by Nell Stark
Table of Contents
Synopsis
By Nell Stark
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Her Serene Highness Pommelina Alix Louise Canella of Monaco has lived her life as the “ugly duckling” of her glamorous family. But graduate school has kept her too busy to pine for a relationship, and being ignored by the media allows her to devote time to humanitarian projects without interference. Prima donna Formula One racer Thalia d’Angelis knows she’s been hired as a publicity stunt, but that only fuels her desire to be the first woman on an F1 podium. She might be on the verge of making history, but her behavior off the track is as risky as her driving.
The approaching Monaco Grand Prix—the crown jewel of the Formula One circuit—brings them together, but will these opposite and headstrong stars collide, or are they destined to cross?
The Princess and the Prix
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The Princess and the Prix
© 2015 By Nell Stark. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-477-3
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: November 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By Nell Stark
Running With the Wind
Homecoming
The Princess Affair
All In
The Princess and the Prix
By Nell Stark and Trinity Tam
the everafter series
everafter
nevermore
nightrise
sunfall
Acknowledgments
Like my Monegasque Princess Alix, I didn’t initially have much of an appreciation for Formula One—that is, until I began to research this novel. But the more I watched and read, the more respect I gained for a sport that combines athleticism with technology in a celebration of the limits of human endurance and engineering. Several sources were especially useful during my investigative process: the documentary 1, about the history of Formula One; the documentary Senna, about the life and tragic death of famed Brazilian driver Ayrton Senna; and the book Rush to Glory, which chronicles the epic rivalry of drivers James Hunt and Niki Lauda.
Like Formula One, my writing process is unpredictable: sometimes it feels like flying, and sometimes I’m stuck revving on the starting grid. I remain indebted to my wife, Jane, for her inspiration, encouragement, and patience. Our life together brings me so much joy, and our love makes all things possible.
I am also privileged to be a member of the best team in LGBT publishing. My enduring thanks go to Radclyffe for giving me the opportunity to publish with Bold Strokes Books, and I would like to thank all of the hardworking people at BSB—Lee, Sandy, Connie, Lori, Paula, Sheri, and others—for helping to market and release quality product year after year. My fellow BSB authors are a nurturing and inspirational community. I learn so much from you, and am proud to count you in my extended family.
Special thanks go to my editor, Cindy Cresap, who continues to teach me so much about the craft of storytelling. Her helpful and always-witty feedback has been instrumental in my growth as a writer.
Finally, thank you to the many readers who have supported my work throughout the years. This book is for you!
For Jane. Love conquers all
Chapter One
Thalia d’Angelis knew she was going to win. She also knew it wouldn’t matter. But as she guided her car around the first corner of her penultimate lap, she couldn’t afford to indulge in self-pity about her exclusion from yet another season of Formula One. She had to catch and then overtake the man in front of her—some young hotshot whose name she couldn’t remember, but who would doubtless be promoted at the end of the year while she languished here.
Swerving through the chicane, she steadily gained on him. He had either misjudged his pit stop or was driving inefficiently, because his tires were wearing out while hers were in good shape. She followed him closely down the straight and watched how he handled the left-handed curve. The best place to pass him was coming soon—a hairpin turn he wouldn’t be able to handle as quickly as she could.
As they barreled closer, she watched him hug the inside line. Sensible, since the inside of the track was now filmed over with the rubber laid down by twenty-two cars over the course of almost two hours. It would have more grip, and the closer to bald his tires became, the more grip he needed. She would have to overtake him on the outside, where the track was slipperier.
Anticipating the pain of gravity, Thalia sucked in a quick breath and grit her teeth as she slammed her left foot onto the brake pedal and turned hard into the corner. Lateral force lashed out, battering at her shoulders and neck. The effort of keeping her throbbing head raised caused Thalia’s vision to tunnel. Her throat burned in sympathy with her muscles, reminding her of just how long it had been since the pump for her drink bottle had malfunctioned.
But that didn’t matter. Nothing did, except making it through this turn on the higher line. Trusting in her tires, and guided by instinct combined with long hours on the simulator, Thalia took her foot off the brake and tapped the accelerator at the apex of the turn. Now, gravity pushed against her chest like a vise, arresting her breath. Her peripheral vision caught sight of the brightly painted exterior of the other car mere inches from her own, before she shot off down the straightaway.
When the vise loosened its grip, she gasped for air. As her peripheral vision returned, so did her urgency. She had to maintain her lead now, and the best way to do so was to stake out the fastest racing line as soon as possible. She didn’t think her opponent—what was his name?—had a snowball’s chance in hell of overtaking her, but to discount the possibility would have been folly.
“Great work there, Thalia.” The calm cadence of Dolf’s voice over her headset played a sharp counterpoint to the hammering of her heart. “Just keep it clean and you’ll be p
opping the champagne before you know it.”
She flicked the button that opened her radio channel. “Will do.”
The remainder of the race was satisfyingly dull, as Thalia pulled away from the rest of the field and was shown the checkered flag almost ten whole seconds before anyone else. At the end of her victory lap, she fired up the crowd by doing a few donuts. That kind of stunt would never have been acceptable in Formula One, but since she wasn’t there, she didn’t care.
After pulling into the first place spot, Thalia robotically followed the post-race protocol. She exited her car, patted it, and then waved to her fans. She entered the stewards’ booth and hopped onto the scale that would verify that her weight (coupled with that of her fuel-spent car) had never fallen below the minimum. She wiped her sweaty face with a towel and combed her fingers through her hair in an effort to look less like a drenched weasel and more like the glamorous racecar driver she was supposed to be. The most glamorous driver in the minor leagues.
As she stepped out on the podium, she tried to shrug off her bitterness. It was going to be a long season if she couldn’t manage to find any joy in winning the opening race. Thalia knew she wasn’t supposed to feel this way: that conventional—and therefore misogynist—wisdom demanded she maintain a positive attitude and keep on keeping on. She had at first believed, and then catered to, that wisdom for years. By now, she was sick and tired of it. No one told men to suck it up and be patient. They were tacitly and explicitly encouraged to be downright aggressive in pursuit of their goals. To suffer no fools and show no mercy and take no prisoners. Why should she behave any differently, just because one key chromosome had an extra leg?
Thalia plastered a smile on her face and half embraced her teammate Martin, who had taken third. Still blanking on the second-place finisher’s name, she was relieved when someone called him Didier, and she made an effort at good sportsmanship by shaking his hand. They were joined by the political officials who would distribute the trophies, and by the grid girls who were there to ornament the track. But no matter how many people wished her congratulations, Thalia couldn’t shake the uncanny feeling that she was watching herself go through the motions.
When “The Star Spangled Banner” began to play, she sang along. While she could claim dual citizenship with the United Kingdom, Thalia didn’t care to see the Union Jack behind her or hear “God Save the Queen.” England might be her chosen home now, but she was a product of the American Wild West, born and raised by a mother as beautiful and demanding as the desert. The product of a one-night stand at the U.S. Grand Prix twenty-six years ago, racing was in her blood. Looking back now on the terrible fights she’d had with her mother as an adolescent, Thalia couldn’t blame her for trying to steer her toward another course. Instead, she had fought her own War of Independence at sixteen, entering her father’s custody. He had promptly shipped her off to boarding school, but he had also allowed her to begin Karting in the summers.
Had he thought it would be a phase? Or was he proud of her accomplishments? Sometimes she believed he didn’t think of her at all, unless she was in front of him. He had never seen her as a person, but as a dependent who had to be cared for. Certainly, he had done his duty to the letter of the law, and beyond. But did he care that she had followed in his footsteps?
The anthem ended. The trophies were presented, but the silver cup felt too light as she hoisted it above her head. When the master of ceremonies directed their attention to the magnums of champagne at their feet, she took a long drink before halfheartedly shaking it and spraying the drivers who had come in behind her. They turned to spray the grid girls, but she refrained. Having slept with more than a few of them throughout her career, she knew they only grudgingly accepted a champagne shower as part of the job. It was hell on the eyes.
While Formula One always grabbed someone famous to conduct the post-race interviews—movie stars, models, politicians—GP2 always turned to Eric Fox, the top F1 reporter. As he stepped out onto the stage, Thalia indulged in a few more sips of champagne. He began with Martin, asking him about his strategy in the overtaking move he had pulled off on the last lap to claim third. He then moved to Didier and grilled him about his team’s decision to pit earlier than may have been advisable for his tires. Thalia almost felt sorry for him.
And then Fox turned to her. “Thalia d’Angelis! What a way to begin this new season: with a decisive showing on the track that will return to Formula One next year as the French Grand Prix. How do you feel about your performance today?”
“My engineers did a great job of setting up the car,” Thalia said, wanting her team to have some slice of the glory. “And we had a solid game plan going in that I managed to execute.”
“Indeed you did,” said Fox. “Flawlessly.” He leaned in closer. “Do you consider this drive a response to the Ferrari bosses for promoting Terrence Delamar above you, despite his inferior record?”
In the weeks leading up to the beginning of the season, Thalia had fielded other questions almost identical to this one. Despite her role as a member of the Ferrari Driving Academy, and despite having won the GP2 driver’s championship last season, she had been passed over by the bosses at Marinello—of whom her own father was one—in favor of Terrence, her teammate and the second-place driver. Ever since the decision, she had been seething on the inside while making every effort to remain outwardly supportive of the Tifosi cause. In a one-on-one interview just last week, she had even commended Terrence’s driving and wished him luck.
No longer. Fatigued by her first racing effort of the season, and emotionally exhausted by maintaining a friendly and supportive stance despite having been the clear target of chauvinism, Thalia finally lost her cool. The sensation, as she registered it dimly in the back of her burning brain, was oddly refreshing.
“Can I just tell you how sick and tired I am of that goddamn question, Eric?” she asked. “Can’t you come up with anything original? I’ve answered it at least ten times since Ferrari’s announcement last month.”
When Fox, whom she had clearly caught off guard, began to stammer something in response, she rolled her eyes. “Look. Terrence Delamar is not a better driver than me. He’s not even close. His instincts are all wrong—he’s too loose when he should be running tight and too tight when he should be loose. Ferrari hired him for what’s between his legs, not what’s between his shoulders.”
The gasps from the audience were audible, but Thalia didn’t care. She really didn’t. Maybe she would care tomorrow when they fired her—if they even waited that long. But she was going to take a stand, damn it. Right here and now.
Fox was clutching his microphone for dear life, but he managed to recover quickly. “Are you suggesting that Ferrari is a chauvinist organization?”
“Suggesting?” Thalia laughed into her mic without humor. “No. Asserting, yes.” She stared out over the murmuring crowd. “I’ll probably lose my job over this, but it’s true. And it’s not just Ferrari, either. The glass ceiling is alive and well in Formula One. Women have the ability to drive at the highest level. We’re not there because the owners and team managers—and even some of the other drivers—don’t want us to be.”
“How can that culture be changed?” Fox pressed. Thalia had to give him credit. He was doggedly persistent and capable of thinking on his feet.
“Honestly, I have no idea. I appreciate the chance to race here in GP2, but that isn’t enough anymore. It hasn’t been for a while. I’ve proven myself to be more than capable of racing at the highest level, and I deserve that opportunity.” She saluted the crowd with her bottle. “Cheers.”
And with one final sip, she ducked inside to meet her fate.
*
Thalia went straight from the train to Heaven. The underground club, set below the Charing Cross railway station in the heart of London, was the perfect place to get lost, get drunk, get laid, and start the process of getting on with her life.
Thalia knew the owner and the bouncers, a
nd she could always count on getting in immediately. Better still, because the club held almost two thousand people, she generally managed to maintain her anonymity. Tonight, as she slipped through the massive doors, the groans of the plebians who had been waiting in the lengthy queue followed her inside. She felt guilty for all of five seconds before the thunder of the electronic music drowned out her discomfort.
First stop: the bar. She found a narrow sliver of space at the far corner and caught her favorite bartender’s eye. Billy might have looked like he had just come from a boring desk job had his Oxford shirt not been cut off at the shoulders to reveal the perfect musculature of his tattooed arms.
He ducked in close to her. “Hey, T.” He never used her full name in an effort to help her fly below the radar, and she loved him for it. “You were a stupendous badass yesterday. They’re bloody imbeciles.”
“Thanks.” She pointed to a spot on his forearm that hadn’t been filled in the last time she’d been here. “The new ink looks good.”
“Smooth talker.” He threaded a fresh towel through one low-slung belt buckle. “One Flaming Gaytini, I presume?”
“You know me well.”
“Art imitates life,” he said with a wink before swaggering off to mix the drink.
Thalia looked down the length of the bar. As usual, it was populated mostly by men, but the occasional pair or small group of women had staked out space for themselves. Thalia had no intention of spending the night alone, but neither was she in a hurry. Despite the first place trophy having been shipped to her flat to join its place with the rest of her meaningless mementos, she had descended from the train feeling more defeated and disillusioned than ever.
