“Something wrong?” I asked innocently, struggling to keep the grin off my face.
“No,” she snapped, her tone cutting and short.
I felt the merest swab of an alcohol wipe followed by a sharp scratch.
“You can get dressed now.”
I pulled up my trousers, rammed my stiffy inside, wincing because it did not want to go, then zipped myself up and refastened my belt.
“Can I ask you something?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Of course,” she said, her professional veneer firmly in place.
Ah, she thought I wanted to ask a medical question.
“What’s your real problem with me?”
She physically winced, and her eyes hardened. She picked up the tray and crossed the room, then slammed it on the counter, the utensils jumping. Her shoulders hunched, and she repeatedly flexed her fingers. I got up, caught between leaving, as she clearly wanted me to, and staying so she had to face me and give me the answers I demanded.
“Madison,” I said. “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”
She spun around, revealing a face twisted with pain. Faint blotches colored her cheeks. “I don’t owe you shit.” She spat the words, full of venom and hate.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I think you do. For two years you’ve protested against this sport, and against me in particular. I want to know why I’m so special. Why I’m the focus of your anger, your hate.”
“Because you killed my brother!”
Her chest heaved, and her hands curled into rigid fists at her sides, while I stood there, stunned, her words the very last thing I’d ever imagined spilling from her lips.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
She poked her finger in my direction. “You make out that it’s all so glamorous, so exciting, so thrilling. You never mention the dangers, the risks, the fact that impressionable young men want to emulate you, to be just like you. Except they don’t have the skill, the training, the support. They get in their souped-up road cars and race each other without a clue about the consequences. Terrible consequences that shatter lives, break families, steal futures.”
My mouth slackened, and I blinked rapidly as her words slowly sank in. “You lost your brother in an illegal street race.”
All her fight ebbed away, and she sank into a chair, nodding.
“Jesus.” I swept a hand down my face. Silent seconds scraped by before I crossed over to her and crouched. “Madison, I’m so sorry.” I gently grazed my knuckles over her cheek.
I fully expected her to knock my hand away or scream assault and land me in a whole heap of trouble. Instead, she briefly closed her eyes.
“He meant everything to me.” Her voice came out small, heavy with grief, yet tinged with defeat.
I shoved a hand through my hair and found myself saying, “Come for a drink with me tonight. We can talk. We need to talk. We shouldn’t leave things like this.”
“What good would talking do?” she snapped. “Will it bring back my brother? No. So what’s the point?”
“Because you working here changes things. We’re going to see each other all the time. We need to clear the air.”
She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m tired, Tate. I’ve got a long drive home to London. It’s Sunday evening, so the traffic will be horrendous. I just want to get back, crawl under the covers, and sleep for a week.”
“One drink. I’ll take you back in my helicopter. We can be in London in no time, and I promise to have you tucked up in bed by ten.”
She arched a brow. “Your very own helicopter? How privileged of you.”
I detected a hint of curiosity buried within the derision in her tone. I twisted my lips into a crooked grin and cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Come on, I dare you.”
Her shoulders sagged, and she heaved a sigh. “My car is here. I need my car.”
I could sense her caving, even if my victory was only driven by her exhaustion. “I’ll have my assistant drive it back.”
She rolled her eyes, I guessed because of the assistant comment coming on the back of the admission I owned a helicopter, but the mechanics of transporting me from one place to another was a full-time job. My assistant, Zoey, was my frigging lifeline.
I playfully bumped her shoulder, wanting to lighten the atmosphere. “You know you want to.”
She hesitated, grazed her bottom lip with her teeth, then nodded. “Fine.”
More pleased than I cared to admit to either of us, I grinned and stuck out my arm. “Your carriage awaits.”
She snatched up her handbag and, ignoring my arm, marched outside. We walked over to the helipad in silence, but when the ’copter came into view, blades spinning, she faltered. “Fuck,” she muttered.
“Scared?” I taunted.
She glowered, edged me out of the way, and climbed aboard.
Madison
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I chanted as the helicopter left the ground. I hadn’t been prepared for how steeply they tipped forward on takeoff.
What the hell am I doing here? Why did I give in, so easily, to Tate’s ridiculous suggestion?
If I’d insisted on driving home, I’d have spent the next four hours sitting in a queue of traffic, but at least I wouldn’t have to put up with the terrible churning in my stomach and deal with the close proximity of Tate, a man I professed to abhor.
“Relax,” Tate said. “Harry is an experienced pilot.”
I closed my eyes. You’re safe. It’s okay, Mads. Everything’s fine.
“You are safe, and everything is fine,” Tate said.
My eyes snapped open and cut to his. “Was I talking out loud?”
He winked. “Mads… I like it.”
I gave him a blank stare. “Only my friends are allowed to call me Mads.”
“I’ll accept Madison for now,” he said.
His impish grin sent a jolt of adrenaline through my veins. Or, more likely, the unfamiliar movement of the helicopter caused my body to react so anxiously. I shoved clammy hands beneath my thighs.
“Carry on being an arse, and I’ll make you call me Dr. Brady.” I put my spiky retort down to a combination of the relief at finally telling him about Dean and the unnerving feelings Tate had awoken in me. I didn’t like them. I didn’t like him.
“Carry on reacting like that, and I’ll think you’re thawing toward me.”
Dammit. Was I so transparent? I snorted and turned to gaze out of the window, but when the helicopter banked to the left, giving me an all-too-scary view of the rolling fields surrounding the Silverstone track, my head snapped forward once more.
I sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, the sound mimicking a mechanic sharing bad news about the car you’d had towed into the garage on the back of a recovery vehicle.
He reached out to me. “You can hold my hand if you want.”
I gave him my best ‘fuck you’ glare. I expected him to retaliate with some quip, but he only blinked, then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. My eyes automatically lowered.
Oh hell, that was a definite bulge in his trousers.
I should have been horrified that the man I’d spent two years despising had a hard-on for me. Instead, a swarm of butterflies took flight inside my belly.
Averting my gaze, I took several deep breaths until the unwanted feelings disappeared. Don’t worry, Mads. It had been a long time since I’d had sex, that was all. Purely a physiological response. It didn’t mean I found Tate attractive. If he was the last man on Earth, and the very existence of mankind rested on my shoulders, I still wouldn’t let him touch me.
So why are you here?
I ignored the annoying inner voice. I had my reasons, and I didn’t need to justify them to anyone, including me.
Okay, that sounded kinda crazy.
What was I doing here? Why agree to get into his stupid helicopter in the first plac
e? What was the point of attempting a civilized conversation with Tate when our belief systems were polar opposites? We’d never agree, which rendered the debate pointless.
I puffed out my cheeks and stared at a spot on the ceiling. One drink. I could manage that. Maybe offload a little more of my pain onto the man responsible for causing it. Let him suffer a few sleepless nights replaying over and over in his mind what might have been. What he could have done differently. How, if he’d been just a little more honest about the realities and the dangers of racing cars, Dean might still be alive today.
Of course, I didn’t expect any of that to happen. Tate would fob me off with a few platitudes, the occasional nod in the right place, repeat his sorrow for the loss of my brother but insist that it wasn’t his fault. And then he’d go on his merry way, living his life at full throttle, continuing to plug the glamor and the excitement. He’d suck up the next sponsorship deal and laugh all the way to the bank.
The second the helicopter landed, I tugged off my headset and hung it on a peg. Ducking underneath the spinning blades, relieved to have my feet on solid ground, I sprinted across the asphalt. We’d landed on top of a tall building. I could see Canary Wharf in the far distance, the Shard rising high above the skyline, and the bright lights of London twinkling all around.
I glanced back at the helicopter to find Tate still sitting inside, talking to the pilot. I opened a door that led into the building. Ahead of me was a set of stone steps. Keen to get out of the wind, I jogged down and waited for Tate at the bottom beside a lift. He arrived a minute or so later.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“In my building.”
I widened my eyes. “You said we were going for a drink.”
“We are. I have drinks.”
I shook my head. “I’m not setting foot in your home. We either go to a bar, or I’m leaving.”
His lips curved up on one side. “Afraid, Madison?”
“No, just sensible. I don’t go into strange men’s apartments alone. What woman who has an ounce of self-preservation would?”
His eyebrows shot up. “What do you think I’m going to do? Force myself on you?” He shook his head. “Not my style, sweetheart. I’ve got them queueing up. I don’t need to coerce women into my bed.”
A fiery burning spread through my chest. It took a second or two to recognize the emotion: jealousy.
Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Madison. Jealous? Of the poor girls who had to suffer Tate Flynn heaving and panting on top of them? Pull yourself together, woman.
“So, we good to go?”
“Fine,” I gritted out.
I wasn’t in any danger from Tate. He irritated me more because he’d pitched me off-kilter by bringing me to his home, although I shouldn’t have been surprised. The local pub likely wouldn’t have sufficient space for a helicopter.
Tate pressed the call button and we entered the lift. He touched his thumb to a pad, and the lift doors closed. A few seconds later, they opened onto a huge foyer with dark-gray marble floors and a large oval glass table set in the center. On top sat a bronze statue at least two feet tall of a naked woman feeding her baby. I moved in to get a closer look.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Tate asked.
I reached out and touched the cool, smooth bronze. “Beautiful. Where did you get it?”
“Peru. I went there on holiday about three years ago. I visited this tiny village as part of a tour of the country, and I found it just sitting there in the window. I couldn’t hand over the cash quickly enough.”
His response surprised me, both by Tate owning something so elegant and graceful, and the story of how he’d acquired it.
“Peru? I took you for more of a beach bum, or the type who holidays in Ibiza, spending your nights covered in foam at one of those drug-fueled clubs.”
I needled him on purpose, but Tate didn’t bite. He laughed.
“Ten years ago, you’d have been right. I like to think that now I’m almost thirty I’ve left all that behind me. These days I prefer to enjoy a little culture or natural beauty on holiday.”
He opened a set of double doors and stepped into an enormous open-plan living space. Contemporary in style, but rather than being stark and cold, it gave off real warmth. Colorful pictures adorned the walls, thick rugs softened the marble-tiled floors, and the sofas were covered in bright scatter cushions.
“Take a seat,” Tate said, gesturing at the couch area. “What can I get you to drink?”
I folded my skirt beneath me and sat. Mentally, I was struggling to process how I’d ended up here, in Tate’s home, having an almost civilized conversation. For now, I decided to go with it.
“Dry white wine if you have it,” I said.
He opened a large fridge and removed a bottle, poured one glass, grabbed himself an iced water, then strolled over to me. Whether our earlier conversation was on his mind, or he’d tuned in to my discomfort, he took a seat opposite me rather than adjacent.
“Don’t you go out with your team after a race win?” I asked.
He sipped his water then set it down in front of him and nodded. “Sometimes.”
“Why not tonight?”
He rested his arm over the back of the sofa. “Because I’d rather spend the time with you.”
I did not expect that.
My abdomen clenched, and I dampened my lips. “You’d rather spend time with the woman who hates you than celebrate a victory with your team?”
The merest hint of a smirk played on his lips. He crossed his left ankle over the opposing knee, his jeans riding up, allowing me a glimpse of his lower leg. Tanned, a light dusting of hair. I quickly averted my gaze.
“Here’s the thing, Madison. I don’t believe you hate me. Not really. I think you’re consumed by grief and blaming me for the awful tragedy you and your family suffered became your solution rather than facing up to your feelings. And if it helps to cast me as the villain then,” he shrugged, “I’ve got broad shoulders. I can take whatever you choose to throw at me. But if you truly hated me, there is no way you’d have taken a job that brings us into much closer contact. You’d have continued to wave your protest flags and carry on pretending you despised me.”
I sat there, stunned. Not because he was way off the mark, but because his words had touched a very deep, well-hidden nerve. A nerve that led to the truth he’d so articulately voiced. When Kaz had asked me to cover for her, I’d agreed a little too readily. All, of course, under the banner of ‘fixing shit from the inside.’
What utter rubbish.
I was a lone voice trying to roll a machine uphill with both arms tied behind my back. Formula One was a business, a giant, successful, global corporation. One I had zero chance of influencing, either from the inside or standing on the periphery. So why accept this job?
Because you wanted to get close to Tate.
No. Wrong. I refused to accept that as the reason. I scrabbled around for a suitable response while Tate sat there, patiently waiting. I picked up my glass, buying time by taking a drink. Casually rotating it by the stem, I focused my attention on the liquid swirling inside.
“Hate’s a strong word, I guess. Maybe intense dislike is more accurate.” I lifted my gaze. “And my reasons for taking this job are private.”
I just need to figure out what they are. Fast.
His eyes locked on mine, and his tongue swept over his top lip. A hot flush ripped through me. I needed to look away, but I couldn’t. Something… an energy, an invisible thread, trapped me right there, in the moment.
Seconds passed, and neither of us spoke. The silence grew heavy, metaphorically weighing me down, but inside, my blood heated, my nerve endings tingled, my heart raced.
When his gaze cut away, my shoulders actually sagged. Exhausted, overwrought, on edge, I set my glass down, a little too heavily, and wine spilled over the top. Normally, my manners would have insisted I clean the mess, but tonight couldn’t be described as normal.
I l
urched to my feet. “Thanks for the drink and the lift back to London, but it’s been a long weekend, and I’m tired.”
I walked toward the entrance door, but I didn’t get far. I blinked and found him in front of me. With speed like that, he’d make a great assassin.
“Don’t go,” he said gently. “I don’t want you to go.”
I drew in a ragged, shuddering breath. “Why, Tate? What’s the point?”
He scratched his cheek and rebalanced his weight onto his left foot. “Because you may intensely dislike me, Madison, but I find myself feeling the complete opposite. It’s only fair to warn you that I intend to work damned hard to change your mind about me, so you’d better get used to having me around.”
His admission might not have come completely out of the blue, given the earlier ‘excitement’ in his nether regions, but it still shocked me to my core. Both men and women could be sexually attracted to someone without liking them or even knowing them. If there was a need to like and/or know someone before being sexually attracted, one-night stands wouldn’t exist. But his admission that he did, in fact, like me, knocked me off-balance.
When I didn’t respond, he sighed. “Please stay. Tell me about your brother.”
I found my voice, although I questioned the operating ability of my brain when instead of responding to his interest in Dean, I asked, “Why on earth do you like me when I’ve caused you nothing but trouble for two years?”
He chuckled. “Aww, Madison, call that trouble?” He leaned closer and whispered, “Here’s a little secret. I always looked forward to seeing you.”
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.
Gridlock: Full Velocity Series - Book 2 Page 4
