At Full Sprint (A BBW Shifter Romance) (Last of the Shapeshifters) (4 page)

“We’re always truthful at
Speed
, Cheat. It’s a deal.”

“No it’s not,” he said, shaking his head.

“There’s nothing else for me to concede, Cheat.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He turned to Circe. “Interested?”

The expression on Circe’s face filled him with joy.

“Hell yes, I’m interested!” she nearly shouted back at him.

“Good.” He met steely eyes with Stephanie again. “
Now
it’s a deal. Sort out what you need to, then have Ms. Cole come to my pit garage. I’ll let the guards know to let her through. She’ll accompany me throughout the first four races of this season, as long as that suits her.” He glanced at Circe, and the young woman nodded rapidly. “And I’ll grant her four interviews on the eve of each race night. I don’t care what you do with the piece when she’s gets it back to you, but this is the only way I’m playing it.”

“Fine. Can I ask you something right now, Miles?”

He thought about it. “Okay.”

“Why don’t you climb the podium after your wins?”

“And what? Spray champagne at cameras? I’m just not interested.” He turned to Circe. “See you later, Ms. Cole.”

And he left.

Passing Michael Hamilton on the way, he forced eye-contact. “You call yourself a driver?” he lobbed, and laughed when Hamilton had to be restrained by his pit crew again.

*

“Wow,” Circe breathed, not listening to a word her boss was saying. The woman had dragged her back to their car, sat her down, and was now throwing words at her endlessly, but they were all going in one ear and out the other.

Other thoughts were recruiting her entire concentration, one of which was that she had just been given the opportunity of a lifetime. She thought shadowing Stephanie Lee Jennings would make her career? Well, this opportunity would make her
famous
in the journalism world.

Another thought bouncing around in her skull was that Miles ‘Cheat’ Cohen was far more attractive in real life than he was in paparazzi photographs. The man was simply dazzling. He seemed to have it all, from that carefree way he swept his hair to the side, to the strong jaw and easy smile, and eyes that looked like they held more than simply a story or two.

And his physique! Circe had managed to get a good look at his sweat-soaked, unbelievably tight, fire-proof undershirt clinging to what was sure to be a really rocking bod.

She quelled that particular storm, realizing it was probably nothing more than a bit of childish fantasy. What was infinitely more important was that she was going to be writing an all-access piece on this enigmatic, reclusive man. Nobody knew a damn thing about him. Nobody even knew where he got his nickname from!

And she’d be the one to reveal it! She ran through test-titles in her head:

The Man Behind Miles by Circe Cole.

Uncovering Cheat by Circe Cole.

Who is Miles Cohen? by Circe Cole.

Cheat Without Clothing by Circe Cole.

She blinked. Those were all shit titles, but it wouldn’t matter. She’d have time.

“Circe! Circe!”

Looking at her boss, she could see that Ms. Jennings was more than a little upset. “Sorry, I’m just a bit overwhelmed right now.”

“Well pull it together, Circe, because you’ve just been given the biggest story in racing, and you’d better damn well do a good job!”

“I will, Ms. Jennings.”

“Now, like I was saying, you’re an actress now. Figure out what he wants and give it to him. He wants your adoration? Give it to him. He wants you to swoon? Swoon. He wants you to flirt and be naughty? Flirt and be naughty. Do what it takes, short of, you know” – the woman trailed off, leaving that bit unspoken, but the idea hung in the air between them, and in Circe’s head. – “But get him to open up to you. When you’re conducting an interview, you’re not just asking questions. It’s a dance. You’re getting to know someone, and you’re looking for small openings that you can pry open, not with force, but with finesse. Do you understand, Circe?”

She nodded, biting her lower lip. “Yes.”

“I don’t want a boring ‘He eats muesli and bananas for breakfast’ piece. I want something that will sell!”

“I know.”

“We will be in constant contact every day, okay? You are to email me every single day and keep me updated.”

“Every day?” Circe echoed, making a face at her boss.

“Yes, every day. The pressure is on to deliver, Circe. I can’t have you drop the ball on this. Plus, I may actually have some helpful suggestions, believe it or not.”

“Okay,” Circe said. “No, wait, that wasn’t what I meant, Ms. Jennings. I know that you’ll have some helpful-”

“Relax, Circe. It was a joke.”

“Okay, okay.” She felt as if she was being swept up in a raging storm, and was beginning to wonder if she was in over her head. The idea that she might fuck this whole thing up was daunting.

No, it was terrifying.

“You’re going to have to sign a non-disclosure agreement, and an additional contract.”

“Okay.”

“You can do that digitally online. Though less likely to hold up in court, I trust you, Circe.”

She looked at her boss. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You’re a bright girl, and I handpicked you for our internship position. Cheat was right when he said interns do the dirty work. What he doesn’t know is that
Speed
has an eighty-percent hiring rate for interns. Bob? Derrick? Sam? All started out as interns.”

Circe nodded as Ms. Jennings listed off other writers at
Speed
. “Yes?”

“They were all interns once, too. So trust that I trust you, and that I’m rooting for you. You need to trust me, okay? You need to trust everything I tell you.”

“Okay,” Circe said, whisper-quiet. This almost seemed like a top-secret military operation straight out of a James Bond movie.

“Good, good.” Her boss put a bony hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “I picked you out of over a hundred applicants. We only had applications open for three hours.”

“I know,” Circe said. “I was refreshing the website page constantly so I wouldn’t miss it.”

“You’ve got a sharp style, but more importantly, you seem to have a sharp mind.”

“Thanks, Ms. Jennings.”

“I mean it. Style can be edited. Intelligence can’t. I like your writing, but not as much as
what you choose to write about
. Your body of work is so far small, but impressive.”

“You don’t have to keep saying good things about me, Ms. Jennings.” Circe turned to her boss and smiled. “I can do this.”

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

“So,” Circe murmured after a moment’s quiet. “What now?”

“What do you mean what now? Get to work!”

Circe nodded, and climbed out of the car. It was already well into the evening, and she walked through Albert Park, which the race track both wrapped around and weaved through, toward the pit garages, her mind consumed with nerves, anticipation, and excitement.

But when she got there, she found it emptying. Miles Cohen was nowhere in sight, and neither was team owner Richard Ford. Most of the crew were packing up, and Circe put her hands on her hips, turning in a circle on the spot, seeing if she could sight the man she was supposed to be shadowing for the next four races to get a one-of-a-kind interview out of him.

“What the hell?” she said quietly to herself. He had simply left! Why would he do that? Was this part of the game? Was she expected to simply find him on her own? Circe pulled out her mobile phone and was about to call Ms. Jennings when a limousine pulled up behind her. The driver wound down his window, and looked at her for a moment.

“Ms. Cole?”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.” He got out of the car and opened the limousine door, gesturing at her to climb inside. Circe shook her head. “I’m sorry, but who are you, and where are we going?”

“Mr. Cohen sent me to pick you up. We’ll be going to The Banyan.”

“The Banyan?”

The limousine driver seemed to take offense. “Yes. That is where Mr. Cohen is staying.”

“Oh,” Circe said quickly, nodding. So The Banyan was a hotel. She’d never heard of it. It struck her then that she didn’t actually have any of her luggage, and she opened her mouth to communicate this to the driver, but he put a gloved hand up.

“Yes, we’ll be stopping at your hotel so you can pick up your luggage.”

Circe laughed. “Thank you!” She climbed into the limousine, the first one she’d ever been inside, and was instantly assaulted by the smell of rich leather, varnished wood, and lurking in the background, an elegant air freshener.

“Wow,” she whispered, stroking the surface of the seats.

Once at The Banyan, with all her luggage, she was shown to her room. Her mouth fell open. On the first floor of a converted mansion, the room was enormous, with a fully decked-out open-plan kitchen, a sunken stone bathtub that could have housed a hippo, with a separate walk-in rain shower. In the bedroom she stared wide-eyed at a four-poster king-size bed, with ornate, hand-carved banisters the likes of which she’d only seen in films or read about.

“Thanks,” she said to the hotel porter, and she gave the young man, who couldn’t be a day over eighteen, a generous tip which appeared to make his day.

“Enjoy your stay with us, Ms. Cole.” He ducked out politely and shut the door. Now all alone in the room, Circe felt suddenly dwarfed by it. Almost intimidated by it. The grandeur of it, the luxury… was something she was entirely unused to.

The smell of old wood emanated from the various drawers and cabinets, and there was a darkness to the interior design that made the room feel positively ancient – though it couldn’t possibly be. Being in Australia, it can’t have been built that long ago. Likely, it was constructed to mimic a certain era, though Circe had no idea what that was.

It was at times like these that she wished she knew more about things like these. The feeling of being at a disadvantage, and perhaps unable to properly appreciate her surroundings (like at the race track) was something that unnerved Circe. She hated to be on the lower end of the seesaw.

She soon realized, though, while exploring her hotel room – if it could even be called that – that she didn’t know what she was actually doing here. She pulled out her phone and brought up Ms. Jennings’ contact profile, and began to type out a text message.

I’ve just been put into a hotel room, and I don’t know where Cheat is. What do I do? How long should I stay here for?

-Circe

She waited impatiently, tapping her fingers on the window while looking outside at the long stretch of lawn. She noticed that there were odd prints in the grass, as though a cat or a dog had run through, digging up bits of dirt. But the holes left in the ground were far too big to belong to a typical household pet. She shrugged. Might have just been something caught on one of the tires of the lawnmower. Her phone vibrated in her hand, and the screen came to life.

Stay for however long it takes. S

Circe stared at the message. “Well, that was helpful.” She hated it when people signed their texts and emails with just the first letter of their first name.

By the time she had set up her laptop, called the front desk for the Wi-Fi password, and unpacked her personal effects, nearly an hour had passed and she still hadn’t heard from
anybody
.

This was getting ridiculous. She reached for the phone, with the intention of asking for the number to Cheat Cohen’s room, but just at that moment it rang.

“Spooky,” she whispered to herself, picking up the receiver. “Um, hello?”

A woman spoke. “Ms. Cole? This is the front desk.”

“Oh, yes, hello.”

“I am just calling to remind you that all amenities, including room service and the mini bar, are on Mr. Cohen’s tab, as per instructions.”

Circe sucked on her upper lip. “Really?”

“Yes. If there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call.”

“Actually, there is something I need,” Circe said. She looked at the clock and saw it was already nearing nine in the evening. “I would like to know if Mr. Cohen is in his room at the moment.”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot divulge that information.”

“Can I at least get the extension to his room?”

“Please accept my apologies, Ms. Cole, but that is also something I cannot divulge. Mr. Cohen has requested extreme privacy.”

Circe frowned. “How many rooms are there in The Banyan?”

“We have six guest rooms on the first floor, and two on the second floor, for a total of eight rooms.”

Only two? Circe was fairly sure one of them was Miles’ room, and she wasn’t about to sit in her own waiting for someone to tell her just what was going on. She was going to find him.

“Okay. Thank you very much.”

“No worries, Ms. Cole. Will there be anything else?”

“No. Thank you very much. Goodbye.” Circe hung up the phone, picked up her keycard, and walked toward the door. Her stomach, though, had other ideas, and growled noisily at her, and so she shrugged, went back to the bed, and pulled out the room service menu.

A chicken salad and glass of rather expensive wine later, Circe had sated her hunger, and was now off to satisfy another urge: to get some answers.

Poking her head out of the door, she saw nobody in the hallway. Feeling distinctly like a secret agent, she crept up the elegant circular staircase to the second floor. She had removed her shoes so she’d make less noise, though walking on the cold marble was making her rethink that particular tactical choice.

The second-floor landing was miniscule. On either side were large double doors, presumably the two rooms, but otherwise there was nothing but a hanging chandelier, and on the wall a large panting of an old and rather severe-looking British officer in his resplendent colonial military uniform.

It was either one or the other. She picked the left door, and searched for a doorbell, but found none. Circe knocked, and prepared herself to give Miles ‘Cheat’ Cohen an earful. But when an older lady in her nightgown opened the door, Circe was forced to mutter a quiet apology, and pretend to walk back down the steps.