Chapter One

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DANTE

"I will not allow a girl to change my tires. Absolutely not."

Jack, my chief engineer and oldest friend, shot me an acerbic look that indicated he wasn't in the mood for my attitude. We were the only two at a twelve-seat conference table, where team principals normally met to discuss engines, tires, and race strategy.

My Italian accent turned thick with derision. "What the hell, man? I'm not going to dignify your laughter with a response. This is serious. This is world-class auto racing, not some reality TV show."

Jack, an intense and sardonic Australian, finally sobered and turned his gaze out a window. My eyes rested on the vibrant green grass flanking the smooth asphalt of the Maranello test track. In the distance, the turret of a Renaissance-era palazzo peeked over a cluster of trees. I could practically smell the eucalyptus and lavender mixed with the burning rubber of tires. It was the scent of home. Of motorsports in Italy.

"Look here, mate. I know you don't want a woman on the team. But it's boss's orders. Might as well get used to it. She's part of us now. That's what I'm hearing, at least. And apparently she's quite competent."

Boss's orders. A woman in the pit crew was a responsibility I didn't need. A distraction I didn't want.

"There's never been a female tire changer in the history of Formula World. She'll ruin the team. And where the hell is Bronson? He called this meeting and now he's ten minutes late. You know how I feel about being late. Or coming in second."

Jack plucked a small model of our team's Formula World car off the conference room table and turned it around in his hands. He set the little white car back down and ran it back and forth on its toy wheels, avoiding my stare.

"Just because your sister—"

"This has nothing to do with Gabriella," I growled.

Jack pushed the little car across the table toward me. "It has everything to do with her. I've known you since before she . . . before the accident. And you didn't used to be so against women on the teams."

Slapping my hand onto the rolling car, I halted its journey. Jack was my savior on the track, my wingman. We'd worked together my entire dozen-year career. He was one of the few people on earth who treated me like a regular guy and not a racing superstar. But he knew how—and when—to poke at my tender spots.

"Gabriella shouldn't have tried to be a mechanic. She should have gone to school to be an engineer and gotten involved in the behind-the-scenes of racing. Or taken a job in the corporate offices of a motorsports team . . ."

"We've had this conversation a thousand times. But hey, we can have it again, I don't mind. I was on the track the day it happened six years ago." Without the car to fiddle with, he drummed his fingers on the table, unable to be still. "She didn't die because she was a woman. She died because of a faulty design in the fuel rig. She happened to be the unlucky soul who was draining the rig after your practice lap."

The familiar feeling of sadness churned in my gut at the memory of my older sister, and the flash of terror I'd felt when I'd staggered out of my car, screaming her name. Every time I walked into the pit, the smell of gas reminded me of that day. Reaching into my pocket, I touched the silver medallion she'd given me for luck the year I started racing, back when I was twelve and into go-karts. "And you never listen. Or agree with me. She didn't have the upper-body strength to wrangle the hoses on the fuel rig. Which is my point. Women don't have the capability or stamina to be part of this."

Good God. How difficult was it for people to understand?

"Also, a woman will be distracting. Can you imagine how the guys will react to her? It won't matter what she looks like, someone will want to . . . you know." I waved my hand dismissively.

"Screw her?" Jack offered.

What a disaster. It was difficult enough to stomach that Brock Bronson, the team's owner, barely knew an open-wheel car from a junker in a demolition derby. He was a Silicon Valley billionaire with a fascination for speed. But he'd offered me such an astronomical amount of money to sign with Team Eagle—had assembled such an incredible car, drawn such lucrative sponsors—that it was impossible to say no.

Eagle was new and risk-taking, my agent had said. Sign the contract, my agent had said. Six world championships in, I had been looking for the ultimate challenge. To win a seventh in my final season with a rookie team would be the biggest conquest of all, and it would bring both visibility to a new team and plenty of retirement sponsorships my way.

Good karma and a ton of cash, my agent had said.

"All I want is to win and stay drama-free. Can you imagine the headlines if she screws up?" I said.

"Really? Will she distract us? How will we even know she's a woman? She'll be done up in coveralls and helmet during races, like the rest of us. Surely you can control yourself. And look, Rolf is gay, and he's on the pit crew. We don't worry about him being distracted by other blokes." Jack reached across the table to grab the little car.

Hell. His logic was solid. "This isn't about controlling my libido. Like I would be interested in a tire changer when I've got models and actresses and that singer . . ."

What was the name of the pop singer I'd hooked up with last season in Malaysia? I couldn't recall. Women were among the many perks of being a driver, and I hadn't ever felt the need to settle down with only one.

"A lone girl around a group of men will always be a distraction to someone. And it's our championship and my safety on the line." I threw my hands in the air. "And what does she know about tires and cars? She won't have the hand-eye coordination needed to change a wheel in seconds. Porca miseria."

"Oh, we're trotting out the nonsensical Italian swear words, are we?" Jack asked, annoying me even more. "She's starting at Monaco. And testing with us soon here on the track. In a day or two."

"We'll see about that. She can't waltz in now and begin a week before the season," I snapped. "I'll meet with Bronson and try to knock some sense into that stupid American. He thinks he knows everything because he made more money than God with his computer chips, but he knows nothing about cars, tires, or racing. He's a—"

"Who's a stupid American?"

It was Brock Bronson. In all of his friendly, casual glory. Regarding him with a surly smile, I decidedly ignored what he'd overheard. Other drivers would have quaked in fear had they insulted their team owner. But Bronson needed me, so I smiled. Fuck him.

"Buongiorno, Signor Bronson. We were just discussing the team's new hire."

Bronson took a seat across from me at the conference table. To my ears, his thick American accent sounded like syllables scraped against a cheese grater.

"That's one of the reasons I wanted to sit down with you two. I knew it would get some of you boys in a snit. But first, I wanted to update you on our other situation, in private."

Jack and I straightened our spines in tandem. This was far more interesting than any woman.

"The Praxis team is still considering going to the FIA World Motor Sport Council about Max and his engineer," Bronson said.

If the Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile got involved, it could lead to terrible press and even worse morale for an organization as new as Eagle.

Jack stared at me as if to say, I knew coming to this team was a terrible decision. We'd had a bit of a quarrel over whether to sign the contract when we'd found out that Max Becker, a hotshot young German who'd been in the sport only a year, would be the other, junior driver.

"So they're serious? They think Max and his engineer stole the technical information on the chassis last season?"

Jack sat back in his chair and folded his arms. There was no love lost between him and Max's crew. We'd competed against them last season on opposing teams, and never trusted them. Now we were on the same side, but apparently Max's past slippery nature was catching up to him. And we could be collateral damage.

Bronson held up his hands. "Look. Max assures me that his guys are clean. No one stole anything last year, he said."

"Was he or was he not in possession of the Praxis chassis information?" I asked.

"I'm still looking into that. He claims no."

The way Bronson evaded my question was concerning. "I didn't sign onto a rookie team and bring my trusted crew with me to be embroiled in drama. I wouldn't have signed at all had I known you were bringing on that kid."

"Max is no rookie. He's been driving for three years and is the future of the sport. People are saying he's the next . . . you," Bronson said.

Max was only twenty-three, and as hungry as I once was. A fact I didn't like to be reminded of at my age. "Still. I don't enjoy the scandal."

"There's no scandal. No drama. Don't worry, dude. We've got this. I know the press is sniffing around, but I'm confident everything will turn out fine. I'll make sure of it."

Figures. Bronson was the kind of guy who thought money could fix everything. Admittedly, it usually could in Formula World, but I liked to think that talent always rose to the top.

"When will we find out whether Praxis is taking the case to the FIA?"

"A few weeks. A month, maybe."

We'd be in Montreal by then, perhaps Belgium. "Fine." I sighed. "Let's try to put it behind us, especially before the first race in Monaco. And what's this about the girl? Please tell me it isn't true."

"Oh, right. Savannah." Bronson chuckled. "You'll meet her soon. She's doing onboarding with HR as we speak. I spoke with Max earlier, and he said he doesn't have an issue with her."

He spoke with that kid before me? "Then assign her to his pit crew."

Bronson tilted his head. "Nah, I think that would be a little too obvious. As if we were purposefully trying to distract the public from the chassis info situation."

"Max would definitely try to sleep with her," I muttered.

My German teammate was as legendary on the party circuit as he was on the track. The two of us made quite the tabloid fodder, actually. Two months ago during a promotional event in Chile, he'd had a threesome with two flight attendants after the exhibition race that somehow got leaked to the press, and I'd gotten a speeding ticket the day after.

On a Vespa. With a soap opera actress riding behind me. Later, back at the hotel, she'd ridden me. Then proceeded to divulge everything about our night together to a gossip site.

The media never ceased in their attempt to stir the pot, whether it was with the drivers' on-track problems or their off-track escapades. "Terrible Twos," the tabloids had recently dubbed me and Max. We were the biggest celebrities in motorsports and could pretty much do anything we damn well pleased.

And now, with Max's crew and the accusations of possible stolen technical information, Eagle was in the press every day. Hell, every hour on the blogs, which I tried not to read.

"With all due respect, I need to tell you there's a million reasons why it would be disastrous to have a girl on the pit crew. What if she becomes involved with someone?"

"Not a chance in hell. She comes highly recommended from some of the top IndyCar executives. She interned there. And at NASCAR too. Pretend she's a guy. She's one of three hundred people on the entire Eagle payroll. Ignore her. Your only job is to win."

Bronson reached across the table and clasped my muscled forearms with his smooth, chubby hands. "With the car we've put together and your skills, you've got a serious shot at a seventh championship. Then you can retire in glory, bro."

Nothing was more irritating than that man calling me bro. A man with his wealth should be more formal, less crass. But the American was right: if I won a seventh championship, I'd be remembered as one of the greats of motorsports, alongside Hamilton, Schumacher, and Andretti.

"Have you told the guys?"

"I'm making it clear to everyone, including Max, that they're not to harass Savannah. I'm telling you the same thing, and that's why I wanted to sit down with both of you today. I want you to welcome her and turn on that Italian charm of yours when you meet her in the coming days. I think it looks good to have a woman on the team. I'm not going to lie: it'll help our image, given Max and his alleged 'espionage' controversy."

"Espionage. I'll strangle him myself if it's true." I swore under my breath.

"And Savvy will practice with us next week."

"Savvy? What kind of a girl name is that? It sounds like the moniker of an exotic dancer."

"She's not a girl, she's twenty-four. She's a woman, and you should respect her as such. And Savvy is short for Savannah. As in Georgia, USA. Which is where her father, Dale Jenkins, the owner of Jenkins International—one of the largest parts distributors in North America—makes his home and his corporate headquarters. I'm surprised you don't know her, he's such a high-profile man in the industry and all."

Hearing the name of Jenkins International sent a frisson of awareness through my body. Of course I'd heard of her father and his company. The brand was known the world over.

"Why does she want to be on the team?"

Bronson guffawed. "It might have something to do with the fact that her father is now one of our sponsors. She asked her daddy if she could work with us, and I couldn't say no. He and I met at a party in the States—he's a stand-up guy. It was too good a PR opportunity to pass up. But you can always ask her yourself. Maybe she's got her own reasons."

I leaned forward, gesturing by turning my hand upwards, pressing my thumb against my four fingers, and flicking for emphasis. "Let me get this straight. Our new tire changer is the daughter of the man who owns one of America's largest auto parts companies? The outfit that sponsors NASCAR teams?"

"What are the chances of that?" Jack and I stared at each other.

Bronson stood up. "Sounds like you two will have a lot to talk about."

So much for a drama-free season.


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