“As defending champion, you must defend your title,” he told Charley.
“Oh, I thought that was based on a technicality anyway,” Charley said politely. She could have been referring to anything—inebriation, pot luck, burst tyres, Matthias pulling up a bare whisker behind us because his single-minded focus had been to get us to Cannes safely—but the notable thing was that she was very polite.
Matthias, who had been disgruntledly chafing at the table at James Dorsey’s goading Charley and Charley’s pointed refusal to meet his eyes after that first exchange and wordless directive, saw the warning signs and leapt in.
“It’s impossible today for Charley and Lucia to take part in the race.” Charley looked at him in silent inquiry. “They’ve an appointment to see a property in Cimiez.”
“Are you mo
