by Nora Roberts
and my skin went hot then cold. It seemed as though I’d be swallowed up by your eyes, they’d gotten so dark, so intense. I thought: This is it. I was positive you were going to pull me into your arms and kiss me. I knew you were. We were Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh and the garage was Tara. Then you were shouting at me, absolutely livid that I was continually in your way. You swore magnificently, giving me a good shake before you pushed me away. You said some really dreadful things; the worst, to me, was that you called me an annoying child. Anything else, I could have passed off, but that crushed my pride and my ego and my fantasies with one blow. I never gave a thought to the tension you must have been under with the race the next day, or to the simple fact that I was in your way. I only thought about what you were saying to me and how it hurt. But I’ve always been a survivor. As soon as it began to hurt too badly, my defenses came up. When I turned and ran out of that garage, I didn’t love you anymore, but I hated you almost as obsessively.”
“You were better off,” Lance murmured. After a moment, he twisted his head and ran a fingertip down her cheek. “Have you forgiven me?”
Foxy gave him an easy smile. “I suppose. It’s been years, and since it cured me of being in love with you, I should be grateful.” With another yawn, she rested her head against his shoulder.
“Yes, I suppose you should,” he agreed softly. “Come on, I’ll get you back before you fall asleep on the sidewalk.”
Drowsy but willing, Foxy went with him as he slipped an arm around her waist.
Chapter 5
Monaco’s Grand Prix is a classic example of a round-the-houses circuit. The course is short, just under two miles, and in the heart of a crowded civic complex. No part of the circuit is straight for more than a few feet, and among its eleven curves are two hairpins. One lap includes seventeen corners. The course is anything but flat; its ups and downs range from sea level to 132 feet above. Its hazards include curbs, sea walls, a three-hundred-foot tunnel, utility poles, and, of course, the sparkling Mediterranean. For the driver, there is not a second’s rest in the hundred laps. It is short, slow, and unlike any other Formula One course in the world. It stands as a great test of man and machine as its constant demands make it more fatiguing than longer, faster circuits. Here was a course that tested a car’s reliability and a man’s endurance. Still, it remains romantic and somehow mystical, like a yearly joust before the prince and princess.
Through quick maneuvering, Pam had managed to corner Kirk for an interview. There were just over two hours before race time, and the pits were crowded and noisy. Monaco’s pits stood exposed to the course at the head of the small, picturesque harbor. Behind them, the water was crowded with yachts and sailboats. Pam found herself glancing around for Foxy. Though it annoyed her, she knew she would be more comfortable if she did not interview Kirk alone. Pushing this thought aside, she looked directly into his eyes. This type of contact was as essential to her style as her clean-lined, elegant clothes and her calm, unruffled manner. The sharp, probing, tenacious mind was well camouflaged by the fragility of her appearance.
“I’ve heard a lot of differing opinions on this course,” she began, adding her professional smile. “Some, especially the carmakers I’ve spoken to, consider Monaco a drawing-room circuit. How do you feel about it?”
Kirk was leaning back against a wall, sipping from a foam cup. Thin wisps of smoke rose from it. His eyes squinted against the sun, and he looked completely at ease. Pam felt stiff and formal. It annoyed her that Kirk Fox always caused her to feel stiff and formal and somehow out of place.
“It’s a race,” he answered simply as he watched her over the rim of his cup. “It’s not fast. It’s rare a driver goes over a hundred and forty and usual to go less than thirty on the hairpins. But then, it’s more a test of stamina and ability than speed.”
“The driver’s or the car’s?” Pam countered.
His eyes crinkled deeper at the corners as he grinned. To her fascination, they seemed to grow greener. “Both. Two thousand or more gear changes in two and a half hours is a strain on a man and a machine. And there’s the tunnel. You go from daylight to dim and back to daylight. Do your batteries ever run down?” he asked, taking the tape recorder that hung at her side.
“No,” she returned coolly. If he was going to laugh at her, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of reacting. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “You had a crash here two years ago that totaled your car and broke your left shoulder. Will that experience affect your driving today?”
“Why should it?” Kirk countered, then drained his coffee. He was watching her with complete concentration, oblivious to the milling crowds in the pit area.
“Don’t you worry about crashing again?” Pam insisted. As the frisky breeze tugged at her hair she tucked it behind her ear with a quick, impatient gesture. There was a tiny turquoise stone on the lobe. “Don’t you ever consider that the next time you crash, you might be killed? Doesn’t that come home to you, particularly when you pass over the part of the course where you crashed before?”
“No.” Kirk crushed the cup between his fingers, then tossed it carelessly aside. “I never think about the next crash, only about the next race.”
“Isn’t that foolhardy?” Knowing her tone had become argumentative did not prevent her from continuing. She was irritated with him without having a clear reason why. Pam always conducted her interviews craftily, charmingly. Now she knew she had lost the reins but felt no impulse to reach for them again. “Or are you just smug? One instant of miscalculation, one insignificant mechanical flaw, can result in disaster, yet you don’t think about it? You’ve had your share of crashes, been yanked out of wrecks, had your bones broken, and been laid up in hospitals. Tell me,” she demanded, “what goes through your mind as you’re roasting in the cockpit, hurtling around a track at two hundred miles an hour? What do you think of when they’re strapping you into that machine?”
“Winning,” Kirk answered without hesitation. The sharpness of her tone apparently bounced off the smooth nonchalance of his. His eyes roamed calmly over her face. The faint pink tint that temper gave her skin emphasized its flawlessness. He wondered how it would feel under his hand. The gold of her hair grew more vibrant as the sun washed over it. Pam watched the journey of his eyes and frowned. His eyes dropped to her lips.
“Is winning really all that important?”
Kirk’s gaze shifted from her mouth to her eyes. “Sure. It’s all there is.”
It was clear from his tone that he was completely sincere. Helplessly Pam shook her head. “I’ve never known anyone like you.” It was unlike her to lose her temper on the job, and she took a long breath to steady it. “Even here among all these other drivers, I haven’t met anyone who thinks along the same straight, unswerving line you do. I suppose if you had the choice, you’d like to die on the track in a blaze of glory.”
Kirk’s grin was quick. “That would suit me, but I’d like to put it off about fifty years, and I’d prefer it to be after I’d crossed the finish line.”
Pam’s lips curved of their own accord. He was outrageous, she thought, but honest. “Are all race-car drivers as mad as you are?”
“Probably.” Before she realized his intent, Kirk tangled his fingers in her hair. “I wondered if it was as soft as it looked. It is.” The back of his hand brushed her cheek. “Like your skin.” Pam’s usual aplomb deserted her, leaving her silent and staring. “Your voice is soft, too, and very appealing. I like the way you always look as though you’ve stepped out of a bandbox. It gives me the urge to muss you up a bit.” His voice was as insolent and amused as his grin.
Pam felt her cheeks grow warm and was infuriated. She had thought she had left blushing behind years before. “Is this a pass?” she asked in a scathing voice.
Kirk laughed, and she heard a trace of Foxy in the sound. “No, it’s just an observation. When I make a pass, you won’t have a chance to ask.” Still grinning,
he pulled her close and planted a long, hard kiss on her mouth. He thought she tasted like some rich, dangerous dessert and lingered over her longer than he had intended. When he released her, he felt the small whisper of air escape her lips as if she had held it there in surprise. “That,” he said easily, “was a pass.”
As he turned and sauntered away Pam lifted a finger to trace the place where his mustache had brushed her skin. A crazy man, she decided, unwilling to admit how deeply shaken she was. A truly crazy man.
***
Nearly two hours later, Foxy stood in almost the precise spot where her brother had been. Her mood was just short of grim. All too clearly, she remembered every detail from the evening before. The wine had not been kind enough to dull her memory.
I told him to kiss me, she thought on a wave of self-disgust. I practically ordered him to. It wasn’t bad enough that I went out with him when I should’ve known better, but I made certain he knew I was enjoying myself every minute. Blasted champagne! Letting out her breath in a huff, she crammed the straw hat she wore further down on her head. Then I babble on about the silly crush I had on him when I was a teenager. Oh boy, when I go out to humiliate myself, I don’t do it by halves. All that business about being in love with him and fantasizing about him. Closing her eyes, Foxy made a strangled sound in her throat. The breeze blew from the harbor, cooling her skin under her white gauze blouse. She set her teeth and lifted her camera as the parade lap began. I wonder if it’s possible to avoid him for the rest of the season? Better, she added as she worked systematically, for the rest of my life.
As the drivers lined up for the green flag Foxy scurried for a new angle. In a moment, the air thundered with engines, and utilizing the motor drive, she shot each row of cars as the flag set the start. Crouched on one knee, she caught the low, fragile sleekness so unique to the Formula One racer. Her movements were calm and professional, absorbing her concentration, lending her an air of efficiency at odds with the sassy straw hat and thin, faded jeans. The lead car was already rounding the first curve before she rose. As she turned back toward the pits she collided with Lance. His hands came out to steady her, bringing her an uncomfortable sensation of déjà vu. Hastily Foxy disentangled herself from his hold, then made a business of adjusting her camera.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were behind me.” Realizing she would have to meet his eyes sooner or later, she tossed her hair behind her shoulder and boldly lifted her chin. The amusement she had expected to see on his face was absent. There was no mockery in the dark gray depths of his eyes. She recognized the long, thorough study he was making and backed away from it. “You’re looking at me as though I were an engine that wasn’t responding properly.” Frowning, Foxy busied herself by dragging sunglasses out of her camera case. She felt more at ease once they were in place. A shield was a shield, however slight.
“You might say I found a few surprises when I opened the hood.”
Foxy was not certain how to take the quiet quality of his voice. His continued unblinking study was unnerving. She knew he was capable of watching her endlessly without speaking. He could be incredibly, almost unnaturally patient when he chose to be. Knowing she would be outmatched in this sort of contest, Foxy took the initiative. “Lance, I’d like to speak with you about last night.” Her sophisticated demeanor was hampered by rising color. The roar of engines cut her off, and she turned away to watch the cars hurtle by. The pack was still thick after the first lap. Cheeks cool, Foxy took a deep breath and turned back to Lance. His eyes left the track to meet hers, but he said nothing. He was waiting, composed and contained. Foxy could have cheerfully strangled him. “I wasn’t really myself last night, you see,” she began again. “Wine...liquor has a tendency to go straight to my head, that’s why I usually avoid it altogether. I don’t want you to think, that is, I wouldn’t want you to feel...I didn’t mean to be so...” Frustrated, she jammed her hands into her pockets and shut her eyes. “Oh, help,” she muttered and turned away again. Lance remained silent as she squirmed and struggled. She wondered how it was possible to cast the line and be the fish at the same time.
That was brilliant, Foxy, she berated herself. Why don’t you try again, maybe you can top your own incoherency record. Get it out quick and stop stammering like an idiot. Setting her chin, she turned to face him again, meeting his eyes straight on. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression I would sleep with you.” Once it was said, Foxy let out a hasty breath and plunged ahead. “I realize I might have given that impression last night, and I don’t want you to misunderstand.”
Lance waited nearly a full minute before he spoke, all the while watching Foxy steadily. “I don’t believe I misunderstood anything.” His comment was ambiguous and left her floundering.
“Yes, well...I know when you took me back to my room you didn’t, well, you didn’t...”
“Make love to you?” he supplied. In a quick move, he stripped off her sunglasses, leaving her eyes vulnerable. Even as she blinked against the change in light, he closed the slight distance between them. His hand came to her arm, warning her not to back away. “No, I didn’t, though we’re both perfectly aware that I could have. Let’s say I had a whim to play by the rules last night.” His smile spread lazily, packed with confidence, while his voice became low and intimate. “I don’t need champagne to seduce you, Foxy.” His mouth lowered to brush lightly over hers before she could move. It was a kiss that promised more.
Infuriated by his calm arrogance, incensed that her pulses had responded instantly, Foxy snatched the glasses back from him and jerked away. “Stuff your seductions.” Her suggestion was drowned out by the noise of the second lap. Foxy threw an annoyed glare over her shoulder at the line of cars. Temper sparked in her eyes when she turned back to face Lance. “Just remember that last night was a lapse of intelligence on my part, that’s all. And all that—that stuff I talked about . . . ” To her greater fury, she felt her cheeks grow warmer. What had possessed her to confess that foolish crush? “All that business about that night in the garage was just as ridiculous as it sounded.”
“How ridiculous was that?” Lance asked with an ease in direct contrast to Foxy’s agitation. She barely resisted stomping her foot.
“I was sixteen years old and very naive. I’m sure it’s not necessary to go into it any further.”
“You’re not sixteen anymore,” Lance commented with a slight inclination of his head that reminded her of the elegant man of the evening before, “but you’re still naive.”
“I am not,” she blurted out indignantly, then saw his brow lift and disappear under his fall of hair. Knowing her dignity was threadbare, she drew herself straight. “That’s hardly relevant and strictly a matter of your own opinion.” He smiled at that with quick charm, and Foxy hurried on. “I’ve got work to do, and I imagine you can find something to keep you busy for the next ninety-eight laps.”
“Ninety-seven,” Lance corrected as the leaders sped by. “Kirk’s in third position,” he noted absently before he looked back down at Foxy. “My opinion, Fox, might be to your advantage as it should induce me to continue playing by the rules for a while longer. It makes an interesting change.” He grinned, a crooked, challenging half grin, and she was instantly wary. “There’s no telling when I’ll stop being a nice guy, though.”
“Nice guy!” Foxy repeated and rolled her eyes at the thought.
Still grinning, Lance took the sunglasses from her and perched them back on her nose before walking away.
***
Over the next three months, Foxy used all her skill to avoid Lance Matthews. From Monaco to Holland to France to England to Germany, she made certain to stay out of his way. Whenever possible, she coupled herself with Pam. She felt if she was not alone, Lance would not find the opportunity to approach her for a personal conversation. Her pleasure with her success was slightly marred by the fact that he did not appear to be fretting for lack of personal conversations. Their schedule since Monaco had been
tight. For the racing team there had been little time for anything but work and travel, meals and sleep. It was a hard, demanding circuit, packed with qualifying heats and practice runs and races. Away from the track, the hotels all began to seem the same. But each grid had a separate identity. Each was different, with its own problems, its own dangers.
With the end of summer came Italy and the Monza circuit. The grueling months in Europe had taught Foxy an important lesson. When the season was over, she would never follow the circuit again. Her days of moving from town to town, from pit area to pit area, were over. With each race her nerves had become more highly strung, her composure more difficult to maintain. It became apparent to her that the two years she had spent away from racing had left their mark. She could never be a part of it again. She knew if she ever came back to Italy, it would be to visit Rome or Venice, not Monza.
With night came utter silence. All during the day, the track had vibrated with the practice runs. As Foxy sat alone in the deserted grandstands she thought she could hear ghost cars whiz past, feel their phantom breeze. Sixty years of speed. The sky was faultlessly clear with a white moon and gleaming blue stars. The musky scent of the forest drifted to her, almost crowding the air. Behind her came the quiet chirp of crickets and small insects. It was warm, without the burning heat of the long, sun-filled day. There were no harsh fumes, no screaming tires or thundering engines. It was a night for promises and secrets, a night for romance and soft words. With a sigh, Foxy closed her eyes on the thought of Lance. More than anything else, she realized wearily, I need a little peace.
A hand on her shoulder brought her quickly back to the present. “Oh, Kirk!” She placed a hand to her drumming heart and smiled up at him. “I didn’t hear you.”
“What are you doing out here all alone?”
“I wanted some quiet,” she told him as he dropped down beside her. “There’s too much going on back at the hotel. What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “I like the track the night before a race.” Carelessly he leaned back, then propped his feet on the seat in front of him. She saw he wore his old, reliable sneakers. “This is a fast track. We’ll set a record tomorrow.” He spoke with the absolute confidence of fact, not speculation.
“Did Charlie fix the exhaust problem?” Foxy studied his profile. Her mind was not on the car, not on the race, but on him. As in the past, she tried to draw on his confidence to soothe her own nerves.
“Yeah. Has Lance been bothering you?”
The question was so abrupt and so unexpected, Foxy took nearly a full minute to react. “What?” The one syllable was spoken with complete incredulity.
“You heard me.” She heard the annoyance in Kirk’s tone as he shifted in his seat to face her. His features were set and serious. “Is he bothering you?”
“Bothering me,” Foxy repeated carefully. She ran the tip of her tongue between her teeth, then lifted her brows. “Maybe you should be more specific.”
“Damn it, you know what I mean.” Exasperated, Kirk rose and stared out at the track. His hands retreated into his pockets. Foxy could feel his discomfort and marveled at it. She understood Kirk well enough to know he rarely put himself into an uncomfortable position. “I’ve seen the way he’s been looking at you,” he muttered, and she heard the scowl in his voice. “If he’s been doing more than looking, I want to know about it.”
Though Foxy clasped both hands over her mouth, the giggle escaped. When Kirk whirled around, his face was a study in fury.
