I miss the girl I was. And I miss who Sherri and Jason were… when they were still Mom and Dad.
There’s a celebration for Cosmin at a hip tiki bar, and I can’t resist showing up for a little of it, even though I should be in my hotel room right now preparing for a video call related to a story I’m pursuing. I feel guilty that I’ve deliberately not mentioned it to Klaus, but… it has to do with murmurs of a human rights issue in the country that may be hosting a new grand prix. As a teamprincipal, he has “a dog in this fight,” and I don’t want him to influence how I do my job.
I’m finishing the last of a cocktail with a plastic flamingo in it when Klaus draws up behind me and runs a fingertip along my shoulder. I give a ticklish squeak and rotate to face him. He’s had a few cognacs, and the scent of it on him, mingled with his cologne, instantly makes my pulse race with the memory of our first meeting.
He leans in as if to kiss me and I bob to one side, scanning the crowd for any nearby Emerald figures other than Phae or Cosmin, who know to keep our secret.
“Watch it, mister,” I tease. “Can’t have anything about us get back to my boss until I turn in the article. Six more weeks,” I add when Klaus’s brow pinches in a mock-sulky way.
“I was hoping you might dance with me,” he says, nodding toward the small space where a few couples sway to the crooning of Dean Martin.
“Oh dear.” I put a hand on his shirt and bring my lips just beside his ear. The warmth of his skin is more intoxicating than the rum I just drank. I can feel the feathery softness of his hair against my cheek as I murmur, “That would be very indiscreet.”
“One friendly dance,” he coaxes. “I’ll be the soul of discretion.”
I’m honestly dying to—we’ve never danced together—so it doesn’t take any more convincing than that. I offer a hand and he takes it, leading me to a patch of hardwood splashed with marbled blue light meant to look like ocean waves.
We position our arms, and for a minute maintain a proper distance. But when the song changes to Etta James’s “At Last,” I melt against the muscular wall of his chest and let him hold me close.He drags one thumb down my spine, and the sensation is too delicious.
Putting a foot of space between us, I clear my throat. “That’s hardly fair.”
“I have to make love to you tonight.”
“You know I can’t—I have a deadline.” I draw a circle around one of his shirt buttons with a fingertip. “But in a few weeks we’ll stay together during the British GP, at the house Phae’s lending us in Towcester. A whole week, just you and me.” I flash a winning smile.
“Come to my room, Talia.” His gaze is heat and hunger.
With a frustrated groan, I say, “Donottempt me. I have an important call at midnight. It’s eight hours ahead where the—” I break off, not wanting to reveal too much. “Where the person is calling from, and I was lucky to get their time at all.”
A pensive shadow darkens his expression, as if he’s going down a list of the countries that are eight hours ahead of Montréal. Something about it pokes at my guilt over hiding this, when we’re supposed to be committed to honesty now. It must be obvious that I’m leaving out details—I have no poker face.
I sigh. “It’s someone from Amnesty International. A lead I’m working on again.”
He scowls. “About the new race location?”
“Wow.” My eyebrows lift. “Quick line you drew between Amnesty International and the new grand prix. So… guess I don’t have to tell you why it’s important that I don’t miss this call.”
His feet come to a halt and his hands smooth over my upper arms before he grips me lightly. The look on his face is one I’vecome to know—tight intensity beneath a mask of calm. “To whom will you be speaking?”
People move around us as we stand, conspicuously still, no longer dancing. I open and close my mouth, deciding whether I want to tell him. Finally I shrug. “A woman I got in touch with through that watchdog organization—the group that gave Emerald the report on your old sponsor, Basilisk.”
Taking my hand, Klaus leads me off the floor and to a hallway near the restrooms. “You shouldn’t be poking the hornet’s nest on this issue, Talia. When journalists ask the wrong questions, it can be dangerous.”
“Uh, you just described the whole point of journalism,” I deadpan. “And if you’re referring to the reporter from Al Jazeera who fell off that balcony a couple weeks ago, it was an accident. She was trying to get social media pics or something, they said.”
“Oh? You know this for certain—anaccident? I wasn’t aware you witnessed it.”
I fold my arms, waiting for it to catch up to Klaus how condescending he sounds.
He has the grace to look annoyed with himself. “My apologies. But…” He rubs his face. “I thought you’d set this aside, after Santorini.”
“Huh,” I say with a squint. “And why after Santorini, specifically?”
He seems about to reply, then sighs and rubs his face again.
Quietly, I add, “You claimed the sex wouldn’t change things.That I’m free to write what I want. So your alleged concern for my safety sounds a little disingenuous right now.”
“I don’t want you to pursue it further,” he insists, his tone almost a growl. “Please.”
