Faster Hotter (8 page)

“OK,” she says, “Start thinking up good conversation segues for the ‘Surprise, I’m having your baby’ talk!”

“You’re no help at all,” I mutter. We trade our goodbyes as the car rolls to a stop before a towering corporate monolith.

I peer up through the car window, craning my neck to try and catch a glimpse of the building’s highest story. I know that I have no reason to be nervous, but I can’t help it. I’ve never interacted with Ferrelli’s owners on my own. I’ve always been at my dad or Enzo’s shoulder the whole time. But now, with my father’s decision to leave me his share of the team, it’s all me.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk in my fiercest pencil skirt and blazer, I catch a glimpse of myself in the building’s reflective surface. I’ve swooped my curls up into a flawless bun and stepped into a pair of sleek black pumps. I look every inch the ballsy business woman. And as I make my way into the building, I begin to feel like it, too. This spot on Ferrelli is more than my birthright, I’ve earned it. I’ve been working my ass off as PR director for years, now, and doing a damn fine job—not to mention the fact that growing up I spent countless hours trackside. I’ve just got to remember those facts when I’m staring across some enormous desk at the owners, is all.

The elevator whisks me up what feels like a hundred floors before depositing me in the heart of Ferrelli’s main offices. Everything about the decor is sleek and minimalist—all chrome and dark, polished wood. A prim young woman at the reception desk looks up at me and smiles.

“You must be Ms. Lazio,” she says, “You can go right in, they’re ready for you.”

I smile gamely and square my shoulders at the door of the corner office. Here we go. Walking with purpose and urging myself not to fall on my face, I push open the door and step inside. The room opens up before me—two full walls are made entirely of windows, and a stately wooden desk looms up across the space. I’m caught off-guard by the two handsome gentlemen who look up as I enter. The only Ferrelli owner I’ve ever met in person was Salvatore Ferrelli, an older gentleman and quite the hardass. These two men appear to be in their late thirties at the most.

“Ms. Lazio,” says the first man, a tall, trim fellow with neat brown curls, “Thank you so much for coming in today. We know the timing is less than ideal.”

For a moment, I think he’s referring to the fact of my newfound pregnancy. I swallow that second of panic as I realize that he’s talking about my father’s passing.

“There’s never a good time to lose someone you love,” I reply, shaking the man’s hand, “Dad would have wanted us to jump back into work for the team he loved.”

“He’ll be sorely missed,” says the other man, slightly shorter than the first, but broad and strong with slick, jet-black hair.

“I hate to be rude,” I say, “But I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“Not at all,” says the first man, leading me toward a seat before the desk, “You’ve probably only met with my uncle, Salvatore. I’m Carlo Ferrelli.”

“A pleasure,” I tell him, taking a seat.

“And I’m Bruno Ferrelli,” says the dark-haired man, sitting behind the desk. “Salvatore is my father. He is still the official owner of Ferrelli, of course, but these days it's more of an honorary title. He’s been overseeing this team, and the entire Ferrelli operation, for decades. Lately, he is far more interested in his golf game than in the daily grind of this business. I can’t blame him, either. We can’t talk him into retiring just yet, but for all intents and purposes, my cousin and I are in charge these days.”

“I guess there are quite a few members of our generation stepping up now,” I say, happy to find some common ground.

“Indeed,” Bruno says, “We’re really very thrilled to have you take on more responsibility here on Team Ferrelli. You’ve been doing excellent work on the public relations side of things, but we’re eager to have you take on a more central role.”

“Now, the level and intensity of your involvement is totally up to you,” Carlo cuts in, “A shareholder can be as committed as she likes, or not at all. But your voice will be heard by this team, Siena. Make no mistake.”

“It’s our hope that you choose to be quite active in the running of this team,” Bruno says, “We don’t want you to feel like you’re just a token female shareholder that we cart out for photo ops. You were raised by one of the best strategists this sport has ever known, and you’ve already proved yourself to be an asset to this team.”

“What you and your associates managed to do during this last season, bringing the foul play of Rafael Marques to light...it was incredible,” Carlos tells me, leaning against the front of the desk, “We need more minds like yours in this sport, Siena. That’s the truth.”

“I...don’t know what to say,” I smile, looking back and forth between the two of them, “I came here all prepared to demand a seat at the table, but instead I found one with my name on it.”

“You have to understand,” Bruno says, leaning toward me, “We’re not like the grey-haired, stodgy owners F1 has known in the past. We won’t shy away from having a woman calling some shots around here. We’re going to push you, but only because we have a feeling that you could be a great asset to this team in the future. We all know that this sport needs to grow and change if it’s going to stay relevant today. And I think that you can be a part of that change, Siena. Really, I do.”

“That’s what I want, Mr. Ferrelli,” I say confidently.

“Please, call me Bruno,” the de-facto owner grins.

“You’re more than welcome to do as your father did and concentrate mainly on Enzo,” Carlo puts in, “When it comes to races and such, we have no issue with you staying by his side, if that’s what you like.”

“It is,” I say, “There’s nothing more important to me than family.”

“We’re glad to hear it,” Bruno says, “That rather neatly brings us to our one point of concern, going forward...”

My heart clenches uncomfortably in my chest. “Oh?” I say, “What is it you’re concerned about, Bruno?”

“This is a bit awkward to bring up,” he goes on, “But your relationship with Harrison Davies during this last tournament proved to be a bit...problematic, didn’t it?”

The blood quickens in my veins at the mention of Harrison’s name. “The media attention was a bit unfortunate,” I allow.

“We agree,” Carlo chimes in, “The scandalous nature of what happened between you—”

“It was only scandalous because the tabloids made it so,” I point out.

“That’s fair,” Carlo says, “And please don’t think we mean to dictate your relationships, Siena. We’re just hoping that, going forward, your being with Harrison Davies can be a bit less...compelling.”

“I don’t think I understand what you mean,” I say crisply.

“Do you think it’s possible that you and Mr. Davies are headed toward a more...conventional sort of relationship?” Bruno asks, struggling to find a tactful way to phrase and untactful thought. “Something a bit more permanent, perhaps?”

“Are you asking me to propose to him or something?” I laugh.

The two men exchange a quick glance, and I feel my jaw drop open in surprise.

“Wait, seriously?” I sputter, professional tone entirely forgotten.

“We’d never require something like that from you, of course,” Carlo says quickly, “But Siena, you have to understand that you’re more a part of Ferrelli’s public image than ever. What you do affects the way our team is seen around the world.”

“So it will be much easier for us to give you the responsibilities you—and we—want you to have if your personal life is a bit less...Something other than...” Bruno struggles to find the right word.

“Gossip bait,” I finish flatly.

“Precisely,” he smiles.

I look back and forth between the Ferrelli men, trying to keep my face composed. I understand their concerns on a rational level, but this is my life they’re talking about. It’s not as though I go out of my way to create scandal and intrigue. It just seems to find me, is all. Carlo and Bruno have no idea what they’re asking of me. Could there we anything more scandalous than a love child? What the hell am I supposed to do about that little detail?

“I hope we haven’t offended you, Siena,” Bruno says, smiling sheepishly, “You really are an asset to this team, and we want you to be successful here. We have no intention of keeping you at arm’s length. We just hope that you’ll be able to balance your new professional responsibilities with the, uh, momentum, of your personal life.”

“And of course, it should be said that you’re under no obligation to take this job if you don’t think this is a good time—” Carlo begins.

“No,” I cut him off, “My father trusted his share in this team to me, and I am not about to do him the dishonor of walking away. I don’t think it’s anyone’s business how I conduct my personal life, but I hear what you’re saying. Harrison and I are meeting up just after I leave here to discuss our plans going forward.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Carlo says, clearly relieved, “I’m sure that his employers at McClain will be similarly minded.”

“No doubt,” I say, cocking an eyebrow, “Is there anything else we need to go over, gentlemen? I hope you don’t mind my rushing away, but I do still have a grieving family to tend to.”

“Of course,” Bruno says, standing, “It’s important to tie up loose ends, isn’t it?”

I have to fight to keep a scowl from overtaking my features. Since when are life-changing milestones nothing more than “loose ends”? Is this what being on the corporate side of F1 is all about? And if so, do I really want to be wrapped up in all of this?

I part from the owners and let the gilded elevator carry me back down to solid ground. So many things have been thrown at me in the last two weeks. And while I’m usually pretty good under pressure, this is beyond the pale. I step out onto the sidewalk, blinking in the bright sun, and hurry back to my idling ride.

“Where to?” my driver asks.

“The airport please,” I tell him.

We take off through the city streets, zipping toward the airport. My hands and clasped tightly in my lap and I count the seconds until I’m back in London with Harrison once again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

As soon as the heavy wooden door swings open, I let my bags fall and throw my arms around Harrison’s broad shoulders.

“It’s good to see you too,” he laughs, planting kiss after kiss on every part of me he can reach, “Get your gorgeous self in here, would you?”

I step into the modern London townhouse in a travel-weary daze. The last time I was here, Harrison and I were embroiled in the first wave of our media fiasco. Photographers were camping on the front steps as we tried to sort through the gossip and rumors that were swirling around us both. But even with those unsavory memories, I realize that I still feel more at home here than anywhere in the world.

Harrison steps up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I grin, turning my face toward his. Maybe it’s not the place that makes me feel at home—maybe it’s just these arms I’ve come to know so well.

“How are you doing, baby?” Harrison asks, “Do you want to rest? Are you hungry?”

“I’m starving,” I tell him.

“Let’s order in,” he suggests, “What are you in the mood for?”

Everything, I want to reply. Ever since I took those first pregnancy tests, I’ve been catching myself craving the most insane things. I try and think of the most innocuous choice. WE can’t get sushi—raw fish and wasabi won’t do for the bun in the oven. The only pizza I’m craving is covered with anchovies and pineapple. Good lord, if it’s this hard to keep my secret from Harrison while choosing takeout, what’s going to happen when the pressure is really on? Maybe I should just tell him outright. Bite the bullet.

“Let’s just go with Chinese,” I finally say.

“You got it,” Harrison smiles, whipping out his cell.

Our feast arrives in no time at all. I look at the spread I requested, a bit alarmed by the ferocity of my appetite. I’m a lady who enjoys a good meal, and normally I’m not preoccupied with how much I eat, but right now my stomach feels bottomless.

“Dig in,” Harrison says, sitting down beside me at the kitchen island. We’ve pulled our stools right up to the cartons upon cartons of takeout. I try to act natural as I load my plate up with MSG-laden goodness.

“Tell me how training’s been going,” I say, “What’s it like, being the lead driver now?”

“It’s, uh, a little bit intense,” Harrison admits.

“Are they working you harder now?” I ask.

“It’s not really the work,” he goes on, “It’s everything that happens off the track.”

“Like what?” I ask, lifting a mouthful of General Tso’s to my lips.

“Well...let’s just say I got a little talking-to by the owners about our extracurricular activities during this season,” Harrison begins.

“That makes two of us,” I tell him.

“Are you serious?” he asks, “That’s what the Ferrelli owners wanted to talk to you about?”

“Among other things,” I sigh, “They led in with buckets of praise about my PR work, but the conversation took a pretty sharp turn when it came to us.”

“They’re not pressuring you to stop seeing me?” he asks, alarmed.