Martin walked away, stiff with rage.
Ronan had no faith that management would do it. He’d have to rely on Benny to organize it somehow. Ronan stood scowling at the garages for several minutes. So he’d managed to stay true to his ethics, just barely, yet there was still a gaping hole.
Cass.
If he’d only found his wobbly scruples a day or two earlier. But she was finished with him, and who could blame her? Granted, F1 and its “modifications” frequently blurred the lines, and safety was relative in this business, but she didn’t believe in relativism, in smudging the lines, under any circumstances. Her moral vision was twenty-twenty.
He’d thought her to be overreacting when she’d approached him—her past experiences and her idealism mucking up the waters with this issue. But it was he who had the problem. He and many others in this business. It had taken that scoundrel of a father for him to see clearly. The risk wasn’t worth it.
Of course, the trick would be winning tomorrow. Hockenheim favored the American—conditions would be miserable. Ronan fished out his lucky round pebble and threw it across the tarmac.
Two bounces.
“Scheisse.”
• • •
“Thanks for fetching me, Anderson. I could’ve taken the train or rented a car.”
Her father held her at arm’s length and examined her. “You look good, Cass.” His tone registered surprise.
She let out a shaky laugh and opened the door of his rented Audi A8. “Do I? That’s hard to believe after a cross-country then a transatlantic flight.”
“How did it go?” Anderson asked, as they buckled their seat belts.
“I managed without the in-flight drinks. I have a prescription, but I didn’t need it. We’ve worked on some things that seem to be helping. I white-knuckled it a bit through some turbulence, but everyone else seemed to be doing pretty much the same thing.”
He squeezed her shoulders. “You’re better. You certainly look more relaxed.” He started the Audi.
“I’m seeing a psychiatrist,” she admitted. “Post-traumatic stress disorder is my official diagnosis.”
“Damn. I’m sorry, love. And?”
“I have a ways to go. Though, I’ve been able to think of little but Ronan the last few days.”
Anderson shot her a look. “He didn’t drive this morning.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“No. We were told the car was having issues. He’ll drive later today though. He needs to.”
“What’s going on?”
“No one knows. The Pantech owner has been all smiles and good cheer, anticipating a championship. Haven’t seen Ronan, but that’s not unusual. You know they go into hibernation before the big race. You don’t want to drop your things at the hotel?”
She patted her overnight bag on her lap. “Nah. I packed light.
• • •
It was hard to believe just weeks ago she’d watched him race with excitement. Nervous excitement, granted. But excitement all the same.
Now that she’d finally acknowledged her feelings for him, finally accepted how much she loved and needed him in her life, watching him strap himself into a rocket led her to a whole different universe of fear.
Feeling the tension radiating from her, Anderson laid a hand over hers clasped in her lap.
“You okay?”
She gave him what she hoped passed for a smile, but judging by his concerned expression, she hadn’t succeeded.
“It’s difficult to watch, I imagine.”
She nodded, scanning the brightly colored cars, the men and women in safety gear making final checks.
“He’s the best,” Anderson said quietly. “One of the most experienced drivers in the pack—”
“Yeah? It doesn’t help to know that. Anything could happen.”
• • •
Ronan gazed out at the shimmering sea of German fans. The press was still slinking away from Maddux’s tour bus, where the Texan, with a bleached-teeth smile plastered on his face, had been handing out the cans of Supernova to adoring fans an hour ago. Maddux’s very Americanness made him something of a novelty here in Europe. No American had ever won the Hockenheimring circuit, and no doubt he was dying to be the first. Literally dying if necessary. Ronan turned sharply and started getting his own gear ready.
When it came down to it, man against man, who was the better driver? That’s what the world really wanted to know. That’s what he wanted to know.
The circuit was dry. Maddux had zero natural advantage here, but the man was in pole position after the qualifiers. Ronan was in top form. He could do this. The past evenings had been spent alone working out at the gym, then sitting on his bedroom floor beside his laptop re-enacting the tight curves and the optimal gear changes, until he decided that he was maybe losing it.
He slammed his helmet on despite the blistering headache. He’d resisted painkillers; they’d only blunt his reactions. It would be over soon, and then he could rest for the remainder of his life if he wanted to.
Adrenaline obliterated all those weaknesses when he jetted off the starting line. His eyes riveted to the black and orange of Maddux’s vehicle. It was clear this would be a duel, and the others would trail away.
As expected, a dangerous scuffle broke out between the two drivers the second the starting lights flashed on. Ronan got the lead, and he whooped for joy. Coming out of the bend on lap sixty-six, he fought for vision, the sun blinding him while his migraine flashed red at the sides of his eye sockets. An orange car zoomed past. Maddux. Ronan froze in disbelief for an awful moment suspended in time. Then he came to and cursed loudly, not giving a damn who heard. The headphones squawked with his team’s own pandemonium, cursing too and yelling out pointless advice, leaving Ronan tempted to slam the audio off. He ignored it all and concentrated on getting the lead back. There were two positions on the circuit where it was possible, between the Nordkurve and the Sudkurve, and four more laps in which to realistically achieve it. He just needed this last pit stop first.
• • •
“Would you do it, Dad?”
His gaze never left the racetrack. “I’m no saint, Cass. My company has put people’s lives at stake, and people have been killed on rigs. Safety measures aren’t the primary concern in my business. Profit is.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’d like to think I wouldn’t jeopardize my safety or the safety of others for a championship. But it’s easy for me to say that, sitting up here on my high horse.”
“Huh,” he said, brow furrowed.
“Huh?”
“He’s quick but, he doesn’t seem to be coming out of the turns the way he was in Texas. Or at the prelims.”
She scooted to the edge of her seat, sparing her father a glance as Ronan’s vehicle sped down the track. She raised her binoculars as he hit the next turn.
“Will that change anything?” Anderson asked.
Would it?
I don’t know.
She groaned. “Anderson, I’m trying to … to work it out in my head. I’m here because … because I couldn’t bear to watch from 5,000 miles away. I didn’t want him to race alone. I want to be here in case, in case things go wrong. In case he needs me. I need to be there for him the way he’s been there for me.”
Her eyes burned as the race went on endlessly, coming out of her skin with anxiety. She tried the breathing exercises she’d been taught. She held Anderson’s hand.
If something happens out there, my heart will never recover.
• • •
There’d be no more pit stops now. It was driver against driver. On lap seventy, Ronan saw his chance to out-accelerate Maddux at the start of the hill, but mindful of the barriers further up, he had to hang back. A millisecond earlier and he’d have done it, but a millisecond later, he’d have crashed. He clenched his teeth. Next lap … next lap. The pressure of his entire life was crushing his skull, squeezing the sweat from every pore. T
his is what a fight to the death meant, but now he knew he didn’t want to die. Cass’s blue silk underwear he’d stuffed inside his suit that was pressing against his heart. Not for luck—no, for something altogether more powerful.
His migraine lifted, and a calm serenity enveloped his tortured synapses like a cooling balm. He knew how to do this. He knew how to do this without risking his life or anyone else’s. It was a matter of pure skill and timing. He just had to stay focused and get that millisecond right.
Two laps later, it was there. The moment. He slammed down the accelerator at the base of the hill and zoomed past Maddux’s orange car. He slowed down as necessary for the Nordkurve, and then fled through, accelerating before hitting the Sudkurve. Would Maddux have slowed down enough on the bend after being overtaken? Ronan strained to hear what the team was telling him on the audio. All he could hear was the white noise of shouting.
“He swerved! Go for it you, bastard,” Benny was yelling. “Maddux has gone bananas. He’ll kill himself on the hairpin!”
Ronan’s breath came in short puffs. With Maddux only one inch behind, he’d have a chance to catch up coming around the hairpin, into the sun. Not his favorite part. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and clenched his fingers, his gut, and his soul in preparation for the final mile. Blinded or not, he’d drive through using instinct only and make it … around the Nordkurve again … to the finish line.
A chequered flag registered in the periphery of his vision. That meant someone had won. But who? Maddux’s car was decelerating beside his. Too close to tell. Through the screams of confusion from his team, he couldn’t make out who’d gotten the edge. But now he just felt … sheer, utter relief. He’d wanted this peace for so long. He yearned for fresh air, coolness, quiet, softness. A new start. Her.
“Fuck it anyway,” Benny’s gravelly voice, came through the headset, cutting through the noise. His tone said it all. He’d lost. The team had lost. Maddux had won by the fraction of a hair, measured with über-precise German timing equipment.
• • •
He spotted her in the crowd. Unbelievable really, considering the throngs of people surrounding the podium. She and Anderson had been making their way down the grandstand—Anderson Miller slowed by glad-handing. His spirits lifted. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t care.
Benny gave his shoulder a punch. “Regrets?”
A smile spread across his face as he met his engineer’s concerned gaze. “None whatsoever. Listen, Benny, chin up. I appreciate what you did for me. Despite the outcome. You have to believe that.”
Benny nodded, chewing his gum slowly. “Could be you up there though.” He indicated the area where Maddux stood, surrounded by an ever-growing crowd of sponsors and supporters and teammates. Ronan spared the Texan a glance, then he turned back to study the crowd, searching and finding Cassidy Miller. “Mmm hmm.”
“Ronan?”
“Things to do, Benny,” he said, moving forward, handing his helmet to the startled gray-haired man.
“Wait, Ronan, the podium—”
But he barely heard him. He was rushing through the frenzied crowd, searching out his brunette.
Adrenaline sang through his system. He would’ve sworn he’d expended all of it during the race.
He fought his way through a crowd of Germans shouting “Bravo!” “Gut gemacht,” “nächstes Jahr, gel?” Well done, next year again, eh?
And then there she was—shocked, if the look on her face was anything to go by. He swiped a hand across his face She stood, staring, for half a second. Time stretched painfully as he tried to read her.
Then she took a half step forward, her searching gaze never leaving his, and leaped into his arms.
He staggered backward, finding his balance. He lowered his head to her upturned mouth and kissed her with all the desperation, all the pent up passion as if had been months, years instead of days. She tasted of mint and oranges, her tongue searching out, finding his and tangling. Everything faded out. The noise, the crowd, her father—
He lifted his head, reluctantly releasing her lips but maintaining his grip on her shoulders.
“Cass,” he said shakily, gathering her into his body.
She gripped him, hard.
He pushed her away, scanning her face. “You all right?”
“Fine.” Her voice was breathless, her face, radiant. “You?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?” He half laughed. “You were right.”
“Yes, but you didn’t win.”
Her father, the crowds, the photographers who had followed him in his desperate search—all of them be damned.
He lowered his head and whispered against her smiling mouth, “Oh yes, I bloody well did.”
Epilogue
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Ronan responded into his microphone. She could almost hear him grinning through that calm voice, that accent purring through her headphones.
It had taken months of patience and therapy, but she was back to manning the cockpit.
Her license hadn’t been suspended by the FAA, and thanks to Anderson’s efforts, Nautilus had given her a short-term oil and gas contract as second-in-command of an S-92 helicopter in the North Sea region—some of the most challenging weather for flying in the world. Nepotism and trial by fire. But the pilot she was paired with had been flying those rough conditions for a dozen years. He had told her stories of fog and hard landings and rogue waves that had made her stomach churn. Her confidence had increased with each flight, and they’d spent the first weeks ferrying equipment instead of roughnecks, which was a blessing.
Flying over the North Sea was miserable, and the living quarters weren’t much better on a headland that jutted into the ocean. It wasn’t the job she loved—EMS would always be unbeatable in that category—but at least she was back in the cockpit, two weeks flying, two weeks off with Ronan.
He’d shown her his favorite places all over London, all over Europe.
She’d been seeing a therapist during her time off in London who specialized in PTSD cases, and whose clients were mostly veterans. The nightmares still came, but they were few and far between, and Cass hadn’t had a drop to drink since that infamous night in Texas.
She’d used some of her trust fund to settle with Mandy Morten. Mandy was still pursuing legal action against both her and EvacuAir. But Cass’s guilt and sorrow had abated, and she no longer had to sacrifice her happiness because of what had happened that night.
And then Ronan had surprised her with this trip back to Arizona and a chance to see her family before his racing season restarted. There were still plenty of issues to hammer out—she had no idea where she’d fly when this Nautilus contract was up. Ronan wanted her on the road with him, but she wasn’t going to follow him around like some track groupie.
There were tour company contracts, executive travel contracts, fire contracts—anything but EMS. She might eventually go back, but she would trust her gut on that one, and her gut still heaved at the idea of on-scene night calls. Contracting allowed tremendous flexibility—she and Ronan would find ways to be together.
She moved her left hand to the collective, and they were up, hovering weightlessly above the concrete surface of the helipad. This little Robinson 44 hadn’t been cheap to rent from the flight school, but Mr. Extravagant wanted to take a tour, and she knew just the place to take him: a little lake eighty miles from the airport, practically in her parents’ backyard. She had a basket of food, a blanket, and condoms. She’d even managed to borrow a beat-up pickup at the tiny airport to take them over to the water.
She glanced over at her passenger. Ronan was sitting forward in his seat, marveling at the view out the window.
“Amazing,” he said softly, so softly she could barely hear him in her headphones over the rotors.
She nodded, grinning. This place was beautiful. It was home. But she no longer felt like she’d be
en banished from paradise. Living overseas with Ronan was just a different kind of perfect.
She crested the mountain. Only one boat was out on the water, barely a ripple in the surface. A motorboat, exactly the kind that Piero’s nephew had used to pick them up sopping wet back in Venice.
Ronan leaned forward, pointing at it. “You know—”
“Oh yes, I remember,” she said, flashing him a grin. “I think we’re safer up here than in the water, don’t you?”
• • •
Mid-afternoon Cass packed up their things, while Ronan fiddled around with his duffel bag. “So, Cass? I have news.” He held a familiar neon orange ball cap by the bill. Cass stepped closer. “Is that a Supernova cap?”
His nod was sheepish. “Maddux sent it.”
“Maddux? Did you bring it here to pitch it in the lake?” she asked hopefully.
“He sent it as a gesture of goodwill. I … I signed with them. You’re looking at Supernova’s newest driver.”
She’d known it was a possibility, of course. As the season approached, he needed a ride. His desperation recently had been palpable.
“Did they give Maddux the boot then?”
“Uh … no. He’s my teammate.”
Cass cocked her head. “I love you, Ronan, but I’m not sure I can root for Supernova, and I hope you don’t expect me to drink that stuff,” she teased.
“Uh, Cass?”
“Yeah?” She popped the top on the cooler.
“That’s not all.” He shook the cap at her.
“Am I supposed to put it on or something—oh. Wait. What’s this?” A square black object in the bottom of the cap nearly fell out into her hand.
Her heart thudded to a halt, then picked up at triple normal speed.
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