there was no point in telling him that she actually hadn’t seen that many naked men. He probably wouldn’t believe that she was still a virgin at twenty-eight.
She waited a moment, hoping he’d say something about the burns she’d seen, but he didn’t, and it really wasn’t any of her business.
If change was required, it was on Sam’s part. Sam knew she was too sensitive, too shut-down, too controlling. She’d thought it was her nanny training, but it wasn’t the two years spent at nanny college that had made her so disciplined. It was fear.
Sam was afraid of life. Afraid of death. Afraid of everything in between.
“I don’t even know what you do,” she said breathlessly, trying to regain some sense of control. “Who are you?”
Grooves formed on either side of his mouth as he fought his smile. “Cristiano Bartolo—”
“Yes. I know your name. But who are you? Why do people know you? And people do know you—that night at dinner in Monte Carlo—people approached you. Gave you their blessings. Even Johann thought I should know you. What do you do?”
His head tipped, thick lashes dropping, before he looked up at her. “I’m a Formula 1 driver.”
He said it simply, no arrogance in his voice or answer. In fact, his voice was expressionless but he was watching her closely. “Do you know what that is?”
“You race cars.”
Sam suddenly wished she hadn’t asked the question. “Isn’t that terribly dangerous?”
She could have sworn he smiled but then the smile was gone and his features were so hard he looked like someone else altogether. “Can be,” he said coolly.
When he didn’t elaborate, Sam realized that was all he was going to say.
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