by Nell Stark
Then Alix caught herself. Their shared vision? Their career goals couldn’t be more different. And was she honestly comparing her relationship with Thalia to Sasha and Kerry’s marriage? Thankfully, logic interceded before she could make herself panic. She wasn’t falling in love with Thalia, of course—that would be folly, given her reputation—but Alix did care about her. And she supposed it was natural to compare their relationship to the only other lesbians she knew, especially since they were also a royal, high-profile couple.
As she was trying to determine how best to reply to Ashleigh, Lord Brandis took control of the conversation. “Now that we all have our champagne, I would like to propose a toast.” He raised his flute to catch the light. “To the excellent work being done in Africa by Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, and to the exciting new project initiated by Her Serene Highness Pommelina of Monaco. Brandis Enterprises celebrates your advocacy on behalf of those less fortunate.”
Alix tried not to wince at his rhetoric. Who was to say that the Karamoja were less fortunate? By some metrics, certainly. But by others, they were richer than the people in this tiny chamber rotating high above London. Silently, she pledged to be cautious of how her charity advertised its mission. She wanted to empower the people of rural Uganda—especially the women, since they formed the core of the community while the men herded their cattle across the plains—to care for themselves and each other in healthy and sanitary ways. But she never wanted to imply that their culture or lifestyle was somehow inferior.
“The primary goal of this meeting,” Lord Brandis continued, “is to discuss how Brandis Enterprises might become more involved with both organizations—to our mutual benefit, of course. I’ve had my people draw up a plan…”
Alix bent her head to focus on the fine print, but hoped there wouldn’t be too much negotiating ahead. The sooner they could arrive at an agreement, the sooner she could satisfy her apprehension about Thalia.
*
“Yellow flag, Thalia, yellow flag,” Carl said into her ear. “Sector two.” The indicator on her steering wheel turned yellow as he spoke. Fortunately, she was just out of sector two and didn’t have to slacken her pace.
“What happened?” she asked on the next straightaway. Peter was currently in P1, and she had been in second place since beating Lucas at the start. So far, she had been able to hold him off, but ten minutes ago it had begun to drizzle. While a few of the drivers farther back had pitted for wet tires, Thalia had decided to stay out on her slicks. The conditions on the track weren’t so bad as to warrant the wets, and they would just slow her down. But if someone had skidded off, that might be changing.
“Mason hydroplaned and went into the barrier at Les Combes. He walked away from the car.”
“Good.”
Thalia focused on doing everything in her power to stay right on the limit of what her car could do in these conditions. This lap was slipperier than the one before it had been, but still nothing she couldn’t handle. She hugged the inside line as she followed Peter toward the corner where Mason had skidded out, alert to the possibility of debris, equipment, or people on or near the track. As she approached Les Combes, she noticed the flicker of red and white lights, and realized the marshals had deployed the emergency vehicles. She was momentarily thankful that all the safety precautions had once again done their job.
The yellow flag indicated the need for caution, but the rule was murky on what that actually entailed, and Peter hadn’t slackened his pace very much. Her instincts were screaming at her to slow down, but instead, she followed his lead. The car shimmied a little—enough to make her heart leap into her throat—but she managed to settle it with a subtle touch on the wheel.
Still, that had been too close.
“Peter is five seconds ahead,” Carl said. “Lucas is running quicker than both of you right now, so see if you can tighten the gap a bit to stop him trying an overtake.”
“Will do.”
But Peter, perhaps having been given similar information about Lucas, was eating up the track as though it were bone dry. By the time she returned to sector two, she had only made up a few hundredths of a second. This time, in deference to the increasing slickness of track, Thalia touched her brakes much sooner than she would have on a dry day. As she fought through the gravity, she watched Peter barrel into the apex of the corner and readied herself for the minor disturbance she would feel in the aerodynamics of her own car as he made his turn.
But he never did. Instead of gripping the surface as they were supposed to, his tires hydroplaned, sending him in a wide arc off the track, straight toward Mason’s car, which had not yet been extricated from the barrier.
Horror and panic exploded in her brain as his spinning car smashed into the wreck. But even as she screamed, instinct took over. Braking heavily, she half drove, half hydroplaned into the escape road. As soon as she was clear of the track, she stopped, cut her engine, and leapt out of the cockpit. The drivers behind her had followed suit, and she barely avoided being hit by a Ferrari.
She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything except Peter. The barricades were designed to cushion an impact, and no one had died from hitting one for decades. But Mason’s car was solid metal and filled with fuel and—
“Peter!” The cry was ripped from her throat as she got her first glimpse of the crash. His car, barely recognizable now, had pierced the rear of Mason’s chassis before flipping onto its side. Smoke billowed from the wreckage, dark and furious, incongruous against the brilliant blue backdrop. She couldn’t see any flames, but the air stank of fuel. A siren wailed mournfully, but it sounded so far away. If Peter’s car had punctured Mason’s fuel tank, they had only seconds to get him out of there.
“Help me!” she screamed, cursing the weight of her helmet and the fatigue in her legs. The heat buffeted her fiercely, but her suit was flameproof. She could survive in there for a few seconds. Enough to drag him away. It would have to be enough.
And then the earth rose up against her with a deafening roar, knocking her back like a massive hand swatting an insignificant fly and holding her down as darkness swallowed the sky.
Chapter Nineteen
By the time Alix returned to her suite at the Savoy Hotel, the race was half an hour old. She hurried through the lobby, Claude at her heels, and for once headed straight to the bar. The race would be on there. She had to know where Thalia stood—and most importantly, whether she was okay. As she rounded the corner, she sought out a television screen…and froze.
Breaking News: Petrol Macedonia Car Crashes and Explodes.
In shock, Alix staggered forward to brace herself against an unoccupied table. Claude was immediately at her side, pulling out a chair.
“Sit down, please, ma’am,” he said urgently. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“Who is it?” she asked numbly, pointing to the screen with a trembling finger. A chill had settled in her chest. She was so cold. Shock, her medical brain supplied through the icy fog clouding her mind.
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.” Her teeth were chattering. “Please. Find out.”
She stared at the banner on the screen. The words, highlighted in red, underscored footage of the smoking wreckage of the crash. Somehow, two cars had collided and gone up in flames. With all the new safety regulations, that wasn’t supposed to be possible anymore, but somehow, it had happened. Shivering as a chill settled in her chest, she realized that Claude was no longer at her side. Instead, he was leaning over the bar, speaking with the bartender. Seconds later, the music died to be replaced by the sounds of the commentators. When he returned, he brought with him a shot of golden liquor and a glass of water.
“What is it?” she asked dully.
“Scotch. Drink. Please.”
The glass shook in her hand, but she managed to throw back the liquid. It burned in her throat and down, down into her stomach, filling her with a fire that pierced the insidious chill, expanding until
it cracked and melted the ice inside her.
No. She would not be numb. She would think. She would act.
A Petrol Macedonia car had crashed and exploded after smashing into another car caught in the barrier—that was all the news announcers on television knew. Everyone in the bar was remaining far too calm, but to them it was a distant tragedy, not a personal one. Alix wanted to scream at all of them. It wasn’t Thalia. It couldn’t be. Thalia suffering, burned and maimed by the blast and the fire, or worse…
But of course it could be. There was a fifty percent chance that Thalia’s car was the one in flames.
Worst of all, she couldn’t give voice or expression to the magnitude of her panic. As far as the public was concerned, Thalia was her business associate and acquaintance. But Alix was reacting as Thalia’s lover. She wanted to tell someone, anyone—the perfect stranger nursing a beer in the corner or the couple sharing a romantic drink in the booth—that she was afraid for the life of the woman she cared for. But she couldn’t. For one insane moment, she considered confiding in Claude. He must at least suspect her affair with Thalia, but he had never said anything about it to her.
“We have an update on the identity of the driver whose car exploded,” said a disembodied voice from the speakers.
Please, Alix prayed aimlessly. It was the only word her mind could latch onto. Please. Only when the screen blurred did she realize that tears were trickling down her cheeks. She didn’t care.
“Peter Taggart skidded off the track on the same turn where Mason Chadworth crashed into the barricade. Taggart’s car crashed into Chadworth’s abandoned vehicle before officials could remove it. Chadworth’s fuel tank was punctured, causing an explosion. Taggart was pronounced dead on the scene.”
For one precarious moment, as gasps filled the air, Alix thought she might faint. Bowing her head, she trembled as relief tore through her, followed swiftly by guilt. Peter was dead. Kind and gentle Peter, who had been such a role model and mentor to Thalia, and such a devoted father to his young son. But Thalia was alive. What she was thinking and feeling right now, Alix could only begin to guess. But she was alive.
“The red flag has been shown,” the voice continued. “The race will not be restarted. Thalia d’Angelis was in first place at the time of the crash and has been declared the winner. However, there will be no podium ceremony as she has been taken to the hospital with what are being reported as minor injuries from the blast.”
Alix’s relief gave way to a fresh surge of alarm. Thalia had been caught in the blast somehow? Hearing “minor injuries” might be enough of a reassurance for everyone else, but not for her. She wasn’t going to be content until she got to the hospital and examined Thalia herself.
“We’re going,” Alix told Claude. “Immediately.”
“Your Serene Highness—”
“Nonnegotiable. We are going now.” She slid out of the chair, grasping the table until she was certain her legs wouldn’t give out. “I can’t imagine being in danger in a hospital, but if you’d like to arrange for additional security once we’ve arrived, be my guest.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said and began to issue orders into his wrist mic as she moved toward the door. As they left the bar, one of the television announcers was discussing Formula One’s safety record: “This is the first fatality at a Formula One Grand Prix in over twenty years, since Ayrton Senna’s death in 1994.”
She hoped Peter Taggart’s wife wasn’t listening to this. No statistics mattered when the person you loved was the exception to the rule.
*
“I’m telling you, I’m fine!” Thalia sat on the edge of the lumpy hospital bed in nothing but one of those paper-thin gowns that barely covered the tops of her thighs. Despite the painful throbbing in her chest, she wanted to lash out at the doctor standing in front of her even more than she had wanted to hit Terrence back in Italy. Back when Peter had been alive.
“You are not fine, Ms. d’Angelis,” he said in crisp, barely accented English. “You have vomited twice since you arrived, and your pupils are dilated. You may have a concussion. A PET scan will determine the extent of your injuries.”
Thalia clenched the edge of the bed to stop herself from jumping up and grabbing him by the collar. “My friend and colleague—my teammate—died today. He died in front of me before I could help him. Of course I’m sick! Of course my goddamn fucking pupils are dilated! Now let me go! I have to get back to my team!”
The doctor’s expression morphed from frustrated to sympathetic, but Thalia didn’t want his sympathy. She wanted to see Courtney and Bryce and offer them whatever support she could. She wanted to mourn with Alistair and the engineers and mechanics. And she wanted to weep in Alix’s arms.
“Ms. d’Angelis, I am very sorry for your loss. This day has been extremely difficult for you, and I understand—”
The door opened, mercifully cutting short his misguided attempt at empathy. When Alix stepped inside, Thalia cried out her name before she could clamp her lips together. She felt herself start to crumble inside and desperately blinked back tears. She could not fall apart in front of this ridiculous physician, no matter what he thought he understood.
“Dr. Messier,” Alix said, “I am Dr. Pommelina Alix Louise Canella, Princess of Monaco and a friend of Ms. d’Angelis. I would like to speak with her for a few minutes in private, if you don’t mind.”
Two rebellious tears leaked out of Thalia’s eyes before she could stop them. Alix was her knight in shining armor. Dr. Messier’s eyes popped and he stammered, “Of course, Your Serene Highness,” before hastily leaving the room. Once the door had shut, Alix raced across the room before Thalia could do more than put one foot on the floor.
“Don’t get up,” Alix said, cupping her face. “Please. Not yet. Just let me look at you.”
As Alix searched her eyes, she gently fanned her thumbs across Thalia’s cheeks. That tenderness was her undoing. The dam burst under the pressure, and she reached out blindly to clasp Alix’s waist as her lungs constricted in a long sob.
“Thalia,” Alix murmured into her hair. “Let it go. I’m right here.”
She wept for a long time, and Alix held her gently but fiercely through it all—the hitching breaths that burned her chest, the rivers carving out tracks in the soot on her cheeks, the snot that dripped from her nose. Never once did Alix tell her that she would be okay, for which Thalia was grateful. She wasn’t okay. She wouldn’t be. But Alix reminded her that she was cared for and not alone.
When she was finally able to pull herself together, her chest burned with every breath, even worse than it had before. “Think I might’ve bruised a rib,” she said thickly. When Alix immediately released her, Thalia shook her head. “No, don’t. Please. You’re not hurting me. It just…it aches. And sometimes when I inhale, the pain is sharper.”
Alix rubbed Thalia’s back in slow circles. “I need you to let me examine you,” she said softly. “For your sake and mine.”
“Okay.”
“Lie back on the bed.” Alix’s voice and hands were gentle as she guided Thalia down. “Close your eyes and try to breathe as deeply as you can without hurting your chest.”
But when Thalia closed her swollen eyes, all she saw was the ball of fire, engulfing Peter’s car. She started up, winced, and braced herself on one elbow. Immediately, Alix was there, supporting her neck with one hand and stroking her face with the other.
“Sweetheart?” Alix combed the hair back from her forehead. “What just happened?”
“When I closed my eyes, I saw the explosion,” she managed.
“All right.” Alix leaned down to press a light kiss to her lips. “Keep them open, then. Focus on me. And when I’m finished, I’d like you to tell me what happened.”
Thalia watched as Alix bent over her, first palpating her neck and then the contours of her collarbone. Her touch might not be sensual, but Thalia could sense the tenderness behind every movement. Nothing hurt until Alix reached the ri
ght side of her rib cage.
“There,” Thalia hissed through teeth clenched at the sudden spike of pain.
“I’m sorry.” Alix, seeming troubled that she’d had to hurt her, leaned down to gently kiss the spot before continuing her exam.
By the time she was finished, Thalia’s adrenaline had been replaced by a bone-deep fatigue. She wanted to sleep for a week, but there was so much that had to be done. And how could she sleep at all when simply closing her eyes brought back the horror of the afternoon?
Alix slid onto the bed beside her and guided Thalia onto her left side before mirroring her position. In all her relationships and assignations, Thalia had never once been the little spoon, and it was surprisingly comforting. And then a thought occurred to her.
“Aren’t you worried someone will come in?”
“The hospital staff have my credentials, and Claude is outside. He’ll call me if anyone insists on entering. But I don’t think they will.”
“I need to get out of here. I have to see Courtney and Alistair.”
Alix’s hand came to rest on her hip, warm and reassuring. “I know. But you also need an x-ray of your rib cage. And I don’t think you have a concussion, but I agree with Dr. Messier about the PET scan, just in case.”
“Alix—” But when Thalia tried to turn, Alix held her in place.
“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal today,” Alix said softly, her mouth close to Thalia’s ear. “You’re injured, and it’s public knowledge that you’re in the hospital. Courtney is being cared for by the team and the FIA. You’ll see her soon, but when you do, you’ll need to be strong. Let the hospital take care of you for tonight. They can find out the extent of your injuries and give you medication if necessary.” She moved closer, until her stomach was pressed against Thalia’s back. “Please trust me.”
