‘Alex is dead, Taz. Nobody cares,’ she stated, confused. He couldn’t deny it: The most he’d get when he beat Alex’s record would be a brief mention of his achievement by sports journalists. But that wasn’t the point. How could he explain it was personal and precious, a way for him to stand in front of the memory of his father, and say that he mattered, he counted, that he was as worthy of space and attention as Alex? That they’d been wrong to ignore and discount him?
‘I wish you’d talk to me, Taz.’
Didn’t she get it? In just a few weeks, he’d told her more than he’d shared with anyone over the course of his life. ‘I rarely talk to anyone, and I never talk to anyone about Alex. Ever.’ His voice was harsh and clipped, every word coated with regret. ‘I can’t trust anyone.’
Her face tightened, and he knew he’d hurt her, saw it in the way she blinked the pain away. But Millie being Millie, she didn’t crumble. She held her ground. ‘Are you worried I’ll say something? Fine. I’ll sign an NDA. If anything gets out, sue me for everything I have. I’ll repay you the million plus interest.’ Her voice was steady, but there was steel in it, a fierce edge that told him she wasn’t bluffing. ‘But you need to know this. I willneverbetray you.’
The words hit harder than he wanted to admit, slicing through the panic that had been twisting in his gut for what felt like forever. She wasn’t the problem. He was. The unfamiliar feelings she raised in him, the feeling of becoming more vulnerable with every moment he spent with her, terrified him.
Panic twisted his gut.
‘You’re competing with a ghost, Taz.’
He couldn’t do this anymore. He dragged his hand over his face, hoping to wipe the tension away. He needed to regain control of himself and the conversation—immediately. Before he could speak, Millie did him a favour and changed the subject. ‘So are you going to race on Saturday?’
He looked down at his cast-free hand. ‘How did you know?’
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. ‘Your cast is off, your lead is slipping, and you want to get back on the track.’
She turned, and he let her go. Watching her walk back into the penthouse, he mused on how he’d once considered their relationship uncomplicated, black-and-white. A fake couple in public, lovers in private.
The one thing he couldn’t control—the one thing that threatened everything he thought he knew—was that she might, genuinely, care for him. And that despite his best efforts, he cared for her too. He might even be close to falling for her.
And that was too big a risk.
Because if he let her in, really let her in, she’d be a car he couldn’t chase down, a crash he couldn’t avoid. Loving her—and losing her, because love never stayed—would tear him apart.
But, God, he wasn’t sure that he had enough courage to let her go.
They walked into the ballroom of Le Château du Ciel hotel, and Millie glanced at Taz. He seemed unimpressed by the unfiltered decadence of the best ballroom in the superrich principality. The ceiling was a masterpiece hand-painted with almost-naked gods and goddesses lounging on clouds, laughing down at the mortals beneath them. Impressive, oversize crystal chandeliers dripped from the frescoed ceiling, and the polished Italian marble floors gleamed like glass.
Mirrors on the walls were framed in intricate gold leaf. The floor-to-ceiling arched windows were outlined by velvet drapes in a deep, rich midnight blue. They were, in Millie’s view, superfluous because the view of the city and Mediterranean beyond the balcony was incredible.
With her hand lodged in Taz’s elbow, Millie looked around and noticed a piano sitting under a spotlight at the far end of the large room. A quartet played, but she couldn’t hear any music above the chatter of the rich, famous and infamous. Waiters in white gloves glided through the crowd, offering crystal flutes of champagne and trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Millie caught their reflection in a mirror and cast a critical eye over her appearance. Her dress was deep purple, shot with silver. It hugged her in all the right places, its neckline dipping low enough to make it interesting, cinching at her waist before spilling into a dramatic skirt that showed a hint of her three-inch heels. Her makeup was understated, her hair pulled back into a smooth, sleek tail.
Taz in a tuxedo suited this ballroom like a sword did a scabbard. His classic black suit was exquisitely tailored, the sharp lines highlighting his broad shoulders and athletic build. The crisp white shirt was a stark contrast to his tanned face and neck, and his three-day dark stubble was a reminder to everyone that he was, despite his wealth, a rebel and a bad boy. He looked every inch the charming, untouchable, remote billionaire he was. Oh, his effortless, rakish smile was in place, but she could easily differentiate between Authentic Taz and Pretend Taz. His charm was frequently superficial, his urbanity a cloak he’d pulled on to fool the world.
Since their breakfast discussion in Italy about Alex, he’d been inching away, emotionally distancing himself. Oh, he was still a fantastic lover, devoted to her pleasure, but his conversation was less easy, his responses more measured and never impetuous. It was as if he was afraid to let something important or personal slip.
His retreat hurt more than Millie expected, and hearing the edge in his voice, something he probably wasn’t even aware of, stung. His carefully constructed façade had solidified again, she could see it in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes quickly moved from hers when they spoke. His emotional walls were higher than before, and those flashes of vulnerability she’d seen in him were a thing of the past.
Was asking him about his brother such a big sin? Could he not trust that his secrets were safe with her? Her insecurities rushed back, hot and hard, punching and kicking in a relentless ambush. She didn’t belong in this opulent ballroom and wasn’t good enough to be hanging onto Taz’s arm. She wasn’t thin enough, pretty enough, vivacious or charming enough.
Recognising her spiralling thoughts, she locked her knees and pushed steel into her spine.
Stop.
Breathe.
Think.
Under her skirts, she stomped her foot, clad in its designer shoe. She loathed her self-doubt and cursed its return.Remember how far you’ve come, Millie!She’d managed to navigate this unfamiliar world, maybe not as effortlessly as her parents and Taz did, but she hadn’t embarrassed herself. Nobody, not the press or her colleagues at De Rossi Racing, questioned whether she was good enough to be with Taz. They assumed she was. So why was she doubting herself? Was it Taz’s inability or unwillingness to open up and talk to her that made her question herself and wonder if she was sufficiently strong, witty and smart to be his partner, to stand by his side?
It had been his choice not to open up; she’d done nothing wrong. Just like she wasn’t defective or substandard because she felt uncomfortable with her parents’ pursuit of publicity. Taz and her parents were responsible for their own choices, and she for hers.
While she’d never be a society hostess, she had come a long way, and balls, cocktail parties and red carpets didn’t make her quake in her heels anymore. Professionally, in terms of her and Taz’s agreement, she’d done her job. She’d rehabilitated his reputation and built it back up in the media after weeks of scandal and bad press. Taz was now seen in a more favourable light, and when he announced he was racing this weekend, the press would go wild. She’d already prepared the press releases, ready to go as soon as he gave her the green light. He’d be fine.
