by JoAnn Ross
The assembled drivers—the very best in the world— would make that circuit fifty-six times before one of them would speed into the record books.
And all along the treacherously curving route, fans would congregate. Some would actually watch the racing, keeping track of the lap times, but most would come to socialize. Because congeniality and ambience were what made Montacroix the place to be—and to be seen—during Grand Prix week.
As Burke went over the prerace check with his crew, his mind—which never wandered prior to a race— kept drifting back to Sabrina. He pulled on his fireproof gloves, climbed into the cockpit, and took his earned position at the post for the pace lap. As he passed the palace, it was all Burke could do not to look up at the balcony in order to search her out.
Sabrina had never been more nervous in her life. Unable to stay still, she paced back and forth along the balcony, until Dixie complained about her blocking everyone's view.
"You're actin' like a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs," her stepmother complained.
Which was, Sabrina thought, exactly how she felt. Her heart was in her throat, and her stomach felt as if it had taken off on a roller coaster ride, leaving her behind. She didn't want to watch, in case the unthinkable happened. For that same reason, she couldn't take her eyes off the track.
She kept her binoculars focused on Burke's red car. It was sleek and dangerous looking, resembling a manned cruise missile.
From the beginning, he lapped more quickly than the others, repeatedly setting the fastest lap and never giving up. If her interest hadn't been so intently personal, Sabrina knew that she would have found his daring a thrill to watch.
Right in front of the palace, a Porsche, driven by an American, came too close and brushed wheels with a black Lotus driven by the son of an Italian industrialist. The Italian braked, causing a third car coming up behind the pair to have nowhere to go but over the back of the Lotus.
Complete chaos ensued. A fourth car screeched to a grinding halt just short of the third, while a fifth careened into them both just as Burke came out of the tunnel into the turn. Jessica cried out, the regent cursed, and Sabrina held her breath as Burke attempted to get around the outside of the wrecked cars, spun one-hundred-eighty degrees, backed up, turned around and managed to push on. Behind him, the rest of the pack staggered by, more and more strung out.
"I knew he could do it," Eduard insisted on a voice that was far shakier than his usual strong baritone. "Do you remember when I avoided a similar crash in Monte Carlo, my dear?"
"I could hardly forget it," Jessica said dryly. "I had nightmares about you burning up in that car for months afterward."
"It could not have happened," Eduard insisted. "I was an expert driver. And our son inherited my skills."
As she watched Burke speed through the harrow streets, Sabrina wished she could feel as confident as Prince Eduard sounded.
The man, dressed in an Italian pin-striped navy suit left the office of the Giraudeau Bank, headed down the fifth-floor hallway to the rest rooms. Once inside the stall, he opened his padded alligator briefcase and took out the disassembled pieces of the automatic rifle, putting them together with a deft skill that bespoke years of experience.
Outside the gray stone bank building, the deafening roar of the engines was making work impossible, which was why the employees had given up for the day and gathered atop the roof to watch the race. Rather than finding it a distraction, the man welcomed the noise; it would mask the sound of the gunshot. If all went as planned, it would appear as if the prince merely lost control of his car. With any luck, it would burn when it crashed; if not, at least the ensuing chaos would give him sufficient time to get out of the country before the authorities realized that their regent-to-be had died of a gunshot wound.
He took the key he'd stolen from the custodian's closet and locked the rest room. Then, using the stock of the rifle, he broke out the frosted glass in the rest room window. A window that conveniently offered an bird's-eye view of the racetrack.
Lifting the rifle to his eye, he squinted into the sun, adjusted the telescopic sight, then waited patiently for the red Ferrari to appear in the cross hairs.
Burke had a healthy lead when he pulled into the pit on the twenty-eighth lap to change tires. The pit crew excelled themselves, changing all four wheels in less than eight seconds.
As he roared out of the pit, Burke felt extremely confident. He was enjoying the beautiful weather and the challenging course, kissing the curbs on the hairpin turns, flying through the ultrafast corners with a master driver's precision. This Grand Prix was turning out to be a perfect prelude to his coronation.
But the race wasn't over yet. As Burke exited the tunnel on the forty-ninth lap, swooping out of the stone arch like a fighter jet on a strafing run, the driver who'd been in second place for the past ten laps tried to pass him on the inside. But he'd timed the move wrong, causing his car to be momentarily pinned against the stone wall. Then, completely out of control, it did a slow heart-stopping roll in midair over the top of Burke's speeding Ferrari.
The shrill screams of the engines muffled the screams of the spectators. Chantal, Dixie, Ariel and Raven covered their eyes and turned away, emotionally unable to cope with the horrific accident. Noel, Jessica, Eduard and Sabrina could not look away.
When the other car's tire creased Burke's red helmet, Sabrina felt the blood drain from her face. Her knees weakened and for the first time since the start of the race, she sank in one of the wrought-iron chairs flanking the balcony railing.
"He's all right!" Eduard shouted. "Look, he's continuing the race!" His chest was puffed out with paternal pride; his dark eyes, suspiciously moist, revealed his earlier fear. Beside him, Jessica sat, her fingers curled tightly around her husband's arm, silent tears streaming down her too pale cheeks. Sabrina felt similar tears on her own face and brushed them away with the back of her hands.
Burke blinked against the red veil obstructing his vision and pulled into the pit.
"That's it," his crew chief said. "You're done for."
"The hell I am," Burke retorted, yanking off his helmet. "I just need something to stop this damn bleeding." The blood, dark and deadly, was pouring from a two-inch gash on his forehead.
"You could have a concussion," Drew warned as one of the crew mopped away the blood with a towel and slapped a thick flesh-colored adhesive bandage against the prince's brow.
Another man, clad in a red Giraudeau team coverall, tossed the bloody helmet aside and handed Burke another one. Meanwhile, the remainder of the crew took advantage of the unscheduled stop to top off the gas tank and check the engine.
"You should be in the hospital," Caine, who'd joined his partner in the pit, said grimly.
"I'll have a doctor check me over after the race," Burke countered. Before anyone could object, he slammed the car back into gear and rejoined the race.
For a time it seemed as if the celebrated Grand Prix had turned into the Demolition Derby Sabrina remembered going to after Sonny's performance at a Tulsa, Oklahoma rodeo. Cars crashed into the heavy barricades and each other, leaving brightly colored metal parts scattered over the curving roadway. Tires shredded and engines blew apart, creating billowing clouds of black smoke that mingled with the odor of oil and exhaust on the soft summer air.
By the fiftieth lap, only four of the thirteen cars that had begun the race were still on the track. And despite two dangerous near misses, Burke was still in the lead.
She watched spellbound as the prince continued his smooth and exhilarating run, putting on the same polished performance to the finish, effectively annihilating the opposition.
And when the long race was finally over, she was laughing and hugging everyone on the balcony. As she felt herself being given a most unregal bear hug by the ebullient Prince Eduard, she felt as if she were one of the family.
Burke sat on the edge of the examining table, his bare legs dangling over the side, trying not to
flinch as the doctor poured a stinging antiseptic over his wound. The pain was ripe and throbbing in his temple; his head swam.
"You must be one of the French loyalists who have been threatening to disrupt the ceremonies," he complained between clenched teeth. "Or else you're a sadist."
"There were rumors about the Marquis de Sade being my great-great-grandfather," the white-jacketed man answered blithely. "Of course the family has always chosen to ignore such stories." He dabbed at the cut with a sterilized swab. "My brother, however, is a dentist, which I suppose adds credence to such rumors."
He slid his glasses down his nose and studied the gash over the top of his tortoiseshell frames. "You are a very fortunate man."
"I've always been lucky," Burke agreed, deciding it would sound like bragging to point out that his expert driving skills had contributed to him escaping what could have been a fatal collision.
"Still, not many men could survive two near crashes and a gunshot wound all in the same day."
"Gunshot wound?" Drew and Caine said in unison. They'd been waiting nearby. At the doctor's pronouncement, they snapped to immediate attention.
"Oui," the doctor answered. "As you can see, it is only a graze, but another millimeter to the right, Your Highness, and your father would have been planning a funeral rather than a coronation."
"It can't be a gunshot," Burke argued. "The wound is from Mario Francotti's front tire. I felt it brush my helmet." He turned to the two security agents. "You both saw it happen."
"We saw the accident," Caine agreed as he rubbed his jaw, concentrating on his memory of the rapid-fire sequence of events. "But sometimes, what we think we see isn't what really happened."
"This is ridicule." Burke shook his head, then wished he hadn't as a blinding light flashed behind his eyes. "What are the odds of getting shot and struck during a collision at the same time?"
Caine's expression was nearly as grim as it had been after Chantal's near-fatal experience in that Philadelphia fire. "I wouldn't want to calculate the odds. But I have a feeling that you were right on the money about being lucky. I'll bet that the reason that shot was off the mark was because the accident deflected the bullet."
"That would be," Burke said slowly, "a fantastic coincidence."
"Isn't it?" Caine agreed. He turned to Drew. "Why don't you see if you can retrieve the prince's helmet? And get some forensic guys busy calculating the direction of the shot, so we can start looking for our needle in a haystack."
"I'm on my way," Drew said. "I take it you're going back to the palace with the prince."
"Yeah." Caine had a sudden need to see Chantal. To make certain that his wife and child were safe. He turned to the doctor. "I'm going to have to insist that you keep this confidential."
The doctor nodded. "Bien stir."
After arranging to have the bill sent to his accountant, Burke took the bottle of pain pills the doctor prescribed and returned to the palace with Caine.
Although it was more than two hours since he'd taken his victory lap, the narrow winding streets were still filled with merrymakers. Any one of the exuberant individuals could have been his attempted assassin, Burke mused as the gunmetal gray sedan made its way slowly through the crowds. The darkly tinted windows provided privacy, but for the first time in his life, he felt unreasonably exposed.
Someone had tried to kill him. Not once, but twice. And as disturbing as that idea might be, Burke knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his would-be executioner would try again.
"Perhaps we should postpone the coronation," he murmured.
Caine shot him a sideways glance.
"Because of the women," Burke answered his brother-in-law's sharp, questioning look. "While I detest the idea of caving in to these terrorist demands, I cannot ignore the fact that Sabrina could have been killed that night at the casino. And now that he's failed again, this would-be assassin will be growing more frustrated. Who knows what he will do next?"
"It's your call." Caine's mild tone did not reveal his own feelings on the matter.
"Can you keep them safe? All of them?"
"We can sure as hell try."
Burke laughed, but the sound held no humor. "There are times, Caine, when I wish that you were a bit less honest."
Caine flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, attempting to ease some of the tension that had every tendon in his body feeling as if it were in a vise.
"If you want an ironclad guarantee, I can't give it to you. If you want my word that I will do my best to keep your family—and my pregnant wife—safe from these maniacs, you've got it."
As Burke considered his words soberly, he studied the faces of the crowd outside the window. Was it the older man in the black turtleneck? he wondered. The young man in tennis whites walking beside the stunning blonde dressed in a crocheted sweater and enticingly sexy suede shorts? Dammit, who was it who had managed to grasp so much control over his life?
"Your word has always been enough for me, Caine."
Caine nodded, his grim expression mirroring Burke's own.
It was agreed that they would keep the news of the bullet wound from the family for the time being. Eduard would of course have to know. But both Caine and Burke saw no reason in disturbing the women any more than they'd already been.
And although Burke knew that such a decision was blatantly chauvinistic, the part of him that had been brought up under the tenet of male ascendancy to the throne attempted to convince him that it was for the best. But later, as he'd deftly brushed aside his mother's and sister's concerns, Burke had suffered pangs of guilt that were nearly as painful as his throbbing head.
Although the rest of Montacroix continued to celebrate long into the night, Burke was not up to such revelry. Instead, after a brief family supper, he excused himself and went upstairs, where he downed two of the pain pills with a glass of water.
In minutes he was asleep.
Sabrina lay on her back on the thick feather bed, staring up at the gauze of the high canopy. For the past three hours she'd been trying her best to fall asleep. For the past three hours she'd been failing. Miserably.
A virtual cavalcade of disconnected pictures kept tumbling through her mind: her first sight of Prince Burke, his face stained with oil and his eyes as hot as embers; the way he looked days later, when he'd approached her in the theater and stood so very close, and she'd seen their mutual attraction reflected in all those mirrors, blatantly obvious.
She remembered every devastating moment of that first shared kiss in front of Katia's portrait. She relived their entertaining time together at the casino and wondered why she'd even bothered to pretend that she hadn't wanted to go.
She knew that she'd never forget their stolen kisses in the back of the limousine, while the soft rain pattered on the roof. And most of all, Sabrina knew that if she lived to be one hundred, she would never—ever— forget the icy terror that had torn through her when she'd thought, for that long, suspended moment, that she was going to lose him. Before she even had him.
Sabrina had never been very assertive with men. Sonny, despite his own checkered past, or perhaps because of it, had been an incredibly strict father. None of his daughters had been permitted to date before their sixteenth birthdays. Telephone calls from boys had not been permitted, and Sonny Darling had always threatened that if any of his precious girls dared to call a boy, she would instantly lose telephone privileges.
By the time she was permitted to date, the word about Sonny's protectionist attitudes had gotten around and there wasn't a boy at Nashville Senior High School brave enough to ask Sabrina out. Sonny's reputation followed her to college, but although there had been a handful of young men intrepid enough to chance the singer's wrath by taking out his lovely daughter, Sabrina's absolute lack of dating skills left her too shy to accept their invitations.
Instead, Sabrina had immersed herself in the college drama department, where she found the stage a perfect—and safe—outlet for all her tumultu
ous emotions.
Her very first beau had been a fast-talking Yankee who swept her into his bed, onto his stage, and in front of a Connecticut justice of the peace before Sabrina had known what hit her.
When her marriage had broken up, friends had advised her to throw herself back into the social whirl. But feeling emotionally bruised, and uncomfortable with the New York fast life shared by so many of her contemporaries in the theater, once again Sabrina shunned the dating scene. Indeed, with the exception of a few platonic dinners with actors she worked with, evenings were spent in her apartment, studying lines and watching old movies on the Arts and Entertainment cable channel.
And now, as she tossed and turned, chasing the illusive solitude of sleep, Sabrina realized that her sex life resembled that of a cloistered nun. Even in her marriage, true passion had eluded her. From the night he'd taken her virginity, after they'd shared two bottles of champagne at the famed Rainbow Room, overlooking the dazzling lights of Manhattan, Arthur had always been the one to instigate lovemaking. He liked to instruct her what he wanted her to do, just as he directed her on the stage. Dedicated actress that she was, Sabrina had tried her best to give a stellar performance.
A goal in which she'd apparently succeeded. Because when she'd angrily informed him that she'd never—in six years of marriage—experienced an orgasm, the unflappable Arthur Longstreet had appeared honestly shocked by such an unwelcome revelation.
So here she was, twenty-eight years old, suffering in a too-lonely bed when the man she wanted with every fiber of her being was just down the hall.
"No!" she whispered, rolling onto her stomach and pulling the snowy down pillow over her head. She couldn't do it. She didn't have the nerve.
But then she remembered how close Burke had come to dying today. And how close she'd come to losing an opportunity of a lifetime.