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‘Excuse me?’ she flared.
‘I don’t care what you wear in your down time,’ Matteo said. ‘But if you want to wear the Di Sione name on your car and your overalls, then you have to look the part when we’re out.’
‘And I thought brunch on race day was an imposition...’ She was about to tell him to get stuffed but not only couldn’t Abby afford to, she didn’t want to either. He was right; if her team were going to get anywhere, then maybe it was time to play the corporate game a touch and maybe she could do that with him.
He hadn’t turned a hair at her jeans; he had made her feel relaxed and comfortable as she had told him the terrible mess she was in.
‘Tomorrow is work,’ he said as Abby climbed into the car but then, just before he closed the door, he gave her that smile. ‘Not that we can’t enjoy ourselves while working.’
The car drove off and Abby found her heart was thumping. They had very carefully laid the ground rules at the table—they were completely hands off, she knew that.
Matteo’s inference had been that they would simply enjoy provoking the press and the opposition.
It was her own imagination that was for the first time, if not exactly running wild, then peeking out and blinking at the sun.
A dark sun named Matteo Di Sione.
CHAPTER THREE
ABBY DIDN’T SLEEP WELL.
Yes, their conversation last night about money should have reassured her but Abby knew that she’d lied to Matteo.
They didn’t really have a hope of making fifth place.
But they had to though.
Not just for the chance of Matteo investing in them.
Her breakfast was delivered and Abby decided to eat it in bed and, as she did, she took out her laptop and read the news.
The sports news, of course.
The Boucher team barely got a mention.
The Carter team were on form, she read, and the Lachance team got plenty of mentions too.
Or rather Hunter did.
She looked at him, dressed in his familiar yellow leather and wearing that cocky, arrogant smile, and if there was such a thing as pure hate, then Abby felt that now.
She wasn’t scared of him any more.
It had been nine years since that terrible night and now, instead of scared, she was angry.
And it was such an undiluted, white-hot anger that ravaged her that it required revenge.
Hunter was thirty-four now and, to date, the Henley cup had been his for nine of the past ten years.
The one year that he had lost it had been the night that Abby had chosen to end their brief relationship.
Foolish timing perhaps but she had arrived in Monte Carlo and had sat in a hotel room, knowing their time together had ended.
They had only been going out for four weeks but Hunter wanted to move things along.
He’d invited her to Monte Carlo.
There would be separate hotel rooms, Hunter had assured her, given he needed his space before a race, but Abby knew very well what was going to come after.
