by Sarah Morgan
She hadn’t fought for them at all.
Why not?
Sam left the bed, paced her room and going to the balcony pushed the doors open to step out into the night.
She hadn’t fought. It made no sense. Sam adored Gabby because she was feisty, spirited, courageous. Sam had admired Cristiano for his strength, not just the physical strength, but the mental strength necessary to come back from his devastating accident. Both Gabby and Cristiano were tough. Brave. Fighters. And Sam wanted that. She wanted their courage. Their strength. Their fight.
If Charles could teach her kindness and compassion, then Cristiano and Gabriela could teach her to stand fast. To be brave. To charge the battle.
Charge the battle.
Sam leaned on the balcony railing, and staring out at the dark sea and night Sam thought of all the challenges she’d faced in her own life, and maybe she hadn’t dealt with them easily, or gracefully, but she’d moved forward. She’d learned. Changed. Adapted.
She could do it again.
She could learn to be strong. To face her fears. To acknowledge risk.
She closed her eyes, pictured herself a warrior, sword in hand, armor on, standing fast before dragons and men.
Maybe not before dragons, but certainly before men.
She could be brave. She could be strong. She could face danger head on.
Now if she could only find some really good armor because she was going to need it. Bad.
Four days later, Sam sat in Marcelle’s car outside the Automobile Monegasque, the track Bartolo Driving School used for its European school.
“Marcelle, you can’t tell anyone,” Sam said, knotting and un-knotting her hands. “No one can know in case I fail miserably.”
“You won’t fail, and I won’t tell.” Marcelle leaned on the steering wheel and smiled encouragingly. Marcelle was dropping her off for the first day of a weeklong course with the objective of preparing drivers for road racing. “Just have fun, Madame.”
Sam shot Marcelle a dubious glance before climbing out of the car. Marcelle tooted her horn and drove away leaving Sam alone in the parking lot.
This was it, Sam thought, facing the low building fronting the racetrack. She was going to school. Today was a refresher course called High Performance Driving, tomorrow was Intro to Racing, and by week’s end she’d be clocking it on the track in the open-wheel Formula 1 cars.
This was going to be the worst week of her life.
She was nervous that first day, so nervous she threw up twice in the morning and once in the afternoon, but she made it through the day.
Tuesday was as rough.
Wednesday not quite so bad. She almost liked the Corvette C5 they had her driving.
Thursday she was introduced to the pit. She didn’t like the pit—it was noisy, frenetic, but she got a lesson in spark plugs, engines, and changing tires anyway.
Friday was race day and Sam was throwing up again. As she approached the low sleek F1 car, Sam tugged the zipper on her jumpsuit down instead of up. She was going to throw up again. And making a mad dash to the bathroom, she got sick, washed her face, and stared at herself in the mirror.
All you have to do is drive, she told herself. You don’t have to drive fast. You don’t have to be brilliant. All you have to do is drive around the track. You’ll be safe.
Coming out of the bathroom she tugged the zipper on her protective jumpsuit up, slicked her hair into a ponytail and met Rodney, her instructor, at her car.
Rodney, a young Scottish driver with an impressive track record, grinned at her as he saw her approach. “You’re looking like a right happy lass.”
“Don’t try to humor me today, Rodney.”
He clapped her on the back. “I’m going to be in a car out there with you. Follow me on the track, stay close, hug the turns and, girl, have some fun.”
This would not be fun but she was going to do it anyway. She was going to look fear in the face and prove once and for all that fear didn’t master her—she was going to master it.
In the pit, Cristiano glanced at his watch yet again. It was twenty past noon and the track should be cleared. This was his practice time, the time when he tested the different cars, checked them to see how they were running.
He leaned against the side of his car, helmet on his lap. “Who’s still out there?” he asked one of his pit crew.
The mechanic nodded at the yellow car screaming past. “Rodney.”
“He’s giving a lesson now?” Cristiano asked as a blue F1 student car chased behind.
“He should be done soon.”
“He should have been done twenty minutes ago.” Cristiano stood, turned to his team. “Somebody bring out the flag. Let’s get him out of here. I’ve got work to do.”
“Right, boss,” the mechanic answered and one of the others drew out a red flag and waved it back and forth.
Cristiano zipped up his practice suit and waited for Rodney to exit the track. Instead Rodney pulled up next to Cristiano in the pit, Rodney’s student pulling up behind him.
Climbing out of his yellow car Rodney waved cheerfully to Cristiano. “Hey, how’s it going?”
Cristiano’s bad mood was getting worse. “What are you still doing on the track? Lessons are mornings only.”
Rodney shrugged, dropped his helmet in his car. “Couldn’t help it, boss. She needed a little extra time. Nerves and all. She had a bad case of them but I think we worked most the kinks out today. How’d she look?”
Cristiano swore softly beneath his breath. He was not in the mood for games. “Fine. Why?”
Rodney opened the door to his student’s car and bending over, unbuckled the chin strap and gestured for her to remove her helmet. “Come meet the boss.”
Cristiano didn’t hear anything once he saw the helmet come off and a long blond ponytail tumble out.
“Santo Cielo!” Cristiano strode furiously toward the blue car where Sam still sat strapped into the seat. “What the hell is going on?”
Rodney lifted his hands in an innocent shrug. “I was just teaching her to drive. She paid for the lessons. All week. She’s been here every day, all day.”
“Thanks, Rodney,” Cristiano growled. “I’ve got it from here.”
“You’re the boss,” Rodney answered with a jaunty whistle as he strolled away.
Sam clutched the steering wheel as she watched Cristiano walk toward her.
He was livid. He’d always had a big jaw but it was a lot bigger right now.
Cristiano leaned on the side of the car, towering over her. And then he swore. Neither softly, nor gently. “What the hell are you doing?”
Sam wasn’t sure where to look because she didn’t want to look into his face, not when he looked so spitting mad. “Learning to drive.”
“A Formula 1 car?”
“I’ve been practicing in other cars, too.”
He was dead silent. He didn’t laugh, or crack a smile, not even a little bit. “These are difficult to drive, Sam. They’re not the kind of cars you just climb in.”
“Tell me about it! I’ve never in my life had to study, or work this hard.”
He pushed up off the car. “Sam, this is dangerous, and Rodney’s a good driver, a decent instructor, but he—” Cristiano broke off, shook his head “—he, what were you thinking taking lessons from him?”
“Him? What do you mean by him? Rodney Sterling is one of your top instructors.”
“I would have never trusted him with you. I wouldn’t have let him take you on the track, not even once. Never. Not in a thousand years—”
He broke off as she started laughing. He had to be joking, she thought, had to be. But his expression didn’t soften. It just grew stonier. “Cristiano.” She tried to keep from smiling. He looked so grim right now, so autocratic. “He was a great teacher. And I learned a lot. Look. I’m driving. I’m driving an F1 car. And I’m still here. I’m alive.”
“Something could have happened. You could have lost con
trol—”
“I took the class you designed. I learned from the best. There were indoor lessons, track lessons. I wore a jumpsuit. A seat belt. I was completely safe.”
“No one is ever completely safe.”
“Now look who’s talking!”
“I just know the dangers, Sam.”
She shook her head, unable to believe how he’d changed his tune. When he was behind the wheel taking risks, it was fine. But when it was her, it wasn’t? “You don’t trust me.”
“It’s not a matter of trust.”
“Yes, it is. You think you can take crazy risks and survive them. And I can’t even take small risks—”
“I don’t want you to take risks.”
“Life is full of risks, Cristiano! You and I both know that, but weren’t you also the one that taught me to seize life. Live it. Charge the battle?”
He looked at her, carefully, expression intense, agonized, revealing a depth of emotion he let few see. “You hate cars, bella.”
“I know.” She swallowed, and bit her lip, suddenly shy. “But I love you more than I hate cars, so I decided I’d try to face my fears and take some risks.”
He caught her chin in his hand, and leaning into the car, kissed her. “These were some significant fears, bella. Ones that made you leave me.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Cristiano. I don’t want to let you go…not without a fight.” Tears filled her eyes and she reached up, touched his face lightly, lovingly, wonderingly. For three months she’d missed him and missed him and the missing would never have gone away. “Please give me a chance to fight for you.” Her fingers brushed his cheekbone and then down to his mouth. “Please give me a chance—”
“Bella, I think you’ve got it.”
“You have to know I love you. I love you and Gabby and the two of you are my family. And I’d do anything for my family, anything to keep my family together. Please—”
“Done.”
“Done?”
He hauled her out of the car, pulled her against him, his arms wrapping securely around her. “We’re yours. I’m yours.”
“You don’t believe in love—”
“I lied. I need yours.”
That settled it. Sealed the deal. She’d loved him ever since he’d trudged through the snow, building a snowman without gloves with Gabriela in Cheshire, but this, this is what she needed to hear. Selfish as it was, she needed to know he loved her for her. That he wanted her, Samantha Anne Hill, for no other reason than he loved her.
“You have it,” she said, leaning against him, wrapping her arms around his lean torso and kissing him. “For the next fifty years. At home, in your corporate office, on the jet, at the track, in the pit—”
“Ahem.” He coughed, cleared his throat. “Maybe home and the jet’s enough. I don’t think I could concentrate enough to win a race if you’re down on the track, or in the pit.”
“What about the corporate office?”
“What about the nursery at home?” He teased, hazel-green eyes glinting. “Maybe you need a baby to keep you busy since Gabby is getting so independent.”
She blushed, smiled, cheeks hot. “I could get used to the idea of a baby.”
“And maybe in a year or so with a baby in the house, I won’t need to travel so much.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“But I do. I’m having a great year—I’ve never done better—but at the end of the season I’m going to take some time off, concentrate on my driving schools for a while.”
“Why?”
He caressed her warm cheek with his thumb. “I’m thinking about retiring.”
Sam pushed away from his chest, looked up at him. “Retire? Now? Just when I’m getting into the racing scene?”
Cristiano laughed and pulled her close again, his lips covering hers, taking her breath in a long, slow head-spinning kiss. “Exactly what I was afraid of.” He kissed her once more. “Before I know it you’ll be camping out at the track trying to get all the drivers’ autographs.”
She grinned. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. Not if I’ve got you at home.” She leaned toward him and kissed him, and as she kissed him the laughter faded, replaced by fierce determination, the kind of determination that comes from knowing what matters most in the world. “Just come home and make us a real family again. That’s all I want—all I’ll ever want. Not things. Not fame. Not fortune. Just family.”
“Our family.”
“Exactly.”
For Revenge…Or Pleasure?
By Trish Morey
CHAPTER ONE
SO THIS was the A-List? From his vantage point on the less crowded mezzanine, Loukas Demakis narrowed his eyes and scanned the sea of glittering celebrities milling about below in the Beverly Hills mansion’s ballroom. He suppressed a sneer as his gaze slid over the megastars, the wannabes and the otherwise rich and famous, all trying to out-dazzle each other with their designer clothes, designer bodies, and enough bling-bling to light up Times Square.
And all of it so fake!
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. This wasn’t his world. The sooner he was out of here the better.
But first he had a job to do. The words of his father rang loud in his memory—‘Get her away from them. I don’t care what it takes or who gets hurt—just get her out of there!’
And, dammit, after what had happened to Zoë, there was no way he would let his sister so much as be touched by any of them. He’d do whatever it took to stop her. He’d do whatever it took to keep her safe!
The crowd swayed apart as a woman strode up to the dais. Two women. He pressed closer to the balustrade, his fingers tightening around the rail.
It had to be them. The sorcerer and her apprentice.
Cheers and applause erupted from the crowd when his instincts proved right and Dr Grace Della-Bosca was introduced. A woman in a golden gown stepped up to the microphone. He peered closer. For someone he knew to be on the wrong side of fifty she was remarkably well-preserved. Tutankhamen’s bride wearing Dolce & Gabbana. But then, eternal youth was her business.
He’d meant to listen to what she had to say. He started to listen. Until the second woman turned towards the crowd and smiled, and the breath ripped out of him as if he’d taken a blow to the body.
Jade Ferraro.
This was the woman he’d come to meet. This was the woman he’d come to question. In the flesh.
And what flesh!
Where Della-Bosca’s skin looked as if it had been stretched to within an inch of its life, the younger woman’s was smooth and flawless, her features arranged on her face in a way that found the idea of classic good looks wanting. Clear almond-shaped blue eyes echoed a smile that was wide—almost too wide—though her lips looked lush enough to take the width and then some.
But her face was only one part of the package. Her honey-coloured hair was swept into a sleek coil that exposed the long sweep of her neck to her surprisingly modest neckline.
And the dress! There was nothing modest about it—it must have been shrink-wrapped around her. Without the shimmering aqua colour of the material it would have been impossible to tell where her skin ended and the fabric began, the way it hugged tight over her breasts, dipping into the curves and skimming over the flat of her stomach. The gown was a total failure in terms of disguising the shape beneath, and yet there was no doubt peeling it off would still be an exercise in discovery. An exercise for which he’d be only too happy to volunteer.
With a growl laced with acerbity he clamped down on the traitorous response of his body.
Of course she was a looker. She was bound to be! Because there was no doubt her attributes owed more to the skilled hands of Dr Grace Della-Bosca, the mother superior of the high church of cosmetic surgery, than to any generous endowment by Mother Nature. She was a walking advertisement for the witch doctor’s talents.
The speech came to an end and the crowd once again broke into applause. The you
nger woman turned back towards the dais a fraction, and then hesitated, her hands locked together as if frozen mid-clap. Then her head swivelled back over her shoulder, her chin lifted and swept up across the crowd, until her eyes jagged and stuck rock-solid on his.
He saw them widen in shocked perplexity; he saw the fractional coming together of her brows as she battled for recognition. He even fancied he felt the tremors spreading out from the quake that rippled through her, and in that instant he decided on a new and much more satisfying course of attack. He allowed himself a smile as his body hummed its approval of his plan.
It hadn’t been his choice to come here tonight, but just because he had to mix with a crowd of people he had nothing in common with and even less respect for it didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the mission he was on. Why should he settle for just questions and answers when he could have so much more? Why shouldn’t he find out what Jade Ferraro was really made of?
‘Run all you like, Jade Ferraro,’ he muttered as she spun away and disappeared into the throng of people surrounding the famous cosmetic surgeon. ‘But I will have you.’
Someone pressed a glass of champagne into her hand and her first impulse was to hold the moistly beaded flute to her head to cool her heated brow. She wasn’t sure what had happened just then, but the experience of meeting that intense dark gaze had left her almost reeling.
Then the orchestra started playing, and couples were swirling around, and suddenly it was too hot, too loud, and much too claustrophobic in the crowded ballroom.
She heard her name and snapped her attention away from the glass. ‘So, tell me how you think it went,’ Grace insisted, sounding impatient, as if it wasn’t the first time she’d framed the question.
‘Oh, absolutely wonderful,’ Jade assured her, kissing her mentor on each cheek, knowing the woman she admired more than anyone in the world would have been just that—despite the fact she couldn’t recall a thing beyond Grace’s thanks to everyone for attending the fundraiser. But then, it was impossible to remember anything aside from the prickly sensation that someone had been watching her, and the blast-furnace heat that had confronted her eyes once she’d found the source.
