The Heart's Victory

by Nora Roberts

  Even in the dark, she could see his eyes glitter with temper. She pressed her lips together firmly, but her laughter burst out of its confines. She could only shake her head and struggle to compose herself as he glared at her.

  “What the devil’s so funny?” he demanded.

  “Kirk, I . . . ” She was forced to stop and cough, then take several deep breaths before she could trust herself to speak. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect you to—to ask me something like that.” She swallowed hard as another giggle threatened. “I’m twenty-three years old.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” he tossed back, watching her eyes shine with good-humored affection. He felt like a total fool and scowled more deeply.

  “Kirk, when I was sixteen, you never paid a bit of attention to any of the boys who hung around the track, and now you’re—”

  “Lance isn’t a boy.” Kirk cut her off furiously, then ran a hand through his hair. The thick locks, sprang back in precisely the same manner Foxy’s did. “And you’re not sixteen anymore.”

  “So I’ve been told,” she murmured.

  Letting out a frustrated breath, Kirk jammed his hands farther into his pockets. “I should’ve paid more attention to you when you were.”

  “Kirk.” The humor left her voice as she rose to stand beside him. “It’s nice of you to be concerned, but it’s unnecessary.” Touched both by his caring and his discomposure, Foxy laid her head on his shoulder. What an odd man he is, she thought, with such unexpected scraps of sweetness.

  “It is necessary,” he muttered, wishing he didn’t feel obligated to pursue the matter. He was closer to Lance than to any other person in his life other than his sister. With Lance, there was the added bond of manhood and shared adventures. It was some of these adventures that prodded Kirk on when he wanted nothing more than to drop the entire subject. “You’re still my sister,” he added, half to himself. “Even if you have grown up a bit.”

  “A bit?” Foxy grinned again. A reckless mischief gleamed in her eyes, reminding Kirk uncomfortably of himself. “Kirk, I passed ‘a bit’ at twenty.”

  “Look, Foxy,” Kirk cut in impatiently. “I know Lance. I know how he . . . ” He hesitated and swore.

  “Operates?” Foxy supplied and earned a fierce glare. Her laughter was unavoidable, but she tempered it by kissing his cheek. “Stop worrying about me. I learned a little more than photography in college.” When Kirk’s expression failed to alter, she kissed his other cheek and continued. “If it makes you feel any better, Lance isn’t bothering me. If he were, I could handle it quite nicely, I promise you, but he isn’t. We hardly speak.” She tried to be pleased by the statement, but found herself annoyed.

  “He looks,” Kirk mumbled. His sister’s scent lifted on the faint breeze. Her hair had been soft and fragrant against his cheek. His frown deepened. “He looks a lot.”

  “You’re imagining things,” Foxy said firmly, then tried to draw Kirk away from the subject of Lance Matthews. She found speaking of him brought back disturbing memories. “Tell me, Mr. Fox,” she began, mimicking the tone of a sports reporter, “are you always so introspective the night before a race?”

  He did not answer at once, but simply stared out over the track. Foxy wondered what he saw there that she didn’t. “It occurred to me recently that a woman’s better off not getting involved with a man like me. She’ll only get hurt.” Restlessly he shifted, then turned to her. Foxy studied him curiously. There was something in his eyes she could not understand, and it puzzled her that he seemed tense. She sensed it was more than the race that was pulling at his nerves. “Lance is a lot like me,” he continued. “I don’t want you hurt. He could do that, maybe not meaning to, but he could do it.”

  “Kirk, I . . . ”

  “I know him, Foxy.” He pushed away the beginnings of her objections and placed his hands on her shoulders. “No woman’s ever been more important to him than cars. I don’t think it’s smart to get mixed up with men like us. There’s always going to be another race, Foxy, another car, another track. It pushes everything and everyone else into the backseat. I don’t want that for you. I know it’s what you’ve always had. I’ve never done the things I should’ve done for you, and I . . . ”

  “No, Kirk.” She stopped him by flinging her arms around his neck. “No, don’t.” Foxy buried her face in his shoulder the same way she had years before in her hospital bed. He had been her rock when her world had crumbled away from its foundations. “You did everything you could.”

  “Did I?” Kirk sighed and hugged her tighter. “If I had it to do again, I know I’d do exactly the same things. But that doesn’t make them right.”

  “It was right for us.” She lifted her face to look at him with glistening eyes. “It was right for me.”

  Letting out a long breath, he tousled her hair. “Maybe.” After cupping her face in his hands, he kissed both her cheeks. His mustache whispered along her skin causing her to smile at the old familiarity. “I never expected you to grow up, I guess. And I never thought you’d be beautiful and that I’d have to worry about men. I should’ve paid more attention while it was happening. You never complained.”

  “What about? I was happy.” When he dropped his hands from her face, she took them in hers. His palms were hard and she felt the faint line of a scar along the back. She remembered that he had gotten it in Belgium eight years before in a minor crash. “Kirk,” she spoke quickly, wanting to put his mind at ease, “we were both where we needed to be. I don’t regret anything, and I don’t want you to. Okay?”

  She stood still as he studied her face. His eyes had long since adjusted to the night, enabling him to see her features clearly. He realized she had grown up right under his nose. Somehow the woman who looked back at him roused his protective instincts profoundly, while the girl had always seemed somehow indestructible. Perhaps he understood the pitfalls of womanhood, while those of childhood were a mystery to him. It was an uncharacteristic gesture when he lifted her fingers to his lips, yet it was a gesture that flooded Foxy’s eyes with warm tears. “I love you,” he said simply. “Don’t do that,” he warned as he brushed a tear from her lashes. “I don’t have anything to mop them up with. Come on.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and began to walk with her from the grandstands. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and a hamburger. I’m starved.”

  “Pizza,” she countered. “This is Italy.”

  “Whatever,” he said agreeably as they moved without haste through the moonlight.

  “Kirk.” Foxy tilted her face, and now her eyes shone with mischief. “If Lance does bother me, will you beat him up?”

  “Sure.” Kirk grinned and tugged on her hair. “As soon as the season’s over.”

  Foxy laughed. “That’s what I figured.”

  ***

  It was just after eleven when they walked down the hall of the hotel to their rooms. Pam heard Foxy’s laugh and the low answering sound of her brother’s. Nibbling on her lip, she waited for the sounds of their doors closing. She badly needed to talk to Foxy, to have someone laugh and joke and take her mind off Kirk Fox. For weeks Pam had been able to think of little but him. As they had moved from country to country, from race to race, he had grown remote. He spoke to her rarely, and when he did, he was unmistakably aloof. It became apparent that he had lost interest in the flirtation he had initiated. His coolness might have caused her some minor annoyance or even some amusement under normal circumstances. But Pam had discovered that the circumstances here were far from normal. As Kirk had gradually grown more taciturn she had grown gradually more tense. Sleeping had become a major feat and eating a monumental task. Her tension had come to an unexpected climax when Kirk stepped from his car during the final laps of the race in France. Their eyes met for only one brief instant, but abruptly the realization had come to her that she was in love with him. The very thought had terrified her; he was so different from any of the men she had been attracted to in the past. But th
is was not mere attraction, and the old rules were insignificant. Briefly Pam had considered chucking the assignment and returning to the States. Professional pride refused to allow her this convenient escape. Personal pride kept her aloof from him. She did not want to be another of his trophies, another victory for Kirk Fox.

  Hearing no sound in the hall, Pam drew a thin robe over her nightgown, deciding to slip down to Foxy’s room. The instant she opened the door, she froze. Kirk walked silently down the hall. His head was bent but it snapped up immediately as she made a small sound of surprise. Stopping, he surveyed her carefully with eyes that held no expression. Framed in the doorway, Pam felt her breath backing up in her lungs. She seemed to have lost the power to force it out, just as she had lost the power to command her feet to move back into the room. His eyes held hers as he began to walk again, and though her fingers tightened on the knob, she did not retreat. Calm settled over her suddenly. This, she knew, was what she wanted, what she needed. When he stopped in front of her, they stood unsmiling, studying each other. The light from her room bathed them in a pale yellow glow.

  “I’ve walked by your door a hundred times the last few months.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not walking by tonight.” There was a challenge in his voice, a hint of anger around his mouth. “I’m coming in.”

  “I know,” Pam said again, then stepped back to allow him to enter. Her calm acceptance caused him to hesitate. She saw doubt flickering in his eyes.

  “I’m going to make love to you,” he told her in a statement that reflected a rising temper.

  “Yes,” she agreed with a nod. A smile touched her lips as she recognized the nervousness in his tone. He’s just as terrified as I am, she realized when, after a brief hesitation, Kirk stalked into the room. Quietly Pam closed the door behind him. They turned to face each other.

  “I don’t make promises.” His voice was rough as he studied her. His hands stayed firmly in his pockets.

  “No.” Her robe whispered gently as she moved to switch off the light. The room was softened by starlight and moonbeams. In the courtyard below her window someone spoke quickly in Italian, then laughed heartily.

  “I’ll probably hurt you,” he warned in a lowered voice.

  “Probably,” Pam agreed. She walked to him until they were both silhouetted in the moonlight. He found her perfume quiet, understated, and unforgettable. “But I’m much sturdier than I look.”

  Unable to resist, he lifted a hand to her hair. It was as soft as a cloud under his palm. “You’re making a mistake.” In the dim light, he watched the sheen of her eyes.

  “No.” Pam lifted her arms until they circled his neck. “No, I’m not.”

  On a low groan, Kirk pulled her against him and took the offered mouth. As she felt him lift her Pam melted against him.

  Chapter 6

  There was the usual crush of people and noise as the starting time approached. The light, insistent drizzle did nothing to hamper attendance. The skies were lead-gray and uncompromising. Slicks were exchanged for rain tires.

  Foxy stood before the basin in the empty ladies’ room and rinsed the taste of sickness from her mouth. With the absent gestures of habit, she sponged her face and touched up her pallor with makeup. The palms of her hands were still hot and moist, and automatically she ran cool water over them. The drone of the loudspeaker penetrated the walls. Knowing she had only a few minutes until the start, she picked up her camera case and hurried out. The swarming crowd swallowed her instantly. Because she was preoccupied she didn’t notice Lance until she was nearly upon him.

  “Cutting it a bit closer than usual, Foxy?” She glanced up just as the thrust of the crowd pushed her against him. His grin faded as his hands touched the still clammy skin of her arms. “You’re like ice,” he muttered, then pulled her free of the throng and into a narrow hallway.

  “For heaven’s sake, let me go,” she protested. Her legs were still a bit rubbery and nearly folded under her at the sudden movement. “They’re going to start in a minute.”

  Ignoring her, Lance put a firm hand under her chin, then jerked her face to his. His eyes were narrowed and probing. Color had not yet returned to her cheeks, and the camouflage of makeup did not deceive him. “You’re ill.” The statement came partly as an accusation as he propped her against a wall. “You can’t go out there while you’re sick.” Lance slipped an arm around her waist to lead her away, and she struggled against him. The sound of revving engines filled the air.

  “For Lord’s sake!” Foxy pushed unsuccessfully against him, frustrated by his interference. “I’m sick before every race, but I don’t miss the start. Let me go, will you?”

  His expression altered rapidly from surprise to disbelief to fury. Trapped between him and the wall, Foxy saw the changes and realized she had made a mistake. “You’ll damn well miss this one,” he grated, then half dragged, half carried her away from the pits. Feeling his grip, Foxy conceded and went peacefully. In silence, he led her to the restaurant under the main grandstand. “Coffee,” he barked to the waiter as he pushed Foxy into a corner booth.

  “Listen, Lance,” she began, recovered enough to be indignant.

  “Shut up.” His voice was quiet, but so full of fury, she obeyed instantly. She had seen him angry before, but she decided she would have to go back some years to find a memory of an anger that sharp. His mouth was set in an uncompromising line, his voice vibrated with temper just under control. But it was his eyes, heated to a smoky gray, which kept her silent. Discretion, she reflected, sometimes is the better part of valor.

  The restaurant was empty, silent save for the vibrations of the cars outside on the grid. There was a gray wall of gloom beyond the window, broken only by thin, clear rivulets of rain on the glass. Foxy watched one wind its slow, erratic way down the pane. The waiter set a pot of coffee and two cups on the table between them, then disappeared. The look in Lance’s eyes told him he wanted solitude not service. Picking up the angry vibes Lance transmitted, Foxy watched as he poured the coffee into each cup. Curiosity began to temper her annoyance. What is he so worked up about? she wondered.

  “Drink your coffee,” he ordered in clipped tones.

  Her brows arched at the command. “Yes, sir,” she said humbly and lifted her cup.

  A flash of trembling fury sparked in his eyes. “Don’t push me, Foxy.”

  “Lance.” She set down her coffee untasted, then leaned toward him. “What’s the matter with you?”

  He studied the perplexity on her face before drinking half his coffee, hot and black. The pallor clung stubbornly to her cheeks, lending her a look of vulnerability. Her eyes were young and earnest as her own coffee sat cooling in front of her. “How do you feel?” he asked as he drew out a cigar and his lighter.

  “I’m fine,” she answered cautiously. She noted he didn’t light the cigar but merely twirled it between his fingers. Silence spread again. This is ridiculous, Foxy decided, and opened her mouth to demand an explanation.

  “You’re sick before every race?” Lance demanded suddenly.

  Foxy hesitated over the question and began to stir her coffee. “Listen, Lance—”

  “Don’t start with me.” The sharp order startled her and she lifted her eyes and encountered dark fury in his. “I asked you a question.” His voice was too controlled. Though never timid, Foxy respected a temper more volatile than her own. “Are you ill, physically ill,” he repeated in slow, precise tones, “before every race?”

  “Yes.”

  Though soft, his oath was so violent she shuddered. Her wary eyes settled on his face. “Have you told Kirk?” he demanded.

  “No, of course not. Why should I?” His temper flared again at the incredulity in her voice. Sensing danger, Foxy quickly laid her hand on his. “Lance, wait a minute. In the first place, at this point in my life, it’s certainly my problem. When I was a kid, if I had told Kirk how I reacted to the start of a race, he would have worried, he would have
been concerned, he might even have banned me from the track. All of those things would have made me guilty and miserable.” She paused a moment and shook her head. “But he wouldn’t have stopped. He couldn’t have stopped.”

  “You know him well.” Lance drained his cup, then poured more from the pot. His movements were smooth but Foxy was aware that his temper was just below the surface.

  “Yes, I do.” Their eyes met again, his heated, hers calm. “Racing’s first with Kirk, it always has been. But I’ve always been second.” Foxy made an imploring gesture, wanting him to understand her as badly as she had wanted Kirk to understand the night before. “That was enough. If he had put me first, he would have been a different person altogether. I love Kirk just the way he is . . . maybe because of the way he is. I owe him everything.” As Lance opened his mouth to speak Foxy rushed on. “No, please listen, you don’t understand. He gave me a home, he gave me a life. I don’t know what would have happened to me after the accident if I hadn’t had Kirk. How many twenty-three-year-old men would choose to be saddled with a thirteen-year-old girl? He’s been good to me. He’s given me everything he was capable of giving. I know he’s not perfect. He’s moody, he’s self-absorbed. But, Lance, in all these years, he’s never asked for anything except that I be there.” She let out a long breath, then stared into her coffee. “It doesn’t seem like much to ask.”

  “That all depends,” Lance said quietly. “But in any case, you can’t be there forever.”

  “No, I know that.” Her shoulders moved with her sigh. Facing the window again, she watched the rain trickle down the glass without seeing her own ghostly reflection. “I realized this time around that I can’t cope with it anymore, not in person anyway. I can’t handle watching him get into a car and waiting for him to crash, knowing one day he might not walk away from it.” She shifted her eyes back to Lance, and for a moment they were drenched in despair. “I won’t watch him die.”

  “Foxy.” Lance leaned over to take her hand. His voice was gentle now, without any sign of temper. “You know better than most that not every driver is killed on the track.”

  “I don’t love every driver,” she countered simply. “I’ve already lost two people in a car. No, no,” she said quickly as he began to speak. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, simultaneously shaking her head as if to push the words away. “I don’t dwell on it. I don’t think about any of this often. You go crazy if you do.” After taking a deep breath, Foxy felt more composed and met his eyes. “I’m not morbid about all of this, Lance. I just don’t cope with it very well. And it gets harder all the time.”

  “I know the danger shouldn’t be minimized, Foxy,” Lance began, frowning at the weariness he saw in her eyes. “But you’re aware of