Page 100 of Danger

Five Years Later

Monterey

I inhale deeply the moment we step out of the limousine, still captivated by the glimmering marquee of the Wilshire Beverly Hills Hotel. The words shine like a beacon in the night, inviting the city’s elite to descend upon this masquerade charity event hosted by the Indy racing community. Even before Danger and I make our official entrance, I feel the burn of excitement in my veins. There is a certain anticipation that settles in my stomach—a swirl of pleasure and nervous energy—because we’re not just showing up to be polite. We’re here together, ready to dazzle, and tonight we get to indulge in a world of decadence and anonymity behind our masks. The paparazzi’s cameras flash from every angle, but I steady my shoulders and grip Danger’s arm. Even with the swirl of lights and strangers around us, I feel safe, anchored by his presence.

“Hey, baby,” Danger murmurs, leaning in so I can hear him above the crowd. His breath grazes my ear, sending a ripple of warmth from my neck all the way down to my toes. “You look so damn stunning tonight.”

My mask is an ornate piece in shimmering black and gold. It covers my face from forehead to just above my lips, revealing the glossy burgundy lipstick that took me an hour to perfect. “Right back at you,” I tease, glancing up at him through my thick lashes. “Though it’s strange to see you without your fireproof racing suit.”

Danger smirks, adjusting the crisp black suit jacket that molds perfectly to his muscular frame. “Well, you can’t exactly show up to a masquerade in sponsor overalls. This is a higher-octane crowd than usual.”

We share a laugh as we move up the red carpet, passing a swirl of other guests in extravagant gowns and tuxedos. I hear the hush of whispered speculation. Despite the masks, everyone pretty much knows that Danger—famed Indy car driver and beloved media darling—is in attendance. And I, Monterey, the wife who stole his heart, am used to the lingering stares. There’s something enchanting in that mild anonymity, though. With our faces partially concealed, it feels like we’ve stumbled into a fantastical realm where we get to reinvent ourselves, if only for a few hours.

Inside, the hotel’s lobby has been transformed. Glittering chandeliers speckle the ceiling with jewels of light, and the polished marble floors reflect an otherworldly glow. Everything looks opulent, from the towering arrangements of red roses placed on gilded stands, to the gilded arches leading into the grand ballroom. A hush of excitement follows Danger’s every step, but he doesn’t seem fazed. That’s one of the things I love about him—no matter the crowd, no matter the camera, he knows how to keep his cool. He’s used to performing at two hundred miles per hour, so a fancy party is child’s play for him.

We pause in the foyer as attendants collect our tickets and direct us inside. Our names are obviously on the list, and they offer a warm greeting. One gentleman in a neat suit holds out his arm. “Mr. and Mrs. Hudson. Welcome. Thank you so much for supporting this charitable evening.”

Danger flashes that perfect grin of his. “It’s our pleasure.” His voice is warm, yet firm—he’s genuine when it comes to giving back to the Indy racing community. Racing gave him everything, and now he wants to make sure he returns the favor whenever he can. I adore that about him.

We’re guided into the ballroom, which is abuzz with color and chatter. Women in flowing, floor-length gowns decorated with sequins spin gracefully, each of them sporting a unique, intricate mask. The men look dashing in their tuxedos and well-fitted suits, each face partially concealed by feathers, leather, or sparkles. The music is a lively, sensual waltz that seems to flutter through the air.

“Wow,” I whisper, my gaze sweeping over the elegant décor. Ivory drapes cascade down the walls, illuminated by golden uplights. An enormous crystal chandelier dangles from the ceiling, scattering tiny diamonds of light across the swirling crowd below. “They really outdid themselves.”

Danger slides a hand around my waist, pulling me closer. “Monterey, we’re going to have a fantastic time tonight.”

I nod, smiling at the underlying promise in his voice. There’s always that electric undercurrent with us, especially at events like this—an unspoken vow that we’ll carve out a moment for ourselves amid all the glitz and glamour.

Before I can whisper anything else, a trio of Danger’s racing buddies notice him. They call out his name, their excitement unmasked despite the facades they wear. He’s quickly drawn into conversation about the upcoming Indy season, the changes in sponsorship, and his best times at the track. I stand patiently by his side, exchanging polite greetings, but my heart is scanning the room. There are swirling silhouettes, masked smiles, and a staccato beat from the string quartet. I crave the dance floor, or perhaps a hidden alcove, somewhere Danger and I can be alone in the midst of this grand spectacle.

Eventually, Danger senses my restlessness. He slips his free arm around me and presses a light kiss to my temple. “Gentlemen, would you excuse us for a bit?” he says to his friends, and I barely notice their polite goodbyes. He leans down to my ear again, his voice so low it sends a tremble through my body. “I’m all yours.”

Butterflies flutter in my stomach at his words. “All mine, hmm?” I slide my hand along his lapel and peer up into his eyes. Even through the mask, I see the familiar spark in that ocean-deep blue of his. “I like the sound of that.”

He offers me his hand, which I accept with a grin, and guides me away from the clusters of people. We weave through the throng, past couples laughing, sipping champagne, exchanging gossip. We end up close to the edge of the dance floor, where the smooth notes of the band beckon us to move in time with the melody. My heels click on the polished floor as we step between a pair of dancers and find ourselves in the center of the swirling group.

Danger releases a soft chuckle as he slides one hand around my waist and places his other hand in mine. “Ready to show them how it’s done, Mrs. Hudson?” he teases, swaying gently at first.

I rise onto my toes, letting him guide me. “I was born ready.” My voice comes out breathier than intended, but the music, the lights, the hush of swirling silk around us—it’s all so intoxicating.

We begin to dance, our bodies moving to the measure of the waltz. The tension of Danger’s grip on my hips sends a rush of heat along my skin, and I swear the fabric of my gown becomes more sensitive against my thighs. Every step is perfectly in sync, which reminds me of how effortless everything can feel with Danger. He’s a race car driver, yes, but he’s also got the heart of a performer, the grace of someone who knows how to be the center of attention and make it look natural.

I tilt my head back, my eyes sliding shut for a moment, and allow the music to lead me. The lights overhead twinkle in golden arcs, the air heavy with perfume and cologne. Somewhere in the periphery, I hear the distant buzz of conversation. But here, locked together in this dance, Danger and I might as well be the only two people in the room.

As the tempo shifts slightly, Danger draws me closer, the heat of his body seeping through the thin material of my dress. “I love you like this,” he whispers, voice husky. “Letting go.”

“I only let go for you, Dylan,” I confess with a soft laugh, tipping my head back so I can see his face. He’s wearing a black mask with understated detailing, letting his powerful jaw and that playful mouth remain visible. “It’s always for you.”

His lips curl into a smoldering smile. He leans in, our masks almost touching. “Keep dancing with me,” he breathes, “then we’ll find a place to be alone.”

My heart hammers at the promise in his tone. We continue to move, weaving in and out of the other couples. At times, the waltz quickens, and we twirl, my skirt fanning out around my legs. Then it slows, letting us press closer, chests almost flush, arms draped around each other like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. A polite cheer arises from the spectators as we flourish into the final step, and Danger plants a gentle kiss on my knuckles, playing the part of the gallant partner.

A flush creeps up my neck. I wonder if the people around us can sense that my cheeks are alight with more than just the dance. Because Danger and I have that unspoken language, and right now it’s telling me all too clearly that we need a moment away from prying eyes.

The band transitions to a lively tune, and more people flood the dance floor, so Danger threads his fingers through mine and tugs me off to the side. We pass a crowd near the champagne fountain, exchanging pleasantries and waves, but Danger’s attention is singular. He’s scanning the corners of the ballroom, looking for an escape.

Finally, we spot it: A dim corridor leading to one of the smaller adjoining lounges that’s closed off for the event. The lights are lower there, the shadows elongated. As we slip into the quiet darkness, I can still hear the distant hum of voices and music, but it feels muted, as though we’ve entered a secret universe. The corridor is lined with red velvet drapes, parted just enough to reveal a few small alcoves with plush benches. The overhead sconces are turned down low, flickering with a warm glow. It’s almost deserted—perfect for what we crave.

Danger comes to a halt beside a tall potted palm. He turns, pins me gently against the wall, and slides his hands around my waist, settling on my hips. In the dim light, the intensity in his gaze makes my stomach flip. “Finally,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against mine. “I get you all to myself.”

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