Chapter 1

Alexendra

The roar flooding my ears is almost enough to drown out the pounding of my heart as I take my spot on the second podium level. So close, yet so far from that top podium once again. I paste on a thin smile, trying not to let the bitter disappointment show as I wave to the crowd.

Then he appears above me, and any attempt at hiding my frustration evaporates. Marco Bianchi, my so-called "teammate", is absolutely basking in the adoration as they festoon him with the winner's wreath. As if his blinding grin isn't sickening enough, he aims it straight at me as the team rep presents him with the iconic trophy.

"You know Dupont, they don't actually give out trophies for second place," he leans in with a loud whisper, words dripping with mocking amusement.

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to reach up and wipe that stupid smirk off his handsome face. "Keep running that mouth and I'll make sure you eat that trophy, Bianchi."

He barks out a laugh, his eyes crinkling infuriatingly at the corners. "Oh I'm shaking in my boots, teammate."

Before I can unleash the blistering retort burning on my tongue, Marco is hit squarely in the chest with a champagne blast. He sputters, blinking through the foaming deluge, and for one petty moment I feel a glimmer of vicious satisfaction.

But then his gaze refocuses on me, eyes burning hot enough to sear me even through the fizzy haze between us. There's a dark glint of something deeper there, something that has my heart giving an unwanted stutter.

His tongue darts out to catch a wayward champagne droplet at the corner of his lips, and I can't quite tear my eyes away. Until he breaks the trance with another mocking chuckle and a shake of his head.

This is far from over - that much is clear from the fiery challenge still crackling in the air between us. Teammates or not, Marco Bianchi just ensured our rivalry survived to burn even hotter another day.

And I'm going to make sure I return the favor with interest very, very soon.

I stalk into the team trailer, still seething from Marco's podium antics, and pull up short. Speak of the devil - Bianchi is already there, leaning over a display showing telemetry data from the race.

"Well if it isn't the second place superstar," he drawls without looking up, of course getting in the first dig.

Gritting my teeth, I grab the data tablet and shove it aside, making him face me. "Can it, Bianchi. We've got work to do."

His eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. "Work? You mean they expect us teammates to actually cooperate despite your constant glares and insults? Who knew?"

"I'm serious," I grit out, fighting to keep my tone even despite the urge to wipe that stupid smirk off his arrogant face. "We've been assigned to comb over the tire data and make recommendations to engineering."

Marco lets out an exaggerated sigh, but leans in next to me as I pull up the data screens. Our shoulders are practically brushing, his distracting cologne wafting over me despite my best attempts at ignoring it.

"Well? See anything insightful in those numbers, Picasso? Or is reading too much of a challenge for you?"

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw creaks. "You're one to talk. I've seen kids playing with finger paints who have more technical knowledge than yo--"

I'm cut off as Marco leans even closer, his breath warm against my ear as he mutters, "Stop stalling and actually try using what little brainpower you have for once, Champ."

For a long beat I'm rendered temporarily useless, hyper-aware of the tantalizing heat radiating from him and the offensive pet name like a nauseating caress. Finally, I find my voice, letting the words drip with disdain.

"Why don't you put that talented mouth to better use and make yourself useful for once, Bianchi?"

Our eyes meet in a searing glare, the undeniable spark crackling between us...

The air feels thick and charged as we glare at each other, daring the other to be the first to break. Marco's eyes are twin blazes of whiskey-colored challenge, flickering with that same reckless spark he shows on the track. Without thinking, I let my gaze drop to study the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest, the bead of sweat tracing a maddening path along the corded tendons of his neck...

Abruptly, he tears his eyes away with a derisive snort. "As entertaining as your helpless gawking is, we actually need to get this done if you want a hope of hanging onto my coattails this season."

I bristle at his insult, momentary distraction forgotten in a flash of liquid fury. "Why you arrogant, insufferable jerk..."

Grabbing his arm, I whirl him back to face me, our bodies almost flush together. For an eternal beat, everything narrows to the smoldering eye contact, the faint skim of his warm breath fanning over my cheek. Then I give him a hard shove backwards, putting an inch of distance between us as I snarl, "Just shut up and look at the data so I can show you how it's done."

Instead of retaliating like I expect, Marco stays disturbingly calm and collected, smoothing his hands over his team shirt. "By all means, make your case then," he murmurs, an unreadable glint in his eyes. "I'll let you try to impress me."

The challenge hangs heavy between us as I turn back to the displays, intensely aware of his proximity and the renewed flicker of something primal it's stirring. Getting flustered around Marco Bianchi is not an option - not when I know his arrogant eyes are roaming over my every microexpression, hungrily searching for any cracks in my armor.

Drawing a fortifying breath, I call up the relevant data and launch into my analysis, determined to outthink and outperform the cocky bastard hovering at my side yet again. If Marco wants a fight, intellectual or otherwise, I'll be sure he gets one he won't soon forget.