Lark blinks. “Yourcar?”
“Loaner from the team for the weekend,” I tell her, trying not to sound smug. “All my cars are in Monaco right now, so Ferrari set me up with this while we’re in Miami.”
Her eyes move over the car, taking in the badge and the carbon fiber. It’s so low to the ground it barely looks street legal. I open the passenger door for her and offer my hand so she doesn’t catch her dress on the door sill. She lets out a laugh.
“You are actually serious,” she says. “I’m getting into a Ferrari to go to a gala in Miami. This is full James Bond.”
“Please,” I say. “Bondwisheshe had this car.”
She laughs, sliding into the leather seat. “I cannot believe this is real.”
I walk around to the driver’s side and drop in. The cabin smells like leather and heat, and the engine note settles into my chest the way it always does. I ease us out from the hotel portico and onto the street.
Miami at night opens up in front of us. The streets are wide and lit with neon—blues and pinks reflecting off the wet pavement from an earlier rain. Palm trees line the boulevard, their fronds catching the colored light. I downshift and the engine snarls, the sound filling the cabin.
“So, remind me who’s hosting this shindig?” Lark asks.
“Bernard Montgomery,” I tell her. “Real estate developer who loves to remind everyone he raced in amateur series for two seasons twenty years ago.”
“Ah, one of those,” she says with a smile. “Like that guy at the bar who played high school football and still wears his letterman jacket at thirty-five.”
“Exactly like that, but with a three-hundred-million-dollar mansion,” I laugh.
The car pulls through massive iron gates into a circular driveway lined with palm trees wrapped in tiny white lights. The mansion itself is sprawling Mediterranean-style, with fountains flanking the entrance.
The valet opens the door, and I offer my hand as Lark steps out. She takes it, squeezing lightly as she stands, her eyes widening as she takes in the full scale of the place.
“Wow,” she says, looking up at the mansion. “You forget places like this actually exist until you’re standing in front of one. It’s like a movie set.”
“The guy has a Picasso in the bathroom,” I say. “Thebathroom.”
“Of course he does.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s amusement in her voice. “Because where else would you put it?”
We climb the steps and the entryway opens to a massive foyer with marble floors and a crystal chandelier that probably weighs more than my bike. Staff in black and white uniforms circulate with trays of champagne and tiny, artistic food. A string quartet plays in the corner, barely audible over the hum of conversation.
“Jack Midnight!” Bernard Montgomery booms, approaching us with the enthusiasm of a game show host. He claps me on the shoulder hard enough that I have to brace myself. “The man himself! Good to see you, my boy!”
“Bernard,” I say, shaking his hand firmly. “Thanks for having us. This is my girlfriend, Lark Reyes.”
Bernard turns his attention to Lark, taking her hand in both of his. He leans in slightly too close, enveloping us in a cloud of cologne so strong it could strip paint. I catch Lark’s slight wince before she composes her expression into a perfect smile.
“Enchanted, my dear. Absolutely enchanted. The famous musician! I’ve heard all about your talent.”
“All good things, I hope,” Lark says with a warm smile, subtly extracting her hand from his grip.
Bernard laughs loudly. “You know, I used to sing a bit myself. Back in my racing days. Had quite the voice, they said.” He puffs up slightly. “Maybe we should do a duet later! I’ll have someone bring out the karaoke machine.”
“That’s very generous,” Lark says smoothly, “but I wouldn’t want to overshadow the other guests.”
I bite back a laugh. She’s good.
“Charming,” he says. “Well, enjoy yourselves. The east terrace has the better champagne, just between us.” He winks and moves on to his next victims.
“Karaoke machine?” I murmur as we move away. “At a black-tie gala?”
“He’s definitely singing Sinatra’sMy Wayat some point tonight,” Lark predicts. “I’m calling it now.”
We grab champagne from a passing server and make our way through the crowd. The mansion is packed with racing executives, Miami socialites, people who look important but I have no idea who they are. Everyone wants to stop and chat. We smile, nod, make small talk about the Formula One season and Lark’s music. After twenty minutes of this, I steer us toward the terrace doors, needing air.
