by Lily Harlem
He looked at her. A look that said he was thinking about last night, right here, with the car.
She pressed her knees together, a tremor attacking her internal muscles at the memory of the intense orgasm. She could still feel the sting on her buttocks. In fact, when she’d looked in the mirror that morning after her shower, she’d had a few tiny red dots peppered over her skin. Far from worrying about the miniscule bruises, they’d made her smile. She liked that Dean had marked her, claimed her.
She just wanted to claim him now. Walk up to him. Throw her arms around his neck. Kiss him until they were both breathless. Forget there was anyone else there.
But, of course, she didn’t. It wouldn’t do for the team to know she was screwing the driver—even if it did feel like so much more than a quick screw.
“How’s it going?” he asked, walking over to her and passing his helmet from one hand to the other.
“You’re all ready.” She nodded at the car.
“Wing position set?” He raised his eyebrows a fraction.
She tipped her head. “Yes, perfect position.”
His mouth twitched as though he were holding back a smile.
“Hey, Cudditch, you’re on,” Jake called.
He stepped away.
“Be careful,” she said then pressed her lips together. Why had she blurted that out?
He paused and looked at her again. “Always.” He raised his hand, as though about to cup her jawline or perhaps stroke her cheek the way he often did.
She stepped back and gave a small shake of her head.
He dropped his hand and pulled in a breath. He turned and walked toward Jake.
Frankie pressed her fingertips over her mouth and stared at his broad shoulders. Damn it. She couldn’t do this. Instinct was telling her to go to him. Hold him. Make sure he was in the zone. He had to be focused, thinking of nothing but the twists and turns of the track.
And was he?
Or was he thinking of her now?
She frowned.
“You okay?” Paul asked, resting his hand on her shoulder.
“Fine.” She glanced at him then back to Dean. “I think.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing personal, Paul, but no. I really don’t want to.”
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where I am.”
Qualifying started soon after. There was a good crowd, and the noise coming from the stands a constant hum, which acted as background to the squeal of the engines.
Dean was fourth up.
He crept from the pits and pulled to a halt in the starting grid.
Frankie listened to the engine revving. She pictured the track in her mind and tried to beat down a wave of nausea growing in her guts.
Why the hell was she feeling this way?
“There he goes,” Paul said unnecessarily as Dean tore away.
Frankie stepped into the workshop to watch on screen. She placed a set of headphones on so she could listen to the commentary, though she left one ear off so she could hear the mechanics, too.
Paul came and stood behind her and did the same with his headphones, as did Jake and Enrique.
“And he’s away.” The commentary started. “Three-time world champion Dean Cudditch has everything to drive for. He came second earlier this month in Great Britain, despite a pole position, so he needs these points. More than needs them, they’ll put him in the running for another world championship.” The commentator paused. “And that’s the first turn. He’s fiddling with his visor, seems to have a problem.”
A camera panned in on Dean. He was touching the side of his helmet, driving one handedly.
“And that’s a distraction he doesn’t need,” the commentator went on. “Sometimes they vibrate. They move so quickly in the airstream, and it’s just annoying. He needs to get that sorted.”
“Shit,” Jake muttered.
Frankie folded her arms, digging her fingers into her biceps.
“I should think it’s noise not visibility that’s bothering him,” Jake said. “He’ll be fine.”
“And McLaren really need this. That’s him out of the second bend, the backend shifting a bit but really not too shabby. Now for the straight. He’s on twenty-two seconds, now under the bridge. It goes dark here for a moment.” The screen darkened then lit again. “And he’s riding this S bend well, hardly any bounce, no wasting time for the car to settle.”
“Is the visor okay now?” Frankie asked.
“Yeah, I think so.” Paul peered at the screen.
Frankie released a small sigh of relief.
“He’s going well now, great time,” the commentator said. “If he can maintain it, he’ll be in a top finish position so far today. Certainly, he’s going to be up there with the Ferraris and Renaults regardless. But here we go for the next set of corners, the ones where a driver has to keep his wits about him. He’s looking good, though, nice and steady. Not sure what his fuel is, but it’s working for him. He may have gone a bit lighter.”
Frankie found herself gnawing on the inside of her cheek.
“And into the hairpin, and it’s one hell of a time. He’s really going for it, but… Oh, my God, he’s lost it. The back end has swung out. It was just too much…”
Horror flooded through Frankie as she watched the rear of the car shake like a dog’s tail, each wag growing until, finally, the car swung completely round so Dean was facing the way he’d come.
Although it felt like slow motion, it was all happening at super fast speed. Black smoke billowed from the tires as he braked, trying to control the car. But there was nothing he could do. He was hurtling backward toward the barrier at an incredible pace.
She shook her head, wanted to wind back time, reach for him. She was going to vomit, she was sure of it.
The car smashed into the safety fence then bounced rapidly back to the track, spinning as it did so. Several pieces of carbon fiber flew into the air, and a tire shredded and split, littering the area with black rubber.
“Oh, fuck,” Paul muttered.
Frankie couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe, blink. Hell the ringing in her ears made her want to scream.
Dean.
“And he’s come to a stop…but he’s not getting out,” the commentator shouted, clearly excited by the drama unfolding. “He’s still in the car.”
“What’s the matter with him?” Frankie demanded, stepping right up the screen. “Get the hell out of there, for fuck’s sake. Dean, get out.” She wanted to grip the TV and shake it. “Get out.”
Several emergency personnel rushed up to the car, fire extinguishers gushing white foam onto the road and over the engine. There was smoke but no flames, which was good.
“He should be out,” she said, glancing at Paul. “Shouldn’t he?”
“Yes.” He wore a serious expression.
Frankie pressed her hand over her lips. Her eyes stung, her throat constricted, her chest tightened.
“And there’s no movement yet from Cudditch. Here’s the medical team,” the commentator said, his words tripping over themselves.
An ambulance drew up. Dean was carefully pulled from the car by the first men on the scene. The paramedics placed him on a stretcher. He appeared completely immobile, though it was hard to see him for the swarm of emergency personnel.
“He’s not conscious, he’s not conscious,” the commentator yelled. “Dean Cudditch, former world champion, is out of qualifying at Hockenheimring, taken by the famous hairpin that’s claimed so many big names over the years. The medics are attending him now. No, it looks like he’s being taken straight off the track. They’re not messing about here.”
He was put in the back of the ambulance. The door shut with alarming rapidness before it drove out of view.
Just the wreckage remained. The car they all loved—the car that had so many hours of attention and adoration and could be put back together again with time and skill.
/> But Dean. Could he be put back together?
Her belly tensed, her knees weakened.
What the hell was the matter with him? It was a fairly minor crash in Formula One terms, no one else involved, no fire to write home about.
She turned to Paul, knowing the blood had drained from her face. She felt pale, chilled, her heart pounding.
He frowned at her as though understanding what was going through her mind. He cupped his hand beneath her elbow. “Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?”
She nodded. “Yes. Please.” She had to be with Dean. See him. Find out what the fuck was going on.
And she didn’t care who knew that.
The hospital was a huge white building that loomed high in the sky. Paul had driven there quickly and accompanied her into the accident department. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t tried to comfort her or tell her it would be all okay.
For that, she was grateful.
Wearing their McLaren mechanic gear, it was pretty obvious who they were there to see, but a receptionist still made them explain. Eventually, a nurse collected them from amongst a group of gathering reporters and took them to a private room.
Frankie paced to the window, to the door, then back to the window. The image of the car spinning, hitting the barrier, kept playing in her head, swirling in front of her mind’s eye.
What the hell had happened? How had he lost control? He had the track to himself. No one to distract him.
A lump of lead seemed to swell in her belly as a horrifying thought came to her. He’d been distracted because of her. Because she hadn’t let him touch her before he’d driven, not even a simple caress, despite the intimacy they’d shared in that very workshop.
She wrapped her arms around herself. For an awful moment, she felt like she might actually fall apart, collapse onto the floor in a heap. Instead, she gulped in air.
“Frankie?” Paul looked up at her. “What…?”
“It’s my fault.”
“Of course, it isn’t.” He set down the glass of water he’d been sipping and stood. “How can it be?”
“Because…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“No. I won’t stand for self-blame. We’re both responsible for that car when it wheels from the workshop. We have the best team in the world working for us, and Dean’s one of the best, if not the best driver in the world.” He paused. “He’ll tell us what happened when we see him.”
“If he’s able to.” She turned back to the window as tears welled on her lower lids.
“Of course, he—”
“Not if he’s unconscious, in a coma, or…or…dead.” A sob bubbled up on the last word, and she pressed her palms over her temples.
“Hey, hey, he’s not dead.” Paul stepped up behind her and rested his big, warm hands on her shoulders.
“How do you know?” A tear over spilled and trickled down her cheek.
“Facts. There was no fire, no flip, no resuscitation at the scene.” He paused. “He’s not dead.”
Frankie wiped at her cheeks and pulled in a breath, tried to control her breathing. What Paul had said made sense…but still…
“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” Paul said softly. He paused as if waiting for her to respond.
She didn’t.
“But from the first moment you met, sparks flew. Whenever you’re in the same room, it’s clear those sparks have been turning into goddamn flames.”
“What?” She spun to face him. “Why would you say that?”
He kind of smiled, a strange twist of his lips. “The lads aren’t stupid. Well, maybe Enrique’s got some stuff to learn.”
She frowned.
“Frankie.” He sighed. “You and Dean are like magnets drawing together. Not to mention, whenever he’s not around, neither are you, and…” He glanced away.
“What? Tell me?”
“A couple of times I’ve knocked on your door, needing to speak to you about something, work, that is, and you don’t answer.”
“I must have been asleep.”
“Or in the room opposite.” He gave her the sort of look that said don’t even try and deny it.
She didn’t. She’d been rumbled. They’d been rumbled. She pressed her hands over her chest. “Does everyone know?”
“Pretty much.”
“Oh, God. This is terrible.”
“No, no, it isn’t.” He was firm now instead of gentle. “If you’ve found someone who gets this crazy life we lead, who makes your heart beat fast, and smiles come easy, then there’s nothing terrible about it. What’s terrible is denying that, not grabbing it by the balls, excuse the expression, and going with it for the fucking awesome ride that is love.” He frowned down at her.
“Bloody hell, that was poetic of you.”
He huffed. “Well, I was just saying. How can love ever be a terrible thing?”
“Love, you think I love him?”
“You love each other. It’s obvious. You just haven’t admitted it to yourselves yet.”
Frankie could, in that moment, have believed she was falling through space without a parachute. She was flailing. Elated yet devastated. Nothing to grab hold of. Only one place to go, and she knew it would hurt.
She loved him. Yes. She did.
But did he love her?
Dean-world-champion-playboy-Cudditch.
Had he ever loved a woman?
And where was he? She needed to see him the way she needed to take her next breath. Where were the damn doctors? They needed information.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
Frankie spun around.
A small boy stood there wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. His cheeks were red, and he clutched a woman’s hand.
The woman was Bridget.
“Frankie,” Henri yelled, releasing his mother and charging across the room. He threw himself at Frankie, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face against her stomach.
“Henri.” Frankie stroked his hair—so like Dean’s.
“Who are you?” Bridget asked in a heavily accented voice, her eyes narrowing at Frankie.
“I…er…” Frankie said. Why were they here? Of course, they were here. Henri would have been frantic after seeing that crash on TV.
“This is Frankie,” Henri said, half turning to face his mother. “Her real name is Francesca, but she doesn’t like that. She’s daddy’s friend, and he kisses her…lots.”
A strange, choked half sob, half laugh erupted from Frankie and she squatted down to look at Henri. “Well, I guess that kind of sums it up.” She touched his red cheek.
Bridget stepped in and shut the door. She folded her arms. “I didn’t know Dean was introducing Henri to his girlfriends.”
“Mama, he only has one girlfriend. Only Frankie, she’s special. He told me.”
Frankie risked a glance at Paul, who had his arms folded and a slight smile on his face.
“I guess a five-year-old has confirmed everything for you.”
“Looks like it.”
Bridget poured herself a glass of water and took a sip. “Have you heard anything?”
“No.”
“No?” She looked surprised. “I thought by now… The news is saying…”
“What?” Damn why hadn’t they been listening for external reports? “What is the news saying?”
“It will be speculation,” Paul said, sitting down again. “All we can do is wait. We’ll be the first to hear.”
“What is speculation?” Henri asked, turning to Frankie and then Bridget.
“It means guessing,” Bridget said.
“Your English is very good,” Paul said to her.
“I lived in Oxfordshire for several years as a child, my father’s job. Turned out to be quite useful now that I have a bilingual son.”
“What’s bilingual?” Henri asked.
“You know what that means,” Bridget said.
“Where’s Daddy? I want to see m
y daddy.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to soon.” Bridget rested her hand on his shoulder.
Frankie sat next to Paul.
Henri walked over and climbed onto the chair next to her and started swinging his legs.
Bridget appeared to have paled slightly. She sipped her water.
The door opened again, and a doctor stepped in. He looked young and wore a white coat. He had a stethoscope around his neck and dark rings beneath his eyes.
“Are you here for Dean Cudditch?” he asked, shutting the door behind himself.
“Yes.” Frankie jumped up.
He looked at her. “Are you next of kin?”
“Er, no.” She glanced at Paul.
“I’m the mother of his child.” Bridget remained seated and nodded at Henri. “I do believe he has it written legally that I am informed of his well being in these situations.”
“Okay.” The doctor’s shoulders relaxed a little. “In that case, I’m pleased to tell you it’s good news.”
His words dissolved the lump of lead in Frankie’s stomach.
Good news.
“What? Tell us?” she demanded.
“He was brought in conscious, though reports at the scene said this hadn’t been the case when medics reached him.”
“So he’s okay?” Frankie squeezed her fingers together. Her heart thudded, her pulse loud in her ears.
“A few bumps and bruises, but nothing broken. We’ve done a head CT, which luckily showed nothing out of the ordinary. Always sensible to check when dealing with collisions at this speed and of this nature.”
“Yes,” Frankie said, nodding. “I agree.”
“So will he be able to race tomorrow?” Paul asked.
Frankie turned to him. Tomorrow’s Grand Prix had been the last thing on her mind.
“He’ll need to stay in for twenty-four hours. He needs to be observed by medical staff.” The doctor frowned as though the thought of Dean getting behind a wheel again irritated him.
Nothing in this world would stop Dean from getting behind a wheel again. Frankie knew that as well as she knew night followed day. But tomorrow? Really?
