Maddux gave him a single-fingered salute and slapped down the visor that reflected the high sun. Disconcerting how harmless he looked with the full gear on; just like any other driver. Ronan turned toward his car.
• • •
“Oh God, oh God, they’re starting!” Cass screamed above the roar of the twenty-four F1 engines revving up. She grabbed the binoculars from Anderson and peered through. Ronan had waved in the direction of her stand—definitely.
She waved back.
Adrenaline coursed through her … something she’d not felt since … since … well, in a long time. This was gleeful adrenaline, not the cold dread triggered by impending death. Hopefully it would keep her awake. She hadn’t slept most of the night out of fear of becoming a raving lunatic in her sleep. Eventually she’d given up on sleep and slipped out of his room.
“Cass, you’re not even looking in the right direction,” Anderson said. “And why are you scrunching up your face like that?”
“Oh.” Speechless, she handed him back his binoculars. Yep, that’s what she’d forgotten to buy in the palatial shopping mall yesterday. Binoculars. What was happening to her that she’d buy lingerie instead of vital equipment?
The flag went down. The world seemed to erupt in a cacophony of noise and movement everywhere as the cars dissipated into streaks of color, lights flashing. The crowd swayed in excitement, with some first-timers even holding their fingers to their ears. The sound here at this venue was magnified, bouncing off the smooth, broad surfaces of modern architecture, amplified to a painful level. Everything about Belgium had been quainter. This was exhilarating, blisteringly warm, impossibly over the top—utterly addictive!
“He’s off to a perfect start,” Anderson yelled. It was an implicit understanding between them that “he” could refer to only one driver, Anderson’s way of saying he was aware the two of them had something going on. At least he wasn’t going to stick his nose into her affairs. She nodded back vigorously, not taking her eyes off the track.
She couldn’t wait long to grab the binoculars from him again to watch Ronan’s progress in the bends. He was second place, but once the pit stops started it could all change. The leader was that orange team, his rival Maddux, and if the press were to be believed, Ronan’s nemesis.
“Come on, come on,” she chanted. She could shout and no one would hear her. So she tried that. “Ronaaaan,” she called as his car sped around the nearest bend.
The last Doppler whine, and they were gone to another part of the track. Relative quiet was restored. Cass turned her head back to Anderson, who was watching her.
“It’s good to see you happy again,” he said.
“It is fun, isn’t it? I can see how you’d get into this. It’s more thrilling than NASCAR,” she admitted.
He laughed. “High praise, indeed. Don’t worry. I won’t tell any of your friends back home. Not that I know them.”
Cass stiffened at the mention of home.
“Oh, first pit stop already,” Anderson said. “Who is it? Oh, them. Okay, we can forget about them, it looks like engine trouble. New car, too.” He shook his head disapprovingly. Cass let him ramble on until Ronan was coming around again. If cars had personalities, she could swear there was animosity crackling between Ronan’s red and silver one and Maddux’s black and orange one just ahead. She could barely contain her own frustration, so his must be off the charts. “Oh come on, Ronan, just get in front of that asshole,” she said. “You can do it, you can do it.”
And then they were gone again. Cass’s mind began to numb with fatigue as seven more laps passed in similar fashion. Yes, it was addictive, but it also required stamina to just stand here and be subjected to this noise, this heat, and these emotions, frustration and fear warring. These were dangerous vehicles on a potentially deadly course. All the safety standards in the world didn’t change the fact that one false move could cause death or serious injury.
“Ronan’s slowing down,” she called to her father.
“Don’t worry, it’s a normal pit stop. He’s due.”
“Oh.” She handed the binoculars back, unable to watch, unlike Anderson who was timing it on his stopwatch as if he didn’t trust the fifty-foot digital clock looming over them.
“Good Lord, that was one hell of a quick tire change.”
“Great!” Cass stood up to see his progress and how far behind the orange car he was. Catching up. Fifth place now, but the other four hadn’t had a stop yet. She settled back on her seat and resigned herself to the relative logic of F1—positions only made sense when you knew how many stops the drivers already had. Somehow it was easier to keep this in mind with television announcers reminding you. Right here, right now, fans just wanted their driver out front.
“Oh look, now Supernova is stopping, too—that’s Maddux, isn’t it?” she said. “And Ronan’s in third place.”
“That’s Maddux,” Anderson agreed, absently focused on his golden stopwatch. He clicked the stopper decisively when the orange car departed from the pits again, declaring, “Ronan’s got a one second lead.”
Could he hold it?
“They’ll need another pit stop around the sixteenth lap though. Let’s see if he can keep it.” They both stared at the monitor, and sure enough the name at number one was now “HWS.” Short for Hawes. Cass shrieked, finally believing it. “Cool!”
By the time the second pit stops kicked in, she was an expert at counting. She’d read it should take three seconds. Best case? Two point something. And Ronan had done it again, best case. As he’d kept saying last night, this track was a favorite.
An “ahooah” from the crowd snapped her attention back to the circuit.
“What?” she almost shrieked.
“There.” Anderson pointed to the curve nearest on the east side. “Ronan swerved. No idea why. But he’s lost some time.”
Cass stared at the monitor … two laps left.
“He’s killing it now. Look. ”
She squinted to see what Anderson so plainly saw, but it was the same neck-and-neck behavior as before. No wait … where was the orange Supernova car? She gasped when the camera moved ahead and it appeared, a good second ahead.
“What? Damn it! That’s Maddux. How did he take the lead?”
Anderson put down the binoculars and gave her a genuinely consoling look.
Cass stared at her feet, wondering what must be going through Ronan’s head. Her forehead was throbbing with angry frustration on his behalf. And if she felt like this, he must be apoplectic. “He really wanted this one,” she said aloud.
Anderson’s lips quirked. “No, Cass. They want them all. Every time. These guys don’t deal well with any place other than first. Second is as bad as last.”
• • •
A couple brushed past them before she registered who it was—that driver, Maddux, strutting by with a gorgeous model-type on his arm. She turned her head to watch their progress through the crowd, which clamored around them. He was the same height as Ronan and nearly as attractive, but that swagger was a complete turnoff.
When she finally found Ronan, he was cornered by the coffee stand with some young journalist hounding him. He wiped his brow with a weary shift of the eyes that Cass instantly recognized.
She shoved her way through a mass of colorful jumpsuits and marched up to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said in her sternest voice to the journalist, “but he’s had enough interviews.”
“Yes, and who are you?” inquired the reporter, instantly turning his owl-like gaze onto her.
“I’m his … life coach.”
“Oh. Can I ask your name, ma’am?”
“Coach,” she said. “Ready?” She smiled at Ronan, who gave her a half-hearted attempt at a grin.
“Am I ever,” Ronan replied.
“Then c’mon, champ.”
Ronan winced.
The owl eyes widened behind the reporter’s black-rimmed glasses, and then he trotted off.
>
“You okay?” Cass asked.
“I’ve had enough of the rehash. Maybe I can sneak out.” He beckoned to a catering door concealed behind a stack of alcohol and Supernova drink crates.
Cass marveled at how quickly night had fallen. She shivered a little.
“Where’s your father?”
“He’s with his oil crowd. They’re all going to some swanky place downtown to discuss business.” She shrugged. “I’m free for the night.”
“You propositioning me again?”
“Do I have to?” she asked.
Ronan dragged a hand through his hair, came closer and titled up her chin with his finger. She read the fatigue in his features, but more than that, defeat. Against the backdrop of dusk, with a patch of stars twinkling around him like a halo, he was as alluring as she’d ever seen him. The tension in his jaw and forehead only amplified the effect.
“I’m going to have to beg off. I’m not good company tonight. Never am after I lose.”
“No?” She took his hand. So Anderson had been right. Second was as bad as last. He and Mitchell, the other Pantech-Windsor driver, were still in contention, points-wise, for the championship, but evidently he was taking second place hard.
He exhaled and averted his gaze toward the night sky. “Please, don’t be offended. I’m … I … you never get used to it. Defeat. At least I haven’t. Not in all this time. I’m … if it were socially acceptable I’d go off somewhere and rage about it—howl at the moon or something.” He sighed heavily. “At least, I would if I had the energy.”
“We don’t have to do anything. Hang out. And I won’t take it personally. I’m competitive as all hell, myself,” she admitted.
“Yeah? Well I’m a moody bastard when I lose. No one can stand to be around me.”
“You exaggerate.”
“I’m not. I pace and tear at my hair. And if you offer me platitudes, I swear I won’t be responsible for my actions,” he warned.
She kept a level gaze. “I would never. I’ll hand things to you to throw at the walls. How does that sound?”
His face cracked into a grin. “Sounds great. Until the papers get ahold of it. They never let go of stuff like that, you know—trashing hotel rooms.” He tugged her hand, leading her into the lobby, nodding at the bellhop.
But he didn’t tear his hair. She put on the television and settled next to him on the king-sized bed. Such opulence—Egyptian cotton bedclothes with razor sharp edges, pillows that whooshed with airy softness, flattering diffuse lighting, original artwork on the walls, and everywhere, expensive natural materials blending in subtle harmonies. Did he even notice these finer details anymore? Or maybe he’d grown up with this degree of luxury. Her life in the States was nothing like this. She’d spent enough time at an exclusive prep school to see how the other half lived. Her friends back then were the offspring of some extremely wealthy people. She skied, knew which fork to use, which glass was for white wine and which for red. But it had been more than a decade since she’d hung out with the kind of people who could afford to go to F1 after-events and VIP parties. And it was another reminder that she didn’t fit. Didn’t want to fit. She loved her job and her life back home. Flying and helping people, being part of a team. It was the best of all worlds and there was nothing else like it.
• • •
Ronan started to unbutton his shirt. Cass was staring at the television, which was cycling through its explanation of the hotel amenities. He switched it off, finally getting her attention.
“Movie?” she asked.
“You.”
She went to her knees on the bed, and something in her expression sent the blood stampeding from his head down to his cock. She was so damned—eager wasn’t the right word. Neither was enthusiastic. Intense. That’s what she was in bed. Out of it, she was reserved.
Cass stripped off her dress and unhooked her lacy bra. His mouth went dry. God. Her body was unbelievable. Compact, strong, lithe, and her breasts were perfect. Absolutely perfect. She wasn’t rail thin, and he loved that.
She scooted across the bed and knelt, raising her hands over her head. “You have a thing for tits.”
He grinned, shedding his pants, peeling off his socks, finally raising his gaze to her dancing blue eyes. “Your tits. Yes.” He pulled a condom out of the drawer and tossed it onto the bed.
She held her breasts up for his inspection and laughed at the expression on his face.
“Cass,” he groaned, lowering his head and taking her mouth in a soul-stripping kiss.
He released her mouth, gently directing her until she lay flat on her back in the middle of the bed. He peeled off the scarlet thong and spread her thighs.
“Uh,” she said.
“Was that a protest?”
“Hell to the no,” she whispered.
Her body was flushed from chest to forehead. Their eyes met and held. He lowered his head to the apex of her thighs. Her hands gripped his head, holding his hair almost painfully. Her body was taut as his mouth dipped to taste her. He licked into her, using one hand to still her squirming hips. He coaxed her, plying her slickness, vibrating his tongue fast, then slow on her clit, until he discovered the rhythm that sent her rocking into his mouth and gasping his name. Her body arched off the bed, and he thrust two fingers into her. She came apart with a low scream, her body clenching against his fingers. He didn’t wait for the aftershocks to end. Ripping into the condom, he smoothed it on with shaking hands. God. He couldn’t get inside her fast enough.
He worked his cock into her; she was so tight, her tissues still swollen from her pleasure. She raised her hips, taking him the rest of the way, and it was his turn to gasp.
“Cass,” he muttered.
Her hands yanked on his hips, more, harder. He was out-of-control jackhammering into her, only vaguely aware of the headboard making a racket against the wall when she came again, crying out his name. His breath held as everything coiled inside him, and then he was coming so hard into her.
Seconds later he came back to himself enough to realize the body underneath him was shaking.
He rolled off, to his side. “Geez, sorry. Was I crushing you?”
She was trying, unsuccessfully, to hold in laughter.
“What?”
“That,” she gasped, indicating the headboard. “You may have damaged the wall. And shouting? Ronan, I don’t think you’re going to need to throw things. The people in the next room are probably lodging a complaint as we speak.”
He looked at her, and then the shared wall, then the headboard. He’d shouted?
She glanced at his face and set off again into gales of laughter. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ronan, it was so good. Earth-shatteringly good. And you … you yelled.”
“So you mentioned.”
She curled up into his body. “Not so reserved then.” She yawned. Her breathing evened out, deepened.
She twitched once, muttered, and was asleep. “You neither,” he whispered.
He stared down at the woman in his arms. What the hell had just happened? And not just that insanely hot sex. He made it a point never to be around girlfriends—hell, anyone if he could help it—after a loss. But this woman, she’d accepted it. Him. The losing. And he’d let her. That was the part that confounded him. He didn’t like anyone, not even the women he dated—especially not the women he dated—to see him brought down by a loss. Defeated, vulnerable, and angry. He’d thought it wasn’t the kind of thing partners should be subjected to. Cass had blown right through that. And he wasn’t quite sure how.
Chapter 7
Cass had the morning to herself in her opulent hotel room. She’d snuck out of Ronan’s suite in the wee hours and slept until nearly nine. Starving and unwilling to bring herself to head down to one of the restaurants, she had ordered room service. That had been an eighty-dollar mistake. She’d planned to hit the spa for a massage, but that breakfast had sent her hotel budget out the window. Despite the trust fund, she was naturally con
servative with money. Or had been until now. This trip and its excesses were a blip. Once she got home, she’d go back to living within her paycheck.
The day after a race, the Pantech-Windsor crew would be busy packing up the cars and shipping everything to the next destination, rather like packing up a small army of personnel and equipment. Ronan had explained the process—special cargo planes, specially designed crates for the cars, plus arrangements for the hundred or so people who were part of the team, including the two drivers. It could be a logistical nightmare in some countries with the mix of bureaucratic red tape, corruption, and fragile equipment.
Ronan called at eleven.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Good, you?”
“Better than I usually am after a loss. Thanks for … well, thanks.”
“It was fun.”
Understatement of the year.
“So,” he cleared his throat, “you don’t ride, do you?”
“Horses? Or do you mean camels? Neither if I can help it.”
“No, motorcycles, or more specifically, dirt bikes.”
“Oh. Yeah, of course.”
“You’ve ridden dirt bikes?”
She laughed. “What haven’t I ridden? Motorcycles, dirt bikes, ATVs, Jet Skis. All that stuff. I grew up in Gateway, Arizona, remember?”
“Don’t know it.”
“Desert.”
“Ah. See? I know nothing about you. Small town?”
“Kinda,” she replied. “I traveled the world as a tot with my mom and Anderson. Then she got sick of it and took me back to the States, back to her hometown.”
“So you are a world traveler?”
She laughed. “I was. I think I was six when mom and I settled in Gateway.”
“So you went to school there?”
“No, my hometown is tiny and the schools are pretty low ranked. Anderson convinced her to put me in private school outside Phoenix, but the commute just about killed my mom. So they sent me to boarding school from seventh grade on.”
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