Revved (17 page)

He smiles softly. “Looks pretty.”

And I’m mush on the floor. Just a big pile of girlie goo.

Once we’re inside, I glance around, taking in my surroundings.

The venue itself screams fancy. And it’s filled wall-to-wall with beautiful people wearing beautiful clothes, women with jewelry dripping off of them like ice. Everyone exudes wealth.

This is the glamorous side of Formula 1 that I don’t usually see, and I feel a little out of my depth.

Carrick grabs us a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter.

“Let the crazy begin.” He chinks his glass with mine.

And crazy is right because that is the only quiet moment we have together—or I should say him. The moment people see he’s arrived, they’re on him like bees on honey.

It’s interesting to watch how he is with these people—charming with the females, of course, but he’s guarded, not the relaxed guy I spend my time with. He’s more serious, focused, like he feels he has something to prove. Maybe he does.

All I know is I’m glad he’s not
this
Carrick with me, that he feels he can be himself with me.

I’ve been working my way through some serious glasses of champagne, which keep magically appearing in my hand. After making as much small talk with strangers that I can manage, I excuse myself to the restroom.

When I come back to the party, Carrick is talking with an attractive blonde. He’s wearing that gorgeous flirty smile of his. And he looks very interested in whatever it is she is saying.

A flash of jealousy hits me. Hard.

Annoyed with myself for feeling that way, I decide to leave Carrick to his conversation, and I head to the bar.

I want to order beer, but all the women here are drinking wine or champagne or fancy-looking cocktails. I don’t want to stick out like a sore thumb with a bottle of Bud in hand, so when the bartender asks for my drink order, I ask for champagne. Might as well continue on as I’ve been going.

“If you wanted a drink, you should have come and told me. I would have gotten you one.”

I jolt at Carrick’s voice beside me.

I slide a glance at him. “You looked busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.” Shit, that came out sounding a lot like jealousy. And I really didn’t mean it to.
Did I?

A grin edges his lips. “I wasn’t busy. And you’re always a welcome interruption. You know that.”

The bartender puts my drink on the bar. Carrick hands him his credit card before I get a chance to pay.

“Jameson on the rocks, please, mate.”

I frown at him. In response to my frown, I get, “Andressa, I don’t take a woman out and expect her to get her own drinks.”

“That’s what you would do on a date. This isn’t a date,” I remind him.

The bartender puts a whiskey down in front of Carrick.

He picks it up, holding the glass near his lips. “Maybe not, but I’m still buying your drinks. End of.”

“Neanderthal.”

He snorts.

Did I mention he was drinking whiskey at the time?

“Shit, it’s gone up my nose!” He winces, cupping his nose with his hand.

The sight of him, all handsome in his tux with whiskey dripping down his chin, is one I’ll always remember.

Laughing, I grab a napkin from the bar and pass it to him.

“Thanks.” He dries off and then shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Fuck, that felt weird.”

He grins that boyish grin of his at me, and it punches me in the chest, leaving me feeling momentarily breathless.

“Anyway, where were we?”

“I called you a Neanderthal, and you snorted whiskey up your nose.”

“Thanks for the thorough recap.” His blue, blue eyes sparkle at me under the lights of the bar. “I’ve been called things before but never a caveman.”

Putting my glass down on the granite, I rest my elbow on it. Chin in my hand, I stare up at him. “What do you usually get called?”

“Do you mean before or after sex?”

My face immediately flushes. I’m not a prude—I work with rowdy, oversexed men all day long—but Carrick just talks so openly about sex in a one-on-one way that I’ve never known before.

It always sounds so intimate when he talks about it.

Or maybe it sounds intimate because the sex he talks about, I want him to be having with me.

“You’re blushing.” His fingertips touch my cheek. “Have I embarrassed you?”

“Nope.” Moving my head back, I pick my glass up and take a gulp of champagne. Then, I straighten up, resting my side against the bar. “Before sex?”

“Sex god. Stud. Fuck-me-baby-use-that-big-cock-of-yours-on-me-show-me-the-stories-about-you-are-true.”

Okay, I’m definitely blushing now, and there’s no hiding it.

“I get the point,” I say, lifting a hand to cut him off, to which he chuckles. “And what do you get called after sex?”

He looks away from me to stare at the sea of people before us. His expression turns…changing to something I don’t understand.

“Bastard. Arsehole. Selfish-arrogant-prick-who’ll-one-day-be-a-washed-up-race-car-driver-who-no-one-cares-to-remember.”

I feel the air shift, the temperature in the room dropping a few hundred degrees, and I realize that he means it. He really believes what he just said.

This beautiful talented man thinks he’ll end up alone.

I stare at him, stunned.
How is it even possible he thinks that?

Carrick’s eyes are now currently trained on his drink, like he thinks all the answers he seeks are in there, and he just looks so goddamn lonely that I want to wrap my arms around him.

But I can’t.

So, I attempt to make him feel better in the only way I can right now—humor.

I put my glass down. “Well, that’s bullshit because I’ll remember you.”

His eyes lift from his whiskey. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I won’t be able to forget you because we’ll have been married and divorced twice, and you’ll still be in my life because we’ll have kids whom you pay a hefty child support for. And I’ll feel sorry for you because, by that point, you’ll have aged really badly, after getting kind of ugly and fat, so I’ll give you a sympathy shag every now and then.”

“You paint quite the picture.”

“It’s a talent.” I shrug.

“So, married…twice?”

“Yep, you bought me the second time as I’d burned through all the millions you gave me from our first divorce.” I lift my glass, taking a sip of champagne.

“And how did I get you the first time?”

“Sex. I was young and naive.” I grin, expecting him to smile back, but he’s not.

There’s something in his stare that has my heart beating faster, my breath disappearing, and my eyes looking away—while I try to find air.

I focus my eyes where his just were, on the people milling around and chatting, some out on the dance floor.

Anywhere but on the man beside me.

The man who is becoming increasingly dangerous to me with each passing second.

Carrick leans in, so his arm is pressed against mine, close to my chest. It feels like he’s actually burning my skin through his clothes.

“I’m sorry about people monopolizing my time tonight.”

I flash him a smile. “It’s okay. I get it. You’re the star attraction, and I’m your arm candy.”

“You do make for good arm candy, especially in that dress.”

“I know, right? I’m totally rocking the classy look.” Okay, the fizz is really starting to go to my head.

“More than you realize.”

Something dark and unexplained is in his tone that makes my pulse ratchet up.

Taking a sip of his drink, he nods in the direction of the dance floor. “Do you want to dance?”

“Um…I don’t know. I’m not really a dancer.”
And in these shoes, I’ll probably be lethal.

“Lucky for you, I’m an awesome dancer. I’ll dance for the both of us.”

Shaking my head, I laugh. “God, you’re so—”

“Good-looking? Hot?”

“I was going to say cocky.”

“Endearing, isn’t it?”

He grins, and then he takes my almost empty champagne glass from my hand and puts it down on the bar. Grabbing my hand, he starts to lead me off, only just giving me a chance to grab my clutch off the bar top.

Usher’s “Caught Up” starts to pump through the speakers as we walk to the dance floor. I watch as we pass by people, how they look at him…like he’s a glowing light and they are the moths drawn to him.

Carrick’s presence just commands attention. Take away the racing, the fame, and I think he would still be the same.

Confidence and virility just breathe from him as naturally as the air from his lungs.

I also see the looks I’m receiving from women, looks I’ve been receiving all night. Luckily for me, those looks of distaste and jealousy just bounce right off me. Being an only female in the working world of men toughens a girl right up.

What I am actually feeling from the envious looks is a tremendous buzz. They want him, and he’s with me. Well, for tonight anyway.

Carrick stops us in the middle of the dance floor and turns to face me.

I feel awkward. I’m not really sure what to do, where to put my hands. I’m also holding my clutch, which makes it even more difficult.

Should I put it on the floor?
It’s just so pretty and new. I don’t want it to get ruined.

Deciding to keep my clutch in hand, I rest my wrists awkwardly over his shoulders.

Carrick chuckles.

Taking my clutch from my hand, he shoves it in his jacket pocket. Then, he takes my hands. Lifting one, he places it on his shoulder. Keeping hold of the other, he wraps his fingers around it. Then, sliding his free hand around my waist, his fingers press gently into my back, pulling me closer.

I’m trying not to tense, but his nearness and touch are driving me crazy. Neurons are firing like bullets to my nerve endings, igniting fires that shouldn’t be lighting for him.

“Relax,” he says low into my ear.

That only sets off more shivers in me, heading southward.

“Have you never danced with a man before?”

“Um…” I bite my lip. “Sure I have. But not like this.”
Not with a man like you, a man who can switch my body on with a single look…a single touch.

He raises a brow. “Not like this?”

“Yeah, you know, the proper kind of dancing. When I dance with a man, I’m usually drunk, and I’m, um…”
Shit, how do I finish that sentence?
That I’m on the pull, dancing with the guy I’m planning on taking home to have sex with—on the rare occasions when that does happen?

His hand tightens around mine, and I watch as his mouth forms the words hanging in my mind, “When you’re on the pull.”

Heat engulfs my face, so I turn away. “Something like that.”

He leans in, so his lips are next to my ear, grazing it, as he speaks, “Just so you know, the dancing I want to do with you most fucking definitely isn’t proper.”

Holy fucking what?

My eyes flash back to his, but his blues give nothing away.

Before I get a chance to speak, he says, “How many boyfriends have you had?”

My head jerks back in surprise. “Um, what?”

“I asked how many boyfriends you’ve had.”

“And why exactly are you asking that?”

“Curious.”

“You know what that did?”

“Yeah, it killed the cat—and satisfaction brought it back, so I’ll take my chances. How many boyfriends, Andressa?”

Smiling at his quip, I loosen up and decide to answer. “A few. Nothing serious.”

“A few? I thought you’d have them lining up.”

I give him a look. “Shockingly, no. Not all men want to date a grease monkey.”

“Grease monkey?” He barks out a laugh. “Jesus, you’re far from that. And you’re wrong about men not wanting a hot-as-fuck woman who works under the hood. Trust me. There’s nothing sexier.”

Hot-as-fuck woman…

“When was your last relationship?”

His question momentarily throws me. I’m still stuck in my hot-as-fuck daze.

But his persistent intrusion into my personal life brings a frown to my face. “Jesus, Carrick, what is this? Question time?”

“It’s called getting to know you.”

“You already know me.”

“I don’t know everything.”

“Do you need to know everything?”

His eyes darken…deepening like an endless chasm, which I could easily fall into.

“About you? Yes.”

My heart skips a good ten beats before restarting back up.

Swallowing, I try to catch the breath he just stole. “Well, there are better things to learn about me than my dating history,” I mumble.

“I’m fully aware of that, but just humor me.”

“Fine…” I huff. “My last boyfriend was, um…”
Marcelo, but can that really be classified as a relationship?
We only dated for two months, and I was on the road with the team for a good portion of that. “About two years ago,” I finish with.

“You haven’t been with a guy in two years?”

I can’t tell if he’s shocked or appalled. Maybe both. It makes me feel uneasy and embarrassed.

“No. I said I haven’t been in a relationship in two years, not that I haven’t
been
with anyone.”

That’s actually been…shit. Okay, it’s not far off from two years—about eighteen months.
What the hell have I been doing?
No wonder I’m as hot for him as I am. I’ve been depriving my body of sex for way too long.

“I’ve been busy.” I sound defensive, but I can’t help it. “And there’s not a lot of time for dating when you work in racing, if you haven’t noticed.” Not that it stops him, but then he doesn’t exactly date.

“What was his name?”

“Whose?”

“The guy you dated two years ago.”

“Marcelo.”

“Sounds like a ponce.”

Laughter escapes me, shaking my shoulders. “He was all right. What about you?”

“Me? I’ve never had a boyfriend, especially not one with a poncy fucking name like Marcelo,” he deadpans.

I playfully swat his shoulder. “You know what I meant. Girlfriend. Spill.”

“One.”

I feel a sharp stab of jealousy. If he’d said ten, I’d have felt better. But one girl means that she had his heart. Maybe she broke it, and that’s why he’s the player he is today.

I focus my stare over his shoulder, like something’s caught my attention, so he can’t see what I know is readable in my eyes. “How long were you together?”