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DANTE

"I will not allow a girl to change my tires. Absolutely not."

My engineer chuckled in response and my nostrils involuntarily flared. Scowling, my voice turned icy, my Italian accent thick with derision. "Dio Santissimo. I'm not going to dignify your laughter with a response. This is serious."

My engineer, a lanky Australian named Jack, sobered and plucked a small model of our team's red-and-white Formula World car sitting on the table and turned it around in his hands. "Look here, mate. I know you don't want a woman on the pit crew. But it's boss' orders. Might as well get used to it. She's part of the team now."

I snorted and raked a hand through my hair, the back of which almost curled over the crisp collar of my blue oxford shirt. I needed a trim prior to the next race. Like I had time for anything besides staying in top physical condition and the occasional, post-race dalliance with a model or three.

Boss' orders. A woman in the pit crew was a distraction I didn't need.

I swept my hand dismissively through the air. "There's never been a female tire changer in the history of Formula World. She'll ruin the team."

The engineer set the model on the table and ran it back and forth on its small wheels, avoiding my stare. I was pissed.

"Just because your sister—"

Now I was even more pissed and I interrupted with a growl. "This has nothing to do with Gabriella."

Jack sighed and pushed the little car across the table toward me. "It has everything to do with her. I've known you since before she...before the accident. And you didn't used to be so against women on the teams."

I slapped my hand onto the rolling car, halting its journey across the table as my eyes spit fire. Jack was my closest friend, my savior on the track, my wingman. But he could be so obtuse. Gabriella had been gone ten years and yet the pain of losing her in a paddock fire haunted me daily.

I'd sworn on Gabriella's grave to never put another woman's life at risk for my motorsports career.

"My sister shouldn't have thought she was a mechanic. She should have gone to school to be an engineer and gotten involved in the behind-the-scenes of racing. Or taken a job in the corporate offices of our family's business..." My voice trailed off.

Jack drummed his fingers on the table. "We've had this conversation a thousand times. But hey, we can have it again, I don't mind. I was on the track the day it happened. She didn't die because she was a woman. She died because of a faulty design in the fuel rig. She happened to be the unlucky one to be draining the rig after your race."

A familiar feeling of sadness churned in my gut at the memory of my older sister, and how I'd staggered out of my car, screaming her name. I reached into my pocket and touched the silver good luck medallion she'd given me the year I started racing, back when I was twelve and in go-karts. "And you never listen. Or agree with me. She didn't have the upper-body strength to wrangle the hoses on the fuel rig. Which is my point. Women don't have the capability or stamina to be part of this. Give them their own circuit with specially designed cars and equipment. But keep them off my team."

Dio. How difficult was it for people to understand? I was all for women's equality, but in Formula World, the physical demands were too great, both for racers and pit crew members.

I quickly steered the conversation away from Gabriella. "Also, a woman will distract us. Can you imagine how the guys will react to her? It won't matter what she looks like, someone will want to...you know." He waved his hand dismissively.

"Screw her?" Jack offered.

I rolled my eyes. Che disastro. I thought I'd spend this final season with a problem-free team. It was difficult enough to stomach that the owner, a brash Silicon Valley billionaire, barely knew an open-wheel car from a junker in a demolition derby at a county fair. But he'd offered such an astronomical amount of money, it was impossible to say no.

Eagle was new and risk-taking, my agent had said. Sign the contract, my agent had said. I'd already won four world championships and had been looking for a bigger challenge. To win a fifth championship in my final season with a rookie team would be the biggest conquest of all.

"Really? Will she distract us? How will we even know she's a woman? She'll be done up in a suit and helmet. Surely you can control yourself." Jack reached across the table to grab the little car.

Hell. The man was like a child sometimes. My hands balled into fists. "This isn't about controlling my libido. Like I would be interested in a tire changer when I've got models and actresses and that singer..."

I scratched my jaw. What was the name of the pop singer I hooked up with in Malaysia? I couldn't recall. Women were among the many perks of being a driver, and I hadn't ever felt the need to settle down with only one.

"A lone girl around a group of men will always be a distraction to someone. And it's my safety on the line." I paused to take a breath, then my rapid-fire Italian accent took over. "And what does she know about tires and cars? She won't have the hand-eye coordination needed to change a wheel in seconds." My rant ended in a long and colorful string of Italian expletives.

Jack shrugged. "We have no say. She'll be starting next week at Monte Carlo. Testing with us tomorrow."

"We'll see about that," I snarled. "I'll meet with Bronson and try to knock some sense into that stupid American. He thinks he knows everything because he made more money than God in America, but he knows nothing about cars, tires or racing."

I continued sputtering and didn't notice the panic blooming in Jack's eyes until it was too late. A good-natured voice boomed and echoed through the small space as the door banged shut.

"Who's a stupid American?"

I groaned silently. It was Brock Bronson, in all of his friendly, wide-smiling glory. I regarded him with a surly smile and decided to ignore what he'd likely overheard. Other drivers would have quaked in fear had they insulted their team owner. But I knew Bronson needed me, the circuit's most popular driver, so I grinned. Fuck him.

"Buongiorno, Signor Bronson. We were just discussing the team's new hire."

Bronson laughed and took a seat across from me at the makeshift conference table where the team often met to discuss strategy in the trailer alongside the test track in Maranello, Italy. His thick American accent grated in my ears.

"I knew it would get some of you boys in a snit. Rubens doesn't seem to have a problem with her."

"He's probably already tried to sleep with her," I muttered darkly, thinking of Rubens Allegre, my Brazilian teammate who was as legendary on the party circuit as he was on the track. Me and Rubens made quite the tabloid fodder, what with Rubens' never-ending relationships with celebutantes and my colorful, post-race comments to the press. Unlike Rubens, I didn't have relationships. I didn't have girlfriends and didn't want complications. Sure, I loved beautiful women. Especially ones who weren't into drama.

Above all, I hated drama.

The press never ceased in its attempt to stir the pot, whether it was with the drivers' on-track problems or off-track escapades. "Terrible Twos," the press had dubbed me and Rubens. We were the biggest celebrities in motorsport and could pretty much do anything we damned well pleased.

"With respect, I need to tell you there's a million reasons why it would be bad to have a girl on the pit crew. What if she becomes involved with someone?" I leaned forward and rested my crossed forearms on the table.

"Don't worry about it. She comes highly recommended from some of the top NASCAR executives. She interned there. Pretend she's a guy. Ignore her. Your only job is to keep winning. You're doing so well, man. You're first in points."

Bronson reached across the table and clasped his chubby, smooth hands around my forearms. "Keep this up and you've got a fifth championship. Then you can retire in glory, dude."

It irritated me when Bronson called me dude. A man with his wealth should be more formal, less crass. But, the American was right: if I won a fifth championship, I'd be remembered as one of the greats of motorsports, alongside Senna and Schumacher and Stewart.

"Have you broken the news to Rubens and the rest of the guys?"

"I've made it clear to Rubens that he's not to harass Savvy. And I'm telling you the same thing. Of course, this is something of a PR move on my part. I think it looks good to have a woman on the team. I'm assigning Savvy to your pit crew, by the way."

I rolled my eyes. "Savvy? What kind of a girl name is that? It sounds like the moniker of an exotic dancer. Or worse."

"She's not a girl, she's twenty-one. She's a woman, and you should respect her as such. And Savvy is short for Savannah. As in Georgia, U.S.A. Which is where her father, Dale Jenkins, the owner of Jenkins Auto, has his estate and his corporate headquarters. I'm surprised you don't know her, since your fathers are both in the same industry."

I straightened my spine, no longer annoyed. Hearing the name of Jenkins Auto sent a frisson of awareness through my body. His new pit crew member was now someone I was very interested in. While I didn't know Savannah Jenkins personally, I'd heard of her father and his company.

"Why does she want to be on the team?"

Bronson guffawed. "Well, it might have something to do with the fact that her father is now one of our sponsors. She asked her daddy if she could work with us, and I couldn't say no. It was too good of a PR opportunity to pass up. But you can always ask her yourself. Maybe she's got her own reasons."

I leaned forward, gesturing with my thumb and forefinger for emphasis. "Let me get this correct. Our new tire changer is the daughter of the man who owns one of America's largest tire manufacturers? The company that sponsors NASCAR teams?"

Bronson shrugged. "Sounds like you two will have a lot in common."

I glared at Jack, then at Bronson.

So much for a drama-free season.

* * *

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