For a second, she looked relieved, but then Zoltán’s top lip curled as one of the makeup artists came forward with a brush aimed at his face. He raised his hands, almost swatting her away.“Hátrébb. Most.”Back off. Now.
And Livie’s breath caught, turning to me with a concerned wince, which was saying something, seeing as she was married to the most arrogant ex-racer in history.
I rushed forward with a polite smile. “Sorry, he doesn’t want any touch-ups. He’s happy with how he is; such a great job was done already.”
His jaw stiffened, and his glare was devilish.“Nem vagyok kisminkelve. Mégis minek néznek engem? Egy kibaszott bohóc? Egyjátékbaba?” I’m not wearing makeup. What the hell do they think I am? A fucking clown? A doll?
Livie moved forward, her stare nearly as crazed. Eyes on him, she told me, “Tell him to watch his tone with you and the team, or he’ll be escorted out. I don’t care who his grandfather was.”
I didn’t need her protection.
“They just needed to reduce a bit of shine, that’s all,” I told him, with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
“That’s not shine—it’s heat. And trust me, heat sells better than a face of chalky powder.”
It had been a lie on my behalf, but now that he mentionedit, the sheen across his face and neck screamed sex appeal. He was rugged.
Dreamy.
I stepped back.
He grunted again and stood in position, crossing his arms for one of the shots.
Livie bit her lip. “Are you sure—”
“Got it handled, I promise.”
She narrowed her eyes at Zoltán in a final warning before squeezing my shoulder and rushing off down the corridor.
The shoot began with a close-up of his helmet held under one arm, chin tilted like he ruled the damn world. Above the visor, larger than any sponsors, was a falcon-like bird.No— a turul.
My eyes softened when I realised. The Hungarian bird. Protection and heritage. Maybe he thought it would save him from another crash.
I pushed the thought of his pain away and translated the photographer’s instructions quickly—angle this way, turn now, look in that direction—and Zoltán followed them with ease.
He knew he was too attractive for his own good.
The shoot took longer than I’d imagined, and then he was on a high stool, the new Veltar bike behind him, illuminated with a black and purple shine.
Routine questions were asked to prompt the cockiness everyone was expecting from the grandson of Simon Farkas. With my help and slow enunciation, we managed to get a few lines in English for the ease of the production team.
Then they asked about the crash that had altered his career, and he stiffened witha blank, cold stare. The fury in his eyes was clear.How dare they bring up the incident that had him in the hospital and made him miss the last year of racing?
The glare of the lights narrowed his eyes, and the constant rage of his quickening breaths made me tighten my thighs.
Angry men should not be a turn-on for me.
And I could emphasise…a little.
We’d been at it for hours. The sheen across his body had started to dance in the bright lights that he’d shaded his eyes from multiple times, and the questions were becoming increasingly obnoxious and repetitive.
When they mentioned getting footage with his teammate after a few more questions, he winced under the lights. “We’re done here.”
At first, I went to argue, but he stood, the stool scraping back, but the second his booted foot hit the floor, he wobbled, and one hand shot back to grab the stool, the other his forehead.
I gripped his arm, keeping him standing.
“He needs five. Medic’s orders.”
