Pictures of Lily

& Schuster and Pocket Books proudly present
    Paige Toon’s sensational novel

     
    Available now!
    ISBN 978-1-84739-390-6
    eBook ISBN 978-1-84739-952-6
    Turn the page to read a sample chapter of Chasing Daisy . . .

 
Prologue
     
    ‘YOU SON OF A . . . Figlio di puttana !’ That jerk in a yellow Ferrari just cut me up! ‘Yeah, that’s right, you heard me, you testa di cazzo !’ I shout at him as he pulls into the petrol station opposite me. His window slides down.
    ‘What the hell are you saying to me, you crazy bitch?’
    How dare he! He nearly squished my scooter and me to a pulp with his fancy car!
    ‘You nearly ran into me, you coglione !’
    He gets out of his car, looking cross. ‘Cogli- what ?’
    ‘ Coglione ! Dickhead!’ I shout at him from across the street.
    ‘Why don’t you speak in English?’ he shouts back.
    ‘Because we’re in BRAZIL, cretino !’
    ‘ I’m Brazilian! And that’s no language I know!’ He throws his hands up in the air.
    Well, okay, it’s Italian, if he’s going to be fussy about it. I always swear in Italian. But that’s beside the point.
    Oh no, he’s coming over here.
    ‘You almost ran over me, you arsehole!’ I plaster my angry face back on.
    ‘That’s better,’ he says sarcastically. ‘At least I can understand what you’re saying to me, now.’
    It’s then that I notice he’s quite good-looking. Olive skin, black hair, dark-brown eyes . . . Don’t get distracted, Daisy. Remember where you’re at. And where I’m at is mightily annoyed.
    ‘You almost killed me!’
    ‘I didn’t almost kill you,’ he scoffs. ‘Anyway, you didn’t put your indicator on. How was I supposed to know you wanted to go over there?’ He points to the petrol station.
    ‘I did SO have it on! Va fanculo !’
    ‘What?’
    ‘ Va fanculo !’
    ‘Did you just tell me to fuck off?’ He looks incredulous.
    ‘Ah, so you do speak Italian?’
    ‘Hardly any, but I know what that means. Va se lixar !’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Piss off!’ he says, angrily, and starts to cross the road to get back to his car.
    ‘Piss off ? Is that the best you can do?’
    He casts a look over his shoulder that implies he thinks I’m seriously deranged and then opens the door to his Ferrari.
    ‘Hey! You!’ I shout. ‘I haven’t finished!’
    ‘I have,’ he calls.
    ‘Get back here and give me an apology!’
    ‘An apology?’ He laughs. ‘You owe me an apology. You almost scratched my car.’ He gets into his Ferrari and slams the door. ‘Silly woman driver!’ he shouts through the still-open window.
    ‘How dare you! You, you, you, STRONSO !’ Translation: bastard. ‘I hope you run out of petrol and get car-jacked!’ I scream after him, cleverly realising he didn’t fill his Ferrari with juice. But he can’t hear me. He’s long gone.
    Some people. Argh!
    How dare he imply I can’t drive! I’m still angry. Not angry enough to forgo my hotdog, mind. I pull out of the lay-by and cross the road to the petrol station, ignoring the stares from onlookers who witnessed our altercation.
    Stupid five-star hotel . . . It doesn’t do junk food, so I borrowed one of the team’s scooters and sneaked out.
    I shouldn’t have to sneak out, but I work in hospitality and catering for a Formula 1 team, and we don’t do junk food either. I’m supposed to be setting an example, but I’m American, for Christ’s sake. How can I live without it?
    Partly American, in any case. I was actually born in England. As for the rest of me, that’s hot-blooded Italian. That’s the side you just witnessed, there.
    I arrive at the hotel fifteen minutes later and my friend and colleague Holly is waiting on the front steps. She hisses at me to hurry.
    ‘Sorry!’ I hiss back. ‘Had to run an urgent errand!’
    ‘Doesn’t matter!’ She beckons me towards her.
    It’s then that I catch a glimpse of yellow in the car park. Yellow Ferrari. Oh, no.
    ‘Quick!’ she urges, as my heart sinks.
    I knew I recognised him from somewhere. He’s a driver. A racing driver.
    ‘The rumours must be true,’ she says, gleefully pushing me into the lobby.
    And at that moment, I see the Ferrari Fucker walking in the direction of the hotel bar with the team boss.
    ‘Luis Castro is signing with the team!’ Holly squeaks as I dive behind a potted palm tree.
    Shit, damn, fuck, tits.
    Not even Italian is going to cut it this time.

Chapter 1
     
    ‘Don’t you dare,’ Holly warns, as I suppress an unbearable urge to crawl