And when he grins and looks into the camera.

  I swear he’s looking straight at me and the goofy grin I have on my lips.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Riggs

  “What’s your feel on things?” I ask Ari as I lift a hand to thank the flight attendant for my drink.

  Singapore Grand Prix, here we come.

  The private jet that Moretti provides its racers for travel is top of the line in all aspects—including service according to Andrew. The same Andrew who is currently smirking at me from across the aisle because apparently, he’s taken advantage of said service.

  I guess his service came with the first name of Savannah. Guess he’s no longer with his girlfriend. Or maybe he is. Who the fuck knows?

  “You can’t talk, can you?”

  “No.”

  “People in front of you?”

  “Yep. You guessed it,” I say, trying not to make it obvious that we’re talking about shit that’s private.

  “So Maxim has a week or two. Maybe three. His goal is to get back by next month. Either Qatar or Austin. The gist I’m getting is that he’s feeling a little threatened by your success and sees the need to get back and prove himself back into his ride before you steal it.”

  My chest constricts—from pride, from dread, from the unknown, and a healthy dose of panic.

  “And?”

  “You’re asking where that leaves you?”

  “Correct.”

  “I’m not sure to be honest. There are a few scenarios. Moretti cuts you, you don’t find another ride, and you go back to StarOne Racing to wait for the season to end and hopefully get picked back up. Moretti cuts you and another team picks you up. There are two drivers who are underperforming, and their positions might be up for grabs. Or . . . Moretti keeps you. Either as their number two, because they’re not one hundred percent convinced Maxim’s ready, or they keep you as a reserve driver.”

  “The first option needs to be taken off the table.”

  “We need to be reasonable—”

  “I am. My work stands for itself.” Andrew glances up at me and his nod says he agrees with what I’m saying.

  There’s an unspoken code between drivers. We don’t talk shit about one another. We may not like each other, we definitely have heated moments, but we keep our dirt clean to the public. Infighting looks bad for the sport. Talking ill of fellow drivers even more so. And if you do, you risk losing any secondary support from that driver’s fan base.

  “It does,” Ari says, drawing me back into the conversation. “But there are twenty seats at the start of every season. It’s rare for teams to cut drivers mid-season . . . but it has happened.”

  I’m not going back.

  I deserve to be here.

  I’ve earned the right to be here.

  “Noted.” It’s all I can say.

  “I’m fighting. Just know I’m fighting for you like always.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And don’t be surprised if you see me at an upcoming race.”

  “You?” I bark out a laugh. “Mr. Busy and Important?”

  “That should tell you where you land on my list of priorities, Riggs. High.”

  “Thanks, mate.”

  “We’re going to do everything we can to keep you here.”

  I end the call and rest my head back, close my eyes, and sigh.

  Two warnings.

  Two fucking warnings.

  What if I fuck something else and get a third? What if—

  “Teams like you, man,” Andrew says and waits for me to meet his eyes before continuing. “There’s talk going around. Teams like your grit and skill. It’ll come around, Riggs. It’ll come around.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “You’ve earned it. Hands down. And I’m not the only one who sees it.”

  Let’s hope so.

  Let’s fucking hope so.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Camilla

  Nerves rattle through me.

  Nerves I never anticipated I’d feel when I was sitting at the last race in Singapore and the idea for tonight’s adventure came to me.

  An idea that was so out of the blue but that felt so perfectly right. There will always be another gala, but there will never be another chance to distract Riggs, to give him the time and grace to have a quick reprieve from all the pressure surrounding the upcoming Suzuka race.

  So here I am with a plan in place, nerves present, and excitement bubbling up.

  It’s ridiculous, really. The man has seen me naked from every angle imaginable.

  So why when I’m dressed to the nines am I nervous for him to see me like this?

  Because he never has.

  After looking both ways down the hall, I draw in a fortifying breath, and then knock on the door of his room.

  He opens the door swiftly and the moment he sees me says, “You’re not my driver . . .” But it’s the widening of his eyes and the quick, audible intake of air he emits when he sees me that has me preening ridiculously.

  “Hi,” I say, suddenly shy.

  “Hi? You can’t just stand there and say hi when you knock on my door dressed like that and expect me to be able to speak. I mean, Camilla . . .” He twirls his finger to prompt me to turn around, and I do. The low whistle that follows has a smile turning up the corners of my lips. “Holy fucking shit. I’m speechless. I mean, other than saying holy fucking shit, I’m speechless.”

  I know I look good. Is that conceited to think?

  After six years of my public Camilla Moretti uniform, I think I deserve the right to think that. And by Riggs’s reaction, he thinks the same way.

  My dress is a deep red. It’s formfitting with spaghetti straps, a sexy but not too revealing neckline, and falls just above my knees. My heels are nude, my hair is up, and my makeup is there but a muted natural.

  I debated doing this. The dress. The surprise I have in store for him. But I figured if there is any time to get his mind off the day-to-day and what’s coming up this weekend, it’s right now.

  Plus, the look on his face is too priceless to have not seen.

  “You like?” I ask coyly as I take in everything about him in his classic black tuxedo. The tailored fabric. The broad shoulders filling it out. The way the collar hugs his neck. How goddamn devastating he is in it.

  “Baby, I more than like. If I wasn’t waiting for my driver to come take me to the gala right now, I’d pull you in here, lock the door, and show you just how much I like.”

  I grin. Why does his praise feel so good to hear? It’s ridiculous, but it does.

  “Well, about that. Your driver isn’t coming.”

  “What do you mean he’s not coming?”

  “Something came up and as far as everyone knows, you have a sudden, undeniable stomach bug.”

  He eyes me. “I do?”

  “You do.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “You’re coming with me.” I take his hand and try to lead him down the hall, but he hesitates.

  “Gasket?”

  “No one is here. The others staying here for the even have already left for the gala. I might have a lookout.” I wink. “It’s just you. It’s just me. And a car waiting to take us somewhere.”

  “Camilla—”

  I put my finger to his lips. “Shh. Trust me.”

  He gives me one more long, disbelieving stare, but he follows me when I start walking again.

  An hour and one helicopter ride later, Riggs stares at me as the aircraft flies off into the sunset and leaves us atop a hill in the outskirts of Champagne.

  The winery is stunning. It sits above a valley that has ripples of smaller hills below, some bathed in the golden glow of long grass. Others lined with the unmistakable hanging trellises of grapes and their vines.

  The actual building is small in stature but rich in architecture. Its exterior is carved stone arches with rich green vines crawling across its façade and beds of colorful flowers at its base. The wood inside is dark, the marble floor shiny, and the chandeliers above cast a soft yellow glow over everything.

  “Camilla,” Riggs says for what feels like the hundredth time.

  I link my fingers with his and start walking toward the structure. “It’s ours for the night. The chef has left food. The sommelier has left the proper wines to go with it. And the suite has the bed pulled down.”

  He tugs on my hand and when I turn back to look at him with the sunset at his back and his storm-cloud gray eyes staring at me, I know I’ve fallen for this man. I’m in love with him.

  And fuck if that’s not the heaviest of thoughts to have in a moment like this.

  “Why?”

  It’s the simplest of questions and often the hardest one to answer.

  I step into him and press a tender kiss to his lips. “Because you deserve it.” Another kiss. “Because sometimes you need a minute away from the chaos to enjoy this life we live. Because . . . because I wanted to do something special for you.”

  It’s his turn to kiss me. It’s a slow simmer of a kiss. One that’s not rushed by time constraints or the fear of someone seeing us. It’s dreamy in nature and laden with a promise of so much more.

  When it ends, he brushes the strands of hair off my face and just looks at me for a moment. “You look stunning, Cam. With clothes. Without clothes. With the Camilla uniform. Without it. The clothes don’t define you or your beauty, this does.” He taps on my chest just above my heart and every part of me grows weak from his words.

  “You made me see that,” I whisper.

  “No.” He shakes his head with the ghost of a smile. “You made yourself see it. You may have put your trust in me, but you did the work to make yourself feel comfortable to wear this tonight. You did this.”

  “You’re the one who made me feel safe enough.” My voice wavers and his smile widens.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  My emotions clog my throat and rather than try to control them, I step into him, against him, and kiss him with all the words I can’t say but want to.

  “I think dinner and wine might have to wait. I want my dessert first,” he says and then I yelp when he picks me up—one arm under my legs, the other under my back—and carries me into the villa.

  I’m most definitely not going to complain about that.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Riggs

  We move in the soft glow of candlelight.

  Slow and sensual kisses accented with the rich tang of wine on our tongues.

  There is no rush.

  No urgency.

  It’s just in an empty villa atop a desolate hill with the moon up above and the most gorgeous thing in a ten-kilometer radius beneath me.

  Her smile is desire drugged when I slip into her. A soft gasp that shifts into a sensual moan.

  Chills chase over her skin. I see them ripple across her flesh.

  Her nipples pucker. Her stomach muscles bunch. Her thighs clench.

  “Kiss me,” she murmurs and who am I to tell her no?

  We kiss. Our tongues dancing, slipping in and out of each other’s parted lips as I enjoy every slow, deliriously intoxicating grind of my hips into her.

  “So good,” she murmurs against my lips. “Feels so damn good.”

  I cup the back of her neck with one hand with my other on the globe of her arse as we move together.

  Her action is my reaction.

  My exhale is her next inhale.

  We don’t need words. We don’t need to direct. We know each other’s bodies now. We know each other’s minds.

  And I know that every time I touch her, she only thinks of me now.

  That I’ve erased his touch. That I’ve shown her how good this can feel when it’s right.

  And fuck is it right between us.

  My forehead is against hers, and it moves ever so slightly with each thrust. This—us taking sex slowly—is so different. We’re usually a frantic mess. Enjoying the high. Chasing the orgasm—the end game.

  But this time? This is enjoyment. This is reveling.

  This is fucking perfection.

  This is . . . love?

  Fuck. Is that what this is? Have I fallen for Camilla Moretti?

  My breath hitches as I lean up on my elbow and look at her. Her eyes meet mine and I’m fucking sucker-punched with what I see in them.

  Trust.

  Love.

  Desire.

  Her. Just fucking her.

  “What?” she murmurs, her smile soft.

  “Nothing,” I say and slant my lips over hers.

  We lace our fingers together, just like our bodies are—and apparently my fucking heart is—and I get lost in her.

  Isn’t that the one thing I haven’t had to question in all this? How easy it is to get lost in her? To be with her? To want her?

  “Come for me, baby,” I murmur. “Just for me.”

  And this time when I come, it’s powerful but poignant. Instead of the sharp crescendo that hits and dissipates with my decelerating heartbeat, it feels like it burns through me, marking my veins with its heat. Marking me in a way I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

  Her lips meet mine one more time. A smile spreading wide when we part.

  Thank you.

  She gave me this night when I needed it the most—to forget about what I’m about to face.

  And unknowingly gave me so much more.

  A “more” I’m not one hundred percent sure what to do with.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Riggs

  My heart is a steady staccato in my ears. A constant thump as the sound of my breathing fills the interior of the helmet and the car around me vibrates my entire body.

  It feels good to be back in the cockpit.

  To have my apologies about what happened during Monza and my mediocre finish in Singapore be heard by my crew.

  To have Hank’s confidence in me restored.

  To have that slow, even nod and, “All right,” from Carlo Moretti after I faced him and admitted fault.

  None of them made it easy for me. Stone faces were the norm with doubt present in their eyes.

  But I busted my arse to prove to them that I meant what I said. That I knew I was wrong, and that the whole of the team comes before the individual ego.

  And I needed that before I could face this race. Before I could walk in the footsteps of the only giant I’ve ever wanted to be like at the only track I ever could get the chance to—Suzuka.

  Dad. Please protect me. Please direct me. Please make me be okay.

  I glance up at the sky. At the puffs of white clouds just beyond the light tree. At the stretch of racetrack that leads to the turn that changed my family and my fate forever. At the Sharpie on the dash with his initials.

  And then I let it all go.

  All thoughts.

  All fears.

  All need to prove everyone wrong or right or in between.

  All comparisons to the man whose name I bear.

  And for the first time in my life, I may be racing for Team Moretti, but I race for me and me only.

  I race for Spencer Riggs.

  For my future.

  Not to outrun ghosts I can’t outrun.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Camilla

  She looks nothing like him.

  She’s petite with blond hair and blue eyes.

  She’s quiet and pensive with a soft voice and a quiet smile.

  She’s worried—noticeably—by the tight grip on my hand. We stand side by side and watch the man we love battle lap after lap to finish a race on a track that is an emotional powder keg for this family.

  She must be terrified and proud of her incredible son.

  We don’t speak more than anything basic. Hell, Riggs doesn’t even know she’s here, but we hold on to each other for emotional support in the private suite I had set up for her.

  Each lap down her grip lessens slightly.

  Just like with each lap down, I take another bite of my candy floss knowing I’m going to finish the game Riggs never got to finish with his dad and is seventeen years in the making.

  There were a few close calls that had me on the edge of my seat. A challenge from Grimladi on lap nineteen when they went two wide into a turn, but Riggs was able to fend him off.

  A near miss of a flying tire when Bustos and Finnegan connected and spun off into the gravel.

  But he finishes strong. With grit and determination and a little luck, the crowd roars as Spencer Riggs crosses the finish line in P2.

  Clara Riggs yelps in relief and wipes tears off her cheeks.

  And I smile because I have one piece of blue zucchero filato—or as Riggs calls it, candy floss—left.

  Chaos ensues upon the finish. The media is clamoring over the story of the son finishing the final race his father never could. The stands breathe a collective sigh.

  I want to run to him and hug him like his mom does, but I stand back. I shake his hand like an owner would a driver. I act like a proud parent rather than a woman in love with a man.

  But the waiting is so worth it when Riggs finds me in a side alley of the paddock. My grin is wide and my heart is so full—of love and relief—that I fear it might burst.

  What I want is to jump into his arms and kiss him senseless. What I do instead is hold the remaining piece of blue cotton candy out for him.

  Time slows.

  It’s just him.

  It’s just me.

  Despite the noise around us, everything seems to simply hush.

  It’s like the world around us has faded away.

  His eyes shock open and then well with tears. He tries to sniff them away, but one slips over as he takes the piece I hold out for him. He stares at it with the most bittersweet of smiles and then whispers, “Victory is sweet.”