No more distractions. Not now. Not with the season still wide open and vultures circling.
But my pulse was still racing—and for once, it had nothing to do with speed.
Chapter Eight – Singapore to Japan
Elena Archer – Singapore Hotel
I woke with my mouth tasting like regret and champagne.
Light cut through the hotel curtains in hostile slats, and I groaned, flinging a hand over my eyes. My head throbbed in time with the memory of Volkov’s voice, low and dangerous in that corridor.
You’re inside my head. All the damn time.
Yeah, well. He was in mine too.
I sat up slowly, one heel still on, the other lost to the void somewhere between the party and my room. My clutch was on the floor beside the bed, its sequins glinting like it had secrets. I fished out my phone. Battery at seven percent. Two missed calls from Graham. And a text:
Where’s the story, Archer? Don’t tell me you’re still chasing shadows.
I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, willing my hangover to back off long enough for me to lie convincingly. It was just after noon, making it four am back home, not remotely a suitable time to call him back. I crawled from the bed and into the shower, peeling my clothes off on the way. My head buzzed incessantly and my mouth was dry. As I let the hot water soak me, memories of the party flickered through my mind. Everything Callum Drake had said, and the encounter with Volkov in the corridor. That memory did something unsettling to my insides. I’d never much liked the metaphor of butterflies in the stomach, but for the first time, I had an idea of what that meant.
I closed my eyes and remembered the way he leaned against me, pinning me to the wall. I could still smell the whisky and cologne, mingling with my mint-scented shampoo. My nipples pebbled under the hot stream of water and my hand roamed down my body, seeking the heat growing between my thighs.
My eyes pinged open and my hand snatched back. I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t start thinking of him like that. I had a story to write that was likely to kill his career and ruin his team. It would be impossible to do that if I went and developed feelings for the guy.
And yet, something told me that he might not be involved in the scandal. There was something so earnest about him, even though he was extremely guarded. I trusted him. That might make me a fool. But it wouldn’t stop me from digging up everything I could.
I finished my shower, got dressed and went in search of food. I had a lot to do and no time to waste.
It was just after four pm when my phone interrupted my research. Graham’s name lit up the screen and I took a steadying breath, knowing this conversation was coming.
“Hi boss,” I said in as bright a voice as I could muster.
“Where’s my story, Archer?” His tone was pure newsroom steel.
“I’m working on it,” I said, dragging myself to the edge of the bed. “I’ve got a lead—actually, I’ve got two—but I need time.”
“You’ve had time. You’ve had over two weeks, flights half way around the world, and a press pass with more access than God. I need copy. Not poetic quotes from disgruntled second-stringers.”
I flinched. Callum Drake: disgruntled second-stringer. Not wrong. But also not the whole picture.
“There’s more,” I said. “Obsidian’s got something shady going on with engine mappings—maybe fuel loads. It’s technical, and it’s well covered up. I need the next race. Japan. I can get confirmation there.”
A pause. Then: “At your own expense.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You’ve already drained the travel budget. Unless I have a file in my inbox by Sunday, you’re off this assignment. I’ll give it to someone who actually knows how to stick to a brief. Go find me a scandal, or come home.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then dropped the phone on the bed like it had burned me. I looked up at my reflection in the black television screen. Despite the dark, faint image, I saw it: the fire in my eyes. The need.
He wanted a scandal?
He was going to get the whole fucking inferno.
Suzuka, Japan
