Page 145 of Hot Lap
“Yes, and I have the receipts to prove it.”
The music changes as we descend to the lower deck. It’s something slower now, velvety and rich, the kind of song that belongs to starlight and champagne.
There’s a dance floor tucked between two curved staircases, polished like glass. Only a few couples occupy it, swaying gently in evening gowns and open collars. Reece takes my hand andpulls me close, one arm sliding around my waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I go willingly.
We sway together, the sea gently rocking beneath us, the world narrowing down to the scent of his cologne and the press of his palm against the small of my back.
Two weeks ago, I didn’t know this man.
Two weeks ago, I was performing on a stage in a dim club, tossing silk stockings and teasing out fantasies for strangers, no idea how quickly my life was about to spin.
And now?
Now I’m slow dancing with a Formula One driver on a billionaire’s yacht under the Arabian stars, wearing pink pearls and red lipstick, madly in love with a man who terrifies me with how good he is.
I never saw this coming. Not the love. Not the marriage. Not the war I’d have to fight just to prove I deserve both.
Sometimes life crashes into you, and if you’re strong enough to get up, brush off the debris, and keep on racing, you might discover that shunt was the best thing to ever happen to you.
Being in my husband’s arms now, his heart beating steady against mine?
I wouldn’t change a thing. And I won’t. I’ll still perform as Mai-Lan Rouge. I’ll still make my own costumes and choreograph my own shows. I’ll keep teaching children how topliéand septuagenarians how to bump and grind.
Reece presses his lips to my ear, and I shiver as his hot breath brushes my skin. “You good, honeybee?”
I smile and look up into his green eyes. “I’m golden, speed demon.”
He pulls me closer. “Yeah. You are.”
EPILOGUE
VIENNA | DECEMBER | FEDERATION INTERNATIONALE DE L’AUTOMOBILE PRIZE GIVING CEREMONY
PETRA
If I’d known we’d be celebrating a second-place finish in Vienna, I would’ve bought new heels. Something with a little more knife in the toe.
Dad insisted I come, and Coy rarely insists. So here I am, strapped into a vintage black satin gown with a slit high enough to disarm diplomats, hot pink streaks coiled rebelliously through an otherwise obedient brunette updo, and eyeliner sharp enough to open champagne bottles. (I enlisted the capable hands of Maiken Lange Pritchard for this face. The woman is a miracle worker with makeup, whereas I’m rather hapless.)
The Hofburg glitters around me, a gilded fairytale. Vaulted ceilings soar above polished parquet floors and golden chandeliers drip light over a sea of tuxedos and couture. Massive arched windows reflect the flicker of candlelight and camera flashes. Every inch of the imperial palace whispers power — the old kind that’s watched the rise and fall of empires while plotting its own return.
I swirl the champagne in my glass and hope to find my dignity at the bottom. I hate these functions. They’re too slow and sedate for my taste.
“Petra Hayter.” The voice is low, Spanish accent curling around my name in an entirely too sexy way. “Don’t you dare look bored.”
I turn at the gentle touch on my back, there and gone in a breath. And damn him, Nico Belmonte fills out a tux like a Bond villain with excellent posture.
His bow tie is precise. His gold cufflinks glint with understated Spanish money. And his golden hair looks like it’s been gently tousled by the hand of God herself.
I lean against the nearest marble pillar. “I’m not bored. I’m internally monologuing.”
Doubtless his crooked grin has melted many a girl’s panties. “Dramatically, I’m sure.”
“Oh, to tragic effect.” I roll my gaze to him. “You know how much I hate these things, Nico.”
He smiles, and something tightens under my ribs. Just slightly. Bloody hell,that’sunwelcome.
