His helpless chuckle is like a long-held breath finally released. “I don’t think I have arealaccent. Even as a boy, it changed for my father, my tutors, the kids around our village. But you’re no different, Evans. I scrub Northern England from my voice; you’ve scrubbed the Southern US from yours—proper Broadcast American, that. So who areyou?” His eyes narrow with mirth. “Don’t pretend you have it all sorted. Has Herr Franke ever met the real Natalia Evans, or are you still figuring out who she is?”
His question tumbles into an empty space inside me, bumping around in the darkness. “I’m… I’m a fundamentally honest person, Alexander.”
“That,” he counters, pointing at me, “answers a question altogether different to the one I asked.”
Getting to my feet with a sigh, I move toward the door. “I have nothing to hide. And thanks for the apology, but I still don’t trust you.”
“But youlikeme just a little bit,” he teases. “I’m not all bad. Give me a chance to prove it.”
With one hand on the doorknob, I pin him with a look over myshoulder. “Wanna prove it? Leave Gilly alone. Oliver in graphic design has a crush on her, and I think she likes him back. But you’re confusing her, and you only about ten percent mean it.”
He takes a slow breath. “All right. But for my valiant sacrifice, I get upgraded to ‘acquaintance-plus’ in your eyes, if friendship is right out.”
“Oh, Jesus—fine. As long as you never ask me for a date again, ever.” I turn the doorknob, then pause. “Also, if you hear any credible intel about the human rights issue with that new grand prix location, let me know, okay? I’m looking into it.”
“Deal.”
As I exit, I can’t help thinking that it feels odd to have an alliance with Alexander. But his mild sleaziness might come in handy.
Because unfortunately, I can’t ask Klaus about any of this.
19
AUSTRIA
TWO WEEKS LATER
KLAUS
Natalia and I flew in separately to Vienna, coming respectively from London and Paris, where I attended an FIA meeting with major partners and several team principals. She and I hired a car with the aim of driving to my hometown—about an hour south of Vienna near Lake Neusiedl—before we proceed to Spielberg for race week.
I haven’t been “home” in nearly twenty years. But I’ve felt guilty and sad about having to hide some things from Natalia lately, so the trip was a sort of offering, to satiate the curiosity she rightly has about my past.
She’s been asking a lot of questions as we wend down the A3. I find myself slow to reply, turning each question over in my mind, examining for pitfalls and being somewhat vague.
“I’m notinterviewingyou right now, Klaus,” she says dryly. “Fascinating as you are, I doubt I can get a story out of your favoritesport as a boy or the name of a girl you kissed when you were twelve. Quit being so uptight. I just like knowing more about you.”
“Forgive me,” I say with a tired smile. “I need to switch gears into holiday mode.”
“Seriously,” she teases. “Lighten up, pal.”
“I did save a joke for you, come to think of it…”
She chuckles. “Still practicing for that career in stand-up? Okay, lay it on me.”
I glide through a patch of slower-moving cars, then send an expectant grin Natalia’s way. “What is a zombie’s favorite part of the newspaper?”
She lifts an eyebrow.
After a pause, I deliver the punchline. “Theheadlines.”
I’m gratified at her helpless burst of laughter.
“Wow,no. Points for trying, but that is… honestly terrible. Dad jokes, without even being a dad.”
She lays a hand on my leg fondly, and I entwine my fingers with hers.
“Someday, perhaps,” I say lightly.
