Page 4 of Downforce

An image of Charlotte Madigan fills my head again, and I grit my teeth. For someone I’ve actively ignored since Carson Willoughby hired her, she seems to be on my mind a lot.

Why?

She thinks she’s better than you, the little voice whispers. She’s right, and you know?—

I stop walking.

Just inside the gym’s glass door, a woman barely five foot four, with curves and dips in all the places curves and dips should be, is working out on a heavy punching bag, her face fierce, her fists fast and powerful.

Wait. What is that stuck at the top of the bag? Is that… Is that…

A knot twists in my gut as my brain registers exactly what I’m looking at.

Charlotte Madigan, Equis Racing’s chief aerodynamicist, is working out on a punching bag with an A4 printed-out image of a face taped to it.

My face.

I stare at her. Watch her. Watch her move. Watch her energy, her passion. Her ferocity.

And suddenly, like fuel injectors firing all at once, the blood in my veins runs hot with a base male hunger I’ve never experienced before.

C'est quoi cette merde!

CHAPTER THREE

Charlie

Oh shite.

I look at Laurant, standing a few feet away from me, just inside the door of the temporary gym, an expression I can’t decipher on his handsome face.

Handsome? Ha. Hisgorgeousface. Admit it, he might be a pain in the arse, but he’s so very pretty to look at.

And phenomenal behind the wheel. The only thing hampering his podium places this season is his car. So many drivers complain their car is what’s preventing them from winning. In Anton’s case, it’s one hundred percent the truth.

If only he’d deign a meeting to discuss it.

He’s here now.

Sure. Tell him I’m going to change his specific settings, the ones he demands no one adjusts, a few seconds after he busts me unloading on a punching bag with his face stuck to it? Ha!

“Well,” I wipe the back of my boxing glove across my forehead, my breath ragged, and meet his direct gaze, “this is awkward.”

His nostrils flare. Just that. No other response.

There should be. He’s busted me being highly unprofessional. He has every right to be furious. Equis HR is going to have a field day. What was Ithinking?

“Look,” I say, taking a step toward him, guilt throbbing in my temples. “This isn’t what it… Well, itiswhat it looks like, but…”

I falter. Bite my bottom lip.

Why hasn’t he said anything?

I don’t squirm, but my stomach clenches. I can make his car the fastest on the track. I can hand him podium after podium. I can help Equis be untouchable. And I’ve jeopardised it all because one arrogant Frenchman too good-looking for my highly intelligent brain to compute got under my skin.

He rakes a look over me, before returning his stare to my face. Thank God, I’d spent an absurd amount of time trying to find tape to fix his image to the top of the bag. I’d only begun taking out my frustration on it a few minutes ago, so I know I’m not sweaty. When Ireallywork out, my face turns beet red.

Sighing, I drop my head and let my shoulders slump. I’m going to have to do the one thing I’m not good at: beg for forgiveness.

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