by Mia Caldwell
She thought about continuing to argue, though she didn’t really feel like doing so, but the need for sleep won out, and she surrendered to it gladly.
***
She had been mistaken about an uninterrupted stretch of sleep, and she felt bone-weary the next morning when Dr. Whitaker came to check on her. “I’d feel better if I had gotten to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time last night,” she groused when the doctor asked how she felt.
Dr. Whitaker just smiled. “We had to check on you frequently to make sure the pressure hadn’t increased. You seem to be doing well though, and I have no hesitation sending you home with some caveats. If your symptoms worsen, of course come back or call nine-one-one, and of course you can’t be alone for the next forty-eight hours.”
“You can stay in my apartment, or I’ll stay with you,” volunteered Connor, who looked just as handsome and put-together as he had yesterday, as though he hadn’t spent an uncomfortable night in the chair that folded out into a too-narrow, too-short bed. She nodded her agreement, though she had no intention of following the doctor’s orders. Having someone around for the next two days seemed unnecessary, but she wasn’t about to argue until she was free from the place, not wanting Dr. Whitaker to change her mind about releasing her.
The doctor finished up with her a little while later, and Angelina shuffled into the shower, pleasantly surprised to find the hospital had more than adequate pressure and water hot enough to fill the entire small bathroom with steam. It was only after she had finished her shower and dried off that she realized she hadn’t brought her clothes into the bathroom with her.
Feeling awkward, she cracked the bathroom door and poked out her head. “Um, Connor, do you mind handing me my clothes? I hope they’re in that little closet cubby over there.”
He nodded. “Sure.”
A moment later, he found her clothes in the closet and brought them to her. She blushed like a schoolgirl when he accidentally dropped her panties and picked them up, handing them to her after a slow perusal of the lacy white garment. “Nice,” he commented with a lascivious leer that was clearly exaggerated—she hoped.
She rolled her eyes, a maneuver that was surprisingly painful with her had still aching. “Thanks for the clothes.” She took a measure of satisfaction in slamming the door in his face, but his husky laugh detracted from her feeling of victory.
She dressed as quickly as she could, having to pause between motions to allow the waves of dizziness to pass. Finally, feeling like an invalid, she shuffled from the bathroom to discover the nurse had brought her discharge papers. A few minutes later, the nurse wheeled her to the exit, and she stepped out of the wheelchair at the front door. Connor put his arm through hers to offer support as they stepped into the sunlight.
For a moment, she thought the bright flashes were a reaction from her concussion at first exposure to direct sunlight. It took a moment for her to realize they were camera flashes, and there were a lot of them, all centered on her and Connor. Each flash was like an icepick through her head, and she grasped her temple and pressed closer to Connor in her confusion. She was doing her best to avoid the flashes, so it took a moment for any of the words being screamed at her to coalesce into comprehensible sentences.
“Is this the first time Mr. Blackwell has hit you?” asked an aggressive reporter as he shoved the microphone toward her face.
“Can you confirm your engagement?”
“When is the baby due?”
“Is it true he hit you because you wouldn’t agree to marry him?”
“Sources say he struck you because you tricked him into proposing. Is that true, Ms. Walsh?”
“Who will you be wearing on the big day?”
“How long you been engaged?”
“Are you staying with him after he beat you? What kind of example does that set for young women everywhere?”
The questions blurred together, but she quickly realized the reporters were there for her and Connor, and because they believed Connor had been the one to injure her. She was confused and overwhelmed. Her head spun, and it was a relief to allow herself a moment of weakness and surrender herself to Connor’s care. Angelina reveled in the way he swung her into his arms, carrying her in a tender fashion as he pushed his way through the throng of reporters with the assistance of security guards from the hospital.
She’d never been so glad to be in a car in all her life as she was when he placed her in the passenger seat of a black sedan less than five minutes after the ordeal had begun. It had been over in minutes, but felt like years had passed. He drove like he was on the race course as he sped away from the hospital, putting distance between them and the aggressive pack of reporters with their vicious lies.
“What was all that?” she asked, rubbing her aching head.
His expression was grim. “Someone clearly tipped them off about your injury, and I guess they jumped to the conclusion I had been the one to hit you.”
She snorted. “Idiots. And who would tip them off?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps someone at the hospital. We haven’t made an official announcement of the engagement, but since I was with you the whole time at the hospital, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out you’re important to me. The ring on your finger adds another clue.”
She looked down at it reflexively, having forgotten she was wearing it. It had been on her finger for almost a week now, and she was completely adjusted to it. That was disturbing for many reasons, and if she’d had the energy, she would have tried to pull it off. “Still, why would they assume it was you?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. I guess because I’m a celebrity.”
She shook her head, and then groaned at the motion. “The hospital people would have known the truth though. So would anyone that was at the house, assuming it was one of Carly’s associates who called in the tip.”
He sounded bitter when he said, “When does the paparazzi let a little thing like the truth stand in the way of a sensational story?”
“True,” she conceded with a sigh. “Well, I’ll just issue a brief statement with a reputable newspaper, and this will all blow over.”
He let out a sound that could have meant anything, but seemed to be one of skepticism. “I hope you’re right.”
She was clinging to her optimism, but it rapidly faded as they approached her apartment building to find it surrounded by more reporters. He barely slowed down before driving on by. “Hey, I need to go home, Connor.”
“You’ll stay at my place.”
His inflexible tone struck her wrong. “No, I won’t. I’m not going to let a pack of cretins run me from my own home.”
“They won’t leave once they see us go in together.”
She frowned. “Then drop me off.”
“No way. Dr. Whitaker said you have to be watched for the next forty-eight hours.” He barely glanced away from the road as he reminded her of that.
She shrugged. “She’ll never know.”
“I’ll know.” He shook his head. “I’m not risking your health when I have plenty of room in the penthouse. You’ve been there, so you know what it’s like.”
Reluctantly, she nodded. “Well, okay. Thank you, Connor.”
His lips twitched. “If that tone was any more grudging…” A hearty laugh burst from him.
“Sorry. I’m just used to taking care of myself.”
Connor looked at her for a moment, lifting her hand from her lap and squeezing it with his. “Let me take care of you for a bit. It will be a privilege.”
She wanted to make light of his words, and she searched desperately for a hint that he was kidding or being mock-gallant. She saw nothing but sincerity in his expression, and that made her swallow a thick lump that unexpectedly lodged in her throat. “Well, thanks, I guess, Connor.”
He released her hand a moment later. A few moments after that, they arrived at the building housing his apartment, and he cursed. Connor slapped his fist against the st
eering wheel before glaring at the press of reporters crowding the entrance to the private parking garage. By the stir in the horde, it was clear they had been tipped off about which vehicle to look for, and they were all crowding around the sedan.
With a curse, he backed down the street, paying little attention to the reporters trying to block them. Angelina admired his skillful driving as he forced the media to scramble out of the way while driving in reverse and turning a sharp corner. The motion of the car sent her head throbbing again, but the rush of adrenaline tamped down the pain, at least for the moment.
Once they were back on the city streets, she watched him navigating with confidence and bit her lip. With a sigh, she asked, “Now what?”
“Plan C.”
“Um, okay.” She trailed off, waiting for more details that didn’t come. “What is Plan C?” Her stomach dipped as she braced herself for the suggestion that they stay with his father. She hoped that wouldn’t include Brenda’s irritating presence.
Instead, he completely shocked her by saying, “We’re going to Catalunya.”
Her mouth dropped open. “As in Barcelona?”
He nodded. “The Spanish Grand Prix. You made the arrangements for me, right?”
“Months ago,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Before your accident. You aren’t cleared to race again yet. You aren’t planning to race, are you?” Why did that send a surge of panic through her? It was what he did and had done successfully for the past seven years without any injuries—until his prototype crashed.
“Not this time, though I hope to be up for the Monaco Grand Prix. I’m attending to schmooze and make connections. I’m planning to retire from the circuit as a driver after this season, and I want to transition to construction.”
Relief swept through her, though it shouldn’t matter to her either way. “That sounds…safer.” Except when he tested his vehicles. “Still, there’s no reason for me to go with you to Barcelona, Connor. I can hole up in a hotel.”
“Not for forty-eight hours, you can’t. Knowing your penchant for planning, I no doubt have a ridiculously large suite awaiting me, so there will be plenty of room for you to have your own space. The jet’s always on standby, so we can be in the air in less than two hours. There’s a bedroom on board, so you can sleep during the flight. You can’t visit Kevin for two weeks, and I’m your employer, so you can’t feign work as an excuse. What other reasons do you have?”
“Just planning a wedding I’m supposed to skip out on at the last moment,” she said overly sweetly. “Put like that, Barcelona sounds like a joy.” Her face fell. “Oh, but I don’t have my passport. It’s back at the apartment.”
He smiled. “Leave that to me, my darling fiancée. I have it all under control.”
She snorted. “I’m the one who usually manages all the details of your life, Mr. Blackwell, so pardon my skepticism.”
He just laughed, looking arrogantly confident that he could arrange the world to suit his needs. She had to reluctantly concede he was right to be arrogant when they were on his private plane ninety minutes later, preparing for a final takeoff. Her passport was in her purse, and a suitcase of her clothes was also stowed in the plane’s bedroom. She didn’t know who he’d sent to accomplish the task, but he had made it happen. She wasn’t certain if she should be annoyed, impressed, or perhaps fearful for her job—which she already knew would be ending as soon as she jilted him at the altar, so that wasn’t really a concern.
In lieu of any response, she chose to hide out in the plane’s bedroom and sleep as they undertook the hours-long flight. She was probably making a mistake by going along on this trip, but as she lay down and drifted into a deep sleep, she realized she was looking forward to it all the same. Not because of her boss, of course. It had absolutely nothing to do with Connor.
If only she could make herself believe that completely…
Chapter Six
Barcelona was just the distraction she needed. Because Connor wasn’t racing in this Grand Prix, he didn’t have to participate in the pre-time trials or any of the myriad details leading up to the racing itself. Instead, they spent hours wandering the city, starting on foot before renting a scooter when Connor reluctantly admitted that his hip was bothering him.
It had taken her a couple of hours to coax him into admitting that as she watched with growing concern the way his gait became more uneven as time passed. After acquiring the scooter, they zipped around the city in a whirlwind tour. He showed her The Castle of the Three Dragons, a drive-by viewing of Camp Nou Stadium, and Palau Nacional before they made their way to the shopping district of La Rambla.
Moving down the pedestrian mall, they zig-zagged in and out of foot traffic on the scooter. She half-expected someone to stop them, but Connor seemed unconcerned by the possibility. She was still relieved when he parked the scooter, and they did more walking, this time at a slow and steady pace.
They shopped several kiosks and paused to admire the paving bricks that looked like water rippling. Ambling further on, she was surprised when he took her hand, and even more surprised by how right it felt. He tugged her over to a small fountain with a lamppost at the top, and she admired its interesting design.
“The Font de Canaletes,” he said.
She looked at the plaque on the ground. “The legend is you’ll come back to Barcelona if you drink the water of the fountain.”
He snorted. “Yeah, you’ll come back for antibiotics.”
She giggled, and they walked on, finally stopping at a tapas bar on Rambla Del Mar, where they stuffed themselves silly on olives, anchovies in vinegar, and prawns in peppercorn sauce, paired with a Cava wine from the Penedès region.
It was a relaxing day and made all the more relaxing by the fact no one was pointing at them or trying to take their picture for sensational news stories that had no substance. To be on the safe side, Angelina had applied heavier makeup than usual to hide the bruise Kevin had inadvertently left on her cheek, and she was confident it was unnoticeable other than some slight swelling.
They finished off the evening with a long dinner at the Forestier Restaurant in their hotel before retiring to their shared suite in Hotel Miramar. There was an awkward moment as they stood in the entertainment area, staring at each other as though waiting for the other to speak. For her part, she didn’t know what she expected Connor to say, or what she even wanted to say, if anything. She was drawing a blank too. The silence was growing, feeling even more awkward, so she cleared her throat and spoke at the same time he did.
“It was a lovely day.”
“I had a good time.”
They laughed together, and she was struck by how much it felt like a real date, complete with the awkward ending that she remembered well, especially from her early dates, back when she was young and inexperienced. That was how being with Connor left her feeling all over again, as though she had never been through the courtship dance before. Knowing this was all fake didn’t help remove the awkwardness from the illusion.
With a smile that hurt the corners of her mouth because she was projecting it so brightly, she gave a jaunty wave and rushed to the smaller of the two rooms of the suite. As soon as she closed the door behind her, Angelina leaned back against it and took several deep breaths to restore her calm.
When she flipped the lock on the door a second later, she wasn’t sure if it was a precaution to keep Connor out, or to remind her to stay in. It had been such a pleasant day, with Connor so charming and attentive. It had made it difficult to remember he was also a playboy racer who went through girlfriends frequently when he unleashed his charm on her and made her the focal point of his attention. It was even more difficult to remember that none of it was real when she wore his mother’s ring on her finger.
With a sigh, she moved away from the door and headed to the bathroom. Perhaps a warm shower—even better a cold shower to dissipate the ache of desire filling her core—would help restore her sense of reason and remind her that s
he and Connor could be friends, but nothing more, and not for long. When she played her part in their agreement, there would be nothing more to any fledging friendship, so it would be better to keep things on a professional level and not even flirt with the idea of friendship, let alone anything more serious.
Just because his father wanted him to get married didn’t mean Connor had changed his mind about settling down. She was well aware he was just playing along to preserve his father’s health, and that was her role in the situation as well. Giving in to the attraction flaring between her and Connor would be madness. She knew that, so all she had to do was remind her body of that whenever she was in his presence and tempted to ignore common sense in favor of explosive desire.
No problem at all. She deliberately avoided her own eyes in the mirror, not wishing to see confirmation of just how full of false confidence she was at the moment. Or full of something anyway.
***
There was one more day before the race began, and when he suggested they take a rental car to the old circuit used to host the Barcelona Grand Prix until 1975, she was agreeable. It wouldn’t have been her first choice, but she suspected it was an important landmark to the racing enthusiast inside Connor, though he had probably been there before.
Still, she was touched that he wanted to share the experience with her. That reaction should be setting off alarm bells ringing in the back of her mind. Instead of focusing on that, she decided to push aside all angst-filled thoughts for the day to just focus on having a good time and relaxing, freed from the pressures of her everyday life for the remainder of their impromptu vacation.
The drive to Montjuich Park didn’t take long, and she was pleasantly surprised to find there were no lapses in conversation today, with no awkward silences either. Either they had both made an effort to avoid the unspoken tension of the previous evening, or perhaps they were both just in a different mood today. Whatever the reason, the conversation flowed, and she was surprised to find they had a lot more in common than she would have expected.