced with irritation. “That’s enough.”