Page 80 of Full Throttle

“Join us.” Vance swept a hand toward the empty chair. “Have some dinner before you go.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt—”

“Nonsense,” Vance said. “I’d love to get to know my son’s new teammate. And you can use my phone to ring your brother.”

Dominic’s knuckles were white on his wineglass. “I’m sure Marchmont has better things to do than join us for dinner. And look at her. She’s soaked through. She can’t just sit here like that.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“The restaurant won’t let her stay,” Dominic said tightly. “There’s a dress code.”

Juliette—who was suddenly very aware of the water pooling in her socks—willed the heat in her cheeks to vanish. She wouldn’t give Dominic Hastings the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. She’d rather die.

“Stay,” Anthony said. “You can share my meal.”

“Juliette?” Vance turned. “What do you think?”

Juliette looked at Dominic. His gaze was fixed on the remnants of his red wine, and something hardened around her heart. Screw it. Who was she to pass up the opportunity to speak with Vance Hastings, the Kingmaker of Racing? He could snap his fingers and paint the world gold if he chose to.

Anyway, she wasn’t about to offend him by refusing.

“Sure,” Juliette said. “I’d love to stay for a bit.”

She slid into her seat. Anthony piled garlic prawns onto her plate, and Juliette suppressed a grimace. She briefly considered explaining that eating those prawns would induce anaphylaxis, wondered if that was rude, and settled for grabbing a bread roll instead.

Anthony nodded at the prawns. “They’re exceptional.”

Juliette offered a smile. “I’m sure they are. Thank you.”

“Try them.”

“Oh, I—”

“She’s allergic.” Dominic’s voice was clipped. “As I’ve mentioned before. So unless you’re hiding an EpiPen in your suit, Sinclair, I’d stop talking.”

Silence descended. Dominic went back to his wine, and a surge of frustration filled her. Look at me, she thought, and Dominic’s mouth tightened but he didn’t lift his head. Fine. She shifted her gaze to the window. The storm was breaking, and two green birds circled above the buildings, like twin spots of land in a cloudless blue sea.

“Parakeets,” Vance said, following her gaze. “Native to Asia originally, until some sadist let them loose in London. They thrive here, feral parakeets.” He cut into his chicken. “It’s amazing how one can adapt to the environment one is put in.”

There was a note of something in Vance’s voice, although she didn’t know what. “I’ve always thought so.”

“Of course, it depends if that species is equipped to survive.”

She shrugged. “Some species evolve.”

“Over centuries.” Vance’s smile was pleasant. “Not overnight.”

Ah. And there it was. A thinly veiled barb. Still, it was a nice restaurant, and she wasn’t paying, so Juliette buttered her bread roll and said nothing. Anthony’s gaze lingered on her lap; her white dress was transparent, sticking to her thighs, although to fix it now would feel like a concession.

She cleared her throat. “This restaurant is lovely.”

Vance dabbed at his mouth. “Dominic used to work here.”

Surprise flitted through her. “When?”

She directed this to Dominic, although it was Vance who answered. “Four years ago.” He crumpled the napkin. “He used to help in the kitchens. It was why his racing statistics were off for the first half of the season.” He turned to Dominic, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “But we put a stop to that, didn’t we?”

Dominic speared a pea. Still, he didn’t speak.