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After being dumped, Isla Morris makes a pact with her ex's biggest competition, F1 driver Matthew Carr, to get inside Lucas's head.
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Isla Morris is dating the world's best F1 racer - at least, she w...
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Matthew was beginning to believe that Rosabella wasn't a clothing company; it was a coven of sadists that made nightwear designed to torture men.
Him.
Specifically, to torture him.
Matthew couldn't stop thinking about that damned nightgown. During qualifying the next day, he imagined bunching the sheer black fabric in his hands. When he took Isla to see Parc Güell
afterwards, he thought of untying the flimsy ribbons. As they wandered the Gothic Quarter, Matthew wondered if the nightgown would rip easily.
The churros had been the worst.
There was something strangely erotic about watching Isla lick chocolate off her fingers. It had done things to him. Things Matthew wasn't strictly comfortable with.
It had almost been a relief when they were chased out of the café by a pack of fans. At least then, Matthew had an excuse not to look at her face.
Fortunately, Matthew was an expert in converting frustration to first-place finishes; he stormed through qualifying with a second-place finish and then went hell for leather on Sunday. Lucas had been favoured to win, but he'd had engine troubles and was forced to retire the car halfway through the race. Matthew had sailed right past him and won.
He smirked. Served Saint Lucas right.
Matthew wasn't the only one to do well; Cedro had finished with an impressive fourth place. Noah — who had spent most of Saturday morning vomiting up spicy chicken wings and had botched qualifying — placed sixteenth.
Alek was pleased.
"Strong driving," he'd said, clapping Matthew on the shoulder. "Clean and smart. No dangerous manoeuvres. Keep it up."
It wasn't victory. Not really. Matthew had yet to beat Lucas fair and square, but he'd get another chance in Monaco next weekend. It was the biggest race of the year; what better time to beat Walsh to the finish line?
And Matthew would win.
He had to.
Now, Matthew unclasped his watch, casting it onto the dresser. Exhaustion swept through him. It felt like a month since he'd stood on the podium that morning, spraying champagne into the crowd; a year since the Ferrari celebratory dinner at a beach-side restaurant, since strolling with Isla along the white sand.
Matthew yanked off his shirt. Isla had done well tonight; he'd been worried that seeing Lucas at the dinner would upset her, but she hadn't seemed to mind. She'd chatted with reporters. She'd asked a blushing engineer about his work. Hell, she'd even made Alek smile, which was more than Matthew could say.
She'd been a star.
No, a triumph.
Matthew might have won the race today, but it was Isla that glowed the brightest; every man within a square mile had been staring at her.
