This spicy Formula 1 romance pairs a journalist with a mysterious Team Principal, perfect for fans of Drive to Survive on Netflix and readers of Hannah Grace and Sarah Adams.
After a decade in journalism, Natalia Evans has reached the pinnacle of her career—lead reporter for Auto Racing Journal. Every season promises to be a thrilling adventure in the glamorous world of elite racing, surrounded by top-tier athletes and influential industry legends. The only complication in Natalia’s plans? One of those legends happens to be the enigmatic Emerald Team Principal, Klaus Franke—the handsome “stranger” with whom Natalia once shared an unforgettable night… that had to be forgotten.
Klaus is icy, controlled, and utterly off limits. But the cracks in his reserve expose a heat Natalia can’t resist as fate drags them together again and again. Both guarding their hearts, the pair are soon embroiled in a high-stakes sporting scandal that threatens to shatter more than just their reputations and relationships.
Natalia needs the scoop of the century. Klaus needs more time. But they soon discover that maybe they need each other more than anything else.
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
350
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New York to London, London to Athens, Athens to Abu Dhabi. Nineteen hours in the air, and I’m exhausted. There are very few people in the hotel lounge, but maybe that’s normal for nine p.m. on a Wednesday.
I pause in the archway, taking it all in. French pop plays too loudly over the speakers. The Sputnik-sphere lamps cast an intimate speckled glow. Bartenders glide back and forth, all agile charm. The air smells like toasted sesame and pricey booze.
I cross the room and lean against the bar, shooting another text to Phaedra.
Me: Phae! Omg why aren’t you answering??? This place is booked solid during grand prix week, so if you don’t LET ME IN I’m going to have to sleep in the lobby.
I darken my phone and stuff it into my purse before signaling the bartender. He strolls over and leans opposite me with a gleaming white smile and an unsubtle once-over.
“How can I… help you?”
Oh my. He really put everything he could into that pause. “Bless his heart,” as Aunt Minnie would say.
I point at the ice water he’s just set down. “Thank you for this, but I might be here awhile. May I get some juice?”
He rubs a knuckle against his jaw, following the precise line of dark beard scruff. “Sure, beautiful. What kind?”
I offer a friendly shrug as my purse vibrates with a text. “Surprise me.”
Of course the message isn’t from Phae.
I can’t get a break…
It’s Josh, my (former) editor at the arts and culture magazine where I’ve been a staff writer for three years, before resigning via an email on Monday night.
Josh: Did you seriously jump ship without notice and take a job with Auto Racing Journal? Or was it the thing about Shelby? You have to believe me, doll—we are NOT back together. I just need to move in again because it’s less confusing for the kids.
My nostrils flare and I jab out a reply.
Me: ARJ is a better salary, plus free travel. And I have an “in” with F1 because my best friend works for Emerald. Shelby is welcome to have you—I don’t need another married liar. Have a nice life, Josh.
A glass of magenta sludge is set before me. The bartender’s lips curl in a flirty smirk as he drags a wrapped drinking straw suggestively between two fingers.
“Beetroot,” he informs me. “You said to surprise you.”
I flash jazz hands. “Surprise!”
“Beetroot is good for stamina. I drink it every day… so I can go all night.”
I’m now apparently being seduced by the Dwight Schrute of the United Arab Emirates. What’s next, karate moves?
Mercifully, someone at the other end of the bar catches his attention and he walks away.
Me: RESCUE ME, Phae. It’s like a tank of piranhas down here.
Seconds later, he’s back.
I’m about to snap at the Drakkar Noir–soaked Romeo mixologist when he sets a tumbler of fragrant bourbon down and tips a grudging nod toward the end of the bar.
“From the gentleman.” He walks off without awaiting my response.
“Good lord,” I mutter, prepared to send a crisp No, thank you to some lonely businessman who’ll surely look like the Rich Uncle Pennybags Monopoly mascot.
Mercy.
At the far corner sits a complete smokeshow in a charcoal suit.
Tall as heck. Hair mostly pepper with just enough salt; wavy, with a widow’s peak that makes him look like a classic film star.
Maybe midforties? I think. Probably has a decade on me…
His bone structure is angular, complexion outdoor-tan, and he has firm-but-tender lips that seem to say, I’ll tell you what to do, then reward you for doing it.
He also isn’t looking at me.
Huh.
I pick up the bourbon and bring it to my nose.
I like to say I know my bourbon because I grew up in Kentucky. But Auntie Min is a strict nondrinker, and I left for North Carolina at eighteen, so there goes that theory.
Glass near my lips, I look up. Gray Suit Smokeshow moves his aloof gaze in my direction. He raises his own glass—eyes smiling, mouth impassive—then looks away.
Who does he think is in charge here? What a smug jerk.
I set the glass down, ignoring him.
A minute later, charcoal gray drifts in like a storm cloud on my periphery. I can smell him, and if that isn’t Neroli Portofino cologne, I’ll eat my hat.
Please let his voice sound like it does in my head…
His right hand—oh God, what a gorgeous pair of hands—opens toward the liquor. “Would you prefer something else?”
His voice is heavenly—a deep, smoothly accented incantation. I feel it down to my toes.
“Bourbon served neat,” I reply, not looking at him. “Good choice. Not chardonnay or something silly with an umbrella.”
He gives a rumbly chuckle, and I peek to see his smile. Boyishly asymmetric, single dimple on the left.
“What are you drinking?” I ask, picking up his glass and tipping it toward my face. The scent blooms into my nostrils, warm. “Ooh, cognac?”
“Mmm-hmm. Courvoisier—help yourself.”
“Ah, we’re sharing?”
He offers that whisper-light Mona Lisa smile. “I will certainly order you an untouched glass… if you’re shy.”
His eyes are dark as puddles of ink, and oh the things he’s writing with them…
“Are you shy, kleine Hexe?”
I know only a smattering of German but am pretty sure this deliciously bad man just called me a little witch.
Without breaking our gaze, I take a sip of his cognac.
“Nope. Not shy.”
As we take the elevator to his room, I’m surprised he doesn’t try to kiss me. He leans in the corner, fingertips resting on the handle of my suitcase, eyeing me speculatively.
He looks vaguely familiar. Have I seen him before? Maybe just in my fantasies. Because he is exactly… my… type. Wow.
“Thank you for inviting me up for a drink,” I tell him, my gaze angling away. I’m both excited and unnerved by his coy smile, and the challenge flashing in those dark eyes. “That loud music in the lounge was too much. I’m sure my friend’ll text soon.”
“Thank you,” he counters, “for treating me to your company.”
The accent is lovely—clipped and neat, with a soft, cool texture like a layer of fresh snow.
“You’re German?” I ask.
The elevator eases to a stop and chimes.
“Austrian.” He opens a hand to invite me to precede him into the hallway.
“What line of work are you in?”
We haven’t exchanged names; the window closed on that halfway through a flirty glass of bourbon. It’s clearly a game at this point.
“Management. And you?”
We walk to the end of the hall—double doors leading to the floor’s biggest suite. He takes his phone out and taps it to unlock the door, then slides a finger along the screen to bring the lights up before ushering me in.
“Oh, I’m a writer,” I say, keeping it as vague as he is.
He pauses in the doorway and gives me a guarded look. “What do you write?”
Ah. So he’s cautious about journalists? Best to go with a little truth-stretching…
“I’m researching a novel.” My mind scrambles to think of what I might be doing in the city if not attending the grand prix. “It’s… about an archaeologist. There’ve been cool Bronze Age archaeology discoveries here.” My cheeks heat with the lie.
He studies my face, his eyes smiling. “Interesting. You must tell me more.”
Yikes. Hopefully not too much more.
The corner suite is stunning. My steps halt as I’m greeted by a wall of windows overlooking the marina, across an opulent living room with a bar. An archway leads to a bedroom with a kingly barge of a bed, mounded with gold pillows.
“Hell of a view,” I breathe.
“Make yourself comfortable. Bourbon again?”
“I’d take a half pour.”
I watch while he assembles my drink, then casually wander away—making him chase me a bit—after he hands it to me. Peeking around the bedroom doorway, I spot a huge en suite behind a frosted glass wall. The luxurious shower is open concept: multiple heads, fancy tile, big bench.
He appears beside me and raises his glass to mine. He has such leonine grace, every movement elegant and spare, like a dance. I can smell him again, and it’s making me nuts—a combination of sleep deprivation, rebelliousness, and hormones.
Taking a sip, I nod at the en suite. “I hope the one in my friend’s room is as nice. I’m looking forward to a shower.”
His dark-as-sin eyes shine down at me. My focus moves from his eyes to his mouth in a blatant signal I’m willing to be kissed.
Would it be so terrible to spend a few hours as the bold, uninhibited girl I’ve never been, rather than a Good Girl suckered by the promises of cads like Josh?
The only promise I see in Charcoal Suit’s eyes is a good time.
His gaze lingers on my lips too. A shimmer of heat goes through me.
“You’re welcome to use my shower,” he offers in that silky baritone. “And if you don’t hear from your friend, this suite has a guest room.”
I don’t quite rise on my toes in anticipation of a kiss, but my feet are tensed and ready. He takes a step back and saunters to the bar, his posture easy, unhurried.
Oh, just look at this lovely creature—butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’s going to make me work for it.
I’ll admit… having been genetically blessed by my beautiful (though absent) parents, I rarely have to do the heavy lifting where seduction is concerned. I’m kinda loving that this is different.
I go to my suitcase and unzip it, fishing around for loungey satin trousers and a spaghetti-strap cami.
“Invitation accepted.”
The hot water is divine. I want to use the massage function on my tired shoulders but can’t figure it out. I twist the showerhead, then search the walls for some kind of button.
Throwing a glance toward the parallelogram of light leading to the living room, I call out, “Um… excuse me?”
I open a towel in front of myself, stepping out of the spray.
He appears to the left of the doorway, on the other side of the frosted glass.
Shirtless.
“Can I help you, kleine Hexe?”
What am I getting myself into? We both know neither the offer nor the acceptance of a shower is innocent…
“Th-the, uh, the shower massage,” I stammer. “Is it controlled by an app or something?”
There’s a pause. I wonder if we’re both thinking the same thing.
“Would you like company?” His voice is a rich rumble.
We are indeed thinking the same thing.
Lust taps an inquiring knock in the neighborhood between my legs. For a half minute, neither of us moves.
I don’t trust myself to reply. I pull the towel off, then sidestep into the open, unwinding the scrunchie holding my hair on top of my head. It fans over my shoulders.
He steps into the doorway, the hunger in his eyes full of unexpected warmth.
“You’re stunning.”
“Likewise,” I manage.
His torso is a feast for the eyes—elegant slopes of gym-chiseled perfection, tapering from powerful shoulders to a trim waist sketched with a magnetic V-cut.
My shameless gawking elicits a chuckle.
“There’s more,” he assures me in an affectionate taunt.
The way he holds my gaze as his fingers go to the button on his trousers sends a shiver through me. He unzips and steps out of his clothes.
His legs are long and sculpted with the defined muscles of an athlete. My eyes slide over him and my nipples tighten as I zero in on a fantasy-worthy cock. He isn’t erect—there’s just enough blood flow to give it a lift—but already delectably big.
Phae, you’re officially forgiven for not texting back.
I’m not short at five-nine, but he towers over me. He walks me slowly backward to the mosaic-tiled wall. Steam curls around us. His huge hands skate over my hips. Our eyes are inches apart, and his smile is so cocky that I’m not sure whether I want to bite his lip in annoyance or lust. The mint-and-cognac of his breath is a magnet pulling me closer.
Dammit, why isn’t he kissing me?
I press against him, my breasts meeting his chest with its light dusting of dark hair.
He holds my face, almost reverent. “You’re shivering. Should I stop?”
“I’m shivering because the suspense is killing me.”
One of his hands spreads across my lower back and the other rakes into my hair as his lips claim mine, leisurely tasting, slanting over my mouth again and again. I moan into his mouth in encouragement. He cradles one of my breasts and with a thumb traverses the areola. I lean into his touch, and he dips to lick my nipple.
My head drops back. A trembling sigh escapes me as he cups the mound of my pussy. He gives my nipple a pinch with his teeth, then returns to kissing my mouth. As his tongue breaches my lips, his fingers slide into me, wet and effortless.
“The verdict is in,” I manage through kisses. “It’s a major yes. Do you have condoms?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He steers me under the shower spray and combs both hands into my hair.
I’m all but boneless in his clutches, murmuring approval as he lathers his hands and proceeds to deliver a scalp massage so luscious, it bodes damned well for what he might accomplish below my waist.
As he rinses the suds from my head and they coast down my body, he teases his slippery hands everywhere, following the snaking white paths of foam. Gathering my hair, he wrings the water from it, then wraps me in a towel and picks me up bride-style, carrying me to the double sinks.
I twist to look at our reflection in the mirror, and my breath catches.
He’s so handsome, and I look natural in his arms—it’s hard to believe we’re strangers…
Setting me on the counter, he opens a leather shaving case. Sure enough, there’s the bottle of Neroli Portofino. He draws a string of three condoms out and tears one off.
I wrap my hand around him, and he sucks in a gasp through his teeth. His long-lashed, smoky eyes drop closed above those perfect cheekbones. In the light over the sink, I can see him vividly—the laugh lines flanking his eyes are beautiful.
I stroke him and draw the condom from his fingers, ripping it open with my teeth and rolling it on before pulling him to kiss me.
“Right here,” I whisper. “I can’t wait.”
He gives my lower lip a bite. “I have to taste you first.”
He opens the towel and pulls me to the edge, then kneels. Caressing my legs, he parts them and sets them over his shoulders, kissing a trail up to the juncture of my thighs. I grip the edge of the counter with one hand and comb my fingers into his thick, soft waves.
His tongue glides and gently probes. Parting me with his thumbs, he licks in slow sweeps. I push against him, and he draws my clit between his lips, sucking lightly. His long, skilled fingers slide into me again. My hands tense on the counter—my breath coming in gasps, whispering encouragement—as he intuitively finds the gentle, patient rhythm I need.
“Please don’t stop… exactlythatohmygod…”
In another minute, the rush of climax chases and overtakes me, wringing out a breathy moan as a shiver snakes through me. When he stands and kisses me, I taste myself on his lips. Golden afterglow dances down my legs.
He’s poised at the gate, and the muscles inside me beckon. I wrap my legs around his waist. He breaches me in a gorgeous thrust, then pauses to watch my eyes as I get used to his girth. A wicked smile dances across his expression.
“Are you going to come for me again, kleine Hexe?” He slides his hips side to side, grinding the wetness between us. “A quiet girl,” he teases between kisses. “Do you live someplace with thin walls?”
He draws back fully and thrusts into me deep. My fingernails jab the muscles flanking his spine.
“You say you’re not shy, but”—another deep thrust—“such restraint when pleasure takes you. Are you such a proper girl that you won’t scream?” He rocks into me steadily, defining the perfect angle with every luscious thrust. “Are you quiet when you touch yourself, biting your lip in silence when you come on those pretty fingers?”
I’m half delirious with arousal, eyes closed tight. “Yes… yes, I do…”
“You won’t let them make you scream—those boys who don’t deserve you. A peach with a stone inside no man will crack.”
My eyes fly open, and his look is a bold smirk. He’s in my head as deep as the rest of me, and it makes my heart hammer in more ways than one. He lifts me and strides through the bathroom doorway, setting me on the high bed. Still inside me, he positions his legs outside mine, then begins to move again. A helpless whimper rises from me. The spiral of climax is winding tight again, and I follow it. The way my trapped legs are clamped around his cock is like nothing I’ve ever felt.
“Tha-that’s… o-oh God…” I falter, my breath catching.
“Yes?” He kisses my lips with surprising tenderness, and it sends a shiver through me.
“It’s amazing—oh God, more…”
He kisses me harder; I suspect he’s close too. I moan into his mouth, commanded by his body, restrained by his muscular thighs as the tide nears. His big hands cradle my head, fingers entwined in my hair while his hips arc him into me.
“Scream if you want to,” he murmurs near my ear. “No need to drown your fire.”
“Oh God, I can’t…” My hand drifts up, ready to cover my cries as the window of climax opens a crack and a glittering white rush begins to pour in.
My shriek surprises me. I move to muffle it, and feel him lace his fingers with mine, drawing my wrist to his lips.
Hearing my own voice like this is hot in a way I hadn’t expected; I’ve created the soundtrack to my own erotic movie. I go all in with a shouted “Yessss!” as he finds his own release with a gritty cry, driving into me high and hard before dropping his head against my shoulder, panting.
After a minute, he kisses my neck and moves off me, pulling me sideways into one brief, firm embrace before getting up and walking to the bathroom. The sink runs, and I curl into a contented ball, cheek nestled against the rumpled duvet.
As the water turns off, I hear the unmistakable sound of Phaedra’s ringtone—Elton John’s “The Bitch Is Back”—from the other room.
“Oh, now you call…” I mutter.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and walk to the bathroom—passing him in the wide doorway, exchanging mildly bashful post-sex smiles—then pull on the loungewear I’ve left on the counter.
I go to my purse in the living room and call Phae back.
“Where the fuck are you?” she snaps.
“Excuse me? I should be asking you.”
“I came downstairs, and the bartender said you split with some rando!”
I throw a glance at the bedroom and walk toward the smaller guest room, dropping my voice. “Well, I dumped Josh, and—”
“Oh, good call,” she interrupts, raising her voice over the swell of background music in the bar. “A total wanker.”
“So, you could say I celebrated that decision with… a sexual ‘palate cleanser.’ And don’t be judgy about it.”
There’s a long pause. “What the hell?” Her laugh is shocked. “Nat, you wildcat! What’s his name, and where’s he from? Are you gonna see him again?”
I wince, knowing the flak I’d get for the no-names thing.
“He’s, uh, English.” I struggle to make up the most English-sounding name possible. “His name’s Reginald… um, Throckmorton.”
“Oh my God. Sure!” She brays out a screech of laughter. “You got played! ‘Reginald fucking Throckmorton’? Guess that answers the question of whether you’re gonna see him again.”
“Shut up.”
“If he’s a Brit, maybe he’s with Allonby Racing. They’re on floor eleven; I’m on eight. Not the big suite at the end of the hall—that one’s my boss, Klaus. I’m in the last room on the left before his. What floor are you on?”
I swivel to peek back again and nearly jump out of my skin to find “Reginald” standing in the guest room doorway. I mute the phone.
“What floor are we on?” I whisper.
“Eight.” He gives me a cool smile and walks off.
My stomach drops, and a tide of panic floods over me as I realize why he looks so familiar.
Though already a racing fan, I’ve been studying F1 history, strategy, and drivers since landing the new job. But somehow I neglected to recognize the Emerald team principal, billionaire 40 percent stakeholder Klaus Franke. To be fair to myself, Emerald’s TP isn’t their “public face”—that role is held by Phaedra’s dad, charismatic owner Edward “Mo” Morgan. Mo loves to talk, and fans love to listen to his folksy, idiomatic sass, delivered in his signature Southern drawl and punctuated with quotable catchphrases. Klaus is more a “strong, silent type,” in the background.
Oh God. What the hell have I done?
Apparently I’ve had a one-off with one of the most important non-driver figures in the sport that’s about to become my life.
Goodbye, professional credibility.
I unmute the phone. “I’m not sure what floor I’m on.”
Phaedra’s pause all but screams, I didn’t want to have to ask this, but…
“So, uh, he’s probably another married one, right?” she ventures.
My face goes hot. “I don’t know or care.”
For the record, I very much do care about that kind of thing. But I’ve been suckered enough times that at a certain point, I started pretending marital status doesn’t matter. Being seen as a homewrecker somehow feels less mortifying than being cliché gullible.
I catch sight of myself in a mirror and glare at the face that made my stupid ex Josh once joke, You’re too pretty to be wasted on print media. Glossy dark brown hair and fine bone structure I inherited from my mother, my father’s full lips and long-lashed blue eyes.
Unfortunately, I may also have my parents’ irresponsibility, despite working hard my entire life to prove otherwise.
I fought their legacy when I chose the debate team rather than cheerleading in high school. I fought it when I kept up a consistent 4.0, studying on weekends instead of dating. I fought it when I applied to Queens U Charlotte instead of party school University of Alabama, where my peers were dying to go.
And finally… I fought it when I got offers from both Vogue and Auto Racing Journal, and spite-chose ARJ because Josh once said I should “get established in the fashion industry before you age out and lose your looks.”
I’ve completely messed it all up, right out of the gate. What do I do now?
I need to get the hell out of the United Arab Emirates and hit the reset button on this disaster. After all, I don’t need to be here—I won’t officially start with ARJ until next month. This trip is just to chill with Phae and get the lay of the land.
No pun intended…
I’ll head back to the States, I resolve, and by March when the new racing season begins, Klaus will have long forgotten me.
“Okay, um, I’ll meet you at your room soon!” I tell Phae. As she’s replying, I hang up and hurry back to the bedroom to collect my travel outfit from the en suite.
Charcoal Suit—Klaus Franke, oh my God—is sitting on the bed, propped against the headboard, perusing something on an iPad and wearing a businesslike scowl. He glances over the tops of a pair of reading glasses as I enter.
Flashing a smile, doing my best not to look panicked, I walk into the bathroom. My purple dress is folded on the counter, and on top of it—
Tell me that’s not what I’m seeing.
A stack of hundred-euro notes is perched on my dress.
I strangle the money in one fist and clutch my folded clothes against myself, marching back into the bedroom.
“What the hell is this?” I demand, holding the cash up.
He pulls his reading glasses off. Before he has a chance to say anything, I throw the money. It flutters around him, half of it hitting the floor beside the bed.
“You think I’m a prostitute?” I rage. “Are you out of your mind?”
“I don’t assume one way or another when I meet women in this manner.” He sets his glasses aside. “Money is useful to everyone. Consider it a gift.”
“No thanks. Asshole.”
I storm to m. . .
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