Page 30 of Spin Control

Wes is quiet for several breaths. “I’ll be at the hotel at 6pm. I’ll wait for five minutes. If you don’t show up, I won’t be offended.”

“Yes, you will.”

“I promise I won’t,” he says, his accent slipping out again. “But I’d prefer if you showed.”

With that, he hangs up.

“Insufferable asshole,” I say, staring at my phone screen. I resolve not to go, relishing the idea that I can waste five minutes of Wes Grant’s time.

My phone buzzes and I swear to God, if he’s already sent me some idiotic message—

CHALONDRA

I’m in room 522 and my hair and makeup team will finish up with me in about half an hour, but the gala paid for a half day of their services. They’ve already said they’re happy to do your hair and makeup.

Well, hell.

I take a deep breath, allowing myself to once again envision this night. The guests. The idea of becoming the go-to crisis manager for a royal family.

I exhale and then pick up the room phone. I’m going to need a steamer.

14

It isn’t until I pull up to the Hotel de Paris Monte-Carlo that I remember this place is a magnet for papparazzi.

Since I have my own apartment in Monaco, I haven’t been in this part of town. I genuinely didn’t think about the fact that photographers and fans camp out here since so many teams and celebrities stay here for the grand prix.

Though I’m used to the attention and don’t mind people snapping a few photos, I am not so callous as to take pleasure in a situation that could put Elizabeth in an awkward position at work.

But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe she won’t show. Maybe this won’t be a problem at all.

Of course, the moment I think that, she emerges from the hotel’s opulent lobby.

And then every thought in my mind vanishes.

She said her dress is black, but what she should have said is that it’s the sexiest garment in existence. There’s a slit that stops high on her thigh, exposing a toned leg; material that hugs the flare of her hips; a low neckline that showcases cleavage I’ve never seen before. Though her hair is pulled back from her face as usual, her makeup is more dramatic—her eyes darker and lips a deep red that has me thinking about how I’ve always had a thing for evil queens. About how much I enjoy danger. About how that lipstick would look smeared on my face, my chest, my cock tomorrow morning.

Fuck. Fuck.

She looks around, and it’s only then that I remember I’m still in my car—and she has no idea what I drive when I’m not on an F1 track. I prepare for screams and camera flashes as the crowd notices me, but as I step out, a movie star and her soccer player boyfriend exit the hotel and everyone’s attention goes to them. So no one bats an eye when the gorgeous woman they were all just ogling walks down the steps and over to me.

I move to the passenger side and open the door. Elizabeth gracefully climbs in without a word, as if sitting in a vintage sports car while wearing a formal gown is a daily occurence.

I’m harder than I’ve been all year. Maybe in several years.

This night might kill me.

“Good evening, Jacobs,” I say once I’m behind the wheel.

“Grant,” she says, looking straight ahead.

This woman, I swear.

I pull away from the hotel, following the circuitous route required to reach Sporting Monte-Carlo when Avenue Princess Grâce is closed for the grand prix. “I must admit, I’m surprised you decided to come.”

“No, you’re not. You knew I wouldn’t be able to pass this up.”

I didn’t, actually—but I like that she thinks I can predict her decisions. “It’s not every day us Americans get the opportunity to be in the presence of royalty.”