High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  “So you didn’t always excel?”

  “God, no. I’m not type A.”

  He shook his head. “Trust me, you are. I caught you cleaning the hotel room, remember?”

  “That’s not type A, that’s neurotic.”

  He laughed.

  “But I’m not like you,” she said, seriously. “All about the winning, being the best. I’m not competitive like that.”

  “Aren’t most doctors?”

  “There’s the gamut. There are those who scrape by, those who put in no effort and ace everything—”

  “Hate them.”

  “Yes. We all do.” She grinned, her fingers playing with the water. “But I think most of us found our niche. You know there are stereotypes about doctors and their specialties.”

  “Never heard that.”

  “The emergency room docs are the daredevils, the partiers.” She gave him a meaningful look.

  “Yeah?”

  “Lots of adrenaline in the ER.”

  “Cool.”

  “You would think so.”

  “And the hematologists?”

  Us? We’re as boring as it gets in medicine.” She laughed as she stretched one shoulder, then the other.

  He forced his attention from her breasts back to the conversation. “It’s just so weird. Blood.” He shuddered.

  “Some of us got into it because we had a personal experience with a blood issue or cancer in a loved one. But I think a lot of us do it because dealing with the realities of cancer forces us into deeper, more personal relationship with patients. We spend a lot of time educating them about their choices and getting comfortable with those choices ourselves.”

  “But doesn’t it suck to give them bad news?”

  She cocked her head.

  “There are downsides to any job,” she admitted. “Doesn’t it suck to lose a race, to have a losing season?”

  He grimaced. “Sure, but at least it’s not death—even though it may feel like it for a while.”

  She nodded. “Telling a patient ‘I’m sorry, the treatment didn’t work, the cancer has spread, you have weeks to live’ is tough. But most of my patients are older and have lived a full life. If treatment fails, I encourage them to die with a hospice program, peacefully and without pain. Because of the close relationships I have with my patients, the loss can be difficult to bear,” she said, taking a deep breath. “That’s happened plenty.”

  She stared at the far end of the pool. He made a move toward her and she brought her gaze back to him. “But we have our success stories, the patients who go into remission and appreciate every extra year with their families and friends.”

  “I guess.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I find your profession equally baffling.”

  He laughed. “Really?”

  “Maybe because I know nothing about car racing.” She shivered.

  “I’ll be happy to explain it to you, but maybe we should get in our workout before you freeze—although how you can even shiver in these balmy temperatures is beyond me.”

  She rubbed the inside of her goggles and pulled them down to cover her eyes, bent her knees, and pushed off the wall.

  He watched her go, her rhythmic strokes taking her down to the far end where she flipped and headed back toward him. She was showing as little skin as one could in a bathing suit, and he still wanted to push her against the side and wrap her legs around his waist and grind on her. Thank God his trunks hid his growing arousal.

  He ducked into the clear water and struck out, passing her lean body, churning the water with each kick.

  Thirty minutes later, Brynn stopped swimming, pink and breathless. “Wow, only a few weeks and I’m so out of shape,” she said.

  “That’s out of shape? I quit ten minutes ago.”

  “Yeah, but you spent a while in the gym, right?”

  “I’m not much of a swimmer,” he admitted. “I grew up playing in pools in the summers in Texas, but didn’t do it much once I moved to England.”

  She stared at his chest. “You’re in such good shape. Does driving really require all that?” She waved a hand in the direction of his abdomen.

  “You’re joking.”

  Her expression was serious, and she was still breathing hard. She’d turned that same pink color that night when she came in his hand. God, how he’d love to be the one to make the color flood her cheeks again.

  “Maddux?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you answer the question?”

  “I didn’t catch it,” he said.

  Brynn half smiled. “Why do you need to do that much physical training just to drive a car?”

  “First of all, it’s not just a ‘car,’ it’s the most technically advanced car in the world. It can brake and accelerate so fast that it creates tremendous stress physically. When you’re driving a vehicle that, backing down, goes 170 to zero in two seconds, it requires a lot of strength. Doing that over and over in the course of a race, braking and accelerating—you can’t compete unless you have special training.”

  “Like lifting and stuff?”

  “Weights, cardio, core, all that. We do stuff other people do in a gym, and then we add plenty of exercises your average person doesn’t.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, our necks are pretty exposed, right? We have the weight of the helmet, plus when you’re pulling three Gs on a turn in an open cockpit, it puts a lot of stress on the neck, so we do exercises to strengthen it. We’re also on the brakes all the time—these vehicles are not designed for comfort. For speed, for safety, not for comfort. Our hips get tight from the accelerating and braking. That’s where swimming comes in for me. I’m not fast, but it can help loosen and strengthen. Some guys are really into the training—like way into it. I do it because it makes me a better driver.”

  “But it probably relieves stress, right? That’s what swimming does for me.”

  “I use other things for stress relief.” Involuntarily his eyes darted to the group of young women, now hopping en masse into the pool a few feet away. Yellow Bikini’s eyes caught his and he looked away.

  “ ‘Use’ being the operative word there, I suppose.” Brynn’s face was expressionless and most of the pink had drained away, making her appear stark in the low lighting of the pool. “Well, have at it,” she said, grabbing her cap and goggles from the lip of the pool and climbing out.

  By the time he reached her, she’d wrapped up in her towel and was putting on her flip flops, plastic key in hand.

  “Hold on a sec,” he protested. “You’re the unavailable one here, not me.”

  Her face was set, her full lips pressed together. “Isn’t that part of the appeal though? Isn’t that what this is all about?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, baffled.

  “You only want what you can’t have.”

  “That’s bullshit—”

  “Everything is handed to you. Look at the way you live. The way you all live. Race to race. Five-star hotel to five-star hotel. You use trainers, women, hotel staff, whoever. So when you find something you can’t have, you want it that much more.”

  She stalked away, leaving him staring after her. He’d made a joke, for chrissake. A joke. Screw her if she couldn’t take a joke.

  Chapter 11

  God. She was sick of men. She prodded the up elevator arrow with her finger. First there was Belamar, who continually battled her and had reached seventy without a sufficient understanding of his body’s limitations or how his immune system worked. He was an arrogant ass—and that was putting it nicely. He was chauvinistic and bad-tempered. She cut him some slack because he was still dealing with the acceptance stage with his cancer, but he was using that slack to strangle all her goodwill.

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened. She stepped in and pressed her floor. This thing was freezing. She wrapped the towel tighter around herself as the doors closed.

  Why had she flown into a jealous
rage when the twenty-year-old beauty who had been staring Maddux down finally got his attention?

  She looked down at her body.

  She’d never struggled with weight or body image issues, but here in this environment, surrounded by all these beautiful people with access to the best image- enhancing specialists out there—not to mention the girls nearly a decade younger than her at the pool—it was intimidating. Why was Maddux pursuing her when those women by the pool were closer to his age? She’d read he was twenty-six to her twenty-nine. Granted, it wasn’t a huge gap, but considering he’d spent his life playing in cars while she’d been buried either in books or patient charts, it was an insurmountable one. They had nothing in common but some bizarre lust—at least she felt the lust. He was probably a slave to the lure of the unattainable.

  So she wasn’t gorgeous and stacked like so many of the women who hung around the circuit. She didn’t need or want to be arm candy for some man. Her life was about medicine and cancer, healing and death.

  Why would she have anything in common with a driver in some modern day sport of kings?

  And why was she, for the first time since junior high, self-conscious about her small breasts?

  Ridiculous.

  She let herself in the room. Belamar was standing in his tux by the window. “Yes, Ellen. Me too. Bye,” he said.

  Sympathy washed through her as she watched him put the cell phone down on the table.

  God damn Belamar anyway. She didn’t know this Ellen, but she pitied her. It couldn’t be easy entrusting the ill man you loved to another woman’s care. And Brynn would sure like to meet the woman who could get him to comply with her wishes.

  “What are you smiling about?” Belamar asked, his tone bitter, fitting his little gold Formula One logo cufflink into his dress shirt.

  She assessed him. “How are you feeling?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  “Great.”

  “Bull,” she returned pleasantly. His color was poor, and his fingers trembled with his efforts to maneuver the tiny objects.

  Brynn crossed the room and took over with the cufflinks.

  “I feel better than I have in days. I need you at dinner this evening.” he said.

  She looked longingly toward her room.

  He caught her glance. “We haven’t been seen together much since the Belgium race. I don’t want Villers to get the wrong idea.”

  “Fine,” she agreed. “Give me half an hour?”

  She finished with the cufflinks and stepped back. He glanced over her towel-clad body with a derisive twist of his lips. “You’ll need longer than that. Like I said, we need to make some good impressions tonight. I’m headed to talk shop with some of the boys—meet you in the dining room,” he glanced at his Rolex, “at eight.”

  “Try to take it easy, Carl. Really, at this stage, your body—”

  “I know,” he said. “No one likes a nag, Brynn. My body is just adjusting to whatever crap you’ve put into it.”

  That would be crap she put into it to kill the cancer cells his body was making in his bone marrow. She held onto her temper with an effort, her smile fixed.

  “I put a dress in your room. If it doesn’t fit, there’s a number for the seamstress on the box.”

  She said nothing but gave a slight shake of her head.

  “Like I said, you need to act the part—we’re at a critical stage here.”

  Yes, we are. But with your health, Belamar, not your F1 bid.

  She clenched her teeth to keep in the words.

  Brynn walked into the smaller bedroom and shut the door, staring at the large box lying on the twin bed. Another dress. They’d argued about two he’d gifted her with before they’d left California. It would be black, of course. And long. Belamar was conservative, and he hated to emphasize the difference in their ages. He wouldn’t buy her something short, something flirty and sexy like the girls out by the pool would be wearing at the Circuit Lounge tonight, partying with the drivers.

  She was playing a role, not trying to show Maddux what he was missing.

  Brynn took the lid off the box and stared. Unlike the other dresses, this one was stunning. It was long and silver, but far from conservative. She took it from the box and held it up to her. It was some type of silk-blend, sleeveless with a square neck and a wrapped ruched bodice. The ruching would hide the fact that she was insufficiently endowed on top. The texture of the form-fitting material would be flattering as it hugged her curves before gathering into a mermaid type flare just past the knees. Walking would be troublesome, and she didn’t have silver shoes. What had the stylist told her went with silver? She backed up and almost tripped on another bag. A shoe bag. She dug through and pulled out silver strappy sandals with at least a three-inch heel.

  Ballet slippers were more her style. She’d need to shoot her feet full of Novocain to wear these things all night. But it was just dinner.

  • • •

  “You look beautiful, darling.” Belamar rose from the long table to kiss her. She gave him an awkward, one-armed hug.

  “Thanks, hon. I love it,” she replied, scanning the group already assembled table and trying not to pay attention to the drivers roaming near the bar area, one in particular whose eyes had been on her since she entered the room.

  Belamar pulled the chair out for her and she leaned over to chat with the wife of one of the sponsors. Thank heavens most of these people spoke English, loved San Francisco, and could talk endlessly about health issues. Making conversation was never a problem. Brynn had always been comfortable talking with people a generation or two ahead of her; it was part of what made her job enjoyable.

  By the end of dinner, the crowd near the bar was getting pretty raucous. Maddux was over there, along with half a dozen sexily clad women and a few other drivers she recognized—the Italian with the dark, intense eyes, the German laughing uproariously and pounding another man on the back. The man being pounded grinned and turned. She was pretty sure he was Ronan Hawes, the British driver and Maddux’s Supernova teammate. He hadn’t been around much, and when he was he was usually hanging out with a lovely petite woman with dark hair. Yep, there she was, smiling as she wrapped an arm around Hawes and he tugged her closer, nuzzling her hair.

  Her gaze turned back to where Maddux stood, his back to the bar, a girl at each elbow. She recognized the girl on his left. She’d been the one in the yellow bikini eyeing him at the pool.

  Next to her Belamar coughed, drawing her attention back to her dinner companion. He was ashen; the hand pushing the food around his plate shook.

  Brynn leaned into him, ducking under his arm.

  He accommodated her, pulling her against his body.

  She tilted her head to whisper in his ear, “Unwell?”

  He nodded. “Very.”

  “How do you want to play this? Jet-lag, overtired?”

  “Can’t wait to get you up to my room.” He pressed dry lips to her cheek.

  She forced a light laugh and stared up at him, squelching her concern, schooling her features into what she hoped was affection.

  “Oh how Ellen would laugh,” he whispered.

  “Laugh?” She pulled back to check his expression.

  “Oh yes, she’d be amused by all of this game playing. She thinks you’re nothing less than a saint for agreeing to it.”

  Grin fixed, she replied, “I don’t know Ellen, Carl, but I’m willing to bet she’s not amused. Nor is it a game.” She helped him to his feet in the guise of an embrace, leaning to whisper into his ear, “Worried, scared, and disgusted with you for taking these risks with your health, but not amused.”

  “I don’t really need help to walk,” he protested.

  She matched her steps to his, his arm slung over her shoulder, hers wrapped around his waist. “I know, but it’s all part of the show, right?”

  They waited by the elevator.

  “I know who I’m performing for—can you say the same?” he said, looking down at her.r />
  She inhaled sharply. Was he right? Had she played up her role to bait Maddux, to retaliate for his comments by the pool, for Yellow bikini hanging on his arm? What was wrong with her? As if the world champion F1 driver cared anyway. From all the noise at that end of the restaurant, he was having a grand time with his companions.

  Brynn led Belamar to the couch in their sitting area and took his vitals. They were normal. She bit her lip. Was he heading for a crisis? The results of his blood work from earlier in the week wouldn’t be available until tomorrow.

  “I don’t expect you to hover over me. I’m just going to rest,” he said. “Why don’t you hit some of the sights? Take a cab around the city or go to a club? You won’t run into any F1 people. This isn’t supposed to be all work, after all. If I have trouble, I’ll text you. I think my body just needs more sleep than it’s getting,” he admitted.

  She glanced between him and the window. She really would give anything to get out there and see the city, maybe take a ride on the Singapore Flyer, the giant Ferris wheel she’d seen each night from her window.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I have your cell number.”

  “That Ferris wheel is only a few blocks from here,” she said.

  “Go, I don’t want you here,” he said, standing and making his way into his room. His pace halting, he grabbed the door frame for support as he entered his room.

  She spent most of her time in a state of irritation with Belamar, but every so often he stirred her pity.

  Ten minutes later she’d changed into ballet flats, jeans, popped her pale blue camisole over her head and pulled on her cashmere hoodie.

  She grabbed her key, wallet, and phone and stuffed them into her clutch.

  Brynn let herself out of the room and took the stairs near the rear of the building. She didn’t want to march through the lobby, too much chance of running into the F1 crowd, so she cut through the pool to leave through a side exit.

  She’d stepped onto the pool deck before she had a chance to realize that the elite crowd from dinner was now poolside. Many of them settled into cabanas, some by the bar. The whole place was packed with young people partying.