Page 67 of Full Throttle

“With no success. I taught you better than that.”

“Well,” Dominic said coolly, “it’s a good thing that I’m not your problem anymore.”

Vance blinked: the only betrayal of his father’s surprise. Dominic clasped his hands behind his back. This was the closest they’d come to confronting the whole thing, he realized. All it took was one push to send them toppling over the cliff edge.

“Have someone look at your head,” Vance said finally. “Not someone your team employs. A real doctor.”

Dominic stiffened. “Our medical staff are fine.”

Vance took out his phone. “I’ll transfer you. For the expense.”

And it was that—more than anything—that pissed Dominic off. “I don’t want your money.”

His father’s fingers kept moving. “Your mother wouldn’t want your face scarring.”

Scratch that.

That pissed him off the most.

My mother, Dominic thought, his heart pounding furiously, would be appalled that you’re a fifty-eight-year-old man who dates college girls. His father had a wild past—the women he’d slept with before Colette could have packed out a small cinema—but Vance had always drawn the line at sleeping with anyone who couldn’t remember VHS tapes.

Until recently, anyway.

Dominic’s fists tightened in his pockets. “I’ll take my chances.”

His father held his gaze. When it became clear that Dominic wasn’t going to move, Vance stuffed his phone away. “You left a few boxes at the flat in Paris. I’ll have my assistant send them to your new address.”

There was no sign of his father’s earlier discomposure. His face was wiped clean, like a skating rink that had been smoothed over.

“Thanks,” Dominic said. “You can bill me for it.”

Vance adjusted his headset. He looked on the verge of departing when Ranya appeared, swinging her cane like a sword. Several pit crew members scurried out of her way, although she didn’t seem to notice; the hem of her salmon-colored dress was dirty, as if she’d run through mud to reach them.

Ranya slowed. “Vance. I heard you were in the garage.”

His father’s expression was equally cool. “Ranya.”

“I hope you’re apologizing to my driver,” she said. “After Sinclair ran him off the track.”

“Your drivers ran each other off the track.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Just like you to shirk accountability.” She turned. “Dom. The medical team wants to see you about that head wound.”

Chairs scraped. Dominic looked up as pit crew members lumbered toward the coffee machine, speaking in subdued tones. A quick glance at the screen told him that the race had ended two minutes ago. Juliette had finished last. His stomach tightened. God, she really was going to kill him.

“Where’s Marchmont?”

“She’s fine.” Ranya leaned on her cane. “The medical team cleared her. Just some minor bruising to the ribs.”

Sweat trickled down Dom’s neck. “Where is she?”

Ranya looked at his forehead warily. “I’ll tell you after you get that assessed.”

“I’m fine.”

“And I don’t give a rat’s arse,” Ranya said pleasantly. “If I let you wander around the paddock looking like that, the FIA will have my head on a chopping block. And I have better things to do than paperwork.”

“Let me see Marchmont first.”