The few times I’ve tried to extract info from Klaus on anything hard-hitting rather than merely “entertaining,” I’ve quickly discovered the limit of my alleged “all-access pass.”
Why are you asking me this?he’ll challenge.
Phaedra isn’t any help either. I tiptoed into the new-GP-venue topic once, and she not only got aggressive and mocked me for “having delusions of some Harriet the Spy investigative reporter bullshit,” but minutes later she sent someone a text, and Klaus replied—his text alert noise is the shriek of a 1990s naturally aspirated F1 engine, unmistakable. So they’re in cahoots, on the same page about leaving me in the dark.
This race week in Hungary, for the first time, Klaus and I are openly rooming together, staying in a suite at the Four Seasons. We have a balcony with a view of the Danube, and I should be a euphoric puddle of relaxation sitting out here right now—gazing at the sunset, colors melting over the cityscape and reflecting onto the river. A bottle of Tokaji Aszú is open, and we have a light meal laid out: gorgeous bread, local cheeses, fruit, squares of dark chocolate.
So yeah… Ishouldbe relaxed. But the phone calls from Sherri—which stopped for a while after the Canadian Grand Prix—have started up again. She’s pushing me, dammit, and I’m not ready. It’s got me on edge and defensive.
Then a half hour ago, Klaus took a call and hustled off to close himself in the suite’s bedroom. When I tried to go in toget my bathrobe,the door was locked. I eavesdropped a little, because I had a paranoid thought:What if it’s Sherri, and she’s trying to enlist Klaus’s help on badgering me into a mother-daughter relationship?But what I overheard instead was no better—more furtive business stuff, confirming his lack of trust in me where work is concerned.
So I’ve been sitting out here picking at the food and shivering slightly from the breeze off the river in my short silk chemise, arms and legs bare. As the last of the sunset’s reflection is fading from the Danube, Klaus comes out. I ignore him, stabbing a bit of melon with a bite of walnut-studded Gomolya cheese and popping it into my mouth.
He stands beside my chair. “I brought this out in case you’re chilly.”
He’s holding the bathrobe I wanted to get from the bedroom, and instead of being touched that he thought of it, I’m irritated that he’s in my head.
I shrug one shoulder. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
First draping the robe along the back of my chair, he goes to the other side of the table and sits. “The gooseflesh on your arms says otherwise, but suit yourself.”
His mildly amused tone says he knows I’m being stubborn. I’m hoping he’ll ask me what’s wrong, so I can have the satisfaction of sayingIt’s nothing, but he’s better at this game than I am. He pours himself a glass of the Tokaji Aszú and takes a strawberry from the tray and eats it before sipping the wine, gazing off the balcony.
“Lovely night,” he tries.
“Mmm-hmm.” I fork up a segment of apricot, and before I get it to my mouth, my phone buzzes again.Sherri.With a sharp sigh, I turn the phone face down.
“Talia.”
I look up, one eyebrow lifted, expression bland.
“Either block the number or let the woman speak,” Klaus counsels soberly. “If the message you’re trying to convey to her with this obstinate silence is that you don’t care, you’re achieving quite the opposite.” He chooses another strawberry. “It’s childish.”
I set my fork down. “Wow, you almost had a point there, until you decided to make it into an insult.”
“I had no—”
“As for what’s ‘childish’? That’d beyou, skulking off and locking the door for a phone call. Once again demonstrating that you don’t trust me.”
He sits back and folds his arms—dammit, why does he have the sleeves rolled up, torturing me with his stupid sexy forearms?—and gives a maddeningly cool smile, his shapely lips quirking up on one side. “I wonder why you are trying to start a quarrel.”
“You tell me! I’m sure you have an opinion about it, right?” I jump to my feet and grab my phone. In the other hand I scoop up a chunk of pear and a square of chocolate, putting them into my mouth and chewing as I stalk inside.
I pace a full circuit around the sofa, both wanting Klaus to follow and hoping he’ll leave me the hell alone. As I make another furious loop around the living room, I see through the windows that he hasn’t moved, sitting pretty as you please with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, leisurely drinking his wine. Irrationalfury goes from a simmer to a boil, and when my phone buzzes again in my hand, I spin away from the windows and throw it hard with a snarl of frustration.
While the phone is mid-flight, my hand claps over my mouth as I spot its inevitable trajectory and know I’m helpless to undo it. It smacks into the mirror behind the bar and bounces into the sink. Somehow I managed to avoid breaking any of the liquor bottles, but the mirror is cracked.
“Dammit… no!” I trot over and fish my phone out of the sink. It’s intact, but the mirror hasn’t fared as well. I lean in to survey the damage. The small starburst of broken glass is obvious—the whole thing will have to be replaced.
Perfect. Could my night get any better?
I straighten, chirping out a yelp as the full reflection of Klaus looms behind me.
“Are you hurt?” he asks. He tries to gather my hands in his to inspect them for injury, and I tear myself away from his grasp.
“I’m fine! Jesus, do I have to lock myself in a room like you to get a minute’s peace?”
He retreats a step, leaning back against the counter.Are his feelings hurt?I don’t want him to be hurt… not because I care about his feelings right now, but because it would make me the bad guy, and that is very unsatisfying.
