“Mate?” Benny said. “You crackin’ on us?”
“Nah,” Ronan replied, pushing thoughts of her away. There was no space in his brain for anything but acceleration, steering, and braking. Every molecule in his body was poised for a life or death race to the finish. And that’s all his brain could process for the next two hours as he visualized the finish line so vividly he almost thought he was dreaming when he crossed it—alone.
Bathed in sweat, heart racing, he ripped off the helmet. Fresh air whacked his face—beautiful cool, Belgian damp air. He loved it. He loved this rain; he loved this rain-sodden place. He removed his right glove with his teeth and waved to the cheering crowd. Turning toward the setting sun, he waved in the direction of stand six and the woman who’d brought him luck. Yes, it was still stuffed in his pocket, along with the smooth stone he’d found after winning his first kart race as a boy.
There was the usual clamoring around him, the whole Pantech-Windsor team, good old Benny, and the reporters not far behind. He made his way to the podium, took the champagne and squirted it with relish at Maddux, who had been hot on his tail at the finish but unable to catch up. Yes, they put on a big show of smiles for the press. No one wanted to be accused of poor sportsmanship. Maddux understood that as well as he did. He gave Maddux a particularly big man-squeeze for good measure and grinned his widest as the cameras went on a blitzkrieg. These moments made it all worthwhile—the punishing workouts, the early starts, late finishes, the air travel, jet lag, and the erratic social life.
• • •
This VIP tent was where she’d be, if she were with her father. But where the hell was she then? It was impossible to do the rounds because everyone and his dog wanted to talk to Ronan Hawes. He’d had more than his share of propositions tonight. The winners always did. But he couldn’t get her out of his head.
He reached into his trousers pocket to feel the silky material and the rougher edge of lace. In the periphery of his eyesight, Vivienne appeared like a vision under the soft indigo bar lighting. She was standing, or rather, leaning, by the bar sipping her usual gin and tonic, effortlessly languorous, her beautiful honey, shoulder-length hair falling in impossibly graceful waves caressing her neck, Adoring males surrounded her, many of them from his team. Maddux was nowhere to be seen, but no doubt he’d show his face before long. Ronan’s fist tightened.
He couldn’t even blame Viv for dumping him. She’d made it clear she was interested in commitment from the onset, and he hadn’t managed to get there. The longer they were together—going on a year—the more obvious it had become that there was something missing. She was intelligent—trained as a journalist—articulate, and best of all, extremely good with people. She put everyone in her vicinity at ease, including him. But in private? They’d never managed to do much more than skim the surface. And God help him, he hadn’t known if that was his failing, hers, or theirs. So she’d ended it. But to go from his bed to Maddux’s? She’d known how that would sting, and how the press would speculate and make his life hell. He’d finally developed an, intense feeling toward her: loathing.
Viv caught his eye, her face expressionless, then turned her back. He spun toward the group behind him, sure of an easy entrance into their conversation. Anything to look occupied. The press could take one look, a frown, and turn it into a melodrama.
And there was Cassidy, two feet away from him, a beacon of blue. Her eyes, bright and steady, picked up the color of the dress.
“Hello, Ronan,” she acknowledged, her expression set, chin lifted. The man beside her moved to let him into the circle. It was Anderson Miller. Ronan bit back a smile. Of course he could see the genetic similarity now—the striking eyes, the wide mouth. Cassidy’s elegant little nose must come from the mother though.
“Mr. Miller, nice to see you.”
“Ronan. It’s a shame you’re not wearing our logo this year.” They'd put their money behind Simons, again, to their detriment.
Ronan smiled. Clearly she hadn’t mentioned anything to her dad. He turned to her. “Nice to see you again, Cassidy.”
Cassidy reddened a little, and her nostrils did that flaring thing that only ever meant danger with women. What had he done now?
“Yes,” she said in crisp tone, fingering the cocktail stirrer in her amber concoction of a drink. “Congrats.”
“We were in stand six and had a perfect view of La Source,” said Anderson. “I could hardly believe you didn’t skid out the way Maddux did. You’re one skillful driver, I’ll give you that, my boy.”
“I’d say lucky, Mr. Miller. With conditions so wet, we’re thankful there wasn’t an incident. I’m just glad it’s behind us. Next stop—Abu Dhabi—where there’s not a drop in sight.”
“See you there,” Anderson said.
Ronan caught her eye.
God, what was wrong with her? Why were her eyes shooting daggers? She had jumped him fair and square, and then passed out in front of the loo. He was the one who should be irritated, not her.
A reporter tried just then to grab his attention, which Ronan dealt with in twenty seconds flat. His gaze darted automatically to the bar, but Viv was gone. Good. It was impossible to relax with her around.
“So.” Cassidy cleared her throat. “We’re honored you could drop by. It looks like everyone wants a piece of you.” She made a shooing motion with her hand.
He ignored it. “Always like this after a win. I’m just happy to have a normal conversation that doesn’t involve predicting the future or dissecting my thought processes that occurred at 350 kilometers per hour when my brain was liquefying.”
“I’m sure that can get tedious,” Anderson said. “Now, I see you’re without a drink. What will you have?”
“I’m fine thanks.”
Anderson backed up a few steps. “Cass, how about you?”
She lifted her chin. “You know what I drink, Anderson.”
The older man hesitated.
Apart from the genetic similarity there was nothing—no body language or verbal cues—that indicated they were in any way related.
Ronan took two steps forward until he was standing next to her. Close enough for him to smell her heady scent. Close enough for her to touch his jacket. Heat rose through him, and he cleared his throat. “It’s great that you come here—as father and daughter. You don’t get much of that at F1 anymore.”
“Usually the girlfriend or wife, right?” Cass said, brushing up against him. A surge of lust shot through him. Singularly inappropriate with her father standing there. Probably the aftereffects of the adrenaline leaving his system.
She sidled away, hands behind her back. “Yes, I can understand your confusion.” Her lips were pressed together. She vibrated with something. Tension? Anger? “So, tell me Ronan, does your father watch the races?”
Ronan’s breath caught. He was vaguely aware of Anderson’s hissed, “Cassidy,” sounding for the first time like he actually might be her dad. Her face said it all—defiant, angry, and unmistakably knowing.
“Excuse me,” he said evenly, with a nod to Anderson before he made his way over to the bar. He ordered a drink, seething. What a bitch. His hand went to his trouser pocket. Scrabbled around. Then with rising panic he checked the other pocket.
She’d taken her knickers back.
Chapter 4
Cass chuckled to herself and stowed the thong safely away in her purse. She strode twenty paces away from the VIP tent before realizing she hadn’t a clue where she was going. Her objective had been to reclaim her property and get away, but now what? She glanced around the emptying stands, shadowy people in the drizzling dusk all heading in the same direction of the exit. She shivered and pulled her jacket tighter across her shoulders. Her heels were sinking into mud. Thick Belgian mud. She groaned, twisting her foot to wipe it on a tuft of grass. This would require another shopping expedition. She’d spent more on clothes and shoes in the last few weeks than she had in a decade. It was fun to try on this glamorous n
ew persona after spending most of her life in jeans and flight suits. And thanks to the trust fund Anderson had set up for her when she turned twenty-one, she could afford it.
“What’s a lady like you doing in a swamp like this?”
She spun around and faced all six feet of Ronan Hawes, who’d managed somehow to sneak up behind her. She shrugged. “Getting some fresh air.”
“That wasn’t very nice, you know.” His expression was closed.
“Yeah? Well, displaying my underwear for all and sundry wasn’t nice either. In fact, it’s pretty fucked up. My father has to work with these people. He doesn’t need to see evidence of my—”
“Calm down. I don’t kiss and tell.”
“No, you kiss and take trophies!”
“Trophies? What? No, you left them and—”
“Not on purpose, I assure you.”
“No, I know, I …” He was frowning now. “Listen, I’m sorry. I would never tell anyone.” He raked a hand through his perfectly cut, perfectly thick, blond hair, and her stomach did that twisting-with-arousal thing it seemed to do around him. “No one saw them. They’ve been in my pocket. And there’s nothing to tell anyway, is there?”
“No. Thank God.”
“I need those knickers,” he said, leaning closer.
“Knickers—you Brits have such quaint words for things. Panties.” She lifted her head and maintained the steeliest eye contact she could manage. “No.”
“Please?”
She grinned in spite of herself. “My, my. Ronan Hawes, cross-dresser. What would your sponsors say?” She leaned toward him. “But I can tell you which boutique has them if you need them so badly. Why not get some heels and go all the way?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think you understand. I need them. For luck.”
Her stomach pitched. “Trust me, there’s nothing lucky about them, or me.”
“My podium position says otherwise.”
“You can’t seriously think that was luck?”
He shrugged. “I had them for luck; they brought me luck. I need them for the next race. That’s how it works. Why have a big discussion?”
She gaped at him. “I’m doing you a favor, Ronan. They aren’t lucky.”
He cocked his head. “You’re a pilot, aren’t you?”
The smile vanished, and she felt her expression freeze. Had he Googled her? He must have. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“And you don’t believe in luck?”
“Of course not. Skill, preparation—”
“Yeah, yeah, all those things and something else, something indefinable that makes things go your way—”
“Or horribly wrong,” she said softly. “But that’s on the pilot, not on luck or fate or any of that nonsense.”
Could he really be that superstitious? How ridiculous. It would be nice to believe that fate intervened or whatever. If only she could do the same.
She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“Your accident.” He waved a hand. “But at least you’re all right.”
She blinked. A member of her crew had been killed, but at least she was all right? This guy had the sensitivity of an amoeba. What did he think he knew about it? God, she could use a drink. Or two. She looked back at the tent.
He sighed. “Here’s the deal.”
He was bargaining?
“Unfortunately, I have to leave for a team meeting in about five minutes and then head on to Berlin tonight for some PR activities. I don’t have time to fight you for those knickers, tempting as it is—” he glanced down, “especially with all this mud. But I’ll need those in Abu Dhabi. I’ll let you go on the condition that you promise to give them to me before the race there.”
She let out a shaky laugh. “How reasonable of you. You’re really hung up on my underwear, aren’t you? I could just mail you a pair and save you the bother of—”
“That won’t do,” he murmured, “It’s this pair that has the juju.”
She dug them from her purse and thrust them at him. “Far be it from me to deprive you of your juju. I don’t need that on my conscience along with everything else.”
She turned on her heel.
“Will I see you in Abu Dhabi?”
“Yeah. I’ll be the one throwing panties onto the track,” she said over her shoulder, already striding away.
“Then I’ll see you there,” he called after her retreating back.
She mentally rolled her eyes as she hunted through the crowds of the well-dressed scions of society in search of Anderson. Luck. She’d known pilots who wouldn’t fly without one trinket or another, who wore lucky shirts to interviews. Pilots were a superstitious lot. Apparently racecar drivers were, too.
Maybe it helped, when things went so wrong, to have something outside of yourself to blame. That would be welcome right about now. Instead, her conscious mind ran endless loops of that night, countless alternate scenarios. What she should have done. What she could have done. She’d do anything to get another chance at making the emergency landing that had killed her friend and co-worker. And the nights were the worst. Her memory reenacted the crash over and over again: the shriek of rotors when they hit the ground, the gasps that turned to agonized moans in her headset, and after—
She gave her head a shake and straightened her posture.
So Ronan was superstitious. May it be a comfort to him when things went bad, if they ever did. She envied him that crutch. She spotted Anderson across the room, in his element, yukking it up with some of the other teams’ sponsors—the liquor group. They were a lively lot. Liquor, not luck—that was her salvation in this godforsaken mess that had become her life.
• • •
There was no reprieve from these endless strategy meetings; not unless he was dying, or, in fact, clinically dead.
The team manager gave his usual spiel, presenting colorful graphs and charts in some snazzy statistics software he’d just procured—the statistics on every driver in the top ten, likelihood of anyone being able to beat him, their driving histories, patterns of behavior on different courses, weak points, what they had for goddamn breakfast. Ronan closed his eyes at that part, picturing Maddux and his smarmy grin. Fancy charts be damned, the wily Texan was the only contender, and they might as well just come out and say it. If only Vivienne would pop something into his energy drink.
The most likely circuits to win were presented next, as if there were some kind of mathematical formula to it all. This was what irritated Ronan most—their belief that his performance on the day was somehow predetermined. What they never seemed to get, these engineers, was that it was more like chaos theory out there on the track. Like the weather, there were too many variables to accurately predict how any team would do on any given day, on a different course, in rain or heat. And that’s what made racing challenging, frustrating, and exciting.
He needed four more wins. Four more days of engineering perfection, total superhuman performance on his part, sunshine, and a splash of old-fashioned good luck. That was it. Why bang on about it when he could be out there actually doing something to help his luck? So when his turn came to make a suggestion, he turned to the head engineer, saying pointedly, “What about the new tech—that top secret legal traction control system we tested in preseason? If you could get the kinks worked out, I’m sure I could use the advantage it gave me coming out of the turns. Next year’ll be too late after all the damn rule changes.”
The chief engineer, Lambert, was scribbling something in his notepad and he looked up, frowning. “Let me check on that with our onsite engineers in Silverstone. I’ll light a fire under them.” Those in the room who remembered the fire during the testing of the new technology tittered at the unintended pun. Ronan didn’t. Gregor, the test driver, had barely escaped uninjured when the damn car had ignited. And it could’ve been much worse. They’d shelved it after that incident, or so they’d sai
d, but he had no doubt the engineers were still tinkering. Benny scowled at a piece of paper one of the engineers had pulled out. Ronan recognized the intent etched in his old engineer’s weather-beaten face. That new hybrid system would put them well out in front if it could be made ready in time. He could count on Benny to make it happen.
Chapter 5
“Anderson? Can we go now?” Cass hollered from the sitting room where she could overlook the magnificent Abu Dhabi F1 circuit from her enormous Yas Viceroy hotel window. Beyond the circuit, desert dunes shimmered into the fast-disappearing twilight. As usual, her father needed longer to get ready than she did. What was he doing anyway? Polishing his cufflinks? She needed a drink, and she needed it now. But there was no way she was braving the locals’ politely concealed stares by being so crassly Western as to go drinking alone.
The hotel itself was a far cry from the cozy floral wallpapers of the Brussels hotel where she’d spent the week before the Spa race. This place was elegant and contemporary, with unique touches, such as the flooring with racetrack-style lines in case you forgot what the main attraction of the place was. Indeed, everyone here was here for one reason only—and she was hardly going to forget her main attraction. Maybe he’d be at the rooftop bar? But what if he had all his cronies with him?
She stared into the mirror. Should she have gone with the red strapless? She twisted to evaluate her dress from all angles. This white number with the black trim she’d been talked into at the boutique downstairs was too—something. It wasn’t her. She groaned. Of all the dumb things to be thinking about. Since when did she worry about what she was wearing? This F1 scene was doing a number on her.
Hearing a rap on the door, she walked over and threw it open. “Hello, Anderson.”
“Enjoying the view?” he asked.
“Yes, I can smell the rubber burning already.”
“This is the best track of all.” He rubbed his fists together in obvious glee and she got a glimpse of shiny gold cufflinks in the shape of little F1 cars. “You look beautiful, honey. I’m so glad you could make it all the way out here.”
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