She felt overdressed for this place. He, however, in black slacks and a white shirt sans tie seemed perfectly suited to it. Odd, given it wasn’this kind of place. At least, she didn’t think so. Dinner, she’d expected. But she’d imagined they would eat at a more formal, stuffy restaurant. Not the noisy, friendly, and raucous one they were at now—where the owner, cook, staff, and patrons seemed like one big family.
She sipped her glass of red wine.
Of course, the waiter had given Clarke a chef’s kiss when he’d ordered it, saying it was the best Spain had to offer.
Even the chef had come out to commend his impeccable taste when it came to pairing wine with food, not knowing the diner that had impressed him was Sir Clarke, winner of the Spanish Grand Prix.
He’d driven a brilliant race. His precision in positioning, braking, and car control—not to mention defensive tactics—was impeccable. Yes, perfect. All the more astounding because Anker was driving the faster car. Anker should have passed him, more than once. Put any other driver ahead of Anker, and he would have. The way Clarke handled the pressure, held him off, and defended his position showed not only incredible physical talent and ability but a mental strength that was almost beyond human.
It reminded her of the Clarke of old. Was he back? Was he going to perform like this the rest of the season? If so, he could be a lock on that trophy.
There was still that moment’s hesitation at the final turn, but by then he’d locked down the win. Anker, desperate, had gone for too much and had spun out of control, allowing Nico and Rocco to pass him and ruin his shot at any spot on the podium.
Thinking about the race, she couldn’t help but think about the future, her future and that phone call from her father. Next season, she could be driving—F3 or maybe even F2. But the thrill she felt came with a healthy dose of trepidation. She remembered what it had been like driving for her father’s team in the past and remembered why she’d left. Maybe this time would be different. Back then, he’d taken her on reluctantly, but this time on the phone, he’d sounded like he really wanted her on the team. He’d made a point of telling her she needed to get behind the wheel and practice, get into the simulator and train so that she’d be ready to show the team what she’s got before the final decision.
Is it because of Clarke? Father definitely likes him.
Did Clarke say something to him?
Maybe it wasn’t anything he said but his presence alone—the fact that he was there, with her.
But he’s not actually with me.
She watched as another group of fans posed for a photo with Clarke. She thought about the deal she’d made with Roxanne. It was supposed to improve his persona off the track, not his performance on it.
When he returned to their table, the waiter brought over a bottle of vintage champagne.
“Compliments of the chef.”
He started to unwrap the foil but Clarke stopped him. “I’ll do it.”
The waiter nodded and walked away.
“You didn’t get enough drenching today?” she asked. “Or perhaps your plan is to drench me.”
Those warm caramel eyes flickered as they drifted down her throat and the plunging neckline of her dress, only stopping when they could go no further. A shiver followed the path of his gaze.
“Much as I might enjoy the sight given what you’re wearing, no, that is not my plan.” He paused. “What you’re wearing is actually perfect for what I have planned tonight.”
She blinked. That shiver shattered, and a sudden warmth spread between her thighs.
When she looked back at him with a puzzled expression, one eyebrow hiked up his forehead. “I’m referring to that slit in your skirt that runs all the way up your thigh.”
Her breath caught, and she immediately clamped her mouth shut because it had been too audible for him not to hear. If she had any doubt whether or not he did, the grin that slithered up his cheeks gave her a definitive answer.
Did Sir Stick Up His Ass really just say that?
It wasn’t just what he said but how he said it. His voice was not only cool but confident, and … sexy.
She preferred the stuffy, pompous one. The shy and stilted one. This voice made it sound as if he was in the driver’s seat.
“I’d actually like some water,” she said, looking around for the waiter.
“You’re thirsty?” he asked.
She noticed him staring at her lips.
She was. Her mouth had suddenly become very dry.
