SAVANNAH

The post-race victory party that evening was to be held at the iconic Hotel Metropole, a sprawling belle époque–era building in the heart of the world's richest city.

It wasn't that I was unfamiliar with luxury or afraid of it. Quite the contrary. Although my family wasn't Monaco-level rich, they were well off, and I was raised with the best Southern manners, finery and tradition in the States. I'd won several beauty pageants, and before my breakdown, had been poised to represent my state in the Miss America contest.

But this was Monaco and I was a tire changer. I hadn't thought to bring an evening gown. No, I hadn't expected to attend any swanky parties as part of the pit crew, but as Dante's girlfriend, I now had obligations.

After that post-race kiss, I wondered whether Dante would want different kinds of obligations. Unable to quell those anxious feelings about him while in my hotel room, I'd decided to focus on shopping to take my mind off our complicated situation.

So there I was, at a small, impossibly upscale boutique in the bottom floor of the hotel, looking for a dress instead of drinking celebratory champagne with the rest of the team in a reserved spot in the garden. I also was hiding from Dante after that kiss. I was still unsteady, as if the world had shifted off its axis.

What the hell was wrong with me? It was only a smooch, and one for the cameras at that. Dante meant nothing by it. In fact, he was probably mocking me to the team, for all I knew. I didn't trust anyone at this point.

Damn him. And damn Bronson for putting me in this impossible situation.

Sighing in the small dressing room, I tugged on a long, sleek black dress with a deep slit up the side and padded out in my bare feet to the mirrors in the store. Why dressing rooms didn't contain mirrors was beyond my comprehension.

The saleslady stood nearby, adjusting the spaghetti straps near my shoulders.

"Not bad," I said. It had taken me years to get to this point, to be able to look in the mirror and not hate my image. Years of pageants and of bingeing and purging as a teen had eroded my confidence. While I was secure on the track when hidden in coveralls, I was less sure when I was around the feminine accoutrements of my old life.

Not bad was the best I could do on most days.

"Simply beautiful, Miss Jenkins." I'd noticed that everyone in the hotel seemed to know my name. I wondered if that was because I was with the winning team or because the tabloids all had photos of me and Dante on the cover.

Just then, I glimpsed two guys walking through the hotel lobby, past the boutique window. It was Dante and Jack. What were they doing? They must be coming or going to the pre-victory party in the garden. I squared my shoulders and looked into the mirror, pretending I hadn't seen them.

I heard a knock on the window and looked in that direction.

Jack grinned and waved, and Dante did a double take.

I raised my hand in greeting and fled back into the dressing room, where I stripped off the black dress. I looked at the price tag. It was probably a safe option, since it was classily conservative and less expensive than every other dress in the store. Although I could have easily used my father's credit cards to buy anything, I was paying my own way while on tour. I wanted my parents to know I was capable of taking care of myself.

I slipped a more expensive red dress off a hanger. It had been one that the saleslady insisted I try, and it appeared far racier than the black one.

The boutique's door opened and I heard the saleslady spoke in a cooing, flattering Italian. Even the clerks in Monaco spoke five or six languages. While I didn't understand much Italian yet, I noticed her tone was deferential and awestruck.

Please don't let it be Dante. Please.

Naturally, his silky, deep voice wafted through the air and a squirmy feeling overtook my stomach. We hadn't talked much since our spat on the plane, although I'd caught him staring at me several times during practice and qualifying. Then, the kiss.

Crap.

I pulled the dress over my head and wriggled it over my hips and down my thighs, pulling and plucking at the silky fabric. It was long and almost arrestingly form fitting. It also made my breasts practically spill over and along with my red hair, I wondered if the overall look was too glam for a pit crew member. I wanted to blend in, not look like the beauty queen I once was.

"Savannah...let's see if your selection is appropriate for a Formula World party in Monaco," came Dante's musical Italian voice. "I want to see what my girlfriend is wearing this evening."

Sighing, I stepped into a pair of tall, strappy black heels, then swept the curtain aside and walked out to the mirrors with as much confidence as I could muster. I refused to let him see how nervous I actually was, so I pretended I was back in pageants, during the evening gown competition. I smiled wide and blinked slowly.

Dante sat lazily, half-sprawled on a low-slung, modern white leather sofa angled toward the mirrors. He had changed and showered since the race, and was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that stretched tantalizingly across his broad chest.

There was something so primitive about his smile and the way he looked at me. Like he'd already won me in a contest.

I glanced at him, trying to ignore my thumping heart and the tension between us that had suddenly invaded the small boutique. I stepped to the small fitting platform in front of the triple mirrors. Smoothing the tight dress over my hips while turning to one side, then the other, I saw the reflection of the saleslady, who handed Dante a glass of champagne.

"Congratulations on your win, Signor Annunziata," the clerk said. Dante expressed thanks and raised his glass.

"Would you also like champagne?" the clerk asked me.

Trying to focus on the dress and not Dante's intense stare, I shook my head and the clerk discreetly walked away. For several long seconds, Dante appraised me, tilting his head this way and that while smiling. He openly stared at my ass. The dress highlighted my curves a bit too much.

"That looks beautiful on you." He made a circular motion with his index finger. "Turn around. Slowly."

Oh. He wanted me to put on a show. Well, I'd been on display for thousands as a pageant contestant. What was a little performance for one man? Still, the palms of my hands pricked with sweat.

"Fine." I turned, then stood before him and he stared at me, his eyes raking down my body. He ran his thumb across his bottom lip. I wondered what it would be like to lay underneath him while he kissed me violently. My pulse raced at the thought. Why was I thinking such things? It wasn't like me.

"Savannah mia," he said, emphasizing the Italian word, "your hair. Sweep it up, off your shoulders, and turn around for me again." Why was his Italian accent extra alluring in the confines of this small, intimate shop?

"What does Savannah mia mean?" Maybe I could cut through this tension by having an Italian lesson.

Dante smiled smugly as he swallowed his champagne. "It translates to 'my Savannah.' Savannah mia. La mia fidanzata Americana. Now turn around and let me look at you some more. I'm enjoying this."

I stood still.

"Come, now," he chided. "Turn around for your boyfriend. He likes to look at you."

"Are you always this bossy?"

"Yes." He took another sip. "And, doesn't it take a bossy person to know one?"

Arching an eyebrow, I stifled a grin as I did as I was told once again. I gathered my hair and swept it up. Rotating slowly, painfully aware of his focused attention, my breathing turned shallow, first from the thrill of flirtation and then from the realization that he was devouring me with his eyes. It was as if my body was acting with a mind of its own, because I arched my back slightly, which made my chest and butt stick out.

I noticed my nipples poking through the thin fabric of the dress. So did Dante. I bit my lip as I held the pose for him. I swear I was liquidy with need as he stared. Never had any man made me feel so wanted, or so pursued. In the rational recesses of my mind, I was aware he must treat lots of women this way.

I beamed in his direction. Couldn't help myself. He grinned in response.

Dante raised his glass to his lips and drained his champagne as he continued to scrutinize me. "The black one looked beautiful, but wear this tonight. Red's my lucky color."

I lowered my arms, hair spilling around my shoulders, and laughed. Despite his sexiness and our flirtation, I bristled. I wasn't used to guys telling me what to do.

"Thank you. I'll take your opinion under advisement." I stepped down and swept past him to the dressing room.

Inside the privacy of the small space, I exhaled and sank onto a plush, white bench and shut my eyes, trying to gather my thoughts and block out Dante's voice as he spoke to the shop clerk. A line of sweat had formed on my brow from the sheer exertion of bantering with him. During my years of battling bulimia, I'd thought myself so disgusting that I knew no man would be attracted to me. Much less love me. It had been an awful paradox, winning beauty pageants yet being convinced I was outwardly hideous.

After several moments of deep breathing, I threw on my jeans, a plain white blouse and sneakers, and took both dresses to the counter. Dante was nowhere to be seen and I looked around the small store. Where was he?

"Your famous boyfriend left," the clerk said in her French accent. "He said he needed to get ready for the celebration tonight."

I nodded with relief and pulled out my wallet and charge card. "I'll take the shoes and black dress." They were the better, more practical choice. I'd even be able to wear the ensemble back in the States, maybe at a party back in Atlanta.

The clerk looked at me with amusement and more than a hint of admiration. She slid a small, black velvet box toward me, and I shook my head in protest.

"Please put your credit card away, Miss Jenkins. Signor Annunziata has taken care of everything. He wants you to have both dresses, the shoes and the gift in the box."

I snatched the box off the counter and pried it open. A pair of dangling, brilliant earrings sparkled back at me.

"They're real," cooed the clerk.

"What? Real...crystal?" I could barely get the words out.

The clerk laughed and laughed. "We don't sell crystal here, cheri. And I think Dante Annunziata knows that diamonds are a girl's best friend."

* * *

Do you think Dante will succeed in seducing Savannah at the party? Or will she stay strong and resist him?

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