Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Blame is a tricky thing,” he said. “It always seems to imply regret to me.”
“Do you have many regrets, speedy?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I always go full out, and if it doesn’t work out...well, then, at least I tried.”
“Me too,” she said.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to like you.”
“Well, there you have it.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised that his words hurt her a little, but she was. She knew that she was persona non grata in his eyes. That she’d crossed a line that most decent people thought shouldn’t be crossed. But at the same time, she had just felt like he got her. Apparently, she was wrong.
Shocker. Not!
She pushed her chair back and started to stand up, but he caught her hand in his. “I’m sorry. That was an asshole thing to say.”
“It was.”
“The thing is, I do like you. You keep surprising me, and I know that I shouldn’t be sitting here with you, but I am. And I don’t want you to walk away angry.”
She tugged her hand from his. She got what he was saying.
But this was complicated. And honestly, not the kind of thing she needed right now.
It had been fun to flirt with him and pretend that coffee could lead to something more, but this was Inigo Velasquez.
The brother-in-law of Jose Ruiz. She’d made herself a promise when that relationship had ended.
No more Formula One drivers. No more men who were so used to moving through life at blinding speed. No more.
So why was she lingering?
She should grab her bag and walk out of here with a haughty toss of her head.
Instead she was looking into those big brown eyes and searching for something that she knew she wasn’t going to find. That she had told herself she didn’t need and that she could live without.
“Let me buy you dinner to apologize.”
“Hmm...let me think about it,” she said. She reached into her bag and pulled out one of her business cards and handed it to him. Then she grabbed a second one. “Here’s my contact information. Write yours on here.”
She handed him the extra card and a pen and watched as he wrote in a hasty scrawl. He passed the card back to her, and she tucked it into her coat pocket before smiling at him and turning away.
She zipped up her coat as she walked through the busy coffeehouse to the door.
She told herself she wasn’t going to look back, but when she walked by the tables, she couldn’t help herself.
He was staring down at the card with her contact details on it.
She shook her head, thinking she didn’t understand him at all.
She hailed a cab and gave them her brother’s brownstone address without a second thought. She needed someone to talk sense to her. Girlfriends were good for telling her what she wanted to hear, but Darian would tell her the truth whether it hurt or not. He’d always been good about that.
She got out at his Upper East Side address, then hurried past people on the sidewalk and up the stairs to let herself in. As soon as she did, Bailey came to greet her.
The large St. Bernard came barreling at her, barking his hello. She braced herself as he went up on his back legs to greet her, licking her chin as she turned her head.
“That’s what you get for not knocking,” Darian said.
“Sorry, Dare. I was afraid you might be out back staring at a cigarette and wouldn’t let me in,” she said, rubbing Bailey behind his ears until the dog was satisfied and trotted back down the hall to his master.
“When you come out swinging, I know you’re not sure of something,” he said.
“When am I ever sure?” she asked. “Please tell me that one day I will not be this big hot mess.”
“Mom seems to think so,” he said. “But so far I haven’t seen anyone who has it together.”
“Not even you, big bro? You’re a political strategist. You look good on paper and you know how to make everyone else look good too,” she said.
“All of the Bissets look good, Mare. So, what’s up?” he asked, leading the way into his den. She could tell he’d been working, because he had a can of Red Bull next to his laptop. He gestured for her to sit down on the leather couch and when she did, he sat next to her.
“Uh, um, I ran into Inigo Velasquez again. We exchanged some words, and he invited me to dinner. I know I shouldn’t go,” she said.
Then she looked at her older brother, who leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I shouldn’t, right?”
“Tell me everything,” he invited.
She did, pouring it all out. The stuff about Bianca and how it had made her feel like pond scum, but how she’d responded by blowing them a kiss, which made Dare wince. She told him about liking Inigo, giving him the bird, having coffee and getting lost in his eyes.
“Mare, I don’t know how you do it, but God knows you could make walking across the street into something complicated,” he said at last.
“I know. What should I do?” she asked him.
He considered it for a while, and she got fidgety. The fact that she had come and asked for advice was probably all the indication she needed that she shouldn’t go out with Inigo.
“Go. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“I might regret it if I do,” she said.
“Well, then, you might as well give yourself something to regret,” he said.
Getting into the simulator and putting on his helmet at the Moretti Racing facility forced Inigo to remember what was at stake.
Last night he’d been drinking ice water and using the Peloton in the house he’d rented that was only a few miles from the facility.
He’d been thinking about the text message he didn’t receive from Marielle.
But that was a distraction.
Revenge.
Who did he think he was? Machiavelli?
Marco Moretti was in town. Right now, he was standing in the booth next to Keke Heckler.
Both men were legendary drivers and had built the Moretti Racing program from the ground up.
Inigo had been ecstatic when they’d asked him to be a part of the team three years ago.
And they’d taken him from middle-of-the-pack finishes to the top ten. But he craved the championship.
There was no room for revenge in a winning driver’s psyche. He knew that. Dante had been funny in the car, but the truth was his friend and head engineer for his team had a point. He should only do things that improved his time and his racing.
“How does the cockpit feel?” Marco asked. He spoke very good English, but the hint of his Italian upbringing was there in every word.
“Good,” Inigo said, adjusting his shoulder straps.
The cockpit he was sitting in mirrored the custom-made interior of his actual car.
The seat had been molded to fit his body and had been placed at the exact length from the steering wheel and pedals that he liked.
He twisted his head and shoulders, popping his neck before he settled into the seat.
They were running the Melbourne course, which would be the first race of the season. He closed his eyes and reached through all of his memories to the Melbourne race last year. He remembered the atmosphere and the people. The weather and the day. He wanted to be in the right mind-set.
“I’m ready,” he said.
“Good. We’re set up too,” Dante said.
The simulation had him on a qualifying lap, so he waited, watched the lights, and when they hit green, he hit the gas.
When he drove, there wasn’t time for anything else except the track.
He didn’t think when he drove—he reacted.
He became one with the car and drove like the machine was an extension of his body.
He pushed everything from his mind but couldn’t help remembering the feel of his hands on the curves of Marielle’s hips.
The car reacted the same way she had, responding to his every touch.
He continued the course, coming up on the finish line as everything in him was narrowing down to the track, the touch, the sound of the engine.
That first lap time would be recorded, and he kept driving knowing they wanted the best of three and would get an average.
The team of engineers who worked on his car were recording every detail. There was even someone who was monitoring his heart rate to see if it increased as he powered through the turns.
“Good time. Take a break and we’ll set up for another run,” Dante said through the speakers. “The team noticed a slight hesitation in the engine. We want to tweak that.”
“Okay,” Inigo said, getting out of the simulator. He walked over to the area where Marco and Keke stood.
“I like what I’m seeing,” Marco said. “I have a good feeling about this year for you.”
“Me too,” he admitted to his boss.
Keke rubbed the back of his neck. His once blond hair was now streaked with gray, but the forty-seven-year-old former driver was still fit and sharp. “You’re all in for training, right? No outside distractions?”
He nodded. Where was Keke going with this? “Always. I don’t drink, work out and try to keep my focus on the track.”
“Good. That’s really good. I hate to bring this up,” Keke said.
“Why?” Marco asked. “If you have a concern, you should mention it.”
“I am mentioning it,” Keke said. The men had been teammates and were good friends—at times the dynamic reminded Inigo of his relationship with his brothers or Dante.
Keke turned to him. “My wife mentioned she heard a rumor that you were linked with the up-and-coming lifestyle guru Mari.”
“Damn,” Marco said, looking at Inigo. “I wanted to rib him about turning into an old woman, but is that true? You’ve always been about no women during the season.”
Keke’s wife was the former swimsuit model Elena Hamilton. Elena had turned to designing swimsuits after her modelling career had ended and was one of the top designers for athletes now.
“It’s...it’s sort of true. We hooked up on New Year’s Eve,” he said. “I don’t see it going anywhere.”
Especially since she hadn’t texted him back about dinner. Was he thinking about that, about being stood up, and not about the revenge plan he had for her? Not very Machiavellian of him, was it?