Chapter 2

Nina

"There's a race car that needs modifying, and it's urgent. The buyer's demanding, too—he's been to a bunch of shops and nobody's willing to take it on. I looked at the blueprints, and your skills should be more than enough to—"

"You know I don't modify race cars!"

I cut him off before he could finish, my tone flat and hard.

After I split with that man, I swore I'd never touch a race car again.

Jack was getting frustrated. "Look at the state you're in—how long are you going to cling to this principle of yours? This shop is your grandfather's life's work. Are you really willing to let someone take it from you?"

My body stiffened for an instant, and for a moment I had nothing to say.

Jack looked at me, sighed, and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, setting it on the table.

"I wrote the address down here. The guy says as long as you can get the job done, money's no object. Think it over."

With that, he turned and walked out.

I stood alone in the shop for a long while, torn between reality and reason, unsure how to decide.

I'd always been a person of principle. Once I made a decision, I never changed it.

But then I remembered the hopeful look in my grandfather's eyes before he died, and the words he'd murmured to me over and over.

I had no choice. I could only give in.

Maybe my whole life had been a failure like this—always full of compromises. Back then, and now, always the same.

In the end, I reached out and picked up the slip of paper.

The handwriting was beautiful. It read: Bel Air estates, west side, No. 31.

That was one of the most expensive rich neighborhoods in Los Angeles. I'd driven past it once before—guardhouses at the gates staffed by armed security, every mansion as gorgeous as a castle.

I stuffed the paper into my pocket, rolled up the shutter door, and walked expressionlessly toward the secondhand green Jeep.

The west side wasn't far from the slums—only a dozen minutes by car—yet it felt like a vast chasm lay between them.

My beat-up Jeep had barely turned onto the street when a guard stopped me from a distance.

"Out of the car. Who are you here to see? Do you have an appointment?"

His condescending tone grated on me, but I got out anyway.

When the guard saw my face, he froze for a moment, and his expression softened.

I was used to it. I knew this face was beautiful—especially where men were concerned, it never failed. Jack said if I gave up fixing cars, I could easily make it as a movie star.

My tone wasn't exactly polite, more careless and cocky. "I'm going to No. 31. I have an appointment with the owner there."

The guard said nothing, just looked me up and down.

I was wearing a tight black T-shirt today, with ragged denim shorts. My long blonde hair hadn't been washed in days, thrown up in a messy ponytail.

I knew I didn't look respectable—nothing like the kind of refined lady who'd come and go from a place like this.

But who cared? I was a mechanic, after all.

The guard stared so long that I nearly lost my patience and started cursing at him.

It was only because we were here. If he'd dared look at me like that back in the slums, I'd have taught him a lesson he'd never forget in his life.

But I knew I'd come to make money. If I couldn't get in, all of this would be for nothing, so I held it in.

"All right. Leave your name and ID, then go on in." The guard finally spoke, and there was something suggestive in the way he looked at me now.

I realized he'd taken me for a high-class prostitute making a house call. I got in the car, slammed the door hard, and once I'd driven into the estate grounds, I stuck my hand out and flipped him off.

I hit the gas and drove in. Inside the estate and outside it were like two different worlds.

I'd never known there could be such a quiet place in the bustle of Los Angeles.

The tall plane trees on either side made it feel like walking down the Champs-Élysées in Paris, and every mansion sat behind half an acre of lawn.

I found No. 31 quickly.

It was just about the largest and most opulent of all the mansions.

Poverty had limited my imagination—I couldn't fathom how rich the people living inside must be.

The wrought-iron gate was shut tight. I rang the bell and waited a long time, but no one answered.

I rang again for a while. Still no one came out.

"Damn it!"

I felt like I'd been played. Rich people always had this kind of nasty habit.

I gave the gate a hard kick and turned to leave, cursing under my breath—when suddenly I heard the sound of it opening behind me.

I whipped my head around and saw the gate swinging slowly open on its own.

Frowning, I hesitated, then stepped inside and looked toward the portico. There wasn't a single person in sight.

"Anyone here?"

I called out tentatively. My voice sounded especially hollow in the garden. Still no one appeared.

An inexplicable wariness rose in me. A mansion this big, and not even a servant around—and who had opened the gate just now?

I quickened my pace but didn't dare walk into that lavish house. Instead I went straight around the garden to the garage. I was only here to modify a car, after all. There was no way, I figured, the owner could keep hiding forever.

I reached the garage quickly. Its door was half open, and a car was parked inside.

The body was deep blue, low and sleek, with a silver lightning streak across the hood.

I recognized it at a glance: a limited-edition Ferrari LaFerrari. There weren't more than a handful in all of North America.

Something slammed into my chest, sharp and aching.

Three years ago, that man had crossed the finish line in a car just like this one, in a posture no one could match.

On the winner's podium, he'd pulled off his helmet, his short brown hair soaked through with sweat, a wild grin spreading across a face handsome to the point of wickedness.

He'd flashed a "number one" gesture at the cameras, and the little mole beneath his eye lifted with the motion.

"Nina, I did it! This trophy belongs to you and me!"

I still remembered sitting on that shabby couch that day, sobbing my heart out at the television, laughing and cursing all at once.

The memory came too suddenly, and for a moment I stood frozen in place.

Footsteps sounded behind me, one after another, as if stepping right on my heart.

I spun around.

Outside the garage, a tall figure stood there.

He wore a red-and-white racing suit, the zipper pulled up to his collarbone, revealing the sharp lines of his neck and a sliver of collarbone. Backlit, his face hidden in shadow, only his outline was visible—broad shoulders, a narrow waist, legs impossibly long.

In that instant, memory and reality overlapped.

My heart felt like it was being seized and crushed in someone's grip. All the blood rushed to my head, and my ears rang.

The man took two steps forward, and the light finally fell across his face.

Sharp brow bones, deep-set eyes, irises a dark green like a fathomless sea of jade, and that mole resting quietly beneath his eye.

For a moment I felt dazed. I'd thought I'd never see him again in this lifetime.

Three years had passed, and he hadn't changed at all—still carrying that same reckless arrogance. Only, three years ago those eyes had looked at me with nothing but heat; now there was nothing left but cold.

I watched him walk toward me step by step, his towering frame bringing an intense pressure.

He stopped a few meters from me, dropped his gaze to look down at me, his eyes somewhat cold, his voice colder still.

"Who let you in?"