Faster Deeper (Take Me...#2) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (4 page)

I throw my arms around his shoulders and let the tears flow
freely. I can’t believe I ever even entertained the notion of letting this come
between us. Harrison wraps his arms around me and holds me close, helping me
shoulder the burden of this secret at last. I still have no idea what we’re
going to do, but at least we’re in it together. Together is, after all, exactly
where we belong.

“It’s OK, Siena,” Harrison says, planting a kiss on top of
my head.

“It’s pretty far from OK,” I say.

“Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me what you think we
should do,” he says, taking my hands in his.

“I think if we were smart, we’d stop meeting like this. But
I’m not feeling too smart these days,” I laugh through my tears. “I don’t think
I’m capable of staying away from you, Harrison.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” he grins.

“But I do think we should talk about this somewhere less, I
don’t know, right in the middle of the goddamn city?” I say.

“Duly noted,” he says, glancing around.

It would almost be comical, us peering through the bushes to
see if we’ve been caught, except that it’s so damned real.

“You don’t think...” I breathe, looking over my shoulder.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Harrison says, stepping
around me. He darts around the corners of the green maze, his eagle eyes searching
for any unwanted paparazzi.

“See anyone?” I ask.

“Nope,” he replies, “Maybe our mysterious friend is still on
his way here from Budapest. If only he’d stay there...”

“I don’t want to take any chances,” I tell Harrison, “Will
you meet me in two weeks Just before the next Grand Prix?”

“Two weeks?” Harrison says, incredulously.

“Don’t be a baby,” I chide, “This isn’t going to be easy on
either of us. Let’s meet somewhere in the city. Somewhere no one would
suspect.”

“How about the State Museum?” Harrison suggests.

“Look at you,” I say, raising my eyebrows, “Wouldn’t have
pegged you for the museum-going type.”

“Well, there’s still a lot that you don’t know about me,
Miss Lazio,” Harrison says.

“I’m sure...” I reply, “The State Museum it is.”

“It’s the big red one,” he tells me. “You can’t miss it.”

“Two week’s time, OK? That’ll give us some time to think.
Try and figure out who the hell is behind all this.”

“And what we should do,” Harrison agrees. “Can I at least
kiss you goodbye, Siena?”

“Of course,” I tell him, taking his face in my hands.

We kiss deeply, daringly, hidden away from the world in the
intricate Moscow garden. I can taste the relief coursing through us both. We’re
no closer to finding a way out of this mess, but at least we’re both on the same
page once more. Between the two of us, we’ll be able to figure a way out of
this.

“Until then,” he says, pulling away from me, “Oh, and by the
way, about that thing you said, when I put you in the cab the night before the
Budapest Grand Prix?”

“Oh god...” I mutter, “Harrison, I—”

“I love you too, Siena,” he tells me, and kisses me
passionately on the lips.

Before I can formulate a coherent thought, he’s disappeared
around the corner. And despite all the trouble bearing down on us, I can’t help
but let an elated grin play across my face. Harrison Davies, world class F1
driver and all-around perfect man, loves me. Even with all the trouble tumbling
down on us, how the hell am I to keep from smiling?

My spirits skyrocket after my garden rendezvous with
Harrison. Though there’s so much in flux, so much room for disaster between us,
but I have hope again, at least. I head back into the hotel and make a beeline
for Bex’s room. I have some major explaining to do about my behavior.

I rap lightly on her door and wait. In a moment, my best
friend appears before me, looking understandably wary. It breaks my heart,
knowing what a shabby friend I’ve been to her since meeting Harrison in
Barcelona. I have to find some way to make it up to her.

“What’s up, Siena?” she asks.

“Oh...a lot, but we don’t have to cover it all now,” I say,
“I wanted to see if you were free for a little girl time?”

“Really?” she asks, “You’re not going to go disappearing
into the night again?”

“Not in the present moment, no,” I tell her.

“OK,” she says, “I mean, I would love to spend a little time
with you.”

“Why don’t we go out, just the two of us?” I ask, “Unless
you’ve got plans...”

“None that can’t be postponed,” Bex says, “Let’s do it.”

She swings the door open for me, and I gather my tiny friend
up in my arms. Bex is the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had, and I’d hate
for any man-related drama to come between us. We’ve been through far too much
over the years we’ve known each other to let our friendship dissolve in the
name of romance, that’s for damn sure.

We get dolled up together, picking out dresses and
hairstyles and having a grand old time. My heart feels lighter than it has in
days, that’s just the effect that Bex has always had on me. Some of the younger
Ferrelli team members have been chattering about a club in the center of Moscow
called Zhelaniye. And with two weeks until the next Grand Prix, everyone is
feeling the urge to let loose and have a little fun. Bex has it on good
authority that a bunch of F1 people will be heading to the club tonight, and we
intend to be among that number.

Bex doesn’t even mind not bringing Charlie along. They might
be getting awfully close, but clubbing has never exactly been Charlie’s forte.
Not unless it’s country clubbing, of course. I run my plans by my father, and
he’s more than happy to let me disappear for the night. I’m pretty sure he’s
only OK with it because Enzo and his pals are planning on going out too, but
I’ll take a little slack wherever I can get it. I start to get excited as the
sun begins to set. It’s high time I got back to having a little fun on this season.

We can hear the thumping bass three blocks away from
Zhelaniye, beckoning us toward the club like moths toward the flame. I hold
tightly onto Enzo’s arm as we approach the front door, excited to be letting
loose after so many tense and anxious days. Bex is to my other side, and I’m so
happy to be flanked by my two best friends in the world. It almost makes me
miss Harrison a little bit less, having them beside me. But the operative word
there is almost. I still ache for his company with every step we take.

There’s a line snaking down the sidewalk away from the club
full of faces I vaguely recognize. It’s like everyone from the F1 caravan under
the age of forty has come out tonight, looking to blow off a little steam. Of
course, since F1 is such a male-dominated sport, there are plenty of young pit
crew workers and auxiliary staff out in the cold tonight. But between Enzo’s
celebrity and the fact that he’s accompanied by two lovely young ladies, the
three of us are admitted at once. Being a woman in this macho sport has its
perks, sometimes.

The second we step over the threshold of the club, we’re
swallowed up by a wall of noise and mad, swinging lights. Every wall is draped
in velvet and hung with dozens upon dozens of mirrors. A long wooden bar stands
along one wall on the ground level, and I can spot another on the second story
loft, separated by a grand staircase and overlooking the dance floor. It’s like
we’ve stepped back in time and into the future all at once. The antique touches
and pulsating house music complement each other surprisingly well. I’ve
certainly never seen anything like Zhelaniye before, and we’ve barely made it
through the door.

“Come on,” Bex says over the music, “First round’s on Enzo.”

“Naturally,” he smiles, towing me off across the club.

The three of us sidle up to the long polished bar, and Enzo
orders us a round of dirty vodka martinis. We’re furnished at once, and I can
tell by the bartender’s shaky smile that he knows exactly who my brother is.
What else is new?

“Lazio!” someone says from down the bar. My brother and I
both turn to look, and find ourselves face-to-face with the dynamic duo of Sven
Landers and Alexi Rostov.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Enzo laughs, clapping Rostov
on the back.

You’d expect all F1 drivers to be on edge around their
competitors, but these three have been through so many races together that
they’re old pals by now. They rose through the ranks together, shared in so
many victories and defeats. I wish that Harrison had been around to grow up
with them, instead of being trained in secret. Maybe then some of the tension
would be diffused between him and the other drivers.

“Typical Enzo,” Landers says, his deep blue eyes smiling,
“Hogging all the beautiful ladies for himself.”

“I think that’s up to the beautiful ladies in question,” Bex
says, holding out her dainty hand, “I’m Rebecca Bishop. Bex. Ferrelli’s
one-woman social media team. And I’d know either of you a mile away.”

“Well I don't have Twitter but I'd love to buy you a drink,”
Rostov says to Bex, “It’s a shame you already have one.”

“Well, the night is young,” Bex winks, taking a sip of her
drink.

“You American girls always know how to bring the party,”
Landers says.

“Italian-American,” Enzo says, throwing a protective arm
around my shoulder.

“Oh please,” I mutter, shrugging him off. I can’t help but
be a little irritated by Enzo’s easy camaraderie with these flirtatious F1 men.
How is it that he can get along with Rostov and Landers and yet be out for
blood when it comes to Davies? I suppose that Rostov and Landers are consistent
second and third place drivers. Harrison’s the only other potential number one
that Enzo’s had to think about in a long while.

“Care to dance, Miss Bishop?” Rostov asks Bex.

“I’d be delighted,” she smiles, hopping down off her
barstool. Her sinful little black dress barely grazes her mid-thigh, and I
notice Rostov's blatant appreciation.

“What about Charlie?” I whisper to her.

“If Charlie’s allowed to still have a schoolboy crush on
you, I’m allowed to dance the night away with this handsome gentleman,” she
says, “Besides, did you hear his accent? How am I supposed to resist that?”

“Fair point,” I say. I know about being a sucker for a
charming accent, alright.

Bex and Rostov make their way onto the dance floor, and
Landers turns to me excitedly.

“What do you say?” he asks.

“I think I’ll hang back for a spell,” I tell him, “You two
wander off and find some F1 groupies to entertain.”

“If you insist,” Landers says, sighing theatrically.

“You OK here on your own?” Enzo asks.

“You bet,” I tell him, holding up my drink, “I’ve got all
the company I need for the time being, buddy.”

I watch as the two men disappear into the throbbing crowd,
in search of some breathless girls to woo. How did I manage to skip over being
a breathless girl entirely? I seem to have gone from dating silly little boys
to being heartsick, blackmailed, and undyingly devoted to the man of my dreams.
When it rains it pours, I suppose.

My first martini is gone in a flash, and I find myself alone
at the bar with an empty glass. I’m dressed in a scarlet, hourglass-hugging
dress and tall black stilettos. My dark brown hair hangs in loose curls down my
back, and I’ve managed to execute the perfect cat eye makeup. I wish Harrison
could see me here. I never feel more beautiful than when he’s got his eyes on
me. Of course, I wouldn’t need this whole getup to be beautiful in Harrison’s
eyes. He likes me just as well without a stitch—

“Need another one of those?”

I snap my eyes toward the rich voice beside me and find
myself face-to-face with a gorgeous set of light brown eyes, ringed with gold.
The rest of my bar mate’s face comes slowly into focus in the erratic light of
the club: high cheekbones, a strong square jaw, and a big, toothy, movie star
smile under a smooth wave of brown curls. All at once, I realize where I’ve
seen those features before—during countless hours of research.

“Rafael Marques,” he says, offering me his hand.

“Oh, I know who you are,” I tell him. Marques was a rookie
driver last season, but has been making quite a showing this year. He was the
driver neck-and-neck with Enzo just before Harrison took the Budapest Grand
Prix.

“And I know who you are too, Miss Lazio,” he says.

“Siena’s fine,” I tell him, “It’s nice to meet you, Rafael.”

“And you. But about that empty glass of yours...”

“Oh. Right,” I say, “Sure, I’d love another if you don’t
mind.”

Marques waves the bartender over and gets me another drink,
requesting a whiskey neat for himself. He raises his lowball glass to me,
smiling warmly.

“To new friends,” he says.

“Sure,” I reply.

“I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds, talking to you like
this,” Marques goes on, “I’ve just been dying to meet you.”

“Is that right?” I ask, sipping my drink, “And why is that?”

“Well, there aren’t many women holding their own as players
in this sport,” Marques says, “You’re a very impressive lady, Siena Lazio.”

“Thank you,” I say, flattered despite myself. I’m sure that
Marques noticed my runner’s ass before he noticed my deft PR strategy, but I’ll
give him points for trying.

“Are you having a good time so far this season?” he asks
politely, looking out over the dance floor.

“It’s been a little stressful,” I admit, “But I love what I
do. So.”

“I understand that,” the driver sighs, “If only we could be
content doing something normal. Safe.”

“You don’t really wish that,” I say, matter-of-fact.

“Well, no...” he smiles, “But some days, doesn’t it seem
like that would be easier?”

I let myself imagine Harrison and I leading a normal,
nine-to-five life in some small English town; couple of kids, backyard, golden
retriever...

“Yeah,” I admit, “It does.”

“But here we are,” Marques laughs, “Crazy as hell, gunning
for the rush. Living in the moment—”

“Amen,” I laugh.

“Well, in the name of living in the moment, Siena, would you
favor me with a dance?”

I stare at Marques in the semi-darkness. He’s a fine
specimen of a man; tanned, composed, charming as hell. But I’m held back from
accepting his invitation. What about Harrison? How would I feel if I knew he
was off, flirting and dancing with other women? Of course we can’t be a normal,
happy-go-lucky couple, but there’s a brand new love building up between us. I
don’t want to jeopardize that for a handsome Spanish playboy looking for a few
extra notches in his bedpost.

“I think I’m good here,” I tell the man, planting myself
onto a barstool.

“Come on,” he urges, laying a hand on my knee, “Just one
dance, what could it hurt?”

“I’m just not really in the mood.”

“I know how to fix that,” he grins.

“Oh, really?” I scoff, “And how’s that?”

“By showing you a good time, of course. It would be my
pleasure.”

“I don’t think that would go over well, my fraternizing with
another driver,” I say, conveniently ignoring the fact that I’ve gone far past
fraternizing with Harrison.

“Everyone else seems to be getting along just fine with that
setup,” he says, nodding toward the dance floor.

Sure enough, Bex has her arms thrown around Rostov, while
Enzo and Landers talk up a couple of girls wearing the colors of the German F1
team. Damn.

“Look, Rafael, I’m just not up to it this second,” I tell
Marques, shaking his hand off my leg. “I’d rather sit this one out.”

“You should learn to let go, Siena,” the driver says, not
the least bit rattled by my reluctance, “Enjoy yourself a little bit.”

“I’m really not fond of it when men tell me what I should
do,” I say pointedly, pushing away my barely-touched martini.

“I can tell,” Marques says, “I like that. You’ve got a mind
of your own.”

“And it’s made up to stay right here,” I tell him.

“For now,” he smiles, “But I have a feeling that I’ll grow
on you, Siena.”

“What are you, a fungus?” I ask archly.

He cracks up in response, only making me more irritated.
I’ve met a lot of drivers who defy the stereotypical cocky asshole mold, but
this Marques character is another story. I’m not a fan of his presumptuous
tone, his insistence that I don’t know what’s best for myself. This guy’s never
even met me. Who does he think he is?