by Lisa Cach
To top it all off, this was Sophia’s grandniece, and Sophia had made it clear that she wouldn’t take kindly to him playing with Grace’s heart. If he meant to capture Grace’s affections, then he’d better want to keep them.
But he wasn’t ready to settle down or make lifelong pledges of devotion. He wanted Grace right now. What he might want, or what she might want, six months from now was a different story. And did he really even have to worry about that? If they were meant to grow old together, they would. If not, they’d go their separate ways, no harm, no foul. But they’d never find out if they were meant to be together if Grace married Andrew first.
But then he remembered: driving lessons.
They’d probably kill each other before they got anywhere near a bed.
“I want something in return,” Declan said.
Sophia’s eyebrow twitched. “Oh?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I assume not; you would have asked for it sooner, otherwise, and not waited until you had a lever to use on me.”
Declan hesitated, feeling a twinge of doubt. He didn’t want to upset Sophia, but this was a rare chance that likely would not come again. “I want to borrow the MG.”
Sophia’s face went cold. “Do not tell me that you are taking part in that exhibition race.”
“It’s a once in a lifetime chance. My Jaguar doesn’t meet the 1956 age minimum, but the MG does. I’ll be careful—you know I will.”
“I know no such thing. No man is careful once a competition begins.”
“It’s an exhibition, not a real race,” Declan argued. “This will be the only time I can race a historic sports car through the original route of the Pebble Beach Road Races. I drove in the Monterey Historic Automobile Races at Laguna Seca twice, but that’s not the same.” The Laguna Seca racetrack, a little ways north, had been built as a rough copy of the 17-Mile Drive race route, keeping many of the turns and hills but erasing the danger of trees lining the road. The Pebble Beach Road Races had moved to Laguna Seca in 1957, and eventually been renamed the Monterey Historic Automobile Races. Now those races were over, too; the last MHAR had been in 2009. “I’m not interested in winning. I’m interested in the experience.”
“Bullshit. Winning trumps all.”
He reached across the table and put his hand on hers. “Sophia, please. I’ll be careful. I’ve got too much to live for to be careless.”
Her gaze sought his, examining. “Do you?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “If I kill myself in the race, I won’t have a chance to get even with Dr. Andrew for that goddamn fake Steinbeck cricket he planted on my land.”
“Mmm,” Sophia murmured noncommittally, and took a sip of Scotch. “Yes, that’s obviously the most important thing on your mind.” She stared off into the distance, then shrugged. “Take the MG. You’re right, you have more important competitions to win than a road race.”
“Thanks, Sophia.”
Declan sat back, surprised and gratified by Sophia’s acquiescence. As usual, though, it didn’t take more than a few moments for him to grow suspicious. He glanced over at her and wondered what exactly was going on in her head. Sophia never agreed to anything without having an angle in it for herself.
For a moment, he even wondered if he’d been manipulated into asking for the car.
But no, that was past even Sophia’s skills.
Wasn’t it?
CHAPTER
20
Sick to her stomach with nerves, Grace stood on the front step of the house and waited for Declan to emerge from the garage with the car.
The night before, Sophia had given her a long lecture on the inappropriateness of choosing sides with men before having received—and returned—a declaration of love.
“When a man has declared his devotion to you, and you have accepted that devotion, then and only then do you side with him against all comers. Until then, you remain neutral. You become Switzerland.”
“And pretend I don’t have a brain?” Grace had scoffed.
“This isn’t about who’s right or who’s wrong, or who you think has the better argument. Have you been listening to anything I’ve been trying to teach you? This is about recognizing the basic, animal emotions of men. What’s the primary reason that males in the wild fight each other?”
Grace lowered her chin and mumbled, “Females.”
“Females. And why does Mother Nature make them fight for the right to mate?”
“So that only the best males pass on their genes.” Grace scowled. “But we’re not lower animals! Declan could beat up Andrew if he wanted to, but that wouldn’t make me want to choose him. Andrew’s probably got the better brain.”
“If you interfere in their argument, you will be robbing Andrew of his chance to prove himself better than Declan. Grace, they want to fight, and they want to do it in front of you. Each wants the chance to prove himself superior to his rival.”
“I don’t think Declan does.”
Sophia rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that they met and had their argument here, where you were most likely to be a witness to it? Declan could have met Andrew anywhere else.”
Grace hadn’t bought Sophia’s argument about Declan wanting to fight for her, but she could see that she needed to step back if she was going to give Andrew the chance to cut Declan off at the knees and then beat his own chest in victory. A solo victory was always more ego gratifying than one earned while being supported by others.
None of that discussion last night with Sophia had made her feel any better about today’s driving lesson. Sophia insisted that it was a necessary counterbalance to Grace’s faux pas of supporting Andrew yesterday, but Grace suspected Sophia was using that as a convenient excuse. Grace almost thought Sophia was punishing Declan for an unknown transgression: why else do something so cruel as force him to teach her to drive a stick shift? It would be a teeth-gritting exercise in patience for him.
He was probably dreading seeing her, too. She had no idea what was going on in his head but guessed he might still be smarting after her winning the bedroom bet. It was at least one explanation for his disappearance. At any rate, he had to know she wouldn’t be feeling friendly toward him after his vanishing act.
Nerves had her bouncing on the balls of her feet, which were clad in pristine white Keds. They had been Sophia’s concession to practicality for the driving lesson. The rest of Grace’s outfit said anything but “serious driver”: a short white pleated skirt, and a lavender forties-style halter top with a faux knot between her breasts and a broad strap that tied at her nape. A thin tangerine scarf served as a headband, its tail ends draping over one shoulder. Pale green jade dangled at her ears and was strung in chunks on a bracelet at her wrist.
At the moment, she wasn’t sure if she was more anxious about spending time with Declan or about driving a manual. She was an adequate driver, just as she was adequate at most physical things she learned, but she was no genius. She knew there were going to be many, many mistakes made in the next hour or two, and she’d be frustrated and Declan would likely start ranting at her, wondering why she couldn’t catch on quicker, which in turn would make her more nervous and destroy her concentration.
Grace took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. How bad could it all be, anyway? Millions of people knew how to drive a stick shift. If they could do it, she could do it. She just had to stay calm, keep her wits about her, and pretend Declan was a stranger.
She heard the low, grumbling roar of an engine, the sound so deep that she could feel it in her bones. Somewhere, elephants and whales were trying to answer that subsonic message. A primitive part of Grace wanted to run and hide under a bush.
From the side drive that led to the garages, an antique, cranberry red speedster convertible emerged into the courtyard. Like the Duesenberg, it had a long, narrow hood and enormous rounded fenders over the wheels. It was a two-seater, and where its trunk should have been, the car tapered
off into a point that looked a little like the prow of a boat. Big chrome bumpers reflected sunlight like mirrors, and head to tail the car must have been more than fifteen feet long.
Declan pulled to a stop in front of Grace and shut off the motor.
Grace gaped at the thing, immediately forgetting her promise to herself to remain composed. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a 1971 re-creation of a 1935 Auburn 851 Boattail Speedster,” Declan answered. “Not my thing, really. I prefer survivors.”
“What?”
“Original cars that have survived, as opposed to re-creations.”
“Why do I have to learn on this?”
“I don’t think you’d want to learn on an original 1935 car. The shifting is a little different than on a modern transmission.”
Grace waved away his explanation. “No, I mean, why do I have to learn on a goddamn speedster that’s probably worth half a million dollars?”
“Half a million? This?” Declan laughed. “No. A hundred thousand, tops.”
Grace put her hands over her eyes and breathed deeply. Calm. Must be calm. She dropped her hands from her eyes and squared her shoulders. Come hell or high water, she was going to learn to drive that car today.
Declan shut off the engine and got out, holding open the driver-side door for her. Grace made a grimace of a smile and slid onto the tiny bench seat, and then looked in horror over the long, long hood of the car. Forget mastering the stick shift; she couldn’t even see the road!
“God help me,” she muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” Declan asked, getting in the passenger side, his arm brushing hers in the tight confines of the cockpit.
“I said, ‘It’s a beautiful car,’” Grace said brightly, trying to ignore the shiver running up her arm from their contact. She put her hands on the wheel and pretended to steer, then put her hand on the shift and mocked that as well, making an engine sound deep in her throat: RRRRR … rrrrrr… . “I can’t wait to get going! How fast does it go?”
Something between a soft whimper and a cough emerged from Declan’s throat.
Ha! Good! There’s no reason we can’t both be miserable. “What do you say, shall we head straight out to Highway One?” she asked, and put her hand on the key as if to turn it.
“Let’s get the basics down first,” Declan squeaked, then cleared his throat and continued in a lower tone. “Do you understand the basic principles of how a standard transmission works, as opposed to an automatic?”
“I know you have to use the clutch to change gears,” Grace said, her hand still on the key.
“But do you know why?” Declan asked, settling back in the seat. His broad shoulders barely left enough room for her.
“Do I need to know why?” Grace answered tartly.
“I’d think you’d want to understand what it is you’ll be learning to do. You should have a concept of what’s going on in the car.”
“Declan, I don’t even understand the mechanics of how burning liquid gasoline makes the wheels turn on a car. I don’t think I’m going to benefit from a lecture on clutches and gears.”
“Nevertheless, I think you should understand.”
Grace heaved a put-upon sigh and sat back, secretly delighted by the reprieve. They could sit here all day discussing gears, if it meant delaying the actual driving lesson. “Fine. Tell me about gears.”
“Anyone who rides a bicycle already has a basic understanding of using lower gears to get moving, and for more power on hills. In a standard transmission, there is a positive connection between the motor and the transmission—aka, the gears—which is achieved by using the clutch. A clutch disk, actually. When you put your foot on the clutch pedal, you are disengaging the clutch disk and separating the motor from the transmission. I’m grossly simplifying, of course.”
“Of course.” Grace frowned at Declan. “Er. What is a transmission, anyway? You always hear about them, but no one ever says what they are.”
Declan blinked. “The transmission—again, grossly simplifying—transmits the power of the engine to the wheels of the car.”
“Oh! It’s what turns gas into motion! Well, look. I learned something.”
He narrowed his eyes, as if checking whether or not she was making fun of him.
Grace blinked innocently. Let him wonder if she was as ignorant as she appeared. She was that ignorant, as far as cars went, but he needn’t be sure.
“Anyway,” Declan said. “Disengaging the clutch disengages that positive connection between motor and transmission, and allows you to engage a different gear, either higher or lower. If you shift too far up or down, the motor either won’t have the power to move the gear and you’ll lug the engine, or will have too much power, and the gear will either slow the motor down, which is fine and is a technique for braking, or you’ll kill the engine. And if you don’t disengage the clutch entirely when you’re trying to shift, you’ll strip the gears, which is not fine and will mean serious work on your transmission.”
“Good to know.” She tried to smile but he was starting to freak her out. The last thing she wanted was to strip the gears on a $100,000 car.
“Do you know what kept car companies from developing an automatic transmission much earlier than they did?” Declan asked.
Grace made a face at him. “Is this a trivia question?”
“I’m trying to help you grasp and appreciate the workings of the car.”
“You sure you’re not just wasting time because you’re afraid of going out on the road with me?”
“I’m not stalling,” Declan insisted, his voice getting a little louder, making her think he truly was stalling. “Come on, this is interesting.”
Grace tilted her head to the side in an exaggerated “I’m listening” pose and opened her eyes wide. “Tell me, why couldn’t they develop an automatic transmission earlier?”
“Smart-ass,” he muttered.
Grace made a kissy face at him.
Declan ignored her teasing and became more pompously professorial. “The problem they had was how to keep the engine from dying while the car was stopped. Remember, in a standard transmission, disengaging the clutch disengages the motor from the transmission. So, when you’re stopped, if you disengage the clutch you can keep the motor running without transmitting power to the wheels. But without a clutch to disengage, when you’re at a stop, how do you keep the running motor from dying while it is physically engaged with a motionless gear?”
Grace thought about it for a moment, could find no answer, and then realized with surprise that she actually was curious. She’d never spared a thought for how an automatic transmission worked, but she suddenly wanted to know. “How?” she asked. She hadn’t thought she was someone who could be interested in cars. Would she start asking him questions about football next?
“In an automatic, the motor and the transmission never have a positive physical coupling.”
Grace frowned, sure she’d missed something, and also a little disturbed by the word “coupling.” It sounded sexual. “So their physical coupling is always negative? Sounds familiar.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I meant that there’s no input shaft to connect with—I mean—Goddammit, you know what I meant! There’s no physical contact between motor and transmission.”
“Then how do you get the … car to go anywhere? But I forget. Your best skill is making things go without touching them.”
He ground his teeth. “The answer to the question is ‘fluid.’”
“Really?” Grace’s eyes went even wider. Talk about sexual connotations!
“That’s what links the motor to the transmission in an automatic,” Declan went on, his face flushing. “The motor spins the transmission fluid, which then spins the desired gear.”
“How exciting. I’m getting flustered just hearing about it.”
He muttered something under his breath, then continued. “When you’re stopped in an automatic, the brake is s
trong enough to hold the car in place even though the engine is running, but the engine doesn’t die because it’s not physically, positively connected to a motionless gear.”
Grace’s lips parted in an understanding unrelated to sex. “That’s why an automatic will creep forward if you take your foot off the brake! The transmission fluid is still spinning, trying to move the gear!”
“Yes.”
“So in a stick shift, the clutch must be disengaged anytime the car is stopped, or else the motionless gear will kill the engine.”
“Right. Or the car has to be in neutral, which means that no gear is engaged.”
Grace put her hands on the steering wheel and stared forward, putting the pieces together in her mind. “But—if the car is stopped and I’m trying to get it going again, how does the running motor get a stationary gear moving? I mean, you can’t just engage the clutch and connect a running engine to a stationary gear and expect it to work smoothly, can you?” Even as she asked, she was again struck by the sexual connotations, and started to chuckle under her breath. She glanced over at Declan, and saw a look of suspicion on his face.
“The clutch will slip a little at first, as it gets the gear moving,” he explained. “Your learning how to smoothly master that moment of coupling, dear Grace, is where you and I are going to have so much fun today.”
“Now that was meant as a double entendre.”
“You’re hearing what you want to hear. Can’t stop thinking about sex with me, can you?”
“Dream on, big boy,” she taunted. “I already know you’re not up to the task.”
“That was your choice, not mine. If you want to sexually frustrate yourself, have at it.”
“Oh, I have no intention of leaving myself unfulfilled.”
“You think Andrew is going to meet your needs?” Declan scoffed. “Good luck. He’ll run for the hills.”
“Look who’s talking about running away! You took off like a … a … like a rabbit being chased by a coyote. You obviously can’t handle a woman who’s your equal in appetite.”