“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me.”
“I’m hanging up now. Goodbye, Charlemagne.”
Nico sighed as she grabbed her purse. If she had a manager, a Dario of her own, then they might have talked some sense into her before she pulled that stupid stunt.
She opened her purse and tossed her cell phone in.
There it was. That damn letter.
Why did she insist on carrying it around with her?
You know why. You have to read it. But what you really want to do is throw it away or burn it. Act as though there were no letter. But you can’t do that. You can’t go to Italy without knowing what’s in that letter.
She stared at the postmark on the envelope before quickly shutting her purse and tossing it on the chair beside her.
Mickey hadn’t contacted her in years. Why now? He must know she finally made it to Formula 1. If he didn’t know when he’d written the letter, he certainly knew by now.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she had a Dario who could manage Mickey for her? Was there such a person? Then again, to do that they’d have to know about Mickey. They’d have to know about her past. They’d have to know about Uncle Jack and Aunt Milly—grifters who’d taken off with her when her grandfather had dropped dead of a heart attack. They’d have to know how she’d helped them con people. They’d have to know about how she’d run off with Mickey and what she’d done with him.
Thinking about it made her feel as though the oxygen surrounding her had suddenly been sucked into a vacuum.
She drew a deep breath. That’s why she was better off without a manager. She could manage things. She’d been on her own a long time now and had a lot of practice. Look how far she’d come. She’d done all right.
“You ready?” the photographer’s assistant said, standing in the doorway.
Nico nodded and followed her into the studio.
“You’re gorgeous!” Celeste said. “Why don’t you ever do your hair and makeup like this? You look like an exotic Italian actress.”
Nico smiled but felt silly being done up so glamorously given she was wearing her racing suit. At least she’d be doing the photoshoot alone. She wasn’t comfortable in front of the camera. If she were standing next to Rocco Vittori, she felt certain once the magazine staff looked at the photos, they would want to cut her out.
Celeste’s expression changed from bubbly to serious. “I have to tell you something. Two things actually. First, this photographer doesn’t like his subjects to remain silent during the shoot. So, he’ll ask you questions. I think he thinks it puts people at ease. Or brings out their true self for the camera to capture. Something like that. The other thing—”
“Okay, Celeste, come on now,” the photographer said. “I want to get started.”
Celeste glanced from him and back at Nico, hesitating. “I’ll tell you when he has to change rolls. It’s no big deal.”
What’s no big deal?wondered Nico. Usually when people said that, the something they were referring to was very much a big deal.
The photographer’s assistant positioned Nico in front of the lights and the camera.
“What makes a girl want to race?” the photographer asked.
Nico blinked. The question had caught her off guard.
“And I say girl,” he added, “because I figure you raced karts as a kid. So, what makes a woman want to race?”
Do they ever ask men that question?
“I imagine what makes a boy or man want to,” Nico said.
He nodded. “Sex, money, and an easy hard-on?”
Nico laughed. “Something like that.”
“It doesn’t frighten you?”
She hesitated.
