His to Defend - Em Petrova Page 0,2

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Damn you, Moreau.

He’d probably wandered off with a beautiful woman again. As his press agent, one major struggle with representing a top racecar driver was that she couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

“Give me two minutes, Monsieur. I’ll find my client and send him to you for that meeting.” She ended the call and dialed Moreau. His phone rang and rang. Most likely he silenced the device to give her, and anyone else he had obligations to, the slip. After the fourth ring, the call went to voicemail.

With a curse, Lillian shoved her phone in her trousers pocket and grabbed her handbag. If she hurried to the restaurant, she could possibly stop Pierre from missing the meeting entirely. When it came to a million-dollar sponsor, being late was better than not showing at all. Monsieur Brun and his colleagues already threatened to drop him entirely and look to another driver to hang their signs and patches on.

She rushed from the hotel suite and to the elevator. The big race would take place in mere days, and her client still needed a sponsor. If Brun pulled his support, who would pay Moreau’s entry fees? And what kind of press agent would she be? Nobody would want to work with her if she lost the biggest supporter in racing.

The elevator down to the bottom floor where the restaurant was located took far too long, and she tapped her high heel on the floor. As soon as the doors opened, she hurried out and shot across the open space to the restaurant.

Spotting Brun, she waved his way before continuing on to the hotel guard. In rapid-fire French, she asked if he’d seen Mr. Moreau leave the restaurant. Yes, he had. With a woman. The pair stepped back into the elevator.

“Damn.” She let the American side of her think up half a dozen other bad things to say in reference to her client. So irresponsible, always thinking of his pleasure first. The only thing he got serious about was winning his next race—and she had no doubt he would. If the stubborn ass could even enter after Brun stopped writing him checks.

She walked up to another hotel security guard. In her experience, these men and women were the eyes of the building, and they knew everything.

“Good day, sir. Have you by chance seen the woman who caught Mr. Moreau’s eye this morning?”

The older gentleman offered a smile. “That I have, mademoiselle.”

“Would you know which room she stays in?”

“Room? No.”

“Do you know the floor?” she pressed. “It’s urgent that I find Mr. Moreau for a meeting. You know he has a big race coming up.”

He smiled, and his moustache twitched in amusement. “That I do, mademoiselle. The race is everything at this time of year.”

“Please.” She pulled out a bill and pressed it into his hand. Money oiled many wheels in her line of business. “Which floor?”

“Seven.”

She grinned and stepped back into the elevator. “Merci!”

“Damn him,” she muttered in the English she’d learned from her American mother from birth and fluently swapped between. She didn’t have time to chase down and then babysit her client. Plenty of work awaited her before the upcoming race. Maintaining a positive relationship between Moreau and the public and press proved to be a full-time job. Add in press releases, scheduling public appearances and a book signing, and she put in fourteen-hour days for Moreau. The jerk could at least show up to a meeting.

The cocky driver thought he was too big for schmoozing sponsors anymore. After winning countless races and the 24 Heures du Mans two years running, she could see how he’d formed the misconception.

I’m here to set him straight.

Taking off down the corridor, she began pounding on doors, calling his name. “Pierre! Pierre Moreau!”

A door opened under her knock, and she faced a balding man. “Pierre Moreau is here in this hotel?”

“Ugh,” she made a frustrated noise in her throat and whirled from the door. He poked his head out and watched her go, but she ignored the man and pounded on the next room door.

By the sixth room, she had several angry guests shaking their heads or fists at her and no Moreau. She stomped down the corridor, her aggravation rising with each footfall. Her parents called her anger very American, and it became a bit of a family joke that when Lillian blew up, the world better watch out. In this case, Moreau better watch out.

She