Matthew Carr was enjoying a lovely drink in the hotel bar when a red-headed English girl stormed in and knocked over an umbrella stand.

She cursed colorfully, ducking to prop it upright. Her cheeks were flushed, her tanned legs dusted in sand. Matthew was sitting too far away to see the girl's eyes, but he knew from experience that they were a dark blue; the last time he'd seen them, they'd been narrowed at him in accusation.

Isla Morris.

Matthew glanced around. No doubt Saint Lucas would be right behind her; he never let his girlfriend out of his sight — especially not around Matthew.

Then again, Matthew thought wryly, most men were smart enough not to leave their beautiful girlfriends alone with him. Or their sisters. Or even their mothers.

"Matt?"

The blonde girl in his lap shifted. She smelled of whisky and floral perfume and hasty decisions. He was still sober enough to remember her name, though. Fife. Rhymed with wife. A thing Matthew would never have, according to his mother, if he kept going at this rate.

He kissed her palm. "I'm sorry, what were you saying, love?"

Her smile was pure wickedness. "I was asking if you wanted to take this drink somewhere else. Like upstairs to your room."

A jolt of desire went through Matthew. Oh, yes, he wanted that; it was the entire reason that he'd asked Fife — an engineer for McLaren — to come back to the hotel after qualifying. Matthew watched as Isla tripped over an umbrella, popping it open, and gave a regretful sigh. A damn shame. He would have loved to spend the evening with Fife.

But alas.

"Not tonight, I'm afraid," Matthew said.

Her eyebrows flew up. "Really?"

"I'll pay for your cab." The least he could do, really.

"I thought..." She rose, blinking. "Are you sure?"

He propped her upright. "If it were any other night, I'd have you upstairs already. But I'm afraid I have business to take care of."

Fife followed his gaze to where Isla stood — cursing, desperately trying to close the umbrella — and raised her eyebrows. "Isn't that Lucas Walsh's girlfriend?"

"Goodnight, Fife," Matthew said pointedly.

Matthew waited for her to get into a cab. When he returned to the lobby, Isla had successfully managed to close the umbrella, but had scattered the contents of her purse all over the lobby. He watched, amused, as Isla scrabbled on all fours, stuffing tubes of pink lipstick and gift cards back into her bag.

"Fighting with your purse, Red?" Matthew drawled. "At least tell me you're winning."

Isla looked up, then pulled a face. "Oh, it's you."

Matthew leaned against a pillar. "You know, generally when women say those words to me, they sound more cheerful." He pressed a hand to his chest, making his voice breathy. "Oh, it's you, Matthew Carr. What an honour."

Isla paused. "Are you done yet?"

Not nearly. "Where's Saint Lucas?"

"Out," she said shortly.

Matthew waited. Isla stuffed a packet of gum into her purse, ignoring him entirely. His amusement doubled.

"Wow," he said. "Try not to overwhelm me with details."

Isla rose, her brow furrowing. "I'd say it was lovely to see you, Matthew, but we both know that would be a lie. Now if you'll excuse me."

She pushed past him, marching towards the lift. Matthew waited two seconds and then shrugged, retreating to the bar. Sod it. He'd have another drink and then go straight to bed. Saint Lucas wouldn't be drinking tonight — most drivers didn't, during the season — but Matthew couldn't resist a Fizzy Apple Cocktail. Fucking ace, that.

Matthew ordered, settled at a bar stool, and then glanced at the door. Should he call Fife back? Tell her that he'd changed his mind?

Oh, fuck it.

He fished out his mobile. He was about to punch in her number when there was a loud clattering of wheels.

Matthew turned, and then groaned.

Isla sodding Morris.

Of course it was.

She was lugging a large suitcase through the lobby. She'd changed into jean shorts and a t-shirt, and her red hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He wondered what it would be like to grab that ponytail, and then immediately regretted the thought.

Off-limits, Matthew told himself firmly. She's with Lucas.

Even Matthew had boundaries. Wide boundaries, admittedly, but sleeping with his teammate's girlfriend crossed at least two of them.

He hopped to his feet. "What the bloody hell are you doing, Red?"

"Leaving," she grunted.

"Now?"

"Yes." Isla dragged her suitcase over a carpet. "I'm sleeping on the beach."

Matthew stared. "If this is a joke, I don't get it."

"You don't need to," she said tightly.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Matthew's voice was teasing, but a look flashed across her face. Ah. Shit. He'd hit a nerve, hadn't he? Isla started for the door, but she was small and lugging a fifty-pound suitcase; he didn't even have to speed walk to keep up with her.

"Sorry," Matthew said. "I didn't actually think..." He paused. Ah, hell. How did people do this feelings thing? "Are you alright?"

"Like you care," she said.

Something tightened in his chest. "Believe it or not, Red, I do occasionally dabble in basic human decency." He blocked the door. "In any case, it seems wrong to leave a tiny English girl sleeping on a beach in a foreign country."

She dodged. "I'm not that tiny."

He blocked her again. Isla blew out a breath.

"Look, I don't have anywhere else to go, okay?" She wouldn't meet his eyes. "And I can't afford a room. Not this last minute, anyways."

He could tell that it hurt her pride to say it. Isla was pressing the handle of her suitcase up and down, nervously wiggling it. She'd probably rip the whole damn thing off soon.

Matthew crossed his arms. "You could stay in my room."

"Hilarious," Isla said flatly.

"Does it look like I'm joking?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You just want to piss off Lucas."

Matthew smirked. "That would be an added benefit, yes."

Saint Lucas would probably choke on his own saliva, Matthew thought; it would be brilliant. Isla glared up at him, her eyes the colour of arctic water. The frozen kind, filled with perilous ice chunks. The Titanic wouldn't stand a chance.

"I'm not sleeping in your room," Isla said, her voice clipped. "I've seen how you are with women, Matthew Carr."

Exasperation filled him. "For god's sake, Red, I'm not a monster. I can stay with Wood." Noah Wood was an Australian that raced for Mercedes. He wouldn't be happy about Matthew invading his home, but Noah also loved vegemite, so his opinions were generally to be distrusted and discarded. "You'll have my room to yourself."

"No," Isla said.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"But—"

She shouldered him aside. "Thanks for the offer, Golden Boy, but I said no. Do you need me to spell that word for you?"

Matthew stared. "Golden Boy?"

Isla smiled. It was just a twitch of her lips — hardly noticeable — but Matthew caught it. It was fucking gorgeous. "See you around."

She sauntered out of the door. Matthew watched, floored, as the crowd swallowed her up. What the bloody hell had just happened? She wasn't seriously planning to sleep on a beach, was she? He hesitated. Did he go after her?

"Carr!"

He turned. Lucas Walsh was striding across the room, dressed in a black dinner jacket and emerald cufflinks. His shoes were perfectly polished. Of course they were, Matthew thought in amusement. Saint Lucas probably came out of the womb with perfect dry-cleaning.

"Was that Isla?" Lucas demanded.

"No." Matthew leaned against the wall. "It was another redheaded English girl. There's just so many of them in Australia."

Lucas ignored this. "What did she want?"

"None of your business."

Lucas's face turned a satisfying shade of purple. "Of course it's my goddamn business. She's my—" He broke off, glancing at the door. "Look, just tell me what she wanted."

"Let me think." Matthew tapped his chin. "Oh, wait. Still none of your business."

His face darkened. "Oh, fuck off, Carr."

Matthew smirked "Maybe I'll just fuck her."

Lucas lunged. He was fast — all Formula One drivers were — but Matthew had been expecting it, and he twisted out of the way. Lucas grabbed his arm. Matthew twisted his wrist. There was a brief scuffle, and then Lucas shoved him off.

"Say that again," Lucas growled, "and I'll put you through a window."

"An intriguing prospect," Matthew said mildly. "I've never been through a window before."

Lucas muttered something unpleasant. He stalked across the lobby, flipping Matthew the bird as he went. Something raw and messy unfurled in his chest. Leave it, Matthew told himself firmly. It's not your place. Stay in your lane.

Unfortunately, Matthew had never been very good at minding his own business.

"Oh, and Walsh?" he called.

Lucas paused. Matthew closed the space, leaning close.

"I don't care if you're dating her," Matthew murmured. "If you've done something to hurt Isla, I'll run you off the track tomorrow."

Lucas stiffened. "Not if I run you off first."

"What a pithy comeback." Matthew patted his cheek. "I'm shaking in my brogues."

Lucas snarled, batting his hand away. Matthew's smile grew. It continued to grow as Lucas stormed towards the lift, colliding with the umbrella stand as he went. Unlike Isla, he didn't bother to fix it. Matthew sighed.

Isla Morris.

Screw it, Matthew decided; he wasn't going to be able to sleep knowing that she was alone on a beach somewhere. Which left only one option.

Matthew approached the front desk. A portly receptionist looked up, his nametag identifying him as "Oscar Wide." Matthew was unsure whether this was an obscure reference to the Irish author, or just an unfortunately coincidental surname. Perhaps it was both.

"Mister Carr!" Oscar beamed. "What can I do for you?"

Matthew took out his wallet. "I'd like to purchase a room."

"Is the penthouse not to your liking?"

"It's not for me," Matthew muttered. "Look, can you do me a favour?" He glanced both ways, and then slid his phone across the table. "Call this number and tell Isla Morris that she's got a free hotel room for the night. Make up a story. She won it in a contest. Ferrari is paying for it. Whatever it is, just make sure she believes it."

Oscar hesitated. "We only have a few rooms left. They're expensive."

"It's fine," Matthew said.

Oscar smiled, accepting a credit card. "She must be a very special girl."

"It's not like that," Matthew said. "I owe her."

Oscar paused, his hands hovering over the keyboard. "You owe her twelve-hundred dollars and a free fruit basket?"

"No," Matthew sighed. "I owe her a hell of a lot more than that. But this is a good start."