SAVANNAH

This was for the best, sleeping in my own hotel room.

Sure, it wasn't the luxurious suites of the past several races, but the room in Mexico City was comfortably upscale, with a giant whirlpool tub. And I didn't feel like going to a club anyway. Not tonight. I was exhausted from the entire week, which had started on a Monday in Rio with Kayla and Travis. The three of us had toured the city at breakneck speed, trying to pack every possible tourist trap into a sixteen-hour period.

After that, I'd flown to Mexico City, immersed myself in qualifying and practice, and now here I was, at the end of a long, sweltering race day. I'd also stuffed myself with a delicious buffet meal, along with the rest of the pit crew, in one of the hotel's banquet rooms.

Now that Dante and I had "broken up," I was back to being a regular team member again. No more perks. Which was fine—preferable, even. The guys had accepted me back into the fold with only a few snide comments and snarky looks. Those, I could handle and ignore.

I stripped my jeans and T-shirt off and shrugged on one of the fuzzy robes I'd found hanging in the closet.

Maybe Dante would go to a club with Jack, like he had in Brazil. Maybe he'd visit me on the down-low, like he had most nights since our official public "breakup." He hadn't slept over the two previous nights, but I'd chalked that up to pre-race concentration and his silly sex superstition. But even after he'd won the race, he hadn't mentioned anything about getting together, and he hadn't texted, which made me anxious.

I suspected he had team obligations because I'd seen him huddling with Tanya and Bronson earlier in the day. And since he was poised to become World Champion if he took one point in the final race in Dubai—essentially, came in fifth or higher—surely they'd want to show him off in some high-profile way.

As the water for my bath flowed into the big tub, I swiped on my phone, idly checking Facebook. I scanned the updates of my friends back in the States—oh, look, Brittany from college was getting married to her high school sweetheart—and my eyes flitted to the right side of the page, where the news updates sat.

Formula World Star Spotted with Mexican Model

I tapped on the link so hard I thought I was going to shatter the phone's glass screen.

The news item was from a tabloid, and it had been posted just moments before. It was about Dante: he'd been spotted in a trendy part of Mexico City earlier in the evening, walking into a swanky bar with a model named Iolanda. His hand was on the small of the woman's back, and at seeing this, I cried out. That was where Dante had always touched me.

The article was scant on details, but with each word, my guts felt like a fist was wrenching them tighter and tighter. It said Dante had broken up with his American fiancée and was likely with the model as a rebound affair. Iolanda had no last name apparently, and she was famous in Mexico. Famous for her curves and pillowy lips. Famous for her extremely long legs and bronze skin.

Iolanda had had a crush on Dante since she was a girl, one of her friends told the tabloid. Iolanda was eighteen and had recently signed a modeling contract for an Italian lingerie company. Io-fucking-landa.

I looked down at my pale legs and burst into tears. Sobbed until my nose stuffed up and snot was running down my lip. I set down my phone and shuffled into the bathroom, still crying, to blow my nose. Blubbering, I checked the tub. The water was scalding, the tub full, and I shut the faucet off.

I blew my nose again, this time making a little honking sound, but the tears wouldn't stop. Of course Dante was with Iolanda. Why wouldn't he be?

Then I heard my cell phone ping.

I padded back out to the nightstand and picked it up.

Amore mio open your door please

Why? I texted back, frowning.

Because I'm standing here and don't want to make noise by knocking. I think there are photographers around. Open.

I blinked at the phone several times. Why would he come here if he'd been with the model earlier in the night? What kind of game was he playing?

With a heavy feeling in my chest, I flung open the door, and there he was, cradling a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne in one arm. He charged past me.

"What are you doing here?"

"I thought we'd celebrate with our favorite champagne. Veuve Clicquot Rosé? You loved that back in Belgium."

"No."

"Wait, did you like the Dom better? Let's call room service for that. And how about some chocolate-covered strawberries?"

I shook my head. "I'm not talking about the fucking champagne, Dante."

He sat the bucket down on a desk and looked at me with a playful, coy expression. "Amore. What's wrong? Why does my little gattina have claws and teeth tonight?" He stepped forward to take me in his arms, and I noticed he was wearing the same outfit as when he'd been with her earlier this evening.

He narrowed his gaze. "Why are your eyes puffy? Have you been crying? Did something happen? Wait, I know. Did you talk with your mother?"

I squirmed out of his embrace. "Do you seriously think I'm stupid? Why aren't you with Iolanda?"

Dante groaned. "Dio. Is that what this is about?"

I snorted.

"Amore, amore, amore. Bronson's scheme—that's it."

I pressed my fingers to my temples, feeling a headache coming on. What was real with these people? What was fake? Who knew? I was two steps behind.

Dante cupped my face in his hands. "Come on, Savannah. I left as soon as I could so I could be with you. Celebrate with you. I couldn't care less about Iolanda. I think she actually has a boyfriend. What were you doing when I knocked?"

"About to take a bath," I mumbled as he kissed my forehead.

"Mm. A bath. That's a great idea." He picked up the bucket and headed for the bathroom. I stayed behind, trying to regain my composure. Maybe I should kick him out now. At some point, I would need to re-establish my dignity. If he didn't break my heart with the likes of Iolanda, it would surely happen eventually with another woman.

Or, more likely, he'd try to let me down gently after the Dubai race in two weeks. He wasn't a total monster, and I was sure he'd be as suave as possible when it came to our breakup. Then he'd fade away back to Italy, and I'd schlep back to my boring life in America until the next race season. Maybe he'd send me a Christmas card each year, but otherwise I'd keep up with his exploits by stalking him online.

I sighed. A miserable life unfolded before my eyes.

The unmistakable pop of a champagne cork echoed through the hotel room and snapped me into the present.

"Dante, what—?"

When I stepped into the bathroom, he was already naked and in the tub, the open bottle in his hands.

"I didn't see any cups, so we'll have to drink from the bottle. But we need to be careful about glass in the tub."

"For a guy who risks his life every couple of weeks on a racetrack, you sure are safety conscious," I grumbled. He was so cavalier with my feelings, and my heart. Was he being cruel, or insensitive, or was he just obtuse? It was kind of mystifying that he hadn't caught on that I was head over heels for him.

"Savannah, come. Join me. The water's perfect . . ."

His hard athlete's body did look tempting in the water. Dammit. I couldn't say no to him. Not now and probably not ever.

Shrugging off my robe, I couldn't help but smile as he lustily stared at my body. I stepped into the water and knelt between his parted legs, facing him. He offered me the bottle.

"Cheers."

"What are we toasting to?" I took the bottle in both hands, careful not to let it slip.

"Us."

"Us?"

"Yeah, to us. Drink up."

I attempted to take a dainty sip, but when I tipped my head and the bottle back, rivulets of the cold liquid ran out the corner of my mouth and down my chin. The champagne dribbled past my collarbone to my nipple, which tightened under the chill.

He laughed and took the bottle in one hand while cupping my breast gently with another. "Saluti. Per la mia fidanzata," he said softly, hoisting the bottle in my direction, then taking a long drink. He set the champagne on the floor and leaned forward to kiss me, trailing the backs of his fingers over my face. I wrapped myself around him, feeling his familiar, muscular body against mine.

I wanted this to last forever, so badly that I could cry.

***

DANTE

Dio, I was exhausted. Between the sweltering temperatures of Mexico, the closest race of the season, my fake "date" with that ridiculous model whose name I couldn't recall, and the long and emotional sex session with Savannah . . . even I was shocked that I hadn't collapsed. For the first time, I felt every bit of my thirty-two years.

But it wasn't that I couldn't drift off. I didn't want to. Instead, I wanted to watch Savannah. She was curled up next to me in bed and breathing deeply, looking peaceful and gorgeous as she slept. A little smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. I still hadn't turned out the light in the bathroom, which cast a warm glow onto the bed.

There was no way I could give her up at the end of the season. What I'd said back in Amalfi—I might keep you for myself—I now meant with every fiber of my being. I'd been so tempted several times tonight to tell her my feelings. But I wanted that moment to be special, and first I needed to overcome my hesitation about uttering those three important words aloud.

It would help if I told her somewhere fitting and impossibly romantic, somewhere deserving of her. Maybe back in Amalfi? Would it be too cold in November to bring her to the grotto, where I'd first realized that she was more than a gorgeous face? Yes, the grotto was our sacred space. It was where I'd discovered she had goals and dreams of her own. Where I first recognized we could be a team, together. Where I felt like she was the first person to listen to me, really listen, and not give a damn that I was a rich athlete or a talented driver.

Where I'd truly fallen in love with her, now that I thought about it.

I kissed her forehead, letting my lips linger on her warm skin. Maybe we could go to Amalfi right after the final race. We'd bundle up in warm clothes, take the kayak into the cavern, and I'd ask her to marry me. Or I could wake her up and ask her right now. As if she knew what I was considering, she snuggled closer with a little coo.

"Can you shut out the light?" she murmured.

I hustled out of bed and to the bathroom, snapping off the light and then assuming my place beside her again.

No, I wanted everything to unfold neatly and precisely. Right now, there was only one thing I had to concentrate on, and that was winning the next and final race in Dubai.

Once I'd clenched a seventh championship for the history books, I'd pour my heart out to win my perfect woman.

Plus, I didn't want to screw up such an important moment, like I had when I took her virginity. Revealing that I was in love for the first time in my life would take extensive and detailed planning. I also didn't want to unsettle her right before the race. I knew that competition was important to her too, and this was her first championship team. She'd want to focus on her job and revel in the win. Our time would come later.

I carefully tucked her into my side, pulling the duvet over her exposed shoulder. Another little moan escaped from her throat, and she pressed her face into my chest.

"Dormi, tesoro."

Yes, I'd wait until after we won to ask her to marry me. Perhaps I'd propose for real, in front of the crowd in Dubai. That was another option. I sank into a deep sleep, my heart full with the fantasy.