Race For Revenge (Lynsey Stevens Romance)

by Stevens, Lynsey

  Table Of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Race For Revenge

  By Lynsey Stevens

  Copyright © 2012 by Lynsey Stevens.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The high-powered 1600cc engine roared like the thoroughbred it was as the driver accelerated down the straight, competent gloved hands firmly manipulating the small racing wheel. The speedometer flickered past one hundred and sixty kilometres per hour and the bitumen roadway flashed beneath the car like a movie on fast return. The driver’s concentration remained fixed on the manipulation of the hurtling vehicle. With the approaching curve hands and feet moved with split-second precision on gears and brakes as the bright yellow Lola sped smoothly around the private practice track.

  The driver completed another five laps before the car slowed, rolling to a halt on the asphalt apron in front of a large galvanised iron shed which was obviously, judging by the sophisticated tools and mechanical equipment housed therein, a garage and workshop worthy of a more than average amateur mechanic. One large toolbox lay open on the tarmac displaying concertina-like shelves of well-used paraphernalia.

  In the dim shadow of the shed a tall figure, clad in faded and ancient jeans and an equally faded and misshapen shirt of uncertain vintage, leant nonchalantly with a shoulder against one wall, watching the yellow car make its final lap and come to a stop. The lazy relaxed stance of that figure in no way indicated the almost catlike watchfulness of the eyes following every move of the racer as its driver put it through its paces. The face was long and thin, and it was a little pale, as though it might be susceptible to the sun, or perhaps it showed that its owner had recently suffered prolonged ill-health. Tawny yellow-brown eyes were screwed up to mere slits against the sun’s glare despite the dark glasses perched on the straight nose.

  A rather faded and frayed cap bearing an almost unreadable advertisement for a particular brand of motor oil was pulled over unruly fair hair which protruded from beneath the cap in tangled disorder as though the wind had twisted it every which way.

  Nevertheless, the state of his hair, no more than the rest of his appearance, was of little importance to the watcher at that particular moment as he absently chewed a blade of grass between strong white teeth. For although his gaze followed intently the route of the yellow Ford Formula racing car, the harsh set of his expression and the pain in his eyes indicated that at least some part of his mind was fixed at another place, another time, and that his memories would have been better left as far from his present thoughts as was possible.

  As the car came to a smooth halt in front of the shed the driver sprang agilely from the cramped cockpit, leaving the engine to idle in the warmth of the early afternoon sun. The man noticed absently that the driver was surprisingly short and the faded blue driving suit gave the appearance of stoutness. However, the suit was obviously several sizes too large, the sleeves being folded back under the driving gloves and the legs rolled neatly above stout driving boots.

  The driver’s back was too the shed and, unaware of the audience, gloved hands removed the bright red safety helmet and placed it in the cockpit, leaving the dark, head-covering balaclava in place. The driver appeared to listen intently to the throbbing engine for some time before choosing a long-shafted screwdriver from the toolbox which had been left open from earlier use. The figure deftly removed the engine covering and leaned over the engine, making some slight adjustment that was unable to be seen by the onlooker. Then the driver stood back once more to listen, hands resting lightly on hips.

  Only then did the other figure straighten from the shadows to throw the blade of grass to one side and walk slowly forward. A slight stiffness, almost a limp, marred the purposeful stride of the man and the noise of the high-powered engine successfully blanketed the sound of his footsteps.

  ‘I’d say another half turn should do it.’ His deep voice barely climbed above the throb of the engine, but it was loud enough to startle the other figure into spinning around, the screwdriver clattering to the asphalt from the gloved hand.

  Blue eyes, round with alarm, had flown to the stranger’s face and as he bent over to retrieve the tool the man was surprised at the youthfulness of those eyes, all that was visible of the face covered by the dark balaclava. Under the startled blue gaze he leant over the racer, gave a slight twist of the screwdriver, cocked an ear to the timbre of the engine, and with a shrug of satisfaction reached across to switch off the ignition. The grassy paddock in which the practice track had been set out fell silent, although not for long.

  By this time the driver had recovered sufficiently for outraged anger to replace the momentary alarm in the blue eyes. ‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ Anger had raised the pitch of the youth’s voice to a feminine tone, causing the man to grin crookedly down at the boy.

  ‘Giving you the benefit of my years of experience.’ White teeth flashed and two deep creases were etched in either cheek beneath the black anonymity of the sunglasses. The smile transformed the thin pale face, although this fact was lost on the owner of the car. ‘You know, you handle the car pretty well for a kid.’

  ‘A kid! A kid?’ The voice spluttered and rose still higher, and if the stamping of one booted foot didn’t make it obvious to the tall man that regrettably he had made a mistaken observation, then the cascade of dark waving curls that tumbled out of the angrily removed balaclava finally decided the issue.

  The transformation was astounding. Shoulder-length dark hair swung about an attractive face, tanned and vitally healthy, with full bow-shaped lips now firmly set in anger, a small upturned nose dusted with light freckles and dark-fringed, almost violet-blue eyes.

  The girl drew herself up to her full height of around five foot two, bringing the man’s attention to a hint of rounded curves beneath the enveloping driving suit. ‘Why, you— you—’ Words seemed to fail the girl, and still more colour rose to her cheeks.

  This amused the stranger further and his broad shoulders shook with suppressed mirth until he could no longer contain it and he burst out laughing, his eyes dancing in his thin face. The uncompromising stance and still set expression of the girl sobered him slightly and with amusement still written on his face he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I offer my apologies for my unfortunate mistake, but you must admit that ninety-nine per cent of motor racing drivers are men, so the odds were stacked in my favour.’

  ‘Do you realise you could have undone weeks of work with your—your high-handed interference?’ The girl’s hands rested sternly on her hips and her chin was set aggressively. ‘For your information, I’ll be racing at Surfers next weekend and we’ve been preparing this car for weeks especially for that race. You could have ruined everything!’ she finished, her eyes round and flashing.

  ‘It did need an extra half turn.’ He grinned.

  ‘That’s beside the point. How am I to know whether you know what you’re doing or not? You could
be anyone. I don’t know you from Adam,’ she raised her hands in exasperation.

  He removed his sunglasses and shoved them into the pocket on the short sleeve of his sweatshirt. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Shiloh O’Rourke.’ A slight wariness crossed his face as he swept off his disreputable cap and ran a hand over his fair hair in an attempt to restore it to some order.

  The girl was struck by the unusual colour of his eyes. They were light brown, flecked with yellow, and tiger-bright, and as they looked straight into her own she felt her heartbeats quicken and a never before experienced trembling fluttered in the pit of her stomach. She blinked uncertainly, not understanding the sensations he seemed to have created within her, and her uncertainty rekindled her slightly wavering anger. Dark brows drew together.

  ‘Shiloh? I don’t believe it!’ She clutched at a reason for her revived ire. ‘What kind of a name is that supposed to be? No one’s called Shiloh.’

  ‘I am.’ He didn’t seem to have taken offence at her terse remarks. ‘Shiloh David O’Rourke, to be precise. My mother is an American, a member of an old Sourthern family, a number of whom have traditionally been named after famous battles or generals of the American Civil War. Hence Shiloh. And a very historical battle I was,’ he continued. ‘The Confederates played a long shot at the Battle of Shiloh, attacking the Yankees with forty thousand men early one Sunday morning, taking them completely by surprise. The Union won the battle by the skin of its teeth and Shiloh was one of the bloodiest battles of the war, accounting for about twenty thousand men killed or wounded. A log chapel nearby, called Shiloh Church, gave its name to the battle, and subsequently yours truly.’

  The girl was looking at him sceptically.

  ‘I suppose I can be thankful for small mercies. I could have been stuck with Gettysburg or Bull Run.’ He grinned in that same crooked fashion, causing her heart to skip in the most absurd manner. ‘I’ve even had a song written about me, but perhaps you’re too young to remember Neil Diamond?’

  ‘I recall the song and, actually, my father likes Neil Diamond.’ She raised her chin. ‘But I can take him or leave him,’ she added, thinking she might have backed down.

  ‘Most girls probably would have taken him.’ The amusement played around his mouth.

  A very attractive mouth, she noticed, and frowningly pulled herself up on the thought.

  ‘And to whom have I made myself known?’ he asked, grinning winningly down at her from his lofty six-foot-one-inch height. Had the girl but known it, that particular smile, part and parcel of his unconscious charm, had won him more than his share of attention from members of the fair sex of his acquaintance, and this girl was not unaware of the magnetic quality of that smile.

  She had to admit he was attractive in an untidy, devil-may-care kind of way. She wondered offhandedly how old he was. It was hard to pinpoint his age. His face bore signs of experience and yet his engaging grin took years off the thinness of his features. She guessed at anything between twenty-five and thirty-five.

  In her moment of hesitation he watched the play of emotions across her face before she made her decision and reluctantly replied, ‘Danielle Mathieson.’

  He was obviously a little taken aback.

  ‘You’re Danni?’ he asked incredulously.

  She nodded coolly. ‘My friends,’ she emphasised, ‘call me Danni.’ And although she hadn’t added, ‘You can call me Miss Mathieson,’ she felt the unspoken words hanging in the air space between them and she experienced a moment of contrition at her rudeness.

  However, her sarcasm seemed to make little or no impression on him. ‘When Rick spoke of his kid sister, Danni, I somehow got the impression that you were about ten or twelve.’

  ‘I’m twenty-two,’ replied Danni with dignity, and then her expression softened, adding a certain wistfulness to her piquant face. ‘You— You knew Rick?’

  Shiloh O’Rourke was not unmoved by the sadness in her face and he nodded, setting his fair hair quivering into windblown disorder. ‘We raced together and he was a friend,’ he said simply, a distant look tinged with a certain cautiousness in his cat’s eyes, and there was a cynical twist to his mouth.

  Danni felt tears spring to her eyes as a dozen questions formed in her mind, but the lump in her throat which she tried valiantly to swallow prevented any of them from being voiced.

  Shiloh ran his hand over his eyes and down his cheek, shaking his thoughts back to the present. ‘I can’t understand how our paths have failed to cross before now. I know you followed Rick’s career, but I’m sure I haven’t seen you at the track.’

  ‘No, you probably wouldn’t have. I never travelled the circuits with Rick. I only ever saw him race up here at Surfers and once or twice at Lakeside. I was still at school when he started competing seriously, when he joined Chris Damien’s team, and I, well, I promised my father I’d stick with my studies until the end of my course.’ She paused slightly. ‘I was on a camping holiday in England when—when Rick was killed. By the time word had caught up with me I couldn’t make it back home in time for the funeral. Did you… Were you there the day of that race at Sandown?’

  The man paused before answering, that same air of wariness in his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he replied at last. ‘Yes, I was there.’ What could only be described as a flinch of pain fleetingly crossed his face and his expression was momentarily bleak and almost vulnerable. He went to add more, but changed his mind, his lips closing firmly, tension in the lines around his mouth.

  ‘Would you like to come up to the house?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘My father won’t be home until later, but I’m sure he’d like to see you if you’re a friend of Rick’s.’

  Shiloh O’Rourke looked down at his disreputable attire and grimaced ruefully. ‘Well, I’m not exactly dressed for visiting. I was taking a burn on a motorcycle I’ve just overhauled, testing it out, and at the same time clearing the cobwebs, when I noticed the Mallaroo Stud sign on the gate. Rick often spoke about your horse stud out this way and that, coupled with the sight of the yellow Formula Ford racing around the track, was enough to bring me inside. I’m afraid my curiosity got the better of me.’

  For the first time Danni noticed his motorcycle, a battered safety helmet balanced on the seat, parked in the shade of the shed alongside her little red Gemini sedan.

  ‘Don’t worry about your clothes. As I said, any friend of Rick’s is welcome at our place.’ She noticed his eyes flinched from her and frowned slightly, wondering what she could have said to upset him. ‘At any rate,’ she hurried on, ‘we don’t judge on appearances and neither of us are strangers to a bit of oil and grease.’ Danni laughed. ‘Rick used to say that I was really a blonde but that I’d had my head stuck in so many engines with him that the grease had rubbed off, making me a brunette!’

  Shiloh laughed, and this time the humour reached his eyes as they turned to Danni’s dark hair as it shone in the sunlight.

  Danni herself was unable to prevent her gaze from moving over Shiloh’s tall figure, over the faded cap, unruly hair and thin, smiling face, the faded jeans and shirt and the long well-worn cyclist’s boots. At the moment he couldn’t be called well-dressed, but he wasn’t unclean. And the old clothes couldn’t hide the breadth of his shoulders and the strong muscular strength he seemed to exude.

  At least part of her thoughts must have been reflected in her face, for the object of her close scrutiny was grinning at her again in that tolerantly amused way he had about him, making her feel all of twelve years old at the very most.

  Frowning at him, she turned back to the racer. ‘I’ll just put the car away,’ she said tersely.

  ‘I’ll do that for you,’ he said good-humouredly, and she had to stand back in exasperation while he effortlessly pushed the car into the shed, packed up the toolbox and returned it to its place and finally secured the lock on the shed door.

  ‘What do you do when you’r
e not racing Formula Fords? Just muck about the farm?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘I’m an assistant librarian at the Gold Coast City Council Library at Burleigh Heads,’ she replied, fuming inwardly, ‘so I only have weekends free for racing. And I enjoy library work as well,’ she added firmly.

  He nodded without noticing her annoyance. ‘And how long have you been racing?’ he asked as they walked across to where Danni’s car and his bike were parked.

  ‘About a year, although the race next weekend which is Round One of the Driver to Europe Competition, will be the first really serious bit of competitive driving I’ve done,’ she told him.

  ‘I see. I’m not generally in favour of women mixing it with men in motor racing, but I guess you must have met the requirements to have your nomination accepted in the series,’ he remarked loftily.

  ‘What do you mean “mixing it with men”?’ Danni’s hackles rose. He really was too much! ‘There’s no reasonable reason why women shouldn’t be able to compete in motor racing if they’re competent enough. I’ve never heard anything so narrow-minded in my life!’ Two pink spots of colour tinged her cheeks as she warmed to her argument. ‘I suppose you think a woman’s place is in the home, running after you, feeding you, doing your washing and ironing?’

  Shiloh’s grin infuriated her more. ‘Well, there would be certain compensations,’ he said wickedly, and Danni flushed.

  ‘I’ll have you know, Shiloh O’Rourke,’ she said angrily, not wanting to dwell on his outrageous statement, ‘that I am a very competent driver, and when I’m racing I neither ask for nor give any quarter.’

  Shiloh held up a hand. ‘Okay, Danni.’ He picked up his safety helmet and shoved his cap into the pocket of his jeans. ‘One thing Rick failed to mention was that his sister was something of a virago.’ He laughed disarmingly.