My Shocking Monte Carlo Confession (Passion In Paradise Book 12) Read online

  ‘I’m so sorry, Remy,’ I whispered as the bus made its way out of Monaco and along the coast road towards Nice. ‘I couldn’t keep my promise.’

  The tears I had refused to shed flowed down my cheeks as Monaco’s glittering lights disappeared behind the cliffs.

  I scrubbed the tears away with my fist before any of the other passengers could see them, swallowed down the choking sobs making my ribs ache and kept my gaze on the road ahead.

  At last, the numbness returned.

  I embraced it this time, because it protected me from the agony threatening to consume me.

  The numbness gave me strength.

  A strength I would need to survive Remy’s death—and Alexi’s brutal rejection. And to find a new home, a new job and a new life far away from the Galantis.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Five years later

  Alexi

  ‘SO WHO AM I looking at and what’s his price?’ I squinted through my sunglasses at the track and adjusted my cap—which bore my rival Renzo Camaro’s team logo—to ensure the bill covered my face as I spoke to Freddie Graham. Freddie was a freelance mechanic and an old friend. He’d given me the tip off twenty minutes ago that he’d spotted a fresh new talent driving Camaro’s prototype at the Barcelona track as part of their testing for the new season.

  I was desperate. Galanti’s reserve driver, Carlo Poncelli, had just had a cancer diagnosis. We’d managed to keep it quiet for the last few days, but as soon as the news hit the circuit that Carlo was going to be receiving chemo treatment for most of the season every agent’s price would go through the roof. I wanted to find someone quickly, someone talented and as yet undiscovered who would jump at the chance of getting a reserve seat in the Super League with the top team on the circuit—and was un-agented. It was a tall order, but if anyone could spot talent it was Freddie.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Graham said furtively as we watched the track together from the edge of the stands—out of sight of Camaro and his team. ‘If Camaro finds out you’re here checking out his employees, I’ll get blacklisted.’

  The noise of Camaro’s new design drowned out the end of Freddie’s sentence as the car came shooting round the bend and back into view. The car accelerated to two hundred miles an hour and the back wheels shuddered, but the driver brought it back under control with smooth, steely efficiency. The adrenaline rush I always got from watching a great new talent raised the hairs at my nape.

  I would need to see stats and get a basic history before making an offer, find out the guy’s age and what licences he held, but I already knew this was our man. I had a sixth sense about this stuff. It was what I was famous for on the circuit. Or rather, infamous for. That and having a different supermodel or actress on my arm at every event I attended.

  ‘Who is he? Is he actually signed to Camaro yet? And why the hell haven’t I heard of him?’ I fired questions at Freddie as the car completed the circuit and headed into the pits.

  If he was contracted to a team in one of the lower leagues, I’d have to buy him out, which would cost me. But I already knew I wanted him.

  Camaro would probably have a cow. The guy was known for his hard business practices and the Destiny team had been Galanti’s main rivals for three seasons. But if Renzo was only using this kid for test driving he was already missing a trick. I would have to act fast, though. We were already two months into the season. And I would need to get the new driver familiar with our car before winter testing.

  ‘Slow down, fella,’ Freddie said in his thick Brooklyn accent. ‘Rumour on the track is she’s one of Camaro’s R&D people. She’s not even a driver. Story is she’s Renzo’s mistress and he brought her over from London when his reserve driver got the flu. He needed someone to test the car, and he knows she’s a talent, but when I saw her drive...’

  Freddie’s voice trailed off. But most of what he’d been saying had already washed over me because my brain had snagged on one word.

  She.

  This kid was a woman? Dio!

  That was...

  My mind exploded. That was an incredible PR opportunity. Even if I hadn’t been desperate and she wasn’t as good as she appeared I would have wanted to sign her.

  There were female drivers in the lower leagues and on the reserve lists. Good female drivers who, sooner or later, would break into motor sport’s top flight. But a female driver this good who was undiscovered and wasn’t even attached to a team?

  Except... My excitement downgraded.

  She was attached to Renzo in a personal capacity.

  ‘You say she’s Renzo’s mistress?’ I turned to Freddie, his hangdog expression unchanged.

  ‘That’s what one of the mechanics told me. I saw them together and Renzo’s all over her. Although she’s a long way from being his usual type. She’s kind of a tomboy.’

  I frowned. Who knew Freddie was a gossip? But right now his nosiness suited my purposes. I wanted to know more about the girl before I approached her. If she was stuck on Renzo it might be a harder sell to get her to sign for me.

  My lips quirked in a cynical smile.

  ‘Whatever her connection to Camaro, I’m sure I can make her a better offer,’ I said, confident any commitment she had to my rival could be broken.

  She was a woman. Women in my experience could always be bought, with either money, orgasms or both. If I had to seduce her, I would. I wasn’t dating anyone at the moment and I had no problem mixing business with pleasure. It was one of the perks of being a workaholic.

  ‘Hold your jets, Casanova,’ Freddie said. ‘Renzo’s not your only problem. The same mechanic told me she doesn’t want to be a pro driver. Apparently Renzo’s been trying to sign her to his young driver programme for over a year and she’s not interested.’

  ‘What? Why?’ I couldn’t hide my shock. Anyone with that much natural talent would be insane not to go for the gold ring. And no one could get that good in the first place without a passion for the sport.

  ‘Haven’t a clue. But I guess she must have her reasons.’

  My surprise was quickly quashed by my confidence. Whatever her reasons, I’d figure out a way to overcome them. I knew how to play women, just like I knew how to play my rivals.

  Charm was easy, seduction even easier. They were both commodities I’d learned to use to my advantage, deliberately honing my image as a womanising playboy to hide the ruthlessness that had driven me ever since Remy’s death.

  Thoughts of Remy killed the smile playing around my lips, reminding me not just of my boyish, reckless, stupidly trusting younger brother who had died so needlessly but also of the girl—his girl—who had screwed with my head far too often since Remy’s death.

  Belle Simpson had completely disappeared after Remy’s funeral and I refused to give a damn about it. I’d tortured myself enough over the thought of her—soft, fresh and artlessly seductive—during that one night we’d shared. She’d been an illusion. She was no more pure and fresh than I was, or had ever been. Just because she’d never contacted me to get the pay off I’d offered her didn’t make her innocent. Maybe her conscience had eventually got the better of her too, about what we’d both done to Remy.

  I cut off the thought at the fresh slice of guilt. Remy was dead. I couldn’t turn back the clock and undo what I’d done to him that night when Belle’s wide emerald eyes had gazed at me as if I’d been everything she could ever want. That whole night had been screwed up. My cheek had been smarting from one of my father’s back-handed slaps, my head fuzzy from one too many tequila slammers. I’d had to stop beating myself up for giving into the incendiary attraction between us.

  I hated that, whenever I thought of Remy, I thought of her too. And her deep-green eyes wide with distress and unshed tears.

  Ruthlessly pushing thoughts of my dead brother and that fateful night to one side, I bid goodbye to Freddie with th
e promise of a generous gift for his help if I managed to sign this girl.

  I made my way towards the drivers’ lounge behind the car hangars. Driving was hard, sweaty work, particularly in Barcelona in spring—the girl would have to shower and change before she did anything else. With the Camaro team cap pulled low, no one took any notice of me as I strolled past the team of mechanics busy assessing the new car’s tyres for burn-out.

  I spotted Camaro at the edge of the bay, talking to his chief mechanic, but no sign of the girl driver.

  My hunch had been correct. She must have headed straight for the lounge area. Now all I had to do was hope my luck held out and I could catch her alone once she’d finished changing—to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  Adrenaline pumped through my system. I’d always been a guy who revelled in the thrill of the chase—either in pursuit of a great new design, a talented driver or a beautiful woman. This girl could be a combination of all three.

  The lounge area was empty. I noticed a makeshift sign stuck on one of the doors to the changing rooms reserved for individual drivers: Solo Mujeres.

  Women only.

  I almost laughed out loud as I sat down silently on one of the plush leather sofas.

  Perfect—there was no one here. Giving me all the opportunity I needed to poach Renzo’s mistress. And turn her into the driver she was meant to be. And maybe more.

  I discarded the cap and the shades as I listened to the shower running in the adjoining changing room. And waited.

  The shower eventually shut off and I could hear a soft British voice singing a French lullaby.

  Something pricked at my consciousness. Why did the light, lilting voice sound so familiar?

  Before I had a chance to register the question, the girl appeared in the doorway to the lounge, silhouetted by the bright sunlight shining through the windows behind her. She jolted and gasped, the sob of distress probably down to her surprise at finding a strange guy sitting in the lounge. I stood to introduce myself.

  ‘Hi, Miss...’ I paused, realising Freddie had never given me her name. ‘I’m Alexi Galanti. I own and operate the Galanti team. We need a new reserve driver for the rest of the season and I want to offer you the position. Whatever Camaro’s paying you, I’ll double it.’

  It was rash of me to offer her the job without talking to my legal team, getting her credentials properly checked out and giving her a probationary period. I couldn’t even see her face properly and I hadn’t heard her speak. Damn it, I didn’t even know her name. But all my instincts were telling me to claim her, so I didn’t regret the rash decision. I always trusted my instincts.

  What I could see of her figure—her subtle curves seductively displayed in a pair of tomboy jeans and a white shirt and camisole—had my blood heating in my groin. Desire pumped through my veins with a visceral urgency.

  Maybe it was the combination of hunger and desire combined with the knowledge of how she had handled Camaro’s powerful car that was driving my determination—because I wasn’t even sure what I wanted most any more. To see her in my car, or in my bed.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled in time to the echo of the lullaby which still lingered in my mind as she stood silently, not speaking. I could hear her rapid, uneven breathing.

  Something was wrong. Why was she so silent? So tense? Why was her stance strangely defensive, as if I’d insulted her instead of having offered her a million-dollar contract?

  Then her scent invaded my nostrils—fresh, floral and disturbingly familiar, bringing back memories of the night five years ago that I had never been able to forget. Recognition struck me as she stepped into the light and her face was illuminated for the first time. The striking features—the soft, translucent skin, the sprinkle of girlish freckles across her nose, the sleepy emerald eyes and the wild shock of rich russet curls—were just as I remembered them from my dreams—and my nightmares. Grief, betrayal and longing arrowed into my gut to join the hot punch of lust that had never died.

  ‘I don’t want anything from you, Alexi,’ she whispered, her voice a tortured rasp—both bold and defensive at the same time. ‘I never did.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Belle

  IT WAS A lie. Once upon a time, I had wanted everything from Alexi Galanti. Not just his body, but his love. But as I stared at his tall, muscular body dressed in a T-shirt and worn jeans, the fabric stretched enticingly across pectoral muscles that had only become more defined in the last five years—not quite sure if he was real or a figment of my over-active imagination—I knew those desires were childish dreams borne of infatuation.

  I’d locked those dreams away five years ago after the cruel banishment which had left me destitute, disillusioned and alone at nineteen.

  And, as I’d discovered two months later, pregnant with his child.

  I refused to let them resurface now just because he was even more handsome and compelling at thirty than he had been at twenty-five.

  I was twenty-four now and I’d survived what he’d done to me. And I had a wonderful son whom I adored.

  I struggled to quell the old yearning which shivered through me at the sight of him. A yearning I’d never been able to feel for any other man.

  Heat careered into my cheeks as I watched him stiffen, the knowledge of who I was hitting him as hard as it had hit me a few moments before.

  Good, I was glad. I wanted him to feel as raw as I did.

  But, as soon as the ungenerous thought occurred to me, another horrifying realisation hit me—bringing with it the guilt I had struggled with for five years.

  Oh, no! My cousin, Jessie, was bringing Cai—my son—to meet me at the track this afternoon.

  I’d known it was a risk, agreeing to come to Barcelona to test drive the car I’d helped develop in my role as Camaro’s fuel-efficiency expert for their R&D department in the UK. But Renzo, my boss, had been quite insistent and I had checked to make sure the Galanti team weren’t scheduled to be at the test track today.

  Cai loved the cars and the trip had been a special treat for him. But I didn’t want him to come face to face with his father—or vice versa.

  I’d never contacted Alexi to tell him about his son. I’d been in a daze, still struggling to cope with the loss of Remy, not to mention my job and my life in Monaco, when I’d discovered I was pregnant five years ago.

  I hadn’t had the courage or the strength to face Alexi then and as my pregnancy had progressed I had quickly begun to justify my cowardice to myself.

  Alexi had made it very clear he hated me, that he blamed me for Remy’s death. He’d told me he never wanted to see me again, that he’d have me arrested if he did. He’d called me a whore and implied I was a gold-digger. He probably wouldn’t even have believed the child was his, so what would have been the point?

  And, in the years since Cai’s birth, it had become easier and easier not to make that call. My sweet, beautiful, smiley little boy, who looked so much like his father but would always be mine, would never know the cynicism, the coldness, of the man who had sired him. Really, I was just protecting my son.

  I’d seen reports of Alexi’s love life in the press, in gossip columns and celebrity blogs, over the intervening years too and had convinced myself Alexi wouldn’t want to be a father. That I was doing him a favour by not divulging to him he had a son. Surely he wouldn’t want to be tied down, to have his rampant womanising and glamorous social life hampered by a toddler?

  But, now I was faced with the possibility of him meeting Cai for the first time, all my justifications began to crumble.

  The guilt combined with the inappropriate yearning in the pit of my stomach made me plummet into the black hole I remembered from the last time I’d seen him—creating a wave of pure, unadulterated panic.

  I’d always told myself that one day—when Cai was older, and I had become the foremo
st R&D specialist in the Super League and had some serious professional clout—I would get up the guts to inform Alexi of his son’s existence.

  But this wasn’t that day. I wasn’t ready to face that reality. Not yet. And neither was Cai. I hadn’t prepared Cai for this news. And I doubted Alexi would even care if he had a son.

  ‘I need you to leave,’ I said, my voice firm, even though I was shaking inside from fear and the heat that would never die as long as I was in the same room as this man.

  He hadn’t said anything, he’d been rooted to the spot, but he controlled himself a lot faster than I did, the naked shock on his face masked by the cynical expression I remembered from our graveside parting. Although the heat in his gaze told another story, a heat I recognised from that fateful night when we had conceived Cai.

  How could we still want each other when we both hated each other so much? I wondered vaguely, as my frantic mind tried to grasp the logistics of how I was going to avert the disaster galloping towards me with each tick of the clock.

  Calm down, Belle, and don’t show him any weakness.

  I had twenty minutes. They weren’t due here till three. I had time. All I had to do was get Alexi to leave before Jessie and Cai arrived. Surely it wouldn’t be that hard, now he knew who I was? After all, he had been prepared to pay thousands of euros five years ago so he’d never have to see me again.

  ‘The offer still stands,’ he said at last.

  ‘I... What? You can’t be serious,’ I said, stunned. Surely he couldn’t believe I would want to spend any time in his company, let alone work for him?

  ‘I’m deadly serious. I need a reserve driver and I want you... You should be on the track, not behind it. Once you’re signed with Galanti we can discuss the possibility of getting a full driver spot for you, maybe next season. I’ll make it worth your while to break your attachment to Camaro...’ His gaze dipped, his perusal swift but no less insulting, and the heat ignited in my cheeks as I saw the spark of desire and realised he thought Renzo and I were lovers.