Bianca’s face was a picture. She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted, and to be honest even I wasn’t sure which I’d meant that statement to be.
“Bring that energy to Las Vegas,” I said, hurriedly glancing away from her before I got myself into any more trouble. “You too, Sophia. Great job.”
“Wow, you were something else out there today,” Harrington sighed, standing beside Bianca and rolling her neck.
“Thanks,” Rossi replied.
I deliberately kept my attention fixed elsewhere, though I could still feel her gaze on me. I glanced at my wristwatch.
“I’ve got to get going,” I muttered, all the while knowing my afternoon was completely free. “Catch up with Carlos and go over the data from today together. Anything you think could be improved on between now and Las Vegas, he’ll need to know.” I tugged at the collar of my shirt, striding away and heading back to the solitude of my office. I had plenty of paperwork to catch up on, but in truth I was just glad to be free from the attention of Bianca Rossi. I slumped down behind my desk with a heavy sigh. I wasn’t quite sure if Bianca was just playing with me whenever I caught her behaving flirtatiously towards me and it was unnerving.
I fished my phone from my trouser pocket and navigated to a Google search:‘Bianca Rossi’.A whole host of news articles, interviews and wiki pages came up and I scrolled through some of the results curiously. Though she was only twenty–four, she’d had great success on the F1 circuit and was well–respected in the field. I couldn’t help but be impressed. Halfway down the list ofsearch results, a handful of photographs appeared – a mixture of professionally posed and candid shots. One in particular caught my attention and I tapped on it.
To my surprise, I found myself on Bianca’s Instagram account. The picture I’d opened was her, leaning against her McLaren car. She had her helmet tucked under one arm, just as she had done whilst she’d be talking to me just moments ago, except this time she had her racing overalls rolled down to her waist and a tiny, black sports bra on show. I could tell the photograph was clearly a professional job from the editing and the lighting, and she looked fantastic.
I cleared my throat, unable to stop myself from scrolling through the hundreds of other photos she had posted. Most of them were ones I had seen before – or at least very similar. There were plenty of her getting sprayed with champagne, celebrating with the team and sitting in her car, but there was also a heavily suggestive undertone to a lot of her shots. She had reels of her during her PT sessions, donning tiny shorts and sports bras and even a handful of her posing in her red–carpet dresses.
Bianca’s attractiveness wasn’t lost on me – hell, it had been one of the first things I’d noticed when she’d sat before me just a day ago – but I hadn’t realised just howstunningshe was. I’d spent very little time truly looking at her, afraid that she would somehow sense my interest or catch me ogling her, but her Instagram account allowed me to take my time to study her.
“Fucking hell,” I grumbled, guiltily zooming in on an especially suggestive shot of her and a few of the other drivers, poolside and arm in arm. She had on what had to be a custom–made bikini, black with an orange stripe the same colours as McLaren’s livery. It was tiny, leaving very little to the imagination, and the comments section beneath parroted back my own sentiments about how good Bianca looked in it. Itwas one thing to be a dirty, old pervert, leering at hot, semi–naked girls when you were anonymous on the internet and quite another when you were said hot girl’s boss. I scrubbed a hand down my face and shut off my phone screen, throwing the device onto my desk with a loud clatter. I needed to get a grip on this before it got out of hand… though I wasn’t completely to blame. Bianca had planted this seed in my brain and continued to water it every time I caught her eyeing me suggestively. She was big trouble – the kind I really needed to avoid after the huge scandal Harold Warner had left in his wake – and yet I couldn’t seem to rein myself in.
I snatched my phone and unlocked it, surprised for a moment to see Bianca had updated her Instagram as I was brought face to face with her latest post. It was a selfie with her and Sophia, clearly taken moments ago in the pit garage, the two McLaren cars blurred in the background. Sophia was smiling sweetly up at the camera, whereas Bianca had chosen to pull a face, sticking her tongue out. My mind flew straight to the gutter, and I scrolled to the caption.
‘Ready to set some doubters straight. Bring it on, #LasVegasGP!’
There was no doubt that her words were aimed at me. I chuckled, a smile fighting its way onto my face. I was looking forward to her going out there and giving everyone a taste of what I’d seen on track today. There was no way Bianca Rossi was losing that race in Vegas if she came out hot, gun blazing. If fanning the flames of indignation was what it took to bring out the best in my driver and get McLaren across the line for the constructor’s championship, then so be it. I hoped Bianca knew what she was playing with, but also that I hadn’t just bitten off more than I could chew with the attractive Italian.
The summer break was officially over. The McLaren team and I boarded the private jet I’d chartered for us, and twelve hours later we were touching down on American soil. We’d left a damp and humid British summer behind, greeted instead by blazing hot sunshine and melting tarmac. It was a blistering thirty–two centigrade, and already the press had begun to chatter about the extra challenge the extreme temperatures would bring to the race. I’d somehow managed to avoid interacting with Rossi again, keeping all communication digital and deliberately choosing a seat out of sight from her on the plane, but as I waited for the team cars to pull around to collect us from the airport, I knew there was one place I wouldn’t be able to get away from her.
“Harrington, Rossi – you’re in the first car with me,” I shouted across the gathering of McLaren team members. “The rest of you will follow in the minivan to the hotel.”
I busied myself with answering emails, pretending not to notice Bianca sidling up beside me.
“It’s hot, hm?” she muttered, flapping the neck of her t–shirt. “I don’t know how you can stand wearing those shirts all the time. I’m sweating.”
“I’ll be wearing my polo shirt at the track,” I replied. “You’re right – it is too hot for formal wear.”
“The sooner you realise I’malwaysright, the better,” she teased, and I gave in, meeting her eye. Bianca grinned and I was helpless but to mirror it.
“Whatever you say,” I replied, tucking my phone away as I saw the car approaching. “I’ll be glad to be back in the air conditioning, that’s for sure.”
The driver hurried around and opened our door for us. This time, Bianca was first to clamber inside. I glanced around, looking for Sophia.
“Where’s Harrington?” I asked, bending at the waist to speak to Bianca.
She shrugged. “She’s around somewhere. Get in.”
I hesitated, desperately dragging my heels as I prayed for Sophia to show up before I was forced to sit between the two drivers and pressed up next to Bianca. When I could delay no longer, I scowled and climbed inside the car.
“Where is she?” I muttered, leaning out of the door a little to scan the crowds.
Bianca was scrolling her phone, unfazed. “I’m sure she’ll be along in a minute. Maybe she needed the loo?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I muttered tersely.
“You really don’t like to be kept waiting, do you?” Bianca chuckled. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.”
“Don’t start with me.”
