Page 19 of Full Throttle

“Where are we going?”

Dominic pushed open the doors. “Congratulations, Marchmont. You’re first on track.” His voice was a challenge. “Let’s see what you can do.”

She hesitated. “You’re not doing this just to…” Dominic raised an eyebrow, and heat crept into her cheeks. God. She already regretted speaking. “Is this a punishment? For what I said earlier?”

Nepo baby. The words hung between them. To her surprise, Dominic extended a hand.

“Let’s agree to something now, Marchmont. I won’t fuck you over if you agree to do the same for me. How does that sound?”

Months later, Juliette could recall staring warily at that hand. Mutual respect. That’s what Dominic had been offering. She’d shaken on it, and they’d gone down to the track, where she’d out-lapped every boy in her year. At the time, she’d actually believed that she and Dominic might be friendly. Or, if not friendly, then cordial, like colleagues who met at the coffee machine to exchange workplace gossip.

How wrong she’d been.

Chapter 6

The Goal

Now

“Go on,” Liêm said. “Spit it out.”

Dominic glanced sideways. His fellow driver wore a suit, his face half-shaded in the dying light that filtered into the limousine. Outside, Manama passed by in a blur of scent: spiced lamb and rosewater, roasted kebabs and sweet dates…An ethereal, sloping melody drifted over the glass city. The evening call to prayers.

He glanced at his watch.

Fifteen minutes.

He could play dumb for fifteen minutes.

“What?” Dominic asked.

Liêm looked up from his phone. “Are you really going to make me spell it out?”

The limousine took a sharp left. Liêm—who was playing a game of virtual foosball—let out a string of Vietnamese curse words, jabbing at the phone. Dominic leaned over and calmly spun a wooden dowel; the ball soared into the net, and he smirked. That was the primary difference between them, Dominic thought; he played foosball with slow precision, while Liêm played like the table was on fire.

Liêm raised an eyebrow. “All right, I know you’re good. No need to rub it in.” He turned back to the phone. “If you won’t say it, I will.”

“Say what?”

Liêm struck a ball. “Juliette Marchmont.”

Dominic exhaled. There was no point, he knew, in trying to change the subject; Liêm was like a telephone salesman who had managed to get someone on the line—there was no shaking him. “What about her?”

“Is she coming to the party?”

“How should I know?”

“Because she’s your teammate.”

“I don’t know. Probably.” She was. He’d emailed Ranya last week and buried the question between an inquiry about sponsorships and his sign-off. No need to look eager.

“For the record,” Liêm said, “I think you’re going to kill each other.”

Dom’s smile was easy. “The great thing about you, Liêm, is that you never try to proceed with sensitivity. Always straight for the throat.”

“She hates you,” Liêm said plainly.

“Plenty of people hate me.”