“You’re welcome. Enjoy your stay. And if you need anything, or have any questions, feel free to ask, either here at the desk, or by pressing ‘one’ on your room phone.”
“Will do. Thanks!”
A moment later, she was outside room three. Wow, the receptionist hadn’t been kidding—this was a small place. But insanely convenient for her needs. When she was done for the day, all she had to do was take a two-minute walk back here. Which gave her pause—would the path be lit up if it was dark when she returned? Then she remembered the torch function on her phone—she could use that if need be. And she had her battery booster pack with her.
It seemed that, in spite of her inexperience, she was pretty well prepared for everything Donington Park Circuit and the British Superbikes had to throw at her.
Chapter Two
Gloria walked in the direction of the pits, impressed by the speed at which she’d both arrived at the circuit, and been admitted. It was only just over five minutes since she’d left her hotel room. Nodding to herself, she gave Graeme some mental Brownie points. But then, she didn’t really want to be here anyway, so perhaps it just made them even.
Now she was here, she wasn’t entirely sure where to start. She had full pit access, plus entry to the VIP areas. For her, this usually meant cordoned-off areas of high-class London clubs, free meals, complimentary spa treatments, exclusive interviews, behind-the-scenes access to filmings of TV shows and films… the list went on. It was little wonder she enjoyed her job so much—the variety was amazing. Plus she got to see some really cool stuff, and get freebies, samples and exclusives.
Here, the most she was likely to get was drinks and nibbles—though she was sure she could buy something more substantial if she wanted to—and maybe oil stains on her shoes. She’d deliberately dressed down for the occasion, knowing she’d stand out like a sore thumb if she turned up in her usual high-fashion attire. She’d gone for skinny jeans, a tight black T-shirt and cute, flat ankle boots, also in black. At least if she did get oil on her footwear, it wouldn’t be visible. Plus the boots were sensible enough for her to be able to explore the circuit without ending up going arse over tit or getting blisters or a twisted ankle. The bright, sunny weather and the absence of anything but the merest wisp of cloud in the sky meant she didn’t have to worry about a jacket or umbrella. Perfect racing conditions, too.
As she reached the pits and entered—having flashed her badge at a member of circuit staff—she was immediately hit by two things: the smell, and the noise. The place was a hive of activity—hardly surprising, given there was a race about to start. The scents of petrol, burning rubber, oil, leather and other stuff she couldn’t begin to distinguish filled the air. Her eardrums vibrated with the racket of revving engines, clanking tools and shouting. It was just as well all she’d planned to do to start with was observe, because there was no way she’d be able to have a conversation amongst all this noise, never mind try to interview someone.
She drank in the sights—the bikes, the mechanics and support teams, the racers—naturally paying particular attention to the latter. It was obvious that a rider’s success depended just as much on his—or her—support team, mechanics and bike as it did on their own skill and talent, but, as Graeme had told her in the briefing, that wasn’t what their readers wanted to know about. They were interested in the human interest angle—how the racers ended up doing what they were doing, their journeys, their results, their sacrifices, and so on. Generally, her boss had said, the more hardship they’d experienced, the better. Once he’d explained all that, it made sense why he’d felt the need to send her to the event—if all the readers wanted was race results and current standings, they could look online. But they wanted more. By the sounds of it, they wanted scandal, or at the very least dirt on the racers.
Gloria thought it all sounded a bit vulgar and a tad sensationalist, but she’d kept those sentiments to herself. She supposed it was a bit like the talent shows that were currently all the rage—the more unlikely a candidate, the more the public wanted them to win. Rooting for the underdog, so to speak.
So that was what she was on the lookout for—an unlikely racer, maybe someone who didn’t quite fit in, for whatever reason.
Gloria immediately discounted the solitary female racer—that angle was way too obvious. Not to mention the fact that, her gender aside, the woman looked thoroughly as if she belonged and had a team around her that looked just as good—if not better—than the male racers. There was no reason whatsoever that she couldn’t give her opponents a run for their money. Or should that be a ride?
Deciding to keep an eye on the female racer out of her own interest—she still had to have it tough in such a male-dominated sport and environment—Gloria moved on. There were only a few minutes to go until the race was due to begin, and the noise was increasing, the atmosphere ramping up to fever pitch. She could practically taste the testosterone.
Looking around to find a safe spot from which to watch the race, where she’d be out of the way but still get a good view, Gloria continued through the pits. It was then she saw him. Tucked away at the end of the row, his height and his dirty-blond hair caught her eye, and that was before she realised he was probably a good candidate for an interview. He had a tiny team of just two men, who on further inspection were likely family members—there was a definite resemblance.
The racer, clad in black and white leathers which had only one logo on them—compared to all the others, who had more logos than leather visible—was clearly happy to get his hands dirty as he performed what her untrained eye assumed were final checks on his bike. The lurid green and black Kawasaki was also noticeably devoid of sponsorship badges. So he didn’t have companies throwing their marketing budgets at him, and his team was… compact, to say the least. Was he the underdog she’d been looking for?
Casually moving closer, she pasted a neutral smile on her face as she hovered nearby, hoping to pick up a snippet of chatter that might come in useful later when she tried to engage the racer in conversation. Despite the small team, however, they were all business, and soon the racer—whom she’d internally dubbed as ‘19’, taken from the number emblazoned onto his motorbike—had thrown one long leg over the bike, pulled on his helmet and gloves, and was ready to go.
An unintelligible announcement rang out on the PA system, but understanding it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone that mattered knew what it meant. Engines revved and tyres squealed as the racers made their way out onto the track.
In spite of her previous disinterest, a frisson of excitement ran through Gloria’s body. Maybe the reason she’d never been interested in sport before was because she’d never attended a live event. Watching this sort of thing on the television just didn’t do anything for her—she never found herself rooting for anyone, or caring about results, so it all seemed pretty pointless. But maybe the remove of watching on screen was the reason for her dispassion.
Being here, in the thick of it all, seeing the preparation—albeit briefly—and taking in the sights, sounds and atmosphere, had already piqued her interest, and they hadn’t even started the race yet.
But it was imminent, so she scurried over to the barriers and slipped out to find the safe, out-of-the-way spot she’d been seeking when she’d been distracted by 19. Her exclusive access to all areas meant that didn’t take long, and moments later she was sequestered in an elevated viewing box, with a front row seat, and a handsome barman had scurried off to get her a glass of sparkling water.
The noise had deadened considerably now that she wasn’t in the midst of the action, but the excitement hadn’t. It had invaded her veins and she perched on the edge of her seat—literally—her eyes glued to the scene before her, the bikes all lined up in their places on the grid, ready and raring to go.
And then, following the signal, they did—in an overwhelming flurry of activity and noise. They’d hardly gotten any speed up, but already Gloria could barely keep up, could barely work out wh
at was going on. She was sure she’d get used to it, as time went on. And, she reminded herself, this was just one of the practice races—she didn’t have to pay massively close attention. For her human interest piece, though, she was already leaning towards following 19’s journey, and, fortunately for her, with his almost logo-free—for she’d now realised the logo he did have was that of the manufacturer of the gear—leathers and bike, he stood out. She kept her gaze fixed on him as best she could through the smoke left behind from the spinning tyres as he zoomed along the straight and eventually went out of sight.
Chapter Three
By the time the practice race had finished, Gloria’s mouth was dry and her heart pounding. She gulped down some of her water, swallowing hard as she shook her head incredulously. That had been incredibly exciting, and it wasn’t even a proper race! She’d had a great view of the straight from the box, and had watched much of the rest of the action on a nearby TV screen. And boy had there been some action; crazy speed, tight corners, skidding, breakdowns, near-misses… basically, these racers had some serious brass balls—and that included the sole woman, who’d already gained Gloria’s life-long admiration.
Gloria just couldn’t imagine how much courage it took to screech around tracks so fast. Pushing a car to eighty miles per hour on the motorway was about as speed demon-like as she ever got. And that was only if it was quiet. These people quite literally put their lives on the line for their sport. She shuddered, hoping nothing of the sort would happen this weekend. That was not something she ever wanted to see.
Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she returned her attention to what was going on. Now the race was over, she needed to go and find her potential interviewee.
Getting to her feet, she flashed a polite smile to the other spectators she’d shared the bank of seats with—only a handful, probably because the bulk of the spectators would only be at the track on Sunday, for the main races—and returned her empty glass to the bar. She thanked the handsome barman, tipping him a wink when he said “Any time”, his tone a tad lascivious. She had no intention of doing any more than flirting with him, but it couldn’t hurt to keep him on side, given she’d probably be seeing more of him over the next couple of days. If it meant she got served more quickly when the place got busy, then that was just a bonus.
She headed quickly to the pits, hoping to locate 19 and engage him in conversation, find out whether he was indeed a good fit for her write up. On arriving, though, she soon realised something wasn’t right. The area was crowded once more, with bikes, riders and teams of mechanics, but they seemed to be gearing up for something, rather than winding down. Frowning, she looked around at the machines, the leathers, and came to the conclusion this wasn’t the same bunch that had just been screaming around the track. None of them looked remotely familiar.
Fishing around in her bag, she pulled out the timetable for the day and groaned as she discovered her mistake. The races were pretty close together—only ten minutes between the end of the last one and the start of the next. So these folks were preparing for the next race.
Which begged the question: where did the riders go after races?
She spotted a man nearby who wasn’t wrist-deep in motorbike parts and spare tyres and approached him with a smile. “Hello. Sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you can tell me where I’d find the racers from the previous race, please? I mistakenly thought they’d be back here, but I’ve learned my lesson in that regard.”
The man, a tall, slim guy in probably his mid-fifties, returned her smile. “No problem. There are garages and workshop areas which are used by teams when their bikes aren’t racing. I know my way around a bit, so if you tell me who you’re looking for, I can try to help you find them.”
“Oh…” She fell silent. A tiny frown line appeared between the man’s eyebrows, prompting her to gush, “I’m sorry, you must think I’m a total idiot and time waster. I’m a reporter, but I don’t normally cover sports. I’m totally out of my depth here and don’t quite understand how all this works yet. I do know who I’m looking for, but I haven’t a clue what his name is.”
The man chuckled. “I don’t think you’re an idiot or a time waster. Seems like you’re learning as you go, so good luck with that. Okay… so, do you know which racing team your guy is on?”
Gloria’s mouth dropped open. She hurriedly closed it again and let out a growl of frustration, barely resisting the urge to smack herself on the forehead. “I… er… I don’t think he is on a team. He…” she beamed as a bolt of inspiration hit her, “doesn’t have any sponsorship. And he has a number 19 on his bike.”
“Ahh!” His eyes widened. “Got ya. That would be Rafe Donovan. Quite the conspicuous fellow, that one.”
“He is?” She raised her eyebrows, hoping to encourage the man to spill the beans. “How so?”
Wagging his finger, the man replied, “Uh-uh, you’re the reporter. Go find out the dirt for yourself. I’m not one for gossiping. But let’s just say, if it’s a story you’re looking for, you’re on the right track with that one. If you’ll pardon the pun.”
With a polite smile, she said, “All right, noted. So where can I find this conspicuous fellow, Rafe Donovan?”
“Arse end of nowhere, probably. Kid’s got no outside funding, so he’ll be wherever he could grab a spot. Sorry I can’t be more specific. But I can point you in the direction of the garages. Hopefully once you get over there, someone will know.”
“That would be great, thank you so much.”
***
She found the garages without too much trouble, and after asking a couple more people for further directions, she finally located 19—otherwise known as Rafe Donovan. Who, despite the first man’s reluctance to divulge gossip, she now knew had a story, as well as no outside funding. It wouldn’t fill many column inches at the moment, but at least it gave her a jumping-off point.
Passing into the gloom of the garage-cum-workshop, which was indeed, in the arse end of nowhere—she’d long since passed the areas given over to the biggest teams—she gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the light before approaching the three men clustered around the Kawasaki. They were so engrossed in their work that they didn’t notice her.
After a moment, though, the man himself looked up from his task and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead—leaving an oily streak—and spotting her in the process. A slight frown on his face, he stood up and met her gaze, a glint of interest in his eyes. “Hello, can I help you?”
Gloria was stunned into silence as she took him in. He’d unzipped the top half of his leathers, leaving them hanging around his waist. It looked cumbersome, but not as much, she guessed, as trying to work whilst wearing the top half, too. Underneath he wore a white T-shirt, which she felt was an unwise choice, but one she appreciated, given the way it clung to his chest and torso and afforded a delightful view of his muscular arms. The blobs and smudges of oil and dirt only served to highlight the bright whiteness of the material, and the tanned skinned of the wearer.
As well as having luscious dirty-blond hair that she wanted to tangle her fingers in, Rafe was also incredibly handsome. He had cheekbones to die for, a smattering of pale stubble on his cheeks and chin, lips that should really have been too plump for a man, but somehow suited him, and the most soulful pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. She suspected that, had he not been wearing leathers and covered in dirt and grime, he would actually appear angelic. But, as it was, he came across as quite the opposite. An impression cemented by his next words. “Hey, you lost, sweetheart? You looking for somewhere to powder your nose?”
He smirked, and the other two men with him—who were, by now, paying attention—sniggered.
Indignation rolling through her, Gloria pulled herself up to her full height—which was probably still a good foot shorter than his—and said, “No, I’m not looking for somewhere to powder my nose. I’m looking for you, Rafe Donovan.” She’d deliberately used his name to unsettle h
im, and it seemed to work.
The briefest flicker of uncertainty passed over his features, before being replaced with a smug look. “Have we met before? I doubt it, ‘cos I’m pretty sure I would remember you.” He raked his gaze up and down her body, lingering on her breasts, then grinned widely.
Goosebumps broke out all over her skin, but she stood firm, and kept her expression neutral. Stepping forward, she held out a hand over the bike, ignoring the other two men still tinkering with it. “My name’s Gloria Heath. I’m a reporter, and I’ve been given an assignment to write about this weekend’s British Superbikes tournament and the riders taking part in it, with special emphasis on individuals whose back stories might be of particular interest. Which is what has led me to you.”
Narrowing his eyes, Rafe grabbed a nearby rag and scrubbed at his right hand for a moment before reaching out and taking hers. As they shook, he said warily, “Nice to meet you, Gloria. So, what makes you think my back story might be of particular interest?”
As they’d been in physical contact, Gloria had again concentrated hard on keeping her expression neutral, while hormones zipped through her body at an alarming rate and made her heart race once again. Now they were no longer touching, she felt slightly more in control of herself—at the same time desperately wanting to wipe her palm on her trousers. Whether it was an attempt to erase the effect the contact had had, or remove oil and grime from her hand, she wasn’t sure.
She had to tread carefully here. She didn’t want to put the guy’s back up and have him refuse to talk to her. Granted, if he did, she still had two full days and what was left of today to find someone else to focus on for her article, but now she’d found Rafe, she wanted him. In more ways than one, if the reactions in her traitorous body were anything to go by.
British Bad Boys: A Bad Boy Romance Boxed Set Page 9