Page 21 of Full Throttle

The limousine parked. Camera flashes bathed Liêm’s face, coloring his cheekbones in liquid silver. He straightened his tie. “Just don’t cause a scene tonight, all right? At least not before dessert. I’m looking forward to those lemon tarts.”

“I’ll behave like I always do.”

Liêm sighed. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”

Dominic stepped onto the rooftop.

“Oh, good,” he said. “They’ve kept it understated this year.”

Liêm snorted. Glittering lights hung in the trees like fallen stars; the bar was a pirate ship serving up “Pixie Dust” and “Captain Hook’s Brew,” and a Polski Ram driver was doing a handstand in the chocolate fountain to raucous cheers. The theme this year was Peter Pan, although Dominic noted the designer had overlooked the bit about Peter kidnapping children from their beds, which was, he felt, probably the correct choice.

“I’m off to play darts,” Liêm said. “You fancy a match?”

Dominic shook his head. “I need a drink.”

Or ten. It depended on how quickly he ran into his father, Anthony Sinclair, or the woman he was hellbent on avoiding. Liêm clapped his shoulder.

“I’ll find you later,” he said.

His friend disappeared into the crowd. Dominic carved a path toward the pirate ship. He spotted Ranya speaking to the head of the FIA, sporting a delicate mask and a shiny golden cane, and she nodded as he passed. He’d almost made it to the bar when someone caught his shoulder.

“Hastings,” a male voice drawled.

Dominic gritted his teeth.

Anthony Sinclair gave him a lazy smile. He wore a red velvet smoking jacket and that bloody golden signet ring. The thing seemed permanently welded to his hand; technically, any jewelry was banned on the racetrack, although Sinclair’s father was high up in the FIA so he could get away with more than most. Not that Dominic had a leg to stand on when it came to familial nepotism. But at least he felt some shame in benefiting from it. That had to count for something, right?

“If you’re looking for Vance,” Anthony said, “he’s not here yet.” He took a sip of champagne. “He texted me a few minutes ago.”

Dominic stuck his hands in his pockets. “How nice for you.” He hadn’t heard from his father in weeks, save for a four-word email. Vance had attached an article with the headline “A Significa-nt Decision: Hastings Joins New Racing Team.” Thought you were quitting, Vance had written. No subject line.

Guess it was nice to learn that his father was alive.

“We had the best time in Switzerland,” Anthony continued. “Dinner in Savoy, a private boat tour of Lake Geneva…” His smile was a puncture mark. “Shame you couldn’t be there.”

“I had other things to do.”

“Staring at yourself in the mirror?”

Dominic’s smile was breezy. “Conducting a study on whether wearing a signet ring makes you an arsehole. Turns out there’s a strong correlation.”

Anthony smiled back. It was a toothy smile, a bit like a tiger before it ripped into food. He’d seen that smile on multiple occasions: when Anthony had won their first F2 race, or when he’d landed a big cologne sponsorship that Dominic had been after, or the time he’d brought a Swedish model who Dominic had briefly dated to a film premiere…They’d been competing since they were nine, although last season had been their first major crash.

Not their last, though, judging by how much Sinclair was pissing him off these days. Dominic’s smile grew sharp.

Anthony looked on the verge of saying something when the room shifted. People turned toward the entrance. Cameras flashed. Dominic looked up, only to find the breath punched from his lungs as Juliette Marchmont walked into the room.

Chapter 7

Teammate

Juliette wished she hadn’t noticed him, but of course she had. It was impossible to ignore him when the whole room seemed to revolve around him.

Dominic stood under a tree wreathed in fairy lights; the white glow carved out his cheekbones, and the lights settled in his dark curls like a crown. He looked exactly as she remembered him. Haughty. Arrogant. A touch amused. The Prince of Racing, surveying his kingdom.

She’d been expecting it to hurt; that wasn’t surprising. But the aching desire to speak to him…to see him smile…

That was a gut punch.