Page 16 of Downforce

I let out a startled yelp at Dad’s snarl, jerking around to watch him storm through the garage toward me.

My team, in fact, everyone in there with me, shrinks away from him, nervous gazes darting everywhere. The owner of Equis rarely makes an appearance at any Grand Prix, let alone in the garage or pitlane. As far as Dad’s concerned, this close to the track is too loud, overcrowded, and beneath him. Some team owners are involved with the logistics, team moral, and daily running. Dad merely provides the money. And the investors.

But here he is, bearing down on me.

Furious.

“What?” I blink. “I improved the cars.” I throw a confused look around those in the garage with me. They all look stunned. Frowning, I return my attention to Dad. “Have you seen the data from the practice sessions? Or even watched the cars out at the track?”

Dad’s glower darkens and he stops before me, invading my personal space. I have to crick my neck to look up at him. “You stupid little cow,” he hisses. “I didn’t want the cars fixed. Especially Anton’s.”

An invisible vise wraps around my chest. Ice crawls over my skin, up into my hair, over my scalp. Followed instantly by itchy heat. “What?” I whisper. I can’t believe what he’s saying. I have to be mishearing him, right?

His eyes slit, and he brings his head down closer to mine. “He’s old,” he says, voice barely louder than a breath. And on that breath, whisky. A lot of whisky. “He’s tired. A has-been. One more loss and his contract was done.”

“What?” My stomach sinks. Oh God, Anton. No.

“What the fuck?” Sergio mutters behind me. He’s heard it as well. Shit. This is not good. Dad will have us both fired. I’ll be gone. Sergio will be gone. Anton…

No.

Straightening, I shake my head. “You can’t do that.”

Can he?

He snorts, eyes like chips of cold glass. “Thanks to you, it will be harder, but I’m sure I can convince the board.” His lip curls. “What did I ever do to get cursed with a daughter like?—”

“Hey!” Anton steps between us. “Enough.”

I gasp. He’s still wearing his racing gear, and his hair is damp with perspiration and matted to his head. Pressure indents from his balaclava mar his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He must have only just got out of his car? Why is he here?

“Hey!” he says again, pressing a hand to Dad’s chest. “Don’ttalk to Charlotte like that!”

“Oh, cazzo,” Sergio whispers.

Dad puffs up his chest and drops a snide look at Anton’s hand. “Remove that, Laurant. Now.”

Anton doesn’t. Instead, he steps closer to my father, back straight, shoulders square. “I don’t kowtow to bullies,” he states, voice smooth, calm, and utterly devoid of trepidation. “Not anymore. And I won’t let you speak to Charlotte in such a way. I don’t care who you are.”

A sneer twists Dad’s lip. “So the rumoursaretrue?” He slides his sneer to me. “Him? Really?”

“Yes.” Fury shears through me, and I step forward, even as Anton holds out his arm. “Him. All day, every day. Forever. That’s what love is, Dad. Not that you’d know.”

Anton grows still.

Igrow still. Oh God. Did I… Did I just say the L word?

Turning his head, Anton casts me a look I can’t read over his shoulder. And then he smiles, and my heart soars. “Ma seule amor.”

“My only love,” I reply, my lips curling.

Dad snorts. “This sickens me. You both sicken me. This whole team sickens me. A bunch of weak excuses. It’s not even worth the tax write-off.”

Anton turns back to him. I see his shoulders bunch. Tension coils his body. Oh no, if he punches Dad, Dad will?—

“Enough,” Sergio growls, and—face set—he pushes past both of us and smashes his fist into Dad’s jaw.

“Merde!” Anton bursts out.

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