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After being dumped, Isla Morris makes a pact with her ex's biggest competition, F1 driver Matthew Carr, to get inside Lucas's head.
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Isla Morris is dating the world's best F1 racer - at least, she w...
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Matthew Carr was enjoying a lovely drink in the hotel bar when a red-headed English girl stormed in and knocked over an umbrella stand.
She cursed colorfully, ducking to prop it upright. Her cheeks were flushed, her tanned legs dusted in sand. Matthew was sitting too far away to see the girl's eyes, but he knew from experience that they were a dark blue; the last time he'd seen them, they'd been narrowed at him in accusation.
Isla Morris.
Matthew glanced around. No doubt Saint Lucas would be right behind her; he never let his girlfriend out of his sight — especially not around Matthew.
Then again, Matthew thought wryly, most men were smart enough not to leave their beautiful girlfriends alone with him. Or their sisters. Or even their mothers.
"Matt?"
The blonde girl in his lap shifted. She smelled of whisky and floral perfume and hasty decisions. He was still sober enough to remember her name, though. Fife. Rhymed with wife. A thing Matthew would never have, according to his mother, if he kept going at this rate.
He kissed her palm. "I'm sorry, what were you saying, love?"
Her smile was pure wickedness. "I was asking if you wanted to take this drink somewhere else. Like upstairs to your room."
A jolt of desire went through Matthew. Oh, yes, he wanted that; it was the entire reason that he'd asked Fife — an engineer for McLaren — to come back to the hotel after qualifying. Matthew watched as Isla tripped over an umbrella, popping it open, and gave a regretful sigh. A damn shame. He would have loved to spend the evening with Fife.
But alas.
"Not tonight, I'm afraid," Matthew said.
Her eyebrows flew up. "Really?"
"I'll pay for your cab." The least he could do, really.
"I thought..." She rose, blinking. "Are you sure?"
He propped her upright. "If it were any other night, I'd have you upstairs already. But I'm afraid I have business to take care of."
Fife followed his gaze to where Isla stood — cursing, desperately trying to close the umbrella — and raised her eyebrows. "Isn't that Lucas Walsh's girlfriend?"
"Goodnight, Fife," Matthew said pointedly.
Matthew waited for her to get into a cab. When he returned to the lobby, Isla had successfully managed to close the umbrella, but had scattered the contents of her purse all over the lobby. He watched, amused, as Isla scrabbled on all fours, stuffing tubes of pink lipstick and gift cards back into her bag.
"Fighting with your purse, Red?" Matthew drawled. "At least tell me you're winning."
Isla looked up, then pulled a face. "Oh, it's you."
