Thoughts of Remy killed the smile playing around my lips, reminding me not just of my boyish, reckless, stupidly trusting younger brother who had died so needlessly but also of the girl—his girl—who had screwed with my head far too often since Remy’s death.
Belle Simpson had completely disappeared after Remy’s funeral and I refused to give a damn about it. I’d tortured myself enough over the thought of her—soft, fresh and artlessly seductive—during that one night we’d shared. She’d been an illusion. She was no more pure and fresh than I was, or had ever been. Just because she’d never contacted me to get the pay off I’d offered her didn’t make her innocent. Maybe her conscience had eventually got the better of her too, about what we’d both done to Remy.
I cut off the thought at the fresh slice of guilt. Remy was dead. I couldn’t turn back the clock and undo what I’d done to him that night when Belle’s wide emerald eyes had gazed at me as if I’d been everything she could ever want. That whole night had been screwed up. My cheek had been smarting from one of my father’s back-handed slaps, my head fuzzy from one too many tequila slammers. I’d had to stop beating myself u
p for giving into the incendiary attraction between us.
I hated that, whenever I thought of Remy, I thought of her too. And her deep-green eyes wide with distress and unshed tears.
Ruthlessly pushing thoughts of my dead brother and that fateful night to one side, I bid goodbye to Freddie with the promise of a generous gift for his help if I managed to sign this girl.
I made my way towards the drivers’ lounge behind the car hangars. Driving was hard, sweaty work, particularly in Barcelona in spring—the girl would have to shower and change before she did anything else. With the Camaro team cap pulled low, no one took any notice of me as I strolled past the team of mechanics busy assessing the new car’s tyres for burn-out.
I spotted Camaro at the edge of the bay, talking to his chief mechanic, but no sign of the girl driver.
My hunch had been correct. She must have headed straight for the lounge area. Now all I had to do was hope my luck held out and I could catch her alone once she’d finished changing—to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
Adrenaline pumped through my system. I’d always been a guy who revelled in the thrill of the chase—either in pursuit of a great new design, a talented driver or a beautiful woman. This girl could be a combination of all three.
The lounge area was empty. I noticed a makeshift sign stuck on one of the doors to the changing rooms reserved for individual drivers: Solo Mujeres.
Women only.
I almost laughed out loud as I sat down silently on one of the plush leather sofas.
Perfect—there was no one here. Giving me all the opportunity I needed to poach Renzo’s mistress. And turn her into the driver she was meant to be. And maybe more.
I discarded the cap and the shades as I listened to the shower running in the adjoining changing room. And waited.
The shower eventually shut off and I could hear a soft British voice singing a French lullaby.
Something pricked at my consciousness. Why did the light, lilting voice sound so familiar?
Before I had a chance to register the question, the girl appeared in the doorway to the lounge, silhouetted by the bright sunlight shining through the windows behind her. She jolted and gasped, the sob of distress probably down to her surprise at finding a strange guy sitting in the lounge. I stood to introduce myself.
‘Hi, Miss...’ I paused, realising Freddie had never given me her name. ‘I’m Alexi Galanti. I own and operate the Galanti team. We need a new reserve driver for the rest of the season and I want to offer you the position. Whatever Camaro’s paying you, I’ll double it.’
It was rash of me to offer her the job without talking to my legal team, getting her credentials properly checked out and giving her a probationary period. I couldn’t even see her face properly and I hadn’t heard her speak. Damn it, I didn’t even know her name. But all my instincts were telling me to claim her, so I didn’t regret the rash decision. I always trusted my instincts.
What I could see of her figure—her subtle curves seductively displayed in a pair of tomboy jeans and a white shirt and camisole—had my blood heating in my groin. Desire pumped through my veins with a visceral urgency.
Maybe it was the combination of hunger and desire combined with the knowledge of how she had handled Camaro’s powerful car that was driving my determination—because I wasn’t even sure what I wanted most any more. To see her in my car, or in my bed.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled in time to the echo of the lullaby which still lingered in my mind as she stood silently, not speaking. I could hear her rapid, uneven breathing.
Something was wrong. Why was she so silent? So tense? Why was her stance strangely defensive, as if I’d insulted her instead of having offered her a million-dollar contract?
Then her scent invaded my nostrils—fresh, floral and disturbingly familiar, bringing back memories of the night five years ago that I had never been able to forget. Recognition struck me as she stepped into the light and her face was illuminated for the first time. The striking features—the soft, translucent skin, the sprinkle of girlish freckles across her nose, the sleepy emerald eyes and the wild shock of rich russet curls—were just as I remembered them from my dreams—and my nightmares. Grief, betrayal and longing arrowed into my gut to join the hot punch of lust that had never died.
‘I don’t want anything from you, Alexi,’ she whispered, her voice a tortured rasp—both bold and defensive at the same time. ‘I never did.’
CHAPTER TWO
Belle
IT WAS A lie. Once upon a time, I had wanted everything from Alexi Galanti. Not just his body, but his love. But as I stared at his tall, muscular body dressed in a T-shirt and worn jeans, the fabric stretched enticingly across pectoral muscles that had only become more defined in the last five years—not quite sure if he was real or a figment of my over-active imagination—I knew those desires were childish dreams borne of infatuation.
I’d locked those dreams away five years ago after the cruel banishment which had left me destitute, disillusioned and alone at nineteen.