“Fuck this,” I growl, tucking my iPad under my arm and yanking my phone from my jacket pocket.
Sergio lets out a nervous laugh.
Teeth gritted, I scroll through my contacts.
“Fuck this,” I mutter again, stopping at Laurant’s contact profile.
His face smirks at me in frozen arrogance from above his name and number. I should have known he would be trouble the moment I saw this photo attached to his WhatsApp profile. He selected it, he made it his profile avatar in the Equis WhatsAppgroup. And sure, he’s too gorgeous for comprehension, but the smug conceit in the photo screams he knows it.
I will enjoy reminding him he’s just a pretty boy who can drive fast.
When it comes to the car itself, the twelve-million-dollar machine, I’m in charge.
I punch Call and raise my phone to my ear, flicking a look at Sergio.
He grimaces again, taking a step back. “He’s not going to like this,” he says, shaking his head.
“Do I look like I care what he likes?” I say back.
Anton’s smooth, deep voice slinks into my ear a heartbeat later, French accent dialled up to eleven. “Oui?”
Just that. One word.
I picture his face with its mocking dark eyes and defined lips and chiseled jaw and?—
“If you don’t get your arse to the meeting in twenty minutes,” I reply, dialing my British accent up to twenty, “I’ll make sure thisnepobaby has your contract torn up before the end of the day.” I smile at the missing Laurant, the expression as icy as my threat. “Cheerio.”
I kill the call, return my phone to my jacket, close my eyes and give my head and shoulders a little shake. Ground and center my emotional state. Count to five.
Opening my eyes, I nod at Sergio, currently gaping at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted an extra head. “Tell everyone the meeting is delayed by thirty minutes.”
His head jerks in a stuttering little nod.
A tight tension crawling up my spine and over my scalp, I pivot on my heel and start striding back the way we’d come. Is it possible to hate someone you’ve never met?
“What are you doing, Ms Madigan?” Sergio calls behind me.
“I’m going to beat the shit out of a punching bag,” I call over my shoulder. “Can you get someone to bring me a print-out of Laurant’s face?”
Sergio lets out another nervous laugh, unsure whether I am being serious or not.
To be honest, I don’t know either.
CHAPTER TWO
Anton
Tear up my contract? Ha! Who does Charlotte Madigan think she is. I am Anton Laurant. Five times World Champion.
But the podiums have been somewhat sparse these last two seasons, no?
Scowling, I ignore the insidious little voice whispering in my head and return my phone to my back pocket.
I despise that voice. Recently, it whispers in my head every time I line up at the grid, every pit stop I make, every time I close my fucking eyes.
A cool breeze blows across Monaco’s Port Hercules, thick with sea salt and brine, and I let out a choppy breath. It’s a perfect day to be out on the water. Far better on the water than in a meeting conducted by someone who knows nothing about my relationship with my car.
Do you remember what she did for Diaulos Racing’s F2 teams?