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  He stands, tossing the cap to the sofa. The towel slides down just enough to show off the defined vee that makes my mouth water a little with the idea of tracing that indent with my tongue. “What about my reputation? You don’t think it will damage your brand?”

  “I can’t speak for…” I don’t even know what to say. Each word is my head is punctuated with ‘Cock! Cock! Cock!’. I need another shower—freezing cold, stat.

  I start to back away. “I’m just going to go.”

  “Stay, let me say thanks for the cap.”

  I turn and flee. “I’ve really got to—”

  I close the door and press against the back of it.

  My heart is flapping in my chest. I’m sweaty, and feel like there’s a cattle rod up my ass energizing my entire body.

  I’m still coming down from whatever high it is as I pass Steven again at the end of the hallway. He’s leaning against the wall, phone to his ear. “Yes, one million,” he barks, hanging up.

  He sees me and pockets the phone, guilty but for what I do not know. “Did you see Andy?”

  “I did,” more of him than anticipated.

  “Good. I let him know you were coming up.”

  It sinks in. So Andy knew I was coming, and thus the cock stunt.

  I smile with this knowledge. Two can tango, Andy Fortes. Two can tango.

  *

  The press conference goes well, Andy is his usual cheeky self and a great contrast to the vast emotional emptiness that is Carl Heinz. Business and Pleasure, as I’ve named them. You couldn’t find two men more polar opposites.

  Under a clear sky Andy qualifies in pole position, Carl placing second. The one-two is great for Goodall and, by association, Caliber.

  I watch the race from a corporate box high in the grandstands, the sandy, desolate expanse of the Bahrain circuit stretching out before us. The crowd is thin, mostly men. In many parts of the track it’s a ghost town, all show and no substance, another grand structure in the middle of the desert for nothing other than to prove a point.

  Race-wise, it’s a re-run of Melbourne. Andy wins easily, Carl unable to close the gap. The people in the box around me seem excited if only because a win by Goodall is a win for their various brands. And I’m right there with them. Just a month with the combination of Andy and Carl has done wonders for our younger female demographic. It’s the kind of tense, alpha rivalry that ladies eat up. Throw in a half-peeled race suit, a spot of grease, and our stock will fly off the shelves.

  The image of Andy greased up flickers in the back of my mind, his suit stripped away completely and… Jesus, get a grip, Sara.

  I ignore the flicker of excitement between my legs and lift up the binoculars, spying Andy emerging from the cockpit of his car fist-pumping the air. In the background Carl watches on. Normally, he’s the picture of calm, but something’s changed. Two second places in a row have turned his expression sour. He’s not upset, not disappointed.

  He’s jealous.

  I leave the box and find my way back to the hotel. The post-race party awaits and with it a chance to get the mighty Andy Fortes back.

  *

  We’re at an actual palace, a swimming pool bigger than a football field lit sky blue outside, the lights of Bahrain twinkling in the distance.

  It’s an odd mix for a party. Men in traditional Arab dress flirt with scantily clad grid and promo girls while western men in suits do the same, the few women here for business, like myself, are cast into the corners, forgotten.

  “Relax.”

  I spin and find Andy standing before me. I resist the urge to tell him he looks good, because he does, biting my lip. “Congratulations on the win.”

  He shrugs it off. “Just another day in the office.”

  “Some office.”

  “It doesn’t even have a coffee machine.”

  “You don’t strike me as a coffee drinker.”

  “No?”

  “Espresso, maybe.”

  He looks me up and down, eyes lingering longer than they should on my hips. “Short and strong, you mean?”

  It’s true I’m a good foot—nearly two—shorter than him. “Bitter,” I retort.

  He laughs. “You think I’m bitter?”

  “I was talking about coffee.”

  He nods, stepping closer. “So was I, but I prefer my shots with liquor in them, if you know what I mean.”

  His response makes me want to roll my eyes, but the way he says it still makes my nipples pebble under the magenta satin of my dress. “Does this sort of shameless flirting always work for you?”

  He doesn’t pause for even a second to think. “It does.”

  “And you think it will work on me?”

  Curious. “No.”

  “Then why try?”

  “You only need to look at the way I drive to know everything. You want to get to know me, the real me? Watch the race tomorrow.”

  “When did I say I wanted to get to know you, real or not?”

  He winks. “You didn’t.”

  He evaporates into the mix of the party. I was hoping to one-up him with brains, but yet again it feels like I’ve lost somehow.

  It’s air-conditioned in here, but I’m feeling flustered. I take a seat next to a large marble statue of a puma and watch the party unfold.

  “May I?”

  I look up to find a young sheik gesturing to the chair beside me. He’s handsome in an exotic way, a faint hint of star anise tickles my nose as he sits.

  He offers his hand. “Prince Ali Waddya Al’Khalifh.”

  I take his hand. “Sara,” I reply, simply.

  A flicker of amusement passes over his face. “Quite a mouthful, I know, but please, just Ali.”

  “You’re a fan of Formula One, Ali?”

  He holds me with obsidian eyes. “Of course. What man doesn’t like fast cars and beautiful women?”

  I’ve travelled to the UAE before, met men like Ali. Like their Bugattis, women are prizes to be acquired. Still, I play along. “What do you drive?”

  He waves it off. “I have many cars, one for every occasion.”

  “A favorite, perhaps?”

  He runs his fingers lightly over my arm. “I don’t play favorites, sorry.”

  I pull my arm away. “I’m afraid you might have the wrong impression.” He probably thinks I’m one of the many pay-for-play Caucasian girls getting around the party, though perhaps better dressed.

  He takes his hand back, reaching into his robes. “My mistake.” Here, he hands over a card with nothing but a phone number on it. “If you change your mind.”

  He nods and stands, drifting back into the heart of the party under a giant chandelier.

  Ew.

  I spot Andy near the back of the room beside an alcove. He’s speaking to a man but doesn’t seem particularly engaged, as if he’s simply going through the motions. He does look good. I’ll give him that. The measurements were right, a touch out on the hips perhaps, but close enough. I noticed in Melbourne how the navy in the suit brought out the blue in his eyes, but the slate number he’s wearing tonight from our latest collection casts him in an entirely different light. He looks resolute, dark—a man not to be messed with.

  You’d so go there. Why are you even denying it?

  I would. Who wouldn’t? It’s like the guy was crafted by Michelangelo, stony chest and arms to match, a jawline so sharp you could cut diamonds with it, azure eyes deeper than the ocean. Cliché, maybe, but I could use one right now, anything to get off, but that’s the problem. I’ve worked too hard for this job for a one-night stand to screw everything up, and that’s all it would be. No long-term relationships, no respect for others—Andy Fortes is the playboy the world wants him to be. I’m not about to become part of his lore.

  A woman in a striking strapless turquoise dress takes his arm and together they move deeper into the alcove.

  Don’t get dragged into the politics. Don’t get dragged into the politics. I can’t help it. I st
and and shift for a better look, but my path is blocked.

  I see him turn on her, one hand next to her head. It’s hard to tell, but the conversation seems animated.

  Another sheik approaches, smiling. I escape through the center of the crowd and place myself on the wall beside the alcove, moving so I can better hear the conversation between Andy and this mystery woman. I don’t even know why I care, truthfully. I’m not one to be swept up in gossip. Still, I crane my head out a little and listen.

  Andy’s keeping his voice low, but I can make it out. “What the fuck are you even doing here, Stacey?”

  “Working,” comes the slick reply.

  Andy scoffs. “I bet you are.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about the article. It was a mistake.”

  “You made me look like a fool, Stacey. How did you say I was in bed? What was the phrase?”

  “They wrote that.”

  “But you gave them the story, right?”

  “Like I said, a mistake.”

  “You made me look like a fucking idiot.”

  The woman waits before replying. “Andy, forget what I said last year, forget about the article.”

  Andy’s voice strains, the anger getting to him. “Forget about it? Do you know the damage that one fucking article caused to my reputation? And what, because I rejected you? Because you needed some quick cash?”

  She slurs out her words, practically fucks him with them. “One night wasn’t enough, baby. I wanted more then and I want more now. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Just tell me.”

  No reply from Andy.

  She lowers her voice. “Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy it, that you didn’t like my lips around your cock?”

  I almost vomit on my Stuey Weitzmans.

  “It was one night, Stacey.”

  “I’ll blow you right here if you want.”

  “Stacey,” Andy’s growing impatient, “I’m leaving”.

  Her tone changes. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”

  “Goodbye, Stacey.”

  “I’ll tell them you raped me.”

  I stiffen. I’m close to kicking this girl’s ass all by myself if she thinks that’s going to win him over using those guerilla tactics.

  “Go right the fuck ahead.” Andy storms out of the alcove clearly fuming. I press against the wall, make sure he can’t see me.

  The woman, looking younger than she did across the room, emerges, shouting, “Andy! Andy!”

  He ignores her and continues to walk through the crowd. A waiter offers him a flute of champagne, but he slaps the hand away, the glass shattering on the floor and a space opening up punctuated with short gasps.

  I watch him disappear through the front doors pulling his jacket off.

  The woman stops beside me. She looks sideways, up and down my body. For a second I think she’s going to bring out ‘What the hell are you looking at?’, but she simply snorts and walks off in the opposite direction.

  I don’t really know what to make of it all. I expected drama to some degree, but damn. This is next level.

  Guess that’s why they call it the circus.

  CHAPTER THREE: CHINA

  Andy

  I walk into the hotel dining room, the smog so thick outside people pass through it only in shadow. You take stuff like that for granted in the States—actual, breathable air.

  The mechanics are loading their plates at the buffet. It looks like they rounded every bar in Shanghai last night and probably have herpes to show for it.

  At the back of the room Sara sits scrolling through her phone while a lone croissant watches on.

  I grab the three breakfast essentials—bacon, eggs, toast—and make my way over. I place my plate down. “You know they’ve got an actual beehive over there?”

  She looks up completely blank. “I do.”

  I sit, take a bite of toast. The honey’s actually pretty fucking incredible. “I’ve got a sweet tooth, you see.”

  She puts her phone down. Half the battle is won.

  Take that, iCock.

  “Is that so?” she purrs.

  I nod. “Ever since I was a kid. I used to put icing sugar on my salads. Mom said it was the only way she could get me to eat my greens.”

  She raises her eyebrows, the aquamarine rings in her eyes daring me to throw her across this table and fuck her senseless. “Hope you grew out of that one.”

  “I grew out of a lot of things.”

  She takes a bite of her croissant, defies all natural laws by managing not to make a mess. I’ll fix you, witch. “Clearly you didn’t grow out of the whole big-boys-playing-with-their-toys thing.”

  Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow, placing my toast down. “My, don’t we have our head in the gutter this morning.”

  She starts to blush, the ice breaking. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I wink. “I think you did. I think you can’t get me out of your head. Am I right?”

  She looks to the window. “You wish. Like I said, I’m here for business, not pleasure.”

  I smile. Gotcha. “So you are conceding I would bring you pleasure?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Your face says otherwise.”

  “Could you be any more of an ass?”

  I love it when she’s on the offensive. “No. What you see is what you get.”

  She runs her hand across the table and all I can picture is it doing the same across my chest, running lower, her slim fingers curling around my cock. I twitch, kneeing the table, the cutlery shaking.

  “You okay over there?”

  “A little excited, that’s all.”

  She changes the subject. “You enjoy Shanghai?”

  “The back straight’s a winner. I can easily hit one-eighty-six, maybe more with the new car.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about the track.”

  I lean back, my cock doing its best military salute under the table. “As a city? Sure. There’s this cheese butter lobster they do,” I pucker my lips, “incredible.”

  She speaks in what I imagine is fluent Chinese, repeating in English, “It’s actually a Cantonese dish, a Chinese-Western creation very popular in Japan and Southeast Asia.”

  Day-um. “Color me impressed. Now tell me you want to see me naked.”

  She rattles of a rapid-fire string of Chinese but I’m pretty sure it’s far from ‘You’re a sexy beast, Andy Fortes’.

  A passing waitress laughs, smiling at Sara.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Sara calls the waitress back over, talking with her in the local language, whatever it is. Sara points to me and the woman nods, “Ah, ah,” still smiling. I have no idea what they’re saying.

  Sara draws her hands apart and the woman has a fit, nodding with excitement. She starts to thrust her hips and both of them have a grand old laugh at what has to be my expense. She leaves and Sara turns her attention back to me.

  “Okay,” I tell her, “so you can speak Chinese.”

  “More Shanghainese, but yes.”

  “Annnnd, what were you saying?”

  She winks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  She starts to stand.

  “Let me drive you to the track,” I offer.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “I’ll let you ask me whatever you want, three questions.”

  Her eyes narrow, the curiosity blooming. I’ve got her. “Whatever I want?”

  “Anything.” Please ask about my dick.

  “I don’t know. All you seem to be interested in is food and sex.”

  “You don’t enjoy good food and even better sex? Come on.”

  “Okay,” she relents. “Pick me up out front in twenty. I’ve got to shower first.”

  “Need company?”

  She slants her gaze at me. “Don’t push your luck.”

  She walks away.

  No, ma’am.

  *
>
  As I collect the car from the valet I can’t recall a time when I was so obsessed over a single girl. I really have to work out the supernatural hold she’s got on my balls. She’s hot, off-the-charts attractive, but she doesn’t use it. She dresses well, but it’s with restraint and yet impossibly sexy at the same time. Half the girls I sleep with show up to my room in lingerie, many in nothing at all. What makes her so special?

  She’s worldly, which is interesting, but it’s more than that. She’s off limits. That’s why, you fool. You think you’d feel the same way if she begged to blow you the first time you met?

  I exhale at the thought of her lips around me. Ice up, big boy.

  She’s waiting on the steps in a white blouse and flared pants, a dark leather purse slung over her shoulder and her hair swept up into the same ponytail she always wears. I wonder if she ever lets her hair down, what she does for fun. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.

  I reach over and pull the latch on the car door. It lifts into the sky like a gull’s wing.

  She crouches and slides into the passenger seat, hand running over the ruby leather. “It’s low. What is it?”

  The door closes and I lift an eyebrow. “You really have to ask that question?”

  “Could be a Honda for all I know.”

  I shake my head. “Blasphemy. It’s a Goodall, of course, limited-edition AMG, 7L V8 a little too lethargic for my liking, but the forced induction helps.”

  She puts her handbag between her legs. I’d give anything to trade places with it. “It’s all gibberish to me.”

  I turn the key, the engine barking into life. “Now you know how it feels.”

  I hit the throttle, shooting us out onto the main road, the tail kicking out.

  Sara grips the side of her seat looking completely terrified.

  I weave through the mid-morning grind heading by the bay, the roadster barking in satisfaction at being let off its leash.

  Sara attempts to make small talk, voice squeaky and strained. “I suppose it’s not as fast as a Formula One car.”

  I downshift crisply and laugh. “An F1 car is a special kind of fast, but like everything, you get used to it. We have a dual-seater for promo work. I’ll happily take you out some time.”

  I take a corner hard, push the tires to the limit of adhesion before reining the torque back in.