Page 108 of Warming the Sheikh's Bed & Love in the Fast Lane

“Do not be worried, S.B. I have done this more often than I can say.”

“I know that too.” She pulled her lip between her teeth and lifted yet another piece of fruit to the machine. “But if you’re not going to have anything to eat, please go. I’m working really hard to hold it together until you leave.”

“And then what?” He interrogated softly, his eyes searching.

“And then I’ll become a nervous wreck until I see you again.”

There was so much Leonardo wanted to say, but he knew none of it would help. Getting the race finished and returning to her safely was the only cure for her concern. And it wasn’t really a cure. It was a patch. Until the next race. A wall of guilt seemed to build, brick by brick, within him. He tried to ignore it, but it was there.

“Amaro is downstairs,” he said after a pulse of silence had passed, referring to the team manager. “I have to meet the others.” He strode out of the kitchen with the appearance of ease, pausing at the door. “Let’s go to that French restaurant for dinner tomorrow?”

She knew what he was doing, because he had done it in the past. He was helping her see past the race day, to something they would soon be enjoying together. It didn’t work, but she let him think it did. “Sure, that sounds great. Be safe, Leo. I’m counting on you to come back to me.”

“Wild horses…”

It wasn’t wild horses Aurora was worried about. It was horse power, and hundreds of it at that. Open top racing had to be the most fool-hardy sport in the world. She’d heard somewhere along the line that rock fishing was actually considered to be the most dangerous, but surely nothing could compare to the sight of a loved one folded into a precision speed machine, hurtling around a bitumen track amongst dozens of other car-bullets, with only a helmet for protection.

For approximately one minute, she contemplated watching the race on television. But memories of the last race she’d fully watched kept flashing back to her. She flicked the screen on long enough to see Leonardo in his racing gear, and then flicked it off. She couldn’t watch.

She grabbed her bag and headed out into the city centre. A silver lining to the Grand Prix was that most of the city’s inhabitants were at the track, leaving the shops deserted. She headed straight to a high-end strip of boutiques and pushed inside gratefully.

If there was one place she could count on being safe from anything to do with the race, it was at Prada.

“Aurora Jones?” The slight man with a baldhead and stylish beard approached her swiftly, his feet making a squeaking noise on the shining tile floor. “It is you?”

Her usual practice of sending a ‘back off’ vibe to anyone who recognised her disappeared. She was so desperate to be kept busy that she smiled back. “Hi. Do I know you?”

“No!” He laughed good-naturedly. “I’m sorry. I recognise you, of course. You did our Spring campaign in two thousand and….”

“Four years ago,” she said with a curt nod.

“You were one of my favourite models.” He shook his head. “You are one of my favourite models.”

“Not anymore. Today I’m just a customer.”

It served its purpose of jolting him back into the moment. “Right. Assolutamente. What can I help you with?”

She had no need for clothes. She was sent the pick of the season from designers wanting her to feature them on her blog. And yet she bought, and she bought and she bought. Clothes for herself, presents for her parents, a scarf for Peter, a cashmere sweater for Beatrice, sunglasses for Alec because she knew he’d lost his playing polo several weeks earlier. But she bought nothing for Leonardo. It was superstitious, but she had the strangest sense that it might jinx him. So she thought of everyone but him.

“I can have these parcels sent to your hotel,” the shop assistant said after she’d paid.

Aurora took one glance at the pile of white boxes and grimaced. “I think that’s wise. I had no intention of buying so much.”

“No one ever intends to buy. It is the power of Prada, no?”

“Assolutamente,” she responded with a wink. She gave him the name of the hotel, omitting the room number, for the concierge would take care of the delivery.

Despite having offloaded a small fortune in the boutique, the sun was still high in the sky. And so she saw a movie. And then shopped a little more. And then indulged in a feast of noodles and stir-fried vegetables.

It wasn’t until she walked past a bar with the race on the screens that she stole herself to go inside. She slipped in, her hat low on her head and her glasses in place. She didn’t bother to order a drink. Her anxiety was too profound. She slid into a booth and stared at the colourful pixels.

The race was almost over.

She’d made it just in time.

She saw Leonardo Fontana cross the finish line first, a clear car body ahead of his closest rival.

And so, he’d won.

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