Heartbreaker (The Mavens #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

The worst part about having to make a good first impression is not being able to pull out the massive wedgie this race suit is giving me.

Unfortunately, a mission doesn’t care if you’re uncomfortable.

Being able to fake it can make or break the mission, and if there’s one thing I’ve always been good at, it’s faking it to fit in.

As I step into the arena, the smell of gasoline hangs heavy in the air, the sound of engines and men’s laughter fills the space, and I lock into my new personality.

This one is a bit too close to an old version of myself, though—someone I used to be, someone I used to love, someone I locked far away.

I focus on steadying my breathing as I walk across the dirt where everyone is getting ready for practice.

The trucks are lined up along the wall, waiting for safety checks and inspections, and groups of people mingle nearby.

A small skid steer pushes mounds of dirt over the ramps, preparing them for tricks and awe-inspiring jumps that will launch six-ton trucks flying through the air at gravity-defying speeds.

“Hey, sweetheart,” a cocky voice calls out as I make my way further onto the track, dark eyes taking in my body.

He turns away from the group he’s standing with, lips tipping up in a smirk as he gives me his full attention.

“Unfortunately, this is a closed practice. No photos or autographs.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes, something I think I deserve a medal for, if I’m being honest.

Instead, I simply give him a nod as I continue to my destination. He looks behind him, chuckling with the group of men I recognize as other drivers from the brief my partner Demi and I received before arriving. He mumbles something over his shoulder to them before taking a few steps closer to me.

Roman DeLuca.

Former IndyCar bad boy.

Previous and current driver of the truck Party Animal.

Most importantly, the recent victim of alleged sabotage at the Monster Smash racing group.

“Your outfit’s cute though, a shame to waste it,” he says, ignoring my brush-off.

“If you give me your number, I’m more than happy to take you for a drink later.

We can take all the pictures you’d like.

” This time, I don’t fight the eye roll, or the way my upper lip lifts a bit in irritation and disgust.

“No, thank you,” I say, brushing my braid back behind my shoulder as I continue to look straight ahead.

“No?”

My steps slow as I turn to him before giving him a small smile, the kind you give a small child who is adorably confused.

“Actually, I said, no, thank you. I have manners.” The confusion crosses Roman’s face before he hides it once more behind his overly confident demeanor, giving me a wide, arrogant grin.

“Well, I guess we could take a few photos now. But you’ve gotta let me take you out for a drink later,” he says, his steps following me.

“No, thank you,” I repeat.

“No, thank you?”

“Yes. No, thank you. I don’t want to take a photo, and I’ll probably be too busy tonight to grab a drink with you.”

“What—” he starts, but his words are cut off by Phil Dwyer cutting the distance between us.

“Lana! You’re here! So great to see you!” he says, shifting his gaze from me to Roman nervously. As the owner of Monster Smash and the one who hired the Mavens to investigate the circuit’s strange issues, he knows why I’m here.

He’s the only person who knows the real reason I’m here.

“You know this fan?” Roman asks, looking between Phil and me. “Is she like, a Make-A-Wish thing?”

My god, this man is both an asshole and a moron. No wonder someone sabotaged his truck, causing a fiery crash just two weeks ago. If this is how he talks to everybody, I can’t find it in me to blame them.

“Make-A-Wish is for children,” I say, giving him a pitying look. “And I’m perfectly healthy.”

“You’re so funny, Roman,” Phil says, patting the suspended IndyCar driver on the shoulder.

“No, no, she’s not a fan. She’s our newest driver.

” He gestures to a truck being driven out with perfect timing: a unicorn motif with purple and pink streaks across its body, its horn glittering in the overhead lights.

Heartbreaker is written in bold letters on the side.

My truck.

As the only woman here, some might be offended by being given the clearly girly truck, but I’m not.

I’ve spent most of my life being underestimated, and I grew up with two older brothers who loved dirt bikes, ATVs, monster trucks, and racing.

I’ve probably spent more of my life at racetracks—both as an observer and a competitor—than any man in this room, so it’s just par for the course for me.

“Driver?”

“That’s right, pretty boy. I’m here to kick your ass,” I say with a beaming smile before grabbing the helmet a tech is holding out to me and sliding it over my head. When I catch the look of utter confusion on his face, my smile only grows.

God, I love my job.

Practice lasts for four hours, during which I meet a dozen people I’ve already researched, with photos printed and pinned to suspect lists that decorate my hotel room.

Still, Roman avoids me after our initial meeting.

It’s interesting to watch the way he seems to lock in the moment he slides into his truck, all evidence of that cocky asshole melting away until there’s nothing but determination left on his face.

And I hate to admit it, but he’s damn good, and I spend more of the practice than I’d like to admit analyzing his driving style and trying to learn as much as I can from a distance.

I’m exhausted, both physically and mentally, as I walk out of the arena, every inch of my body coated in a thin layer of sweat and red dirt. After waving at one of the drivers who wasn’t a complete ass to me, I veer off toward the women’s locker room as I sort through my thoughts.

When I enter, Demi, my partner at the Mavens, is sitting on a bench with her laptop, probably hacking into some government website just to pass the time.

The owner of the Mavens tries to pair investigators by skill set, one tech guru with one forward-facing agent.

While Demi is a genius at all things computer-related and hacking, I’ve been named the Chameleon, able to change who I am and shift my personality to convince you I belong somewhere.

“Honey, I’m home,” I say with a grin, and she scrunches up her pert nose, brushing her long brown hair behind her shoulder.

“You look like you spent the day out on a farm.”

“I probably smell like it, too,” I cringe, knowing the ventilation in this suit isn’t great.

“Go take a shower. I’ll sit outside, and we can go over the day,” she says, grabbing an iPad to take notes. We’ve been partners for over two years, so she knows by now I like to debrief while my mind is fresh.

Once I step into the steaming hot shower, I begin. “Everything moved smoothly. No one knew I was coming, and my licensing and certifications seem to be up to date. Practice itself was okay. I don’t think I made too much of a fool of myself.”

“I was watching from the stands: trust me, you didn’t look like a fool. You’re such a badass,” she says, and I smile as I scrub the sweat from my hair. It felt good to be out there on a track again, something I haven’t done in years. “Did you meet Roman?”

“Oh yeah, I met him. Can’t say I blame someone for wanting to end him,” I grumble, and Demi lets out a loud laugh.

“That bad?”

“He thought I was a fan and offered to give me his autograph. I kind of want to punch him in the face myself,” I say contemplatively.

“Okay, well, maybe we hold off on the assault. That wouldn’t really do much in trying to get close to him to find out what’s been going on here.”

I groan, knowing she’s right. We’re here to find out who has been messing with the circuit and committing various acts of sabotage.

They started with small inconveniences and things to ruin the fan experience, but recently it’s escalated.

The final straw that led to a call to the Mavens was when someone changed the gasoline in four trucks, causing Roman’s to seize mid-flip and come crashing down.

They’ve been playing it off as a simple mistake, but it’s clearly something more nefarious.

Whoever did it knew exactly where to move to avoid cameras and timed it so no one would notice until it was too late.

“How was Phil?” Demi asks.

“I don’t know. I can’t get a read on him,” I say of the owner who was happy to see me but seemed a bit frazzled.

“Do you think he’s a suspect?” Demi asks.

“Too early to tell,” I reply. “He hired us, but he wouldn’t be the first person to underestimate the Mavens.

If his business was dipping before all of this started, it could be that he’s sabotaging to garner interest. The crash got a lot of media attention.

He could easily think we’re not going to find anything and then pull a see how concerned I was?

angle.” Demi nods, smiling, and I know she’s already thought that out as well.

“And Roman? He could be self-sabotaging for the opposite reason, making his team feel bad about suspending him from IndyCar.”

“It could, though the video of the crash was bad. I can’t imagine wanting to do that to yourself intentionally.” “But until we know more, you know the rule.”

“Everyone’s a suspect,” Demi says with a smile.