Page 98 of Full Throttle

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

Had she damaged the car by pushing it too hard? But surely it was worth it if they’d won. Hamish ripped open the bag of crisps.

“Nothing.”

Juliette shifted her trophy. “Hamish.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t give the lad the time of day. That’s all.”

Juliette followed his gaze to where Anthony was posing for a picture with Vance. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve not seen the headlines?”

Warmth bloomed in her cheeks. “I don’t look at social media. Zoe sends weekly reports that…” Hamish waited, and she suddenly felt like a child covering their eyes to block out the monsters creeping up from the end of their bed. “Never mind. What’s your point?”

Hamish stuffed away the foil packet. “Forget it. Just remember what I said about Sinclair, aye?”

He disappeared into the crowd. Juliette waited a beat before pulling out her phone. A dozen missed calls and fifty text messages. She ignored all of them, opening a web browser instead, her thumb hesitating over the search engine. What had Dominic said when they were in that Monaco casino?

The things they’ve written about Sinclair…He’s not a good person. You don’t know the things he’s said.

She typed “Anthony Sinclair + controversy.”

The results came up on the third page.

Three articles, all dated from about four months ago. The headlines were damning: Racer Sinclair Says Women Are Made to Ride, Not to Drive. F1 Superstar Slams Fellow Driver: “Hastings Should Go Back to Where He Came From.” Duro Stallion had clearly done damage control, burying most of the articles under a mountain of positive press, but the results were still there. She’d just been thick enough not to look for them.

Juliette stared.

She didn’t realize her hands were sweaty until the trophy turned slippery. So Sinclair had said some sexist things. Fine. That wasn’t exactly surprising; plenty of men in his circles held those sorts of beliefs. But the shit he’d said about Hastings?

She looked down at her phone. The hateful words were still there, half-obscured by patches of sticky champagne.

She took a breath. Maybe it wasn’t true. Didn’t the British press make things up all the time? But her heart sank as she clicked through the articles. Several were corroborated by eyewitnesses, and even if they hadn’t been, her gut told her they were true.

A reminder popped up on her phone. Drivers’ dinner, seven o’clock.

Juliette pocketed her phone. Her ribs were aching, an old wound reopened, and she had the sudden, violent urge to smash the trophy against the ground. She was going to speak with Anthony tonight.

And he was going to listen.

Chapter 31

Into the Storm

She arrived at the Milan Duomo just before dusk. The sun was a cracked egg, dribbling yolk down the black spires. Tourists snapped pictures by the cathedral, and several people carried gelato shaped into delicate rose petals. A security guard looked up as she approached. He couldn’t have been much older than Juliette, and he wore a suit that looked unsuitable for the late summer heat. She glanced at her own outfit—a white sundress and cowboy boots—and was briefly impressed by the man’s composure.

The security guard consulted a clipboard. “Are you here for the event, miss?”

“I am.”

“Who are you with?”

Juliette paused. “I’m a driver.”

“Oh.” The man shifted the clipboard. “Sorry. I don’t follow the sport, so I assumed…” He scratched his neck. “Can I see some identification?”

Juliette complied. The man handed her card back, looking slightly sheepish.