Page 1 of Handle Me

CHAPTER ONE

ANDERS

As long as I’ve been racing, people have asked me why. Every driver gets asked that, and every time the person asking wanted some deep, philosophical answer. I was running from my past or racing towards my future or some other bullshit. The truth was not that profound.

There hadn’t been much else to do, growing up. It had only taken one time behind the wheel—one dose of pure, unfiltered adrenaline—and I’d been hooked. There was nothing like the vibration of the engine when I shifted gears. I didn’t care about the crowds or fame. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. On the track, it was me, the car, and my own mortality. The only thing that ever competed with it in my book was sex. I’d never been able to decide which was better. At least, it used to be that way.

“You’re taking that turn too wide. Tighten it up, Your Highness!” Wilkes shouted in my earpiece.

Translation: I needed to go faster.

“Sod off,” I shot back. I shifted gears, going full throttle as I headed into Copse. I wasn’t a fan of my new nickname, but I had a better chance of convincing the guys the world was flat than getting them to stop calling me that. They just needed a reminder I was the one behind the wheel. Wilkes wanted fast. He’d get it. I entered Copse blind. Taking this corner was always a leap of faith. I had to trust myself and my car. I didn’t hesitate. My wheels hugged the track as I took the turn, knocking it down into seventh before I felt the familiar lift. I shifted into eighth as I took the first left. I’d been told early in my career that you had to be suicidal or stupid not to be scared of this circuit. I had no clue which category I fell in, but these days I’d rather face it than what waited for me past Silverstone’s gates.

Reporters—if the bastards could be called that. Women—that bit wasn’t as bad. And a security detail.

At least on the track, I was free. Out there? My life was becoming a bloody circus act.

All because twenty-six years ago, some wanker I’d never met shagged my mom. Now that wanker was dead, all his dirty secrets were coming out, and I was the biggest scandal of all. The illegitimate son of a dead king with an older brother determined, for inexplicable reasons, to make me one of the family.

“Get your head out of your arse and drive!” Wilkes barked over the comms.

I snapped back into focus and accelerated into the final corner, only taking my foot off the pedal when I straightened my wheels. The team ran toward the astroturf as I slowed the Renault to a stop.

“Don’t bother telling me,” I said to my performance coach. I didn’t want to know my lap time.

Wilkes told me anyway. “One minute and thirty-two fucking seconds.”

He stalked off, leaving the rest of the crew to deal with my sorry ass. Another distracted day on the track, and I’d screwed my lap time harder than a sailor on leave. It wasn’t just practice at this level. Every lap counted when it came to securing the sponsorships that kept the multi-million dollar team running. More days like this, and the only companies willing to sponsor me would be retirement villages. Wilkes flew onto the track, headset in hand, yelling so loudly he was turning purple.

That couldn’t be good. Shit. At this rate, I wasn’t even going to get a retirement home to sponsor me.

Then I realized he wasn’t screaming at me. Tugging my helmet off, I pushed out of my seat and strained to get a look at what had my team boss frothing at the mouth. The crew surrounding the car made it impossible to see. I climbed out of the Renault and got a glimpse of what—or rather who—had him so worked up.

One look at the brunette and I couldn’t blame Wilkes for losing control. She wasn’t just a distraction; she was a walking wet dream. The wind whipped her glossy, dark hair around her face. Oversized black sunglasses shielded me from getting a better look at her. That hardly mattered. Her body demanded all my attention. Tight denim hugged her hips and tapered down to a pair of stilettos so tall, they looked dangerous. If she’d walked onto the track in those, she wasn’t just confident; she was daring. The black blazer buttoned at her waist dipped low to reveal enough cleavage that my balls ached. In the space of thirty seconds, I imagined every wicked thing I wanted to do to her.

A crew member hurried past, holding a tire, but I grabbed his shoulder to stop him. “What the hell is going on?”

“She just showed up and walked in like she owned the place,” he told me. His gaze scanned the mystery woman appreciatively. “I mean, I kinda hope she does.”

“You and me both,” I muttered and pushed him toward the car. He could look, but he couldn’t touch. Whoever she was, she was mine. I’d make sure of it.

“Anders!” Wilkes bellowed my name.

I ran a hand through my helmet-flattened hair as I jogged over. It stuck to my skin in the day’s sticky heat, and I swiped at the sweat gathering on my forehead. Dialing in my most charming smile, I slowed as I reached them. She turned and pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head, and I stopped short. I recognized that face, or I nearly did. She looked a lot like someone else I knew, which meant she wasn’t a stranger. She was the fixer my newfound family had sent to clean up my image.

Charlotte Bishop.

The five-minute phone call we’d shared had consisted of her giving me orders for four minutes and fifty-nine seconds. I’d known she was bossy. I’d had no idea she was gorgeous.

“Mr. Stone,” she called over. “I assume you forgot our appointment.”

Appointment? I must have missed that part during her never-ending list of instructions on how to behave since the world found out I was the bastard son of the late King of England.

“We spoke on the phone,” she prompted when I didn’t say anything. “Well, I spoke on the phone. You hung up on me.” Her nose wrinkled in annoyance as she recalled our first contact.

I couldn’t keep a smirk off my face, however. “If I’d known what you look like, sweetheart, I would have been a gentleman.”

Wilkes barked a laugh as though that thought was un-fucking-believable. Her head whipped around to stare at him.