by Nell Stark
“Plenty of doctors are huge Formula One fans,” Thalia said dryly. She captured Alix’s hand and returned it to her shoulder. “Their enjoyment has nothing to do with the Hippocratic Oath and everything to do with being human.”
The implied jab stung Alix more than she wanted to admit. It wasn’t the first time she had been referred to as something less than human. “Robot” or “machine” were the usual epithets, delivered most frequently by people trying to commend her work ethic and accomplishments. But the implication always bothered her.
“Everyone craves an adrenaline rush from time to time,” Thalia was continuing, heedless of Alix’s discomfort. “You’re the doctor—you know what it does to the brain better than I do. But instead of having everyone run out in search of thrills, isn’t it better for most people to get the rush vicariously? All sporting events fill that need: the anticipation, the suspense, the triumph.”
Alix had to admit to herself that she’d never thought of sports in quite that way, and that Thalia’s logic did make a certain amount of sense. “I can see your point,” she ventured, “but there are plenty of sports to choose from.”
“None so viscerally satisfying as racing.” Thalia cocked her head to meet Alix’s gaze. “Come to Spain in two weeks for the first race of the season. Let me try to prove it to you. I’ll even make it worth your while—you can sit in the Gambizi Tire box. Lord Rufford, the owner of my team, will be there with his wife, who does all kinds of charity work. If you spend some time schmoozing with her, maybe she’ll be interested in helping your charity get started.”
Still smarting emotionally, Alix had to remind herself that she was filtering this entire conversation through old baggage and that Thalia hadn’t intended an insult. Even so, despite the olive branch, a part of her wanted to retort that she didn’t need help. But that kind of attitude was ridiculous and would be counterproductive to her mission. If sitting through a silly race would benefit her nascent project, then that’s what she would do.
“I appreciate that,” she said. “And I accept.” After releasing Thalia’s hand, she took a long step backward. “I had better find Sebastian. Thank you for the refresher.”
“Anytime.”
“I hope you have an excellent season.” Not waiting for a reply, Alix turned and walked briskly toward the drawing room. Despite the finality of her parting shot, she found herself wanting to look back and resisted. She wasn’t a robot, but it would be better for them both if Thalia thought of her that way.
Chapter Five
Through the closed partition between the back and front seat of her car, Alix could hear her bodyguard talking excitedly to her driver about the Spanish Grand Prix. Normally taciturn, Claude spoke rapidly and his voice crackled with excitement, but she couldn’t make out the words. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Alix examined the open portfolio on her lap containing the most recent draft of her business plan. But when her concentration began to waver, she closed it and set it aside. She didn’t need to cram the latest details of the plan into her brain before encountering Lady Rufford socially. On the other hand, she could use a crash course in Formula One. As embarrassing as it was to admit her ignorance to her staff, she could potentially undermine her project by being woefully ignorant in public. Suddenly determined, she opened the screen and pressed the button to activate the intercom.
“Would one of you mind briefly explaining the current Formula One scene to me?”
They shared a glance before Gilles quickly returned his gaze to the road. She could only imagine what they were thinking—how was it possible for a princess of Monaco to have to ask that question?
“I know the basics,” she clarified. “Twelve teams, two cars each, Grands Prix around the world. Ours—that is, Monaco’s—is considered the crown jewel. Points are awarded for the top ten finishers of each race. The driver with the most points at the end of the season is the world champion.”
“The last race counts for double points, ma’am,” Gilles added. “And the team with the most combined points wins the Constructors’ Cup.”
“Thank you, Gilles. What is the current lay of the land? Is there a favored team this season?”
“Aiglon Motors won the Cup last year, and their first driver, Lucas Mountjoy, was the world champion,” said Claude. “The formula hasn’t changed all that significantly this year, and so they remain the favorites.”
“The formula? What do you mean?”
“That’s the set of rules that govern how the car is built, ma’am—the engine, the chassis, the electrical systems, and all other components.”
“I see. Do you each have a favorite team?”
“I was raised a Ferrari supporter,” Claude said.
“I used to favor Aiglon,” said Gilles, “but I didn’t appreciate how they treated Peter Taggart, so now I support Petrol Macedonia.”
That was Thalia’s team, Alix knew that much. And she had heard Peter Taggart’s name before. But the rest of Gilles’s logic was completely opaque. “Taggart was the world champion at some point, is that correct?”
“Three times,” said Gilles. “But after one bad season, Aiglon sacked him along with their team manager, Alistair Campbell.”
“Before last year, Petrol Macedonia didn’t even exist,” Claude added. “A British lord founded the team and snapped up Campbell to run it and Taggart as their star driver.”
“The Earl of Rufford,” Alix clarified, glad she could finally contribute to this conversation. Being so ignorant bothered her, though of course it had been her choice not to do enough research into the sport. “His wife is the one I’m here to meet. How did the team do last year?”
“Not bad. Taggart came in third.” When Gilles had to stop at a security checkpoint to enter the VIP parking lot of the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, Claude took over.
“Their other driver didn’t perform well, so they jettisoned him and were poised to sign a Brazilian superstar when he suddenly decided to race in America instead.”
Alix put two and two together. “Which is when they signed Thalia.”
Claude turned with a quizzical expression. “Yes. Do you know her?”
Buckingham’s security had been judged strong enough that she hadn’t needed a guard inside, and the relief she now felt about that fact was tinged with an unfamiliar guilt. If Claude had seen them dancing together, what might he think? Despite having done nothing wrong, she felt oddly ashamed.
“We met in London two weeks ago. At the wedding.”
He nodded and then turned his attention to the window. Alix did likewise, watching as the shapes of the track grew larger and more distinct: a rectangular, red-capped tower; the triangular white roof of a nearby building; the slate gray half-moon of the nearest grandstand. Soon, it dominated the skyline.
Alix preferred to conduct her own affairs whenever possible, and generally insisted that her security detail hover in the background. As she disembarked from the car before the main entrance, however, she was happy to let Claude take point. He was grave and expressionless now as he surveyed the hordes of fans trickling in through the gates. Perhaps, once they were safely ensconced in their box, she could convince him to relax and enjoy the race.
“Here you are, ma’am.” Claude held out her badge and she slipped it over her head, then adjusted the collar of her shirt. Having resisted her mother’s attempt to foist the royal tailor on her yet again, she had chosen a light khaki pantsuit for the occasion. She was here to do business.
Claude ushered her past three separate security checkpoints and into an elevator. Discreetly, she checked her reflection in its mirrored walls. Would she see Thalia before the race began, or was she deep in preparation? Not that it mattered, of course. She wasn’t here to see Thalia, though it would be only polite to thank her for the connection she had made to Lady Rufford.
In the two weeks since the wedding, Alix had been working diligently on everything from acquiring not-for-profit tax status for her organization
to beginning the delicate process of reaching out to the Ugandan government. Ashleigh had been able to offer a great deal of pragmatic advice—including the necessity to budget for “tips” to be distributed to government officials. A year ago, Alix would have balked at creating a line item for what essentially amounted to bribes, but having spent time with her boots on the ground, she now understood the necessity. Not to mention the value of perspective.
Now, with a mission statement and business plan in hand, she was ready to begin seeking out investors. Alix had read everything on the Internet about Lady Rufford, who had three grown sons and had apparently channeled her wish for a daughter into working to ameliorate the plight of female children in China and India. Alix could only hope to present a convincing case on behalf of women in East Africa. By turns optimistic and anxious, she had rehearsed her speech at least a dozen times.
The doors opened into a spacious room buzzing with conversation and a faint undercurrent of jazz music. Upon stepping over the threshold, Alix was struck by two features: the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side, presumably overlooking the track; and the ridiculous number of televisions peppered across the room. They covered almost every available square inch of wall space and also hung above and beside the bar. No seat was positioned without direct line-of-sight to a screen.
“Your Serene Highness, welcome!”
The man bustling toward them parted crowds without having to ask. As she watched him approach, Alix was exceedingly conscious that she had yet to command anything close to that level of respect. Most of Western Europe had probably forgotten she existed. Under normal circumstances, that was exactly how she preferred it, but now that she had a company to think of, she would need to keep a more public profile. Perhaps showing up to this event would be useful in more ways than one.
“Stanley Rabeck, head of Gambizi Tires,” Claude murmured discreetly. Gambizi was the official tire supplier of Formula One. This, she realized belatedly, was his box.
In the next moment, they were face-to-face. She offered her hand. “Mr. Rabeck, thank you for your hospitality.”
“It is an honor to have you here,” he said. “Would you care for some champagne?”
She rarely drank and was about to decline when she realized that might be perceived as a slight. “Please.”
He snapped his fingers and a waiter in a white jacket materialized at his side. “Champagne,” Rabeck said, and the young man was gone as quickly as he had arrived. “This is your first time at Catalunya?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must have the tour.” Smiling too brightly, he gestured to the clusters of couches in the foreground. “We have the most comfortable seating at the track, and our waitstaff will attend to your every need.” He then pointed to the nearest television. “Our screens display the race in progress and real time updates on positional changes, so that you will never be in the dark about the standings.”
The waiter returned with a tray of brimming flutes, and as Alix plucked one, she turned to Claude. “You too. I’m as safe as I’ve ever been.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he took a glass and Rabeck led them in a toast. “To Formula One.”
He led them to the wall of windows, and Alix looked out over the dark pavement that, snakelike, folded in on itself before stretching into the distance. Unbidden, her imagination conjured the image of Thalia—except the only memory of Thalia that she had was from the wedding, and the Thalia who would ride out today in search of victory wouldn’t be wearing a tux or a tie or an insouciant smile.
On the news early this morning, she had watched a piece about Thalia’s ability to make history today. Apparently, she had qualified for this race in eighth place, and if she finished anywhere in the top ten, she would become the female F1 driver with the most points. If she finished above sixth place, she would become the top-finishing female F1 driver in history. Intrigued, Alix had turned to the Internet for more details, where she learned that to date, the top-finishing female driver had taken sixth place in this very race, the Spanish Grand Prix, in 1975. The race had been cut short due to a terrible accident in which several spectators were killed in a crash. At the moment of cancellation, Italian driver Lella Lombardi had been in sixth place, which at that time was worth a single point toward the Championship. Because of the accident, half points were awarded. Lombardi had not won points in any subsequent race, making one-half the benchmark for her female would-be successors to surpass. Nowadays, sixth place was worth much more—Alix couldn’t recall how much—and so Thalia had the potential to break the points record as long as she finished tenth or above.
“Do you have a favorite team or driver, Your Highness?”
The question roused Alix from her introspection. “I’d like to see Thalia d’Angelis break the points record.” The more she thought about it, the more Thalia’s position in such a traditionally patriarchal sphere seemed like a golden opportunity from which to demonstrate gender equality.
“An intriguing driver, with a great deal of talent.”
Alix resisted the impulse to frown at him. His words were perfect, but the tone was off. Was he one of the “good old boys” who believed that women had no place in Formula One? “And an inspiration to young women who aspire to male-dominated careers,” she said, doing her best to keep an edge from her tone. “Don’t you think?”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. Too smoothly. She could recognize pandering when she heard it.
In the ensuing pause, she was startled to hear her own name being called from across the room. As her memory registered the voice, dread blossomed in her stomach. Sebastian. She should have known he would attend an event like this. Resignedly, she turned to face him. As at the royal wedding, he was wearing a suit, this one a navy pinstripe that accentuated his long legs and minimized the signs of his weight gain. Curly brown hair tumbled across his forehead, nearly falling into his equally brown eyes. He wasn’t unattractive, but neither did he make her pulse jump.
“What an unexpected pleasure,” he said in English, presumably for Rabeck’s benefit. And then he leaned down to kiss her. She had expected the customary series of cheek kisses, but instead, Sebastian boldly kissed her on the mouth. His lips were moist and warm, and his breath smelled of mint and some kind of alcohol. Not entirely unpleasant, but certainly unwanted. She pulled away as quickly as she could without betraying her surprise and displeasure at his familiarity.
“Hello, Sebastian,” she said, proud of the coolness in her voice.
“Your Highness,” Rabeck said, inclining his head in Sebastian’s direction. “Is everything to your liking? May I make any other arrangements for either of you?”
“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” Alix said. When Sebastian echoed her sentiment, Rabeck took his leave, presumably to greet some other VIP.
“I had no idea you were interested in Formula One,” Sebastian said, now in French, as he linked their arms together.
Discomfited by his closeness, she debated asking him to respect her personal space before deciding that would be uncharitable. “I’m not, especially. I’m here to meet with Lady Rufford about my charity.” Sebastian seemed mildly disappointed to hear that, for which she was glad. “Which team are you supporting?” she asked, in the interest of making conversation.
“I’ve been an Aiglon Motors fan since birth,” he said. “Literally—my mother has photographs of me wearing a ‘Red Eagle’ bib.”
Despite her interest in keeping him at arm’s length, Alix found herself laughing. “That is true dedication.”
“And you?” As they spoke, Sebastian steered her toward a nearby sofa.
“Oh, I don’t particularly care. But I do hope Thalia does well, this being a potentially historic occasion.” A sudden hubbub from the direction of the elevators made her pause in mid-stride, also forcing Sebastian to halt. “What’s that, I wonder?”
Claude immediately stepped in front of her, poised for an altercation, but his shoulders dropped
at the smattering of applause from those nearest the entrance.
“Speak of the devil and she shall appear,” Sebastian murmured, craning his neck.
Since he had several inches on her, she had no reason to doubt his vantage point. A moment later, Thalia emerged into view. She wore a white jumpsuit trimmed in red and blue and covered with sponsor patches. The smile with which she favored her audience was nothing like the flirtatious grin she had flashed at the wedding. Everything about her, from the way she held herself to the way she moved across the room, telegraphed a coiled intensity waiting to be unleashed.
She seemed to be looking for someone, and Alix was just wondering whether that someone was her latest fling, when Thalia’s gaze met hers and recognition flashed across her face. When she changed course, Alix realized the “someone” had been her. It was an unexpectedly heady feeling.
Thalia stopped a few feet away, her gaze sweeping over Alix’s body and lingering on where her arm was linked with Sebastian’s. Alix had to suppress a sudden urge to pull away from him.
“You made it,” Thalia said quietly.
“Hello. And yes. Thank you for your help with the arrangements.”
“No problem.” She stuck out her hand to Sebastian. “We met in passing at the wedding, Your Highness. I’m Thalia.”
“Yes, I recall,” was all Sebastian said.
Alix saw a way to distance herself from him, and to prove to Thalia that she was less ignorant about Formula One than when last they had met. Not that that should matter, but somehow it did. “Don’t mind him. He’s been an Aiglon fan his whole life.”
“I see.” Thalia had picked up on her mood, and her blue eyes were glinting with humor. A secret understanding seemed to pass between them, though Alix might have imagined it. “That’s very respectable and I certainly won’t hold it against you.” Thalia returned her focus to Alix. “I need to get back to the paddock soon. Have you met Florence yet?”