High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  “Boarding school? Is that common in the States?”

  “Not really. Rockmont was a small, private, expensive prep in New Hampshire. Not really my crowd—more your crowd. Then when I was in high school, my mom started dating Jim, and I started getting into trouble. Nothing major. Breaking curfew, drinking—the usual teen rebellion crap. Anyway, Mom married Jim, and the next thing I knew, they took me out of Rockmont and back to Gateway for my senior year.”

  “Transplanted in high school? That can’t have been fun.”

  “It was beyond awful. I was a fish out of water and a total snob. And I hated living with Jim and my mom. Jim and I only reached a truce after he took me out flying. Once I got in the cockpit I was hooked.”

  “So you didn’t go to university?”

  “My mom didn’t agree with the pilot career trajectory, so she insisted I do two years of college.”

  “That’s funny. I was prep school turned driver—everyone I knew in high school are all barristers now, or doctors, and I’m the blue collar worker.”

  “Yes—transportation, like me,” she said, laughing. “Only your pay grade is higher.”

  “Would you be up for motorbikes on the dunes?”

  “God, yes. But are you allowed?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean don’t they have insurance on you?”

  A pause. “Bollocks to that. No one dictates my leisure activities.”

  “Alrighty then.”

  Two hours later, Cass selected a helmet from the shelves while Ronan paid. She hadn’t expected him to pay, but he was too quick whipping out that credit card to give her a chance.

  He joined her at the back of the shop. She watched him approach, tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans. He was so confident in his stride, the way he handled himself. She’d had that kind of confidence, once upon a time. Before she’d killed someone. She pushed those thoughts away.

  “You okay?” he asked, frowning.

  What was it with this guy? He was so tuned in to her. It made him a phenomenal lover, but it was a bit off-putting when she had things she didn’t want to share.

  “Would you let me get something one of these days?”

  “Get something?”

  “Pay.”

  “I expect I make more than you do—”

  True, her pilot salary had never crept up into the six-figure mark, no matter how much overtime she worked. “Well, yeah, considering I’m unemployed now, but I have savings. I may not be in your league, but I’m far from destitute.”

  “You’re on leave, yes?”

  Until they fire me. “It doesn’t sit well with me.” She gestured to the man in front of the register at the front of the store.

  “You know what I made last year,” he said awkwardly. It was common knowledge. His salary was posted on the Internet. It wasn’t the highest F1 paycheck at twenty million dollars, but it wasn’t far off. Then there were the sponsorships. His longevity in the sport combined with his visits to the podium parlayed into an obscenely large paycheck.

  “I’d just feel more comfortable paying sometimes.”

  His expression registered surprise. “I like to pay.” He grinned. “Puts me in charge.”

  “In your dreams,” she retorted.

  She stared at the shelves of colorful Arai helmets. He selected his helmet—blue and black.

  Boring.

  “Really? Thank God you have sponsors who put you in vibrant attire—I can only imagine what you’d look like if left to your own devices.” She pulled a yellow and green helmet with a lightning bolt off the shelf. “Try this brain bucket.”

  “Brain bucket? I like this one. You go pick your own.”

  “But this one’s gorgeous. Take it.” She extended her arm and gave it a shake.

  He shook his head.

  The light dawned. “Oh, it has to be blue, doesn't it?”

  His eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

  “Ronan, seriously? What is this fixation with that color?” She pressed her lips together to keep the grin at bay.

  He shifted his feet, not meeting her eyes, and she burst out laughing. “You are so superstitious. I can’t credit it.”

  “All drivers are.”

  “About everything? Is it lucky for me I have blue eyes? Would I be less appealing if they were hazel or brown?” she teased him. “Does the same apply to you? Your balls—”

  He leaned down with a growl to capture her laughing mouth, pushing her back into the wall next to the shelving. Her arms curled around the thick, strong column of his neck, all traces of levity banished with the press of his body, she opened her mouth to the slick search of his tongue. Arousal coiled through her as she stretched into him, sucking his lower lip. Her hands fisted in his hair as she held his mouth to hers.

  Laughter from the other end of the store recalled her circumstances, and she released his neck. Maneuvering her hands to the front of his shirt, she pressed him from her.

  He groaned, adjusting his jeans.

  She glanced down with a giggle. “What was I saying?”

  A short laugh escaped him. “Yes, now I feel so much luckier.”

  • • •

  An hour later he got off the bike, legs shaking, put down the stand, and yanked off his helmet, livid, as he stalked over. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  She pushed up her visor, shifting her legs to balance the bike on the sand between them. “Having fun, same as you. What’s your problem?”

  “Going over the dune that way, in this crowd? Are you out of your mind altogether?”

  “Don’t be such an old woman. I know how to handle myself on the bike.”

  “You damn well don’t. This place is notorious for wrecks with all the cars and ATVs and crap out there. You went over the edge of that dune blind.”

  Her chin went up. “It wasn’t blind. And I knew I could land it. I knew where the other vehicles were. What’s the big deal?”

  “There are too many people here to chance something like that. Look. It’s chaos!”

  “Calm down. I’m fine. As you can see.”

  He raised a hand to his brow. That had been one hell of an idiotic move, and watching her vanish over the dune like that in heavy traffic had given him a bad moment. She was obviously experienced on the bike but with all these people in their appropriate and inappropriate vehicles racing up and down the dunes willy-nilly, cresting the dune like that was sheer stupidity. Was she …?

  He moved closer. “Have you been drinking?”

  Her face shuttered. “Of course not. What do you take me for? I would never drink and drive anything.”

  He peered at her, her face set in angry lines. Fine, let her be angry. “Let’s go.”

  They had been having a good time—he’d never done anything like this with a woman. His mates, yeah. Dozens of times when he was younger. And he’d reveled in a strange sort of pride mixed with awe watching her ride her dirt bike up and down the dune, her lithe body balancing on the machine. That was, until she’d performed that stunt. Now she revved the engine, turning the bike so the rear tire spat sand all over him. He cursed, and his arm flew up to protect his eyes and mouth from flying sand. Still muttering to himself, he put his helmet back on. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering about the circumstances of her helicopter accident … and why he was afraid of those answers.

  Ronan collected his deposit and went through the process of checking in the motorbikes, vaguely aware that Cass was at the counter to return their helmets. So she was giving him the silent treatment, was she? Well he was just as pissed as she. More so.

  He held the door for her as she left the shop, then practically raced her to the car to open that door. She muttered her thanks, closing the door of the rented Mercedes with more force than necessary. He hid his smile walking around the rear of the vehicle. Slamming the door of a new Mercedes just didn’t have the same effect it did in most cars. It closed with a gentle thwa
ck, not a loud clang.

  He climbed in and fitted the key into the ignition. “Are we going to talk about it?”

  “Not if it means another reprimand,” she retorted.

  “You scared me,” he admitted.

  “I wasn’t unsafe,” she said. “I knew who was coming up the dune from my last run and how fast they were going.”

  “Well I didn’t, and from my vantage it looked foolhardy.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “I don’t want to argue about it, Cass, I already told you it gave me a bad moment.”

  “So? Apologize.”

  “Me?” She wanted him to apologize for caring about her safety?

  “I’ve spent my life in a career dominated by men, Ronan. And plenty of them have wanted to look out for me, or treat me with their brand of misplaced paternalism. I don’t look for it, don’t appreciate it. In fact, I resent the hell out of it. I’m your equal out there on those bikes, Ronan.”

  “I never said you weren’t.” He sat back. “I see what you’re saying. And I think you’re half right—I wouldn’t have said the same thing to one of my mates. I might have thought ‘what an idiot, doing that here,’ but you gave me a bad moment not because of some misplaced paternalism but because …”

  This was the tricky part. Sod it. Who cared if he sounded like a smitten schoolboy? “I like you.”

  She sat silently, staring at him. Then she smiled and the lightness of it chased all traces of anger from her face. “I like you too, Ronan.”

  Chapter 8

  A week later, Ronan was far from the desert sun of Abu Dhabi, staring at the clouds thickening above the British countryside. He eased open the door of his motor home, took a whiff of the mustiness and faux lemon air-freshener, and threw his luggage on the bed. Someone from the team would come later with the rest. He set up the coffeemaker and then headed out again to say hello to the Silverstone track.

  A sheet of drizzle whipped his face, and he turned his cheek against it. “Ah, you’ll stop when I need you to,” he yelled into it. “The BBC said so.” He flung his smooth stone across the gritty tarmac. Four bounces. Perfect. Gathering it up, he trekked back to the caravan. He stepped inside and rubbed his hands, switched on the heaters, poured a coffee into his lucky Top Gear mug, and dragged a chair to the window so he could survey the track—one of the oldest F1 circuits in the world.

  He drank the hot coffee gratefully. The plan for today was to pay a visit to the team. Always good to see the guys in the factory who never made it to the regular races. Then the gym. Then—if all worked out—Cass. As the late Lou Reed would say, a perfect day.

  He looked at her name on his phone’s speed dial and calculated. She’d told him they would arrive at Heathrow at eleven and were staying at the Whittlebury Hotel adjacent to the circuit. They should be checked in by now, even if the traffic was horrendous. He pressed dial. “How’re you doing?”

  “Ronan? Oh, fine, fine. We just got here.” Her voice was muffled like she was in a car, and slightly breathless, but it ignited a spark of excitement in his gut. “Took us nearly an hour to get from Towcester, but we found the hotel okay. Speaking of which, um, we nearly ran over Maddux at the entrance.”

  “Ran over Maddux?” Ronan laughed. “That’s my job, Cass, but I appreciate the intent.”

  “No, it was terrible! Anderson’s still outside apologizing to him. I don’t know whether I should get out, too, now, or—”

  “I’d let Anderson handle it. The guy would sue for millions if you as much as broke his toenail. His own bloody fault for standing in a driveway.”

  “So where are you?”

  “In my caravan by the track.”

  “How is it? I’m picturing a mobile home with a single door and window and red-checkered curtains.”

  “Not far off,” he laughed, fingering the functional horizontal blinds. “Why don’t you come over and help me warm it up?”

  A slight pause. “Um. Well, let me get checked in here and I’ll come find you. Am I allowed near this trailer? How will I find it?”

  “I’ll send you the GPS coordinates. Connect to my wifi, password Lana1.”

  “Lana, huh?”

  “My car.”

  “Ah.” Another pause. “So is this place private, or are you overrun with engineers and crew?”

  “Just me,” he said.

  “Does the door even lock?”

  “Why? Are you planning on doing something naughty?”

  “You tell me. I’m wearing something blue.”

  A smile spread across his face.

  • • •

  He left the motor home to search for her disguised in a Navy anorak and Wellington boots, with a baseball cap pulled low and brandishing a large umbrella—looking, he hoped, more like a regular F1 enthusiast than a horny driver. He could do without the press vultures chasing him and swooping down on her.

  A large crowd had amassed along the fence in front of the McLaren and Ferrari garages. He could barely see a thing. How would he find her? He craned his neck to find the epicenter. Someone poked his side. He turned and found himself drowning in the familiar, captivating blue eyes of Cassidy Miller. His heart gave an extra whump. He grabbed her shoulders, fighting the urge to kiss her. “Mmm, Cass.” He bent closer and murmured. “Let’s get out of here before someone recognizes me.”

  She hooked her arm onto his, smiling up. “I’m all for that.”

  Settling his hand into the sculpted small of her back, he steered her away from the garages, tugging his cap farther down. “What the hell’s that all about?” he said. “They’re not showing off the cars now.”

  “Oh, I think that had something to do with Maddux handing out cans of Supernova through the fence. I couldn’t get anywhere near close enough to see, but that’s what someone told me.”

  He snorted. “Cheap PR trick. Wait ’til they actually taste it.”

  She looked back and grinned. “Let’s hope he has enough cans for the whole crowd.”

  He sighed. “Keep moving.”

  “Where is it?” She gave him that look—the lustful one—and something tugged at his stomach and then lower down. His body throbbed to life.

  “We’re almost there.”

  “That one?” She pointed.

  “No, Cass, that’s a storeroom. I’m over here.”

  “Okay, little bigger than I expected. Is it all yours?”

  “Look.” He held up the keys. “If it’s any reassurance, these here are the only keys, and they’re mine and mine only. We will be alone.”

  • • •

  He held the flimsy door of the motor home open for her. She took the two metal steps into the trailer.

  “I put the heat on. It’s often too effective for such a small space, so let me know if you get too hot.” He smiled playfully. “I often strip down when I come in here.”

  Cass nodded, taking it all in. It was tiny—narrow aisles, a galley kitchen with recessed cabinets, and what looked to be a bedroom at the far end—but it was immaculate. She walked toward the kitchen, bending to search the fridge. Sodas, water, and energy drinks. Figured.

  “Tempting view.” He hadn’t moved from the door.

  “So this is where you stay?”

  “I don’t sleep here.” He took two steps forward. “I use this place to—decompress.”

  She eyed him. “Is that a euphemism for something?”

  He looked taken aback, then laughed. “No. Who do you think I am? James Hunt?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “I know that name …”

  “An F1 driver. One of the greats. But he had a habit of bedding thousands of women in the seventies. He was our sport’s Wilt Chamberlain.”

  “So this is not where you bring your track bunnies? After your wins and all the milk drinking?”

  He sighed. “Indianapolis 500.”

  She grinned. He was so easy to tease. “Oh, right. You guys do it up all classy, with champagne on the podium.”

  She peer
ed down the hall. “Judging by the state of this place, I don’t need to worry about the sheets.”

  He placed a box of condoms on the table opposite the kitchen.

  Heat surged through her. What was it about Ronan? She tried to mask it, but being with him put her continually on edge. Excited, expectant—anticipating. And he knew it, if his cocky grin was anything to go by. James Hunt, indeed. Well, all these drivers had an excess of everything—money, women, things. And it wasn’t like she entertained any hopes for a future for them—she and Ronan lived on opposite sides of the planet. Yet the thought of him with someone else sent a bolt of jealousy through her, cramping her stomach. She would not have that conversation. This thing, this whatever it was, was a distraction, nothing more, no matter how much she liked him.

  His hand lifted her chin. “Penny for your thoughts?”

  “My thoughts are lustful,” she admitted, meeting his intense hazel gaze.

  His lids drooped, and he got that sleepy look he had whenever he was aroused. Excitement throbbed through her. “Now that’s an interesting turn in the conversation.” He edged closer, then bent, his lips covering hers, his tongue teasing her lips then slipping inside without hesitation.

  Lifting her effortlessly, he set her on the little Formica kitchen counter. She wiggled until she managed to hitch up her skirt.

  “And here I was worried you were going to keep prattling on about the Indianapolis 500.” He stepped between her legs, yanking her toward him. They were separated only by the thin cotton of her panties and his well-worn jeans. Heat emanated from him. She drew back long enough to lift her cotton shirt over her head and toss it away. Her hands moved over his shirt, then under the fabric to the smooth, hard flesh of his stomach.

  He took a gasping breath, his abdominal muscles twitching as she ran the palm of her hand down to the waistband of his pants, unsnapping and unzipping, delving into the elastic band, then under to his throbbing cock. He thrust into her greedy palm with a groan. She wrapped a hand around his cock and his face flushed with desire.

  Her lips curved, and she reached up, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down to her impatient mouth.

  He lifted her bottom with one hand, sliding and tugging with the other until he’d liberated her from her panties. She glanced down where they’d landed on the linoleum floor between his legs.