The Full Velocity Series Box Set

by Tracie Delaney

  I frowned. “You did?”

  He nodded. “When I flew into the track last Thursday and you weren’t outside, I worried something had happened to you. It was the first race you’d missed during the European season. I didn’t like how I felt when you weren’t standing there waving your flag daubed with ‘speed kills.’”

  I swallowed past an enormous lump in my throat, but as difficult as it was to speak without showing my hand, I managed to croak, “How did you feel?”

  He gently captured my hand and drew circles on my palm with the pad of his thumb. My stomach clenched at the tenderness of his touch.

  “Like a key part of my life was missing, but one I didn’t understand the true importance of.”

  Oh…

  I shook my head.

  Nope, no, no, no.

  Don’t let him suck you in, Mads.

  Tate Flynn was well-versed in laying on the charm, and it worked for him. Here was a man never short of female company. Well, I wouldn’t provide him with an opportunity to carve another notch in his headboard.

  “Did you get that line from a cheesy romcom?”

  He sniggered. “How’s that defense mechanism working out for you, Madison?”

  I withdrew my hand and swept a finger inside the collar of my shirt that suddenly became too tight. I didn’t like how easily Tate read me, or how he so effortlessly guessed what was going on inside my head. Probably all the practice he’s had, I thought bitchily.

  Time to take control of this situation.

  “Do you really want to know more about Dean?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded, turned around, and retook my seat. He followed, once again sitting opposite. He assumed the same casual pose as before, ankle crossed over his knee, arm along the back of the couch.

  I thought carefully about the best place to start. I wanted Tate to hurt, but I didn’t want to expose too much of my emotional pain. I truly believed that if I did, he’d take full advantage, manipulate things and get me all tied up in knots.

  “Dean loved motorsport, and you were his idol,” I said. “He had posters of you all over his bedroom wall. He would avidly watch every race you drove in. He stalked your social media. Every interview you gave he’d listen so carefully, often watching the footage over and over. His interest always increased when you talked about the thrill of the race, how exciting it was to drive these amazing machines.”

  My spine felt rigid, like it had been set in concrete.

  “The problem, though, Tate, is that you never mention the dangers. You don’t tell these impressionable young kids that getting into a car and driving fast is not a good idea unless you have the skill, the training, the right protective gear. That climbing inside an ordinary road car that hasn’t been built for racing, and careening down the street at a hundred miles an hour, is risky at best. At worst, it could result in your death—as it did with Dean.”

  I rubbed my arms, suddenly feeling chilled, and a shudder ran through me. Tate listened in silence, while my heart sobbed for Dean.

  “My beloved baby brother didn’t get the chance to build a fulfilling career or marry and have kids. He’ll be forever young when he should have had the chance to grow old. My parents never got over losing him. It destroyed them, my mother in particular.”

  “I know what that’s like,” Tate murmured, shifting his gaze to a spot in the distance over my shoulder, his voice so low, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I’d heard him correctly. Before I could question him, his eyes cut to mine.

  “I’m sorry, Madison. Really. Losing a brother is dreadful, a pain that’s almost impossible to recover from, but if you’re really honest with yourself, you’ll know that you can’t lay the blame on me. I would hazard a guess that your brother loved speed, not because he followed me and my career, but because, like a lot of young guys, he sought the adrenaline rush of doing something dangerous.”

  I didn’t expect him to admit fault, but the glib way he’d declined to accept even a small amount of responsibility lit a fire of rage inside me.

  I stood, jamming a finger in his direction. “How dare you! You don’t know a single thing about my brother. I couldn’t care less what you think, Tate. I know who’s to blame for his death, and God knows how many others. I hope you manage to sleep well at night, with that on your conscience.”

  I strode across the living room to the foyer and right into the lift. As I spun around, Tate had his shoulder propped up against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He made no move to stop me leaving this time.

  “Let me at least ring for a cab.”

  I scowled, stabbing the button for the lobby. “I am more than capable of getting my own damned cab.”

  “Of course you are,” he murmured.

  I had no reply to that. I cast him a withering look and clenched my hands into fists as the doors closed, cutting him off from view.

  Madison

  Rain battered the window, waking me earlier than I’d have liked. I opened my eyes and groaned. My head throbbed. Great, a goddamn stress headache. Rolling over, I opened the bedside table drawer and removed a bottle of ibuprofen. I swallowed two, dry, and burrowed back underneath the covers to wait for the drugs to kick in.

  I should have felt lighter after finally laying my anger at Tate’s door last night. Instead, I felt empty. For two years, hate had consumed me. I’d always anticipated that when the opportunity arose for me to tell Tate Flynn exactly what I thought of him, I’d finally be able to move on. Except last night’s purging of emotion hadn’t done me any favors at all. Sadness weighed me down, and I did something I hadn’t done since Dean’s funeral.

  I cried.

  Actually, crying wasn’t the correct description. More of a kind of desolate sobbing that came from an absolute sense of helplessness erupted from deep within me, but I had to let it out, because by continuing to hold it inside, my grief was poisoning me.

  I’d hoped to pass the baton of my anguish, pain, and suffering onto Tate. I expected to feel better, that the loss of Dean wouldn’t hurt so much once I’d told the man responsible how much damage he’d done to my family.

  Except it hadn’t made one iota of difference. In fact, it’d made matters worse because instead of being able to think about Tate in terms of the Big Bad Wolf, his confession about liking me kept reverberating around my head. Unsettling. Confusing. And the way my skin had tingled with heat when he’d touched me. Unnerving.

  I couldn’t stay in bed forever, even if I wanted to. No, I needed something to keep me busy for the next few days before I flew to Germany for the next race. This job was so different to what I’d become accustomed to. I found myself with a lot more free time, and whereas I’d previously craved a better work/life balance, now that I’d got my wish, I didn’t know what to do with the vacant spaces inside my head.

  One thing I wasn’t going to do… fill those spaces with thoughts of Tate Flynn.

  I showered and dressed, and by the time I wandered into the kitchen to make coffee, the stabbing pain in my head had dulled. I stuck a bagel in the toaster and grabbed some spreadable cheese from the fridge. Not the healthiest of breakfasts, but I craved comfort food after my emotional start to the day.

  As I took a bite, something Tate had said last night crept into my mind.

  Losing a brother is a terrible thing.

  How could he know what it felt like?

  Curious, I grabbed my coffee and breakfast and sat at the desk tucked into the corner of my living room. I opened my laptop, bit into my bagel and, after brushing a few stray crumbs off my keyboard, typed Tate Flynn into Google.

  Thousands of pages were returned, most of them talking about his win at the British Grand Prix yesterday. I scrolled through, spotting lots of interviews I’d previously read or watched. I’d spent an enormous amount of time over the last two years following Tate’s professional life, but the one thing I’d never dug into—because I hadn’t been remotely interested until now—had been his p
ersonal life. I knew nothing about his childhood, what his life had been like growing up, who his parents were.

  I still wasn’t interested, not really, only curious because of what he’d said.

  I opened his Wikipedia page and scrolled down to the early life section. Scanning, I discovered he’d lived his first few years in Gloucestershire, in a small village set deep in the English countryside, before his parents moved closer to London. An avid motor racing fan, his dad had some moderate success in the lower leagues but never really hit the big time. He’d turned his attention to the corporate world and developed a small telecoms business into a global giant with turnover running into the hundreds of millions, if not billions. Tate’s mum ran her own business, too—albeit on a much smaller scale—a catering firm whose clients included the rich and famous.

  My gaze fell on a snippet of information that explained Tate’s comment. Tate used to have an older brother by five years, Cameron, who’d died at the age of twenty-one from Hodgkin’s lymphoma. By all accounts, Cameron had been the racing driver, the one his parents had poured all their energies and resources into making a success. Only after Cameron passed away had Tate taken up racing, at least seriously. Before then, he’d messed around with go-karts, but from what I could glean, it had only been for fun, which made his achievements incredible, unbelievable even. Most Formula One world champions would have raced seriously from the age of seven or eight, even earlier in some cases. If Tate had only started at sixteen, that said a huge amount about his natural ability, not to mention his determination.

  Have I misjudged him?

  No. Absolutely not. Regardless of his own terrible loss, he still had a responsibility to show the downside to racing cars, something he’d failed to do. Instead, he preferred to grab the next sponsorship deal that paid him more money than he’d ever be able to spend—and all that on top of the enormous salary he received for every race he drove in—all so he could buy the latest helicopter, plane, or a fancy penthouse apartment in Knightsbridge.

  But what if I could persuade him to do more to share the reality of racing at killer speeds? The risks, the danger, to share that without the proper training and discipline there was a strong probability of serious injury or death.

  To send a message that dying held no glamor.

  Maybe I should try a different approach with Tate, especially given we’d found some common ground, even if it was terribly tragic common ground.

  I wolfed down the rest of my breakfast and swigged the now cold coffee.

  Time to put my plan into action.

  I discovered my car parked in my allotted space outside my building, just as Tate promised it would be, and my keys had been left with the building attendant. I climbed in and fired up the engine. He only lived five miles away, but as today was Monday, the traffic was horrendous. I crawled through the streets of London, finally parking in a metered space outside Tate’s apartment block. I scrabbled around in the glove compartment, luckily finding enough spare change to put in the meter. It only bought me an hour, but that should be plenty of time to do what I needed.

  Entering the lobby, I crossed over to the bank of lifts. I scanned the buttons, looking for the penthouse. It wasn’t listed.

  Odd.

  I stepped back outside and went over to the reception area. I had to wait for the lady behind the desk to deal with a delivery driver dropping off a large box. I fidgeted from foot to foot. Finally, he left, and she called me forward.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hi, I need to get up to the penthouse, but the lift doesn’t have an option.”

  “Oh, no, sorry, it doesn’t. Only that one gives you entry to the penthouse.” She pointed behind her to the same lift I’d traveled down in last night, but in my haste to leave the building, I hadn’t paid any attention to its location.

  “Okay, thanks,” I said, setting off.

  “But you have to be approved, and then you’re sent a special code via text,” she helpfully added.

  I frowned and turned around. “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m afraid not. Only those on an approved list can go up to the penthouse. What’s your name? I’ll check if you’re on the list.”

  I rolled my eyes. Typical celebrity. Then again, that wasn’t all together fair. He’d more than likely put that process in place for security reasons. Someone as famous as Tate couldn’t have just anyone rocking up whenever they felt like it. The lift did open right into the foyer of his home after all. Groupies, stalkers, rabid fans would all have a field day if given that level of access to one of the most famous racing drivers in the world.

  “I won’t be on the list,” I told her. “How do I get approved?”

  “Only Mr. Flynn can do that,” she said, her cheeks coloring as she spoke Tate’s name. Must have a crush on him. Poor girl.

  “Okay, so call him. Tell him Madison Brady is here to see him.”

  She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Brady. I’m not allowed to call.”

  “Not allowed to…” I expelled a heavy breath. “Forget it. I’ll call him.”

  I didn’t have Tate’s number, but I knew someone who would, or at least she’d be able to get a hold of it if she didn’t have it in her personal contacts. Of course, she’d grill me, wanting to know the ins and outs of why I was standing in the lobby of Tate’s building demanding his number. Still, I didn’t have a choice if I wanted to talk to him. The clock was ticking on the meter.

  “Kaz,” I said when she answered. “I need Tate Flynn’s number. Do you have it?”

  “Morning to you, too, darling,” she replied.

  I grinned. She was used to my direct approach.

  “More important than niceties,” Kaz said, “is why you want Tate’s number. Do tell.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted his number. I said I needed it. I’m standing in the lobby of his building, but apparently, he has a stupid bloody list, and if you’re not on said list, you don’t get the code for the lift.”

  Kaz chuckled. “Yeah, Tate introduced that process a couple of years ago when some female fans discovered his address and sweet-talked the security guard into letting them up. He wasn’t pleased. If I remember rightly, they found him stark-bollock naked, and one of the girls took a picture and shared it on social media. If you search, I’m sure you’ll be able to find it.”

  A mental picture of Tate, completely in the buff, his lithe body and taut muscles on full display, popped into my mind. A fluttering set off in my belly. Thanks a bunch for that mental image, Kaz!

  “I’d rather not, thank you,” I lied. “Now, do you have his number or not?”

  Kaz laughed. “Ooh, darling, testy, testy. Anything you want to share?”

  “Kaz,” I said in a warning tone.

  “All right, keep your hair on. You know how I love teasing you. As a matter of fact, I do have his number, but if I give it to you and discover you’re using it to cause him trouble because you profess to hate his guts, I will hunt you down and kick your backside from here to Scotland.”

  “I’m not here to cause him trouble. I just need to talk to him.”

  “Hang on a sec,” Kaz said, then added, “Wait a minute. How do you know where he lives?”

  I groaned. Terrific. The very question I hoped she wouldn’t ask. “He flew me home last night in his helicopter, we had a quick drink in his apartment, then I went home.”

  Kaz let out a low whistle. “You flew back to London with Tate? Wow, you’re a fast mover.”

  I huffed. “If you must know, he wanted to know why I hate him so much, and I had the pleasure of telling him.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “As arrogantly as expected. He doesn’t believe he has anything to do with Dean’s death.”

  Kaz and I have had this argument on several occasions. She didn’t find Tate culpable either. It had become such a point of contention between us that, these days, we rarely mentioned it. Neither of us were prepared to give an inch, renderin
g the discussion pointless.

  “Give him a chance, Mads,” she said.

  I grunted.

  Kaz’s heavy sigh reached me, and then she said, “You should have his number now.”

  I checked my texts. “Got it. Thanks, babe.”

  “Be nice,” she said before hanging up.

  I saved Tate’s details to my contacts, then called him. My heart galloped, thudding against my ribcage as the ringing tone sounded in my ear. I didn’t understand why I felt as nervous as a teenager on her first date.

  “Madison,” he said when he answered. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Yeah, I—” I hesitated. “Hang on. How did you know it was me?”

  “Educated guess. I watched you make a call, and then my phone rang with an unknown number. It wasn’t a huge leap to guess the caller.”

  “You can see me?” I glanced around, half expecting to find Tate standing right behind me. “How? Where are you?”

  “The lobby has CCTV. It’s hooked up to a TV screen in my apartment.”

  I clenched my jaw. “So, this whole time you could see me, and you didn’t come down.”

  My ears sang at his low, husky chuckle, even though he’d royally pissed me off. “How could I know you were here to see me? Lots of people live here.”

  “Yeah, but only one lives in the bloody penthouse. If I were here to see someone else, I’d have just got in the damned regular lift.”

  “Okay, you got me.”

  I heard the smile in his voice. I expelled an irritated breath. “Are you going to let me up?”

  “Hmm, what’s in it for me?”

  “Oh, forget it,” I snapped. “I should have trusted my instincts. You are a giant, arrogant prick.”

  “Wait! You still there?”

  I planted a hand on my hip and expelled a noisy breath. “You should know. I’m on the bloody screen.”

  He chuckled again. “I’m texting you the code for the lift. Please do come up. I’ll cook you some breakfast.”

  “I’ve eaten.”

  “Then I’ll cook you lunch.”

  “It’s ten in the morning.”