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“He was a former teammate.”
Cristiano fell silent, and as the silence stretched, she felt the room grow cold, the bed empty. He was there, but not, and his arms might be around her, but he’d detached, disappeared from her.
“Cristiano,” she whispered his name as she turned in his arms to face him. His eyes were open and he was staring at a place past her head. “When were you on the same team?”
“Ten years ago. Before I drove for Italia Motors.”
He fell silent again and she bit her lip, hoping he’d soon talk, tell her more but he didn’t. He remained strangely silent and reserved, so unlike the Cristiano she’d come to know.
After several minutes Sam reached up and touched his mouth with her fingertips. He was so beautiful, his nose was long, perfectly straight, his chin squared, and his mouth with that curve in his upper lip, the lower lip firm, sensual. She loved his face. She’d never get tired of looking at him. “What are you thinking?” she asked gently.
For a moment she didn’t think he’d answer, and then he exhaled slowly. “About my father.” Cristiano turned his head, looked at her. “He liked Nils, but he used to say that Nils’s enthusiasm overruled his judgment.”
“Nils was reckless?”
“His tactics bordered on reckless, yes.”
“What kind of driver was your dad?”
“Brilliant.” There was no hesitation on Cristiano’s part. “I realize you don’t know anything about racing, but my father was one of the greatest drivers of all time. Less than ten years ago he won thirteen Grand Prix in one year—Australia, Malaysia, Bahrain, San Marino, Spain, United States, Monaco—you name it. He won it. Before he died, he won four World Championships—only Juan-Manuel Fangio of Argentina won more, and that was in 1950s.”
He was right, she didn’t know anything about racing but she was impressed. “Your father sounds remarkable.”
“People always wanted to know his secret, and there wasn’t a secret to his success. It was just him. His personality. Behind the wheel he was always cool, calm, unflappable. But he was incredibly strong. He won because he didn’t tire—physically or mentally.”
Sam slid up Cristiano’s torso, pressed a light kiss to his chin and then his lip. “He taught you to drive?”
“Yes.” His lashes flickered down, and then up again. The corner of his mouth lifted in a small, rueful smile. “It’s funny. As a driver he was cool and calm, as a father he could be short-tempered. I think he resented anyone or anything that took him away from the track.”
“He must have traveled a lot.”
“He lived to race. He didn’t care what he drove, either. He’d race anything—Corvettes, Ferraris, F1s, Champcars, oval racers, even long distance sports car races.”
“Did you ever go with him, on those trips?”
“No. My parents divorced when I was young, and I was sent to boarding school. I hated it. All I wanted to do was race, too. My dream was to someday drive with Dad. To make his team. And then when I was twenty-six I won the French GP and Italia Motors—my father’s team—signed me.”
“You must have been thrilled.”
He laughed faintly. “Over the moon. But of course I didn’t get to race with him right away. I was the third team member, which meant I did a lot of sitting and waiting for my turn. I hated sitting, I’m a Bartolo after all, but a year later, here in Monaco for the Grand Prix, an injury to the second team driver opened up a spot for me. I took second that day, my father took first, and I never had to sit as an alternate again.”
“So you helped each other win?”
“Teammates look out for each other. It’s what you do.”
Sam heard his voice deepen and she glanced up into his eyes. Cristiano’s hazel-green eyes were shadowed with pain.
“I’m sorry Gabby will never know him,” he said huskily. “She should have known him. He would have enjoyed her tremendously.”
“You said he died just months before she was born.”
“Four months before she was born. In October. At the Brazilian Grand Prix.”
