Page 107 of Full Throttle

“That’s the photographer’s wife,” Colette had explained, pointing to the nude woman bathing. “People called her a neurotic recluse. They blamed her for Pierre’s absences from Paris. His muse and his jailor, that’s what they’d say. But you know what, ma poule?” Colette had crouched down, glancing around before lowering her voice. “Male historians wrote her story, and you must never believe the things that men write about women. Only half of it is true, and none of it is kind.”

There was a splash. Dominic looked up. Vance climbed from the pool, dripping water all over the deck.

“Which friend?”

Dominic paused. His father’s voice was suspiciously casual. “What?”

“Which friend?” Vance toweled off. “You said you were going to the gallery with a friend.”

His chest tightened. “You don’t know them.”

“I see.” Another pause. “How was your time teaching at the academy?”

Dominic gripped the armrests. A sudden change in subject, he’d learned, was never a good sign. “I enjoyed it.”

“More than you expected?”

“I liked the students.”

“Yes,” Vance said. “So I’ve heard. Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Dominic?”

His father’s gaze was steely. Cold dread pooled in his stomach. But Vance couldn’t know, could he? They’d been so careful.

“If this is about the race next week—”

“Not just next week,” Vance cut in. “The last month. I looked at your training data, and your practice lap times are off by half a second. Why do you think that is?”

Shit. He definitely knew. “I’ll work harder.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Vance said.

Dominic’s fingers dug into the armrests. The smell of chlorine was overwhelming, burning his nostrils. He had the terrible feeling that his father was gearing up for something, like a conductor raising his arms before the final flourish. And here it was.

“Does the name Juliette Marchmont mean anything to you?”

Dominic’s stomach dropped. “Of course it does. Cap’s my teammate. He talks about his sister all the time.”

“She’s at the academy, isn’t she?”

Best not to lie until he had to. “Yes.”

“You taught her?”

Dominic’s heart sped up. “She was one of my most promising students.” Again, not a lie. “She has a natural aptitude for race strategy. Why?”

Vance crossed to the bar. “It seems that race strategy isn’t the only thing you taught her.”

His father tossed a brown packet. A folder, Dominic realized, his stomach tightening; why the hell was his father giving him a folder? Was it an NDA? An envelope of cash to get him to end things with Juliette? He opened it, his eyes flicking over what appeared to be photographs. Photographs of—

Dominic stared.

Of him and Juliette.

His heart raced as he scanned the photos. Snaps of them strolling down the Champs-Élysées, snacking on a variety of biscuits, kissing in his flat…His eyes lingered over a shot of Juliette laughing as Dominic wiped ice cream from her nose, his mouth curved with tender amusement, and his blood went cold. It wasn’t the most sexual photograph, but it did feel the most…

Intimate.

Dominic slammed the folder shut. “Where did you get these?”