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Prologue
Some Pompous Panda
FRANKIE (10 YEARS AGO)
Races in Monaco are the best because the parties are the best. Also, I love when my dad’s team wins in Monaco, which they did tonight. His drivers are at this very party, drunk off their asses, cooing about their first and second place wins. Dad went back to the hotel about an hour ago but let me stay. Lucia had to go home though because she’s only seventeen. I’m eighteen, so I pulled the ‘adult’ card and he allowed it. But I had to promise to be careful and come home at a reasonable hour.
I’ve been dancing for an hour, partying with the usual race fans and groupies – royalty, billionaire off-spring, and drivers and crews from other divisions. My bestie Jennie came to the race. Her dad is a tech mogul from Japan, and she and I met when we both went to the same boarding school at fourteen. It was my first and last year in a normal school. My mom home schooled us so we could follow my dad around the world during race season, but I begged for “normal” and they finally relented, putting me in a fancy arts-oriented boarding school. It was fun but both Lucia and I missed our parents and the racing world more than we let on. Then mom got sick later that same year, and my dad pulled us out of school to spend as much time as possible with her. After she died, we had tutors so that we could travel again with our dad, who retired from driving the next year but started his own team. Jennie’s in university now in London, but she’s off for the summer and following me around.
“Tonight is perfect!” I declare as we take a break from the dance floor and make our way to the bar. I’ve had just enough booze that I feel tipsy. Floaty and flirty but not dizzy or nauseous. I’m careful not to cross that line. I’ve only done it once, last year. My dad was so pissed and worried when he found me puking my guts out at two in the morning in the bathroom that he almost took me to the hospital. I got my first grounding ever after that. Now at eighteen, he accepts I drink because it’s legal in Europe, but he still worries and has a tracker on my phone he thinks I don’t know about. I haven’t taken it off because I’m okay with him knowing where I am. Dad loves us dearly and we are all he has left so I’m cool with letting him keep track of us. I’m not doing anything crazy anyway. I drink a little and once smoked a joint, but that’s it.
“Deux champagne s’il vous plait,” I say to the bartender as Jennie reaches for one of the cocktail napkins and proceeds to pat my forehead.
“Frankie, I wanna take a picture for social media and I don’t want you shiny,” she explains as I swat at her. Jennie is studying marketing and she wants to make me a thing. I wasn’t even on Instagram or Facebook until she coaxed me into it last year. I’m amazed at how many friends I have already. I mean, ‘friends’ is an overstatement. I definitely don’t know ninety-nine percent of the hundred-thousand people on my social media accounts. I guess strangers like to see the behind-the-scenes race and party stuff I post. Lately, though, there have been some assholes who say mean things about me or my dad’s team. Jennie showed me how to block them.
Jennie finishes blotting me and then holds up her phone and tells me to smile. She takes a bunch of pictures until I get bored and the bartender photobombs the pic with our champagne glasses and his annoyed face.
“Merci!” I say as I turn around, reaching for the glasses.
He’s also put two shots of clear liquid in front of us. “From the men over there.”
I follow the bartender’s bony finger as he points. There, at the end of the bar, are three guys. Three cute guys – which are my favorite kind. I smile, and so does Jennie, and they take that as an invitation to make their way over. Their names are all D names. Daniel, Dominic, and Dion. Jennie jokingly asks if they exclusively hang out with Ds only, and they laugh. We make small talk. They know who I am, which I hate. Daniel asks me a million questions about the Mirabella racing team, which I actually don’t mind. I love talking about F1 and my dad’s team. Dominic wants to talk about my dad’s career, which I also like talking about. My dad was an amazing driver with three World Championship titles. Dion isn’t chatty like his buds. He seems moody.
“You didn’t take your shot,” Dion finally speaks after almost a half hour.
“Right,” I smile. “I don’t do shots, but I appreciate the gesture.”
It was Goldschlager shots that made me so sick last year.
Dion doesn’t smile back. “It was a gift. Your friend accepted it.”
Jennie repeats her name for him, because she hates when people don’t remember it. “It was delicious. So delicious I’ll do hers.”
Jennie picks up the shooter from the bar as I take another sip of champagne. Dion isn’t going to let this go. “It’s not champagne so it’s not good enough for Sebastian Castera’s daughter?”
“No. I drink more than just champagne,” I reply, my voice calm but hard. I hate guys like him. They meet me with pre-formed opinions. They’re cocky and belligerent and gross on the inside. On the outside, Dion is buff with perfect hair and expensive clothes. It’s lipstick on a pig. “I don’t do shots, but I truly appreciate the gesture.”
Dion huffs out a disgusted breath and mutters something but the music in the club is too loud for me to hear him. I am not about to step closer and ask him to repeat it. So I turn to Jennie, and our eyes connect, and an unspoken conversation happens. The kind bestie girls have all the time in clubs.
I want to ditch them, my eyes scream.
Just ignore the asshole, Jennie’s eyes plead.
Please.
Jennie sighs, a sign she is going to give in, and she downs the shot I refused. That sets Dion into a rage. “What the fuck! That wasn’t yours!”
“Whoa, chill D,” Dominic advises his friend, and Daniel grabs his arm as he steps toward me aggressively.
Jennie’s dark brown eyes grow wide. “Let’s go.”
We turn when the psycho growls. “Rich bitch! I bet you suck all the drivers’ cocks, but we’re not good enough to do a shot with.”
I feel his hand on my shoulder. It’s cold and hard, and I would yelp, but before a sound can leave my mouth, the hand is gone. I swivel back and can see nothing but shoulders. Broad shoulders and the back of a dirty blond head. “You need to back off, mate.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Dion hisses.
“Someone who doesn’t manhandle women who want nothing to do with me,” the voice with the rich Aussie accent says. “I’ll say it one last time. Back off, mate.”
Dion swings. The blond head bobs and ducks and then the mystery man lifts his fist and takes his own swing. It all happens so fast it’s a blur, but then suddenly the bartender is jumping over the bar, and Dion’s friends are rushing toward my Aussie accented hero. A bouncer comes rushing over, and Aussie hero grabs my hand, and I grab Jennie’s and we run. While the bartender is trying to hold back the triple Ds, he has left a bottle of Ruinart champagne unattended on the bar top. Hero grabs it with his free hand without slowing his pace.
He leads us to the narrow hallway where the restrooms are, and with his left foot, he kicks open the emergency exit, and we burst into the alleyway. The warm summer night air swirls around us. At the end of the alley, people bustle by, going about their night in Monaco. Jennie is the first to speak. “What the fuck just happened?”
“I saved your friend here from a super-douche,” Aussie says with a smile that knocks my heart sideways.
Aussie hero is gorgeous. Thick, tousled hair, eyes like aquamarine crystals, cleft chin, two subtle dimples. He’s a bucket list of physical perfection and the big, bold smile says he’s not sorry about it. Neither am I. But getting a good look at him, I also realize he’s Billy James.
“Thanks, I think,” Jennie says.
“Definitely thanks,” Billy confirms with that breathtaking grin again. Something inside me instantly hates he’s unleashed it on Jennie instead of me. “Those boys were total tossers.”
“Should we like keep running or something?” I ask. “In case the police get called.”
“I’m always up for some cardio,” Billy grabs my hand again, so I grab Jennie’s again, and we run down the alley.
We run until we’re all out of breath and the night air has turned salty. Larvotto beach spreads out before us. The sea is just an inky blob. Jennie rests on the small stone wall. “Holy shit, I wasn’t prepared for a marathon in these damn heels.”
I watch as she yanks off the high heeled sandals and Billy lifts up the champagne he’s still holding. “Hydration?”
I smile at his cute choice of words, like he’s offering her a Gatorade. Jennie smiles too but shakes her head. “I’m going to head back to the hotel.”
“Will you stay a little longer?” Billy asks me. His smile turns soft. “I promise I didn’t just save your from douchebags so I could become one.”
My eyes connect with Jennie’s, and we have another unspoken conversation.
I want to hang with him, my eyes say.
Hers dart up to Billy, who is starting to open the champagne with his back to me. He seems okay. Are you sure?
I give a small, quick nod.
Okay, her eyes say.
I turn to Billy James, the F2 driver that my father has mentioned in awe several times this season. “I’ll stick around for a bit.”
“Look at you, making my day.” He winks.
“It’s night.”
“Hard to tell with you around,” he retorts. “The world seems much brighter now.”
“Cheesy as hell,” I comment, but I’m grinning with abandon.
“I believe it’s called fromage here.” Billy winks again and pops the champagne.
He is charming with a capital C.
“Drop me a pin with your location if you move,” Jennie says in my ear and she hugs me good-bye. “See you tomorrow, bestie. Bye Aussie Hero.”
Billy waves at her as she leaves, and I watch her carefully as she crosses the street and walks two buildings over to our hotel. I don’t turn back to Billy until I see the doorman hold the door open for her. “So, where to?”
“Beach,” Billy announces. “But not this one. Police patrol it, and I don’t think they’d appreciate the bottle of Ruinart. I know another one. More private.”
I hesitate as he takes a couple steps. He wouldn’t have rescued me just to kill me, right? Or is he the guy who does that to gain my trust so he can feed my body to the sharks after he’s done with it? I hate that I have to worry about that, but I do. The joy of being a woman.
“Look, I wasn’t going to say this because it makes me sound like a pompous panda, but I’m a driver,” he says.
In a snap decision I decide to play dumb. “An F1 driver?”
“F2,” he clarifies, and it almost sounds like an apology. “My dad drove F1 and I’m going to one day soon. I’m not going to throw away my whole future by hurting anyone, least of all a beautiful girl like you.”
“That left hook probably hurt Dion.”
“Okay, I let me rephrase, anyone who doesn’t deserve it.” He winks again.
“Also, pompous panda?” I raise an eyebrow as my lips also raise in a smile.
“Have you met a panda? They can be real dicks,” Billy says with a deeply serious tone that has me bursting out laughter.
This all might be a ploy to get me to let my guard down, but the flutter in my belly falls for it hook, line, and sinker. I nod. “Take me to your private beach…”
I stop myself before I say his name because he didn’t give it to me. He extends a hand, like a perfect gentleman. “You can just keep calling me Aussie Hero. I like it better than my actual name.”
“I never called you that. Jennie did.”
“Yeah but I was saving you, so I’m yours.” He leans closer and I feel a cannon of butterflies go off in my belly because for a second, I think he might kiss me. But he pulls back and starts walking. “Feel free to give me your name though.”
I shake my head. “One day, but not right now.”
He’ll know who I am if I give him my name. Because he’s a driver I know he knows my dad. Between his championship wins and my mom’s death, which caused his retirement, and Mirabella Racing, which he named after her, my dad’s name and mine has been in the news a lot. Plus, Frankie is rare for a girl and he’s bright enough to make the connection. Lately, there’s been rumors swirling that I might take over one day for my dad as Team Principal, because I will. He wants it, and so do I – desperately.
Luckily, Billy seems to accept my lack of answer by giving me an easy-going, uber sexy smile. “I get it. I don’t want people to think they know me before they know me too.”
He takes my hand as we continue to walk, and it feels intimate this time because we aren’t running from anything. I think we’re running toward something. And I think I like it. I’m not wrong. The beach he takes me to is a sandy alcove between mansions. We perch on a tall, flat rock, sipping champagne and spilling our life secrets. What we think of the world, the sport of racing, our families, our hopes, fears, dreams, what makes us laugh, and what makes us cry. We make each other laugh, and we don’t judge each other when we both tear up. Him talking about his dad’s death, which only happened six months ago during a race in Tokyo, and me talking about my mom’s. We still don’t exchange names, even when the night ends with the orange and pink sunrise blanketing our epic make-out session.
I leave before it goes further because as much as I want it, I also have to get home before Jennie or my sister Lucia wakes up and sees I’m not in my bed. We’re all sharing the same hotel suite. Billy, my Aussie hero, begs me to see him again tomorrow night. “Meet me here again. Nine p.m.? This can’t end, you and me. There’s more to our story.”
“Nine p.m.,” I agree easily. There’s no point in playing coy. He’s got me. “I can’t wait.”
And the last thing I remember from that weekend was leaving that beach alone at ten-thirty because he never showed up. Everything after that was a blur until I woke up two days later in a hospital bed.