“Tell me about it—the 77’s a fuckin’ tractor. And yet…” She bumps me with her shoulder. “I squeezed sooooo many points outta that thing. Wanna see me shine with a better car under my ass? Grab your checkbook and let’s talk.” She stands, taming her wild skirts with a swipe of one hand.
I straighten as well. “Bold words.”
“Psh!Why waste breath on anything else?”
I adjust my cuffs. “You know Allonby, as constructors’ champions three years running, are unlikely ever to take a chance on a woman driver.”
Sage shrugs. “Probably not, sure. Their loss.”
“And Team Coraggio?” I rub my jaw with a pensive half-smile. “Well, Miss Sikora… you aren’t the only one who’s heard gossip.”
“Aw, ain’t I?”
“No indeed. I know Bruno hosted you at his villa after Monza, hoping to get a jump on everyone else, taking your temperature. I have to assume he proposed ‘taking your temperature’ another way, because rumor has it you told a friend you’d ‘drive a diaper truck’ before you’d accept an offer from them.”
Her eyes narrow for a moment. She slides a hand down her face, laughing.
“Me and my big mouth. Coraggio’s boss is kind of an old lecher, true fact. But everyone’s got a price. I may not be a fan of Bruno, but come on… such history! Whowouldn’tdrive for ’em? I’d be a moron to pass it up if they came knocking.”
I chuckle. “At the risk of sounding like another ‘old lecher,’ I’d like to invite you to my Santorini home for a weekend during winter break. I’ll assemble a more concrete offer for you to peruse.”
“Oh my.Saucy.”
“You’re welcome to bring a companion,” I add, wanting to reassure her that my interest is purely business.
“Might take you up on that. Here, lemme see your phone.”
I pass it to her, and she enters the contact—complete with a selfie, winking comically into the camera—then hands it back.
“All righty, Franke. Guess we’re BFFs now.” She starts a slow, wandering gait toward the hotel, and I follow. “But this invitation had better not be because you wanna let that heartbreaker journo think we’re up to no good on your Greek isle, just to get a reaction.”
“Certainly not. I’ve no interest in playing games.”
Sage laughs. “Liar.Our sport is one big game with mad stakes. It’s only less fun when you’re not winning.”
I managed a fitful sleep between 2:00 and 5:00 a.m., then went downstairs to the gym, assaulting the treadmill at high speed while doing my best not to wonder where—and with whom—Natalia might wake this morning.
Like a song stuck in my head, my mind returns to the necklace. It might as well be the Hope Diamond, for its feeling of having cursed me. I’ve ferried it on and off airplanes in my carry-on a dozen times since Phaedra gave it back after Austria.
While finishing my workout, I make a decision: The necklace must return to Natalia. I need it out of my possession and scrubbed from my thoughts. If she doesn’t wish to keep it, she can dispose of it how she sees fit.
I shower and dress, tuck the velvet box into the pocket of my suit jacket, and take the elevator to Natalia’s floor, striding with purpose to the door of her room. My knock goes unanswered for a full minute. I extend one arm with a snap to draw back my sleeve and peer at my Bell & Ross wristwatch: 6:41.
Not here. She spent the night elsewhere.
I’m about to return to the elevator when the door flies open.
“Phae, what the—”
Natalia falls silent, and her eyes go wide under a pushed-up satin sleep mask. Her dark fringe sprouts over the top like unruly weeds. Sooty smears of cosmetics ring her vivid blue eyes, and she’s wearing a massive pink T-shirt that hangs to her knees and readsTHIS BITCH SNORES.
“Um, hi.” She moves her bare legs behind the door. “Are you lost?”
My gaze darts past her into the darkness of the room, blackout curtains drawn tight. “Am I disturbing you?”
She sweeps the mask up and off, tossing it over her shoulder and combing her fringe into place with her fingers. “Don’t get cute about it—we both know what you’re really asking. Am Ialone, right?”
“Not at all. I’ve simply realized it’s quite early.”
