He tugged her bottom to the edge of the counter, the cold Formica a stark contrast to his heat. Spreading her legs wider, he reached down and stroked, teasing her, finding her clit. Her teeth tugged on her bottom lip to stifle a groan. She closed her eyes and threw her head back—banging it on the cabinet door.
“Ow.”
He made a contrite sound, and one hand came around the back of her head to rub the injured spot. His other hand still stroked circles slowly, so slowly, until he pushed two fingers into her. Involuntarily, her body clamped down on them, and she lifted her hips. His fingers thrust, too gently, while his thumb rubbed and pressed on her. She was panting now, fighting back her orgasm. He knew her body so well.
She reached up for a kiss, her tongue tangling with his, his fingers mimicking the thrust of his tongue. Oh God. She was desperate to come.
• • •
Ronan shoved his pants and underwear down. His cock sprang free; there was no way they were going to make it the six feet to the bedroom. He couldn’t wait. Easing her legs farther apart, he fumbled for the condom box with shaking hands.
Cass, panting, took the disc from him, tore the wrapper, and stroked it on, pausing to press and squeeze until he knocked her hands away and positioned her for his entry.
Her hands came back to torment him. This time he manacled her hands in his and pressed them above her head, against the cabinet. Her hair covered much of her face, a face flushed with lust.
One eye peeked out from the masses of chestnut hair. “Ronan, please. Now, already,” she said.
He guided the head of his cock into her entrance. Her body resisted a bit, so he held the base, working himself into her one exquisite inch at a time. She was making a low keening sound. She was close. “Yes” he murmured, fascinated by her naked desire.
He stroked her, circling, until she bucked into his hand, crying out his name, her inner muscles clenching. He gritted his teeth, holding himself back, waiting until she was spent, then he drove into her, pushing in to the hilt, over and over until he came with a loud shout.
• • •
She sat up in the bed. He watched her pull the sheets up around her breasts protectively, staring into space. She’d whimpered in her sleep and then jerked once; that was it. No panicked murmuring.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” he said.
For a moment she looked confused. “I slept, didn’t I?” It sounded self-accusatory.
He whipped back the covers and sat up, trailing his fingers down her shoulder, and planted a kiss. “Not for long. A power nap I’d call it.”
“Did I say anything?”
Was this about the nightmares? She hadn’t stayed overnight in his room since … ever. He frowned. “No, why? Are you still dreaming, about the accident? That first night you did—I think you did at any rate. You were talking about flying in your sleep.”
She hugged the sheet to herself. “Yes,” she said, dully, not meeting his eyes. “I have nightmares.”
He stroked her back but she flinched, so he removed his hand. “You never stay the night. Is that why?”
Now she did meet his gaze, her expression shuttered. “Of course not. It’s because this is,” she waved a hand dismissively, “it’s … casual.”
Something tightened up in his stomach at her words. “So?”
“So, I go back to my room. I don’t want to be caught sneaking out of yours. It may not be great for Anderson if this gets around.”
He climbed out of the bed and stepped into his boxer briefs, doing his best to shove aside whatever was pushing his panic button at her casual treatment of their connection. How could she be so nonchalant? “Want coffee? Soda?”
“Got anything stronger?” Her gaze wandered over the kitchen area.
“No. Sorry, I’m not exactly well prepared for guests.”
“Coffee’s fine,” she said.
“Good.” He retrieved his mug from the window ledge and got a new one for her. Just as he went to grab the coffee jug, the phone buzzed.
“Hey, Benny, what’s up?” he said, unable to keep the irritation from his tone.
“Check out the Herald evening edition sports section. They’ve news on your father.”
“My—?” Ronan let the phone fall on the bed, pulled out his laptop, and began typing furiously. “Shit,” he breathed. The article prattled on about him and his father. The scandal. The rumors. It was all there again. Stuff that had been put to rest long ago. Now, news of his father’s impending release was churning it up all over again. Warning bells started clanging in his ears.
Fucking Harry.
The sole reason he hated coming to race in the U.K. People had long memories here for this stuff. The British press never let it lie. He grasped the phone again. “Sorry, Benny, had to check for myself. Thanks for the heads up. Call you later.”
He set the phone down. “What shitty timing,” he said.
“Something wrong?” Cass emerged from the bedroom, her eyes bright with concern.
He sat down blindly, his mind overcrowded with memories and anger. He turned the laptop screen so she could view the story.
She read aloud from the article on the screen, “Harry Hawes, convicted fraudster and father of F1 driver, Ronan Hawes, is due for release from Springhill Prison on 24 November. Hawes was the confirmed instigator of a Ponzi scheme in London that caused a loss of 120 million pounds, robbing some sixty couples of their retirement savings. His release coincides with this year’s final F1 race in Germany.”
“He’s getting out,” Ronan said unnecessarily.
Cass looked from him to the computer screen. “I’m sorry seems like the wrong thing to say about a member of family getting out of prison.”
“Trust me, it isn’t.”
She wrapped an arm around his waist and he held her against him, staring at his father’s mug shot, the release date, 24 November burning into his retinas. He couldn’t let it cloud his thoughts. There was a race to win tomorrow. On home soil.
Chapter 9
“Ronan, I’m still out of breath,” squawked a reporter. “You’re in flying form. Second last year, top podium step this year. Tell us!” The throngs of newscasters pressed up against the stage. Ronan’s ears still rang from the blare of the circuit and the ecstatic roars of the crowd as he’d stepped out of the car. Nothing could replace the taste of victory. He’d floated all the way over to the press conference tent on a testosterone high.
He wiped his brow, grinning into the cameras. “Honestly, I don’t know. First of all, it’s phenomenal to race in front of this crowd, so thanks to the fans. It’s unbelievable. One of the best races all season. The car was fantastic. It was a bit tight at the start; Supernova had a good lead and I didn’t know whether I’d be able to pull it off.” Ronan shook his head to dispel the memory of sheer terror when he had been two cars behind Maddux. “I just tried to focus on my driving. We had incredible pace again in the car, and I managed to control the gaps … to come here and win the race is incredible. I don’t know what to say.”
“Maybe that your luck has come at last?”
Ronan turned to the pretty female reporter, keeping his grin intact. “Well, I’d like to think so. I believe in luck,” he said. “And it comes from being in the right place at the right time and with the right people—my team, my sponsors, and of course, a little something extra this season.” That set the reporters into a flurry of excitement as hands shot up to ask the next question. Just as expected.
“Is it a woman? Who is she?”
“Tell us,” yelled another.
“Are you back with Vivienne McCloud?”
He allowed the room to return to relative calm as they hung on his next answer.
“Will she be in Texas with you?”
“Um …” Ronan’s eyes roamed the crowd of invitation-only reporters as if looking out for someone. The wall clock blinked 17:15 P.M. He’d made it. Now he could wrap this baby up before they got a chance to ask him about—
/> “Ronan, your father, Harry Hawes—”
Ronan bolted forward and clicked off the microphone. He waved in dismissal to the frenzied reporters and gave his PR agent sitting on his left a jovial slap on the shoulder. “Time’s up, Bill. What do you say we go stretch our legs and grab a drink?” With a final wave, he stood and started talking to the engineering team off to the side.
Feigning total obliviousness to the reporters, Ronan clearly heard the reporter’s insistent voice. “It’s been speculated that his release from prison will be just before the qualifiers for Hockenheim. What do you think about this?” He tried not to think about Harry, now or ever. Why couldn’t the world just forget about the stupid old fool? What did he have to do to wipe the mud off the Hawes name for once and for all? Would becoming F1 world champion put those rumors that he somehow benefited from his father’s crimes to rest? Well, it was all he had to offer.
He made it over to the VIP tent without a single reporter accosting him, which was a feat almost as impressive as his win today. He couldn’t wait to see Cass.
“Ronan!” She stood before him, alone and glorious in a light gray, figure-hugging dress with a blue, swirly shawl that wafted across her collarbone. He pulled her in tight. “Mmm.”
She pushed back with a ferocity that stunned him. “How could you do that?”
“Do what?”
Her eyes blazed an angry, glinting blue. “Mention me!”
He stepped back. She was seething, ready to combust. “Mention you? I—I didn’t.” Had he? He could scarcely remember what had been asked or answered in that PR session. All he could remember was the heat on him when Harry popped up in the conversation.
“You gave them a broad enough hint!”
“What?”
“Bit of extra luck? What the fuck, Ronan. What’s next? Tossing my panties out into the audience?”
“Hey, I—” he said.
Her expression remained furious. He reached for her free arm, but she withdrew it.
“Cass?”
“And when they come after me?” Her eyes were haunted. “What then? What are you going to say when word of my accident gets out? What am I going to say? And Anderson?”
“I’m sorry, Cass. I think they might focus on your being a pilot, not the accident.” He sighed. “It comes with the territory. As far as Anderson goes? He’s not my sponsor; I don’t think there’s a conflict there.” He stepped back and folded his arms, all the warmth seeping from his body. “The more you win, the worse it gets.”
She held her hands to the sides of her head. “Oh God.”
He considered the options and shrugged. “I don’t know what to say, Cass. I’ve never had this discussion before. This being in the public eye thing is my least favorite part of racing. The better I do, the more they pry and the more crap they put out there,” he said. “They’ll make up any old shite if they have to, to sell papers, sell tickets. I ignore it as much as I can. And F1 sees nearly all publicity as good for the sport. You’re the first person I’ve been with who’s had any problem with it.”
“I can’t believe that.”
He shrugged. “It’s true.”
“The women you’ve dated haven’t had a problem being put under the microscope?”
“Never.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “You’d have to ask them. Some of them were used to it. A couple were well known in their own right. But you with your—”
She stiffened.
“I’m not used to someone who sees the press, the publicity, as such a drawback,” he amended hastily.
She twisted her hands together. “Huge drawback. Huge.”
“Well, the women I’ve dated have tended to see it more as a benefit.”
“I want to be very clear about this. I don’t. You don’t mention me. You don’t say my name. You don’t even allude to me.”
He gave a laugh that came out more like a groan. Part of the reality of being Ronan Hawes the last few years was that the women he dated wanted to date an F1 driver. A winner. With all the perks that came with it. Like most of the guys he raced with, he wasn’t the most sociable person on the planet. In fact, half of the drivers were downright introverted. He’d learned to work with the press, and could talk shop with his fans, but connecting with strangers wasn’t his favorite pastime. The women he dated, particularly Viv, were great with strangers, the press, the cameras, all of it. Most had been accustomed to public scrutiny in their own careers as models, actresses—even the barrister he’d dated had been a pro with the media. Hell, Viv had been a journalist and then a television presenter.
But it was both a blessing and a curse. His lovers’ comfort and appreciation of the “life” did lead him to question their motivations on occasion. Particularly Viv’s. Their relationship had helped her career. There was no denying that, and he didn’t begrudge it. She saw them as a power couple; there was no denying that either.
But the real reason he’d never been able to commit to her was that he had never been sure if it was Ronan Hawes F1 driver she’d loved, or Ronan Hawes from Tunbridge Wells. They’d never fought, never argued, and although there had been chemistry in bed, there’d been no passion out of it.
The women he’d been involved with appreciated things in his life that he only tolerated. Vivienne reveled in it. Clearly Cass was nothing like Viv. Cass was more like him: eschewing crowds and all the socializing with strangers, but hotheaded too. And despite her father’s affluence, she wasn’t part of this world. Even after ten years, navigating it could still be a challenge for him. He opened his mouth to explain some of this, but when the words came out they sounded like, “I just need to focus on my driving and win.”
She looked him up and down as if he were an exhibit at Madame Tussauds. She backed up a step.
“Oh no you don’t.” He reached out and grabbed her gently. “Don’t walk off on me. I’m sorry it’s out there. We’ll do what we can to mitigate speculation about you. Want me to say that you’re my cousin thrice removed?”
“It’s not funny, Ronan.”
He nodded, letting go.
She turned on her heel.
Heading for the bar no doubt.
He’d withdrawn from Viv because there hadn’t been enough passion in the relationship. Was there such a thing as too much? He could understand where Cass was coming from, and she’d already told him she wanted to keep their relationship out of the spotlight. She was right, of course. He had thrown her under the bus as she’d said, hoping to divert attention from Harry’s release.
She practically ran into someone in her haste to get away. Great, just what this evening needed yet: Maddux. Of course. The sleazy-eyed idiot was putting on his best schmoozing pose, head cocked, grin as wide as a Cheshire cat, arm movements expansive. Sickening. Maddux swiped the empty glass off Cass and was evidently going to fetch her another drink. How gallant. No, he was hesitating … leaning in toward her, whispering something.
Ronan took eight strides over to them.
She stared at Maddux, ignoring Ronan at her side. “No thanks, Maddux. Now run along and get the bourbon for me, would you?”
Maddux’s green eyes slid from him to her and back again, obviously disinclined to leave them alone again.
“May I suggest we get the hell out of here before they snap a few photos of this little ménage a trois,” Ronan said. taking her arm and deftly avoiding a particularly gossipy Formula One blogger approaching. “And so I can apologize properly?”
She followed him to the exit door.
“Well?” She stared at him, arms crossed.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“I thought you understood. About the press thing, I …”
“I do,” he said, “but all I could think of was putting something out there that would take them off the scent of Harry. Ill-advised self-preservation. I didn’t think,” he admitted. “I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. Tell me you don’t need to pack to leave ea
rly tomorrow or anything.”
“I’m here for two days. Anderson has business engagements near the circuit and asked me to hang around, too. So I’m here ’til at least Tuesday.”
“I’d like to take you away from all this. God knows I’d like to get away from it, too. And, I know a great place—”
“Reporter-free?”
“Yes. It’s called Danesfield House. And you’d love it there. Just an overnighter, but it’s this wonderful hotel out in the country—a mansion, really—with massive grounds, quiet, with views of the Thames and—”
“Okay.”
He looked down at her. Some of the familiar warmth had returned to her face. “Aren’t you going to ask about the spa treatment facilities, the mode of transport to get there, the time needed, and the quality of the food?”
She cocked her head. “Ronan, we just had sex in a trailer on a gravelly old F1 circuit. It can hardly go downhill from there.”
He wrapped an arm around her, leaning heavily. “Oh we are high maintenance today.”
She bore his weight, with a smile. “I’m sure you can handle whatever I throw at you.”
“All right, I’ll pick you up from your hotel at eight and we’ll leave all this nonsense behind.”
• • •
Cass watched the lush English countryside in the summer twilight whizzing past the tinted windows of the taxi. They’d voted to get a driver as neither had felt inclined to get behind a wheel this evening. Her mind was still reeling from the fight they’d had, Ronan’s near slip up, and his genuine attempt to get things back to a calmer level between them. He was good at that. And he always made the effort, which was more than she could say for any other guy she’d dated. Once she’d reassured herself that the chauffeur—a tough-looking, wizened lady in her sixties—wasn’t some reporter or some pervert keen on following their every move, she leaned into Ronan’s shoulder, sighing. “This is nice. We’ve never actually gone somewhere together. We just meet up at races.”
High Octane Page 7