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Sam heard the heartbreak in his voice and it reminded her of the grief she’d seen in his eyes back in Cheshire. And not just grief, but remorse.
Sam chewed on her thumb and looked at Cristiano, studying his thick dark hair, his incredible cheekbones, and the most beautiful mouth in the whole world. “Tell me,” she said softly.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me what hurts.”
“You already know my legs hurt.”
She pinched his chest, just above his nipple. “I’m not talking about your legs. I’m talking about the other things, the hurt inside you.”
He lifted a hand, smoothed his palm over her hair, letting the curls coil around his fingers. “Sorry, bella. Men don’t talk that way.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not—” his eyes briefly glinted, a flash of humor “—masculine.”
She smiled wryly and then her smile faded and she leaned closer to his chest, letting her heart beat against his. “Your dad died at the race in Brazil.”
“Yes.”
“And it still makes you sad.”
“Yes.”
“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Sam heard the catch in his deep voice and her eyes closed, her hands open on his shoulders. She could feel his pain. She could feel it as strong as anything and she was almost afraid to touch him. To be so close to someone and know how much they hurt.
To know you couldn’t save or heal, change or fix. All one could do was listen. And care.
Care. God, she cared. She cared so much she thought she’d die if anything happened to him. For the first time in eight years she felt like a real person again, she felt whole and happy and for the first time since Charles died, she knew she’d have a long, normal life. With Cristiano. With Gabby. Her family.
But she wanted to comfort Cristiano, comfort him the way he’d comforted her and yet she didn’t know what to say, didn’t understand the racing world, or why anyone would want to race in the first place. Cars terrified her. They were dangerous. Car accidents had taken three people she loved. Cristiano’s own father had died in a race. Cristiano’s friend had died practicing for a race.
“I’m glad you don’t race anymore,” she said, gently stroking his chest. “So glad that’s behind you—”
“But it’s not.” He caught her hand, stilled it on his chest. “I still race. I never retired.”
“But you haven’t been driving…”
“We’re off season but I still drive every day, Sam.”
“I thought you’ve been going to your office.”
“Yes, after I go to the track.”
She struggled to free herself but he held on to her wrist. “You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
She tugged harder on her wrist. “How could I ask something I didn’t know?” she cried.
“But you know who I am! You know what I do. This is how I pay the bills, Sam. I have sponsors, a team, endorsements—”
“You also have an international driving school.”
“Which is something I enjoy and am proud of. But I’m a driver. I love to compete.”
“Even though racing killed your father?”
Cristiano’s brow furrowed. His jaw tensed. He released her and let her roll away. “I am a Bartolo, Sam. I will always be a Bartolo.”
She sat up on the side of the bed, her heart racing, hot tears burning the back of her eyes. “And what does that mean?”
“It means I love to drive fast. Cars—engines—speed, it’s in my blood. And Gabriela’s blood, too. We’re the same—”
“No.”
“Yes, and you might not like it, but you’re going to have to accept it. I’m not Charles. I’ve never wanted to serve others. All I ever wanted was to race. That’s it.”
“And be on your dad’s team.”
“And I am.”
Furious tears stung her eyes. “Even though he’s gone?”
“I can still carry on his name—”
“Not if you die in some accident!”
“I’ve already nearly died in some horrific accident. But I’m not going to quit. I will never quit.”
