I stalked over to him, my own anger threatening to spill over. I jabbed him in the chest with a carefully manicured finger.
“I know about the mapping. I know about the fuel level. I have proof. And I will print it. My story goes to my editor tomorrow. So get ready to read the headlines on Monday. Whatever happens on that track tomorrow, you won’t be a winner much longer.”
His face paled. There was a split second where I thought he might yell at me, his nose mere inches from mine. That moment in the corridor at the Singapore gala surfaced in my mind but I pushed it down. Volkov grabbed my arms again and spun me around, pressing me against the car.
The heat of the spotlight tingled against my skin. I shook back my long, dark hair and glowered defiantly up at him.
His body was pressed against mine, hot and hard. My breath hitched. Hate and something much stronger fizzed inside me. Something I didn’t want to name.
I grabbed the back of his neck and closed the gap between our mouths, planting a hard kiss on his.
He pulled his head back, his eyes searching my face.
Regret, rage, and refusal to back down surged through me all at once, tearing me apart. I needed to get out of there. My eyes flickered towards the doors towards the paddock and my body twitched as if to try to break free.
But in an instant, Volkov’s mouth was on mine again. I gasped, swallowing his own breath as our tongues clashed. Heat, frustration, resentment. It all rushed between us there in that spotlight. The Obsidian car was warm against my back from theheat of the light. But despite being pinned against a machine, Volkov was the unyielding one. He pressed against me hard, his own heat drowning me. He clamped a hand around the back of my neck, his other hand held me in place by my hip. My hands gripped his shoulders and I struggled to breathe against the relentless fury of his kiss.
What the fuck was this?
But there was no room in my head for examination of this turn of events. I couldn’t think, I could hardly comprehend it. Until finally he tore himself away from me, staggering backwards out of the pool of light.
I raised a trembling hand to my lips. My eyes wide and watering slightly.
“I—” Volkov said, his shoulders heaving. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No,” I said, taking an unsteady step forwards. “Me neither.”
“You should go.” He turned and strode towards the glass doors we’d entered through. He grasped the handle, then stopped, turning his head slightly towards me. “Write your story if you have to. But I swear to you, I don’t know anything about the engine mapping. I’ve got nothing to do with it. I just drive the car.” He swung the door wide and left me staring after him.
Maybe it was the utter confusion over what had just happened, but somehow, I believed him.
Aleksandr Volkov – Post Qualifying
I didn’t look back.
Couldn’t. If I saw her again, if I let the look on her face sink into me, I’d lose whatever grip I still had on control.
And that was the problem. Control had been slipping since the moment she walked into my world.
I pushed through the next set of doors and slammed straight into Mac.
“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” he barked, grabbing my shoulder and steering me out of the corridor. “You let a bloody reporter into the garage? You think that’s somethin’ we’re just going to ignore?”
I glowered at him and pulled my arm free. “I stopped her from going any further.”
“Ross is waitin’.” His voice dropped. “And he’s not happy.”
Great.
Mac shoved the door open and marched down the hall without waiting. I followed, already composing my defence—not that they’d believe it. Not when they were already circling like vultures.
Ross didn’t look up when we entered. He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, jaw set in that infuriatingly smug line he reserved for journalists and internal investigations.
“Close the door,” he said.
I did.
“So,” he said, finally raising his eyes. “You want to explain why that nosy reporter was found snooping inside our garage?”
