High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  And there was Maddux, staring into his drink while two dark-haired women in figure-hugging, brightly colored strapless dresses attempted to engage him in conversation.

  He looked up and spotted her, his morose expression giving way to disbelief.

  She turned on her heel and headed back the way she came.

  But in the quiet hallway, she took half a second too long to decide to go to the right, avoiding the lobby.

  The door banged behind her.

  Must not turn around.

  “Brynn,” he hissed.

  She hesitated, then continued, her ballet slippers moving faster down the hall. Brynn fought back a hysterical giggle: here she was in Singapore, in a five-star hotel, on the run to avoid a Formula One driver who had given her the best non-self-induced orgasm of the past decade.

  She ducked around the corner and spotted another sign indicating an exit—just as footsteps came up behind her.

  Maddux grabbed her arm.

  “What the fuck?” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  His cheekbones were flushed, his eyes intense and slightly glassy as they met hers.

  “Are you … are you drunk?” she asked.

  “No.” he said. “That was quick, or didn’t the Viagra take?”

  She took two steps backward, the wind knocked out of her.

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  “Yes,” he replied, pushing the hair back from his forehead, his lips curving up in a mocking grin.

  She turned, heading toward the red exit sign.

  “Wait, Brynn. Please. I … I had convinced myself that you two didn’t, that it wasn’t what it seemed between you, that you weren’t—” He exhaled, the sound loud in the silent hallway.

  She folded her arms across her chest.

  “—together. But what I saw in the dining room, I—” He took two steps toward her, his head cocked.

  Her eyes darted around the hallway.

  This was impossible.

  He was close enough she could smell his unique scent of pine trees and …

  Her nose twitched as she picked up a cloying, heavy, woman’s fragrance.

  He’d been close enough to other women to have their scent on his body. Or maybe it wasn’t from someone by the pool. For all she knew he’d had a round robin of women in his bed.

  Her stomach pitched with jealousy. For all his apparent interest in her, it hadn’t taken him long to spark up something with someone else. What did she expect? She was unavailable and he was Maddux Bates.

  He reached out and circled her upper arm. “Are you sleeping with him? ’Cause you don’t look like a woman who just got laid.”

  She pulled her arm from his grip, scowling. “Maddux, what the hell?”

  “You’re making me insane.” He raked his hair back. “I don’t know why, and I sure don’t like it. I don’t like thinking about you. Being distracted by you. And when you left the restaurant with him, I nearly—”

  He did that hair thing again. She’d seen him do it before she started his intravenous drip, before he’d done hers; she’d seen him do it on television, before races, during interviews, always accompanied by that cocky grin. Or that façade of a grin. Now his whipcord lean body radiated tension.

  She’d give anything to have him.

  Her head bowed and she felt him approach.

  This time he reached for her shoulders, his hands gentle on her skin, and she shivered beneath his touch.

  “The way you look at me, Brynn, tells me I’m not the only one who feels this.”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes, sure she’d give away the desperation, the lust, and the jealousy.

  She was more rational than this.

  “Belamar was tired. I wasn’t,” she hedged. “I wanted to go out and ride the wheel.”

  “The wheel?”

  “The thing I’ve been staring at outside my window. The wheel.”

  “Ah, the Flyer. Not afraid of heights?”

  “A little. I can handle it.”

  “Want company?” he asked.

  Her mouth said yes before her brain had a chance to assess the question. Hell, before he’d finished asking the question.

  He grinned. A real grin. That wicked, knowing, devastating flash of teeth that set off spasms in every nerve ending in her body.

  “Lobby’s this way,” he indicated the other direction with his head.

  “Yeah, um, I don’t want to run into people. You know,” she gestured between them, “the last thing we want is for someone to get the wrong idea.”

  “Right, then let’s head out the service entrance.”

  She knew her way around San Francisco, it was home now, and she could muddle through Los Angeles since she’d gone to college there. Her fellowship in New York had given her confidence in that city. But this was all new territory halfway around the world and all the more exciting seeing it with him, another American, someone who’d spent much of his life traveling the world.

  “Want to walk?” he asked. “It’s only a few blocks.”

  “Sure.”

  She pointed to an enormous structure, three buildings linked together that looked like the Roman numeral three towering over the bay. “What is that?”

  “Marina Bay Sands Hotel, convention center, shops, restaurants. There’s a pretty cool park on top.”

  “On top?”

  “Yeah. They call it the Skypark, but the best thing about it is the pool. That thing has to be seen to be believed. You should go.”

  “I don’t know—I’m not sure what plans we have.”

  Tension filled the space between them again.

  The line for Flyer tickets was long. “How do you want to do this?” he asked as they approached the counter.

  Brynn pulled out her wallet. “I can get it. It was my idea.”

  He stared at her blankly.

  “They take credit cards, right? Or cash?” She riffled through the wallet. His hand stilled hers and her heart accelerated, the pulse pounding in her ears just with the causal touch of his fingers on her hand.

  “You think I’m asking you to pay?” His tone was incredulous.

  “Oh, uh, go Dutch?”

  He shook his head and walked up to the counter. “Dining, VIP, or with the masses?” he asked her.

  “Oh. With the masses?”

  “Okay, but it’s going to be crowded.”

  He pulled out his credit card and purchased two tickets.

  They were just tickets, but after having Belamar get dinners and hotel rooms and dresses, it rankled.

  “We have to be back here at ten fifty. We can walk around, get a drink—what’s your preference?”

  “Check out the exhibits. Have you done that?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  They walked through the gallery, where she read about some of the history of Singapore and how they built the Flyer. Before long they got in line.

  “Nervous?”

  “Maybe a little,” she admitted. “It’s pretty darn high. Have you done it before?”

  “Yeah, a few years ago when I was here for a race. Last season was my first year and I didn’t go out much. Got obsessive about the courses and the race. Watched endless tape. This season, some of the pressure is off. I don’t have much of a shot at the title, thanks to endless kinks with the engine system. I’m trying to enjoy it more.”

  She shot him a disbelieving look. “How’s that working out for you?”

  They followed the group in front of them into a glass and steel tube about the size of a transit bus. “Not so well,” he admitted with a laugh.

  “This is pretty cool,” she said, walking over to examine the lights outside the window. There were metal benches in the center, but she chose to stand next to the window. More people crowded in, until they were pressed together, Brynn standing half in front of him. His body encircled hers, more than friendly, a protective enclosure setting them apart.

  Then they were moving, with b
arely a jolt. All around them people laughed and chatted in Mandarin and Malay. It was more isolating than she’d thought, this world traveling. There were some things in English, of course—signage, menus, and such. And there were plenty of English speakers in the upscale places she’d been on the trip, but being in these countries where she couldn’t understand what was being said around her was disorienting. And maybe that was part of the appeal with Maddux. They were their own little island in a sea of the unfamiliar.

  Maddux’s arms went around her as the earth fell away beneath her feet. Her heart rate skyrocketed as his chin rested on her head and their tube rose into the sky. Brynn made an effort to relax; it was difficult to determine what was causing her to hyperventilate, the elevation or the hard body pressed shoulder to calf against her.

  “There,” he said, raising a hand to indicate an area out in the ocean. “Those lights out there must be Indonesia, and that’s Malaysia over there.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “We race early in the season in Malaysia. It wasn’t my best showing.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “I don’t know. During the day there are meetings with the team and sponsors, practice, walking the tracks. There isn’t a lot of free time and what free time there is, at night, I—”

  The words lay unspoken, but Brynn tensed.

  His arms tightened around her.

  “I might go out to a club, or a restaurant with my crew or the other drivers. Some of the sponsor events are at night.”

  And the women. The parade of women who followed this guy around, if the F1 fan pages were to be believed. Why would a twenty-six-year-old man hit the tourist areas when he could party and sleep his way around the world?

  His hands rested across her abdomen, and her awareness of him tripled, if that were even possible. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to turn around in his arms and press her lips against his, here 500 feet in the sky with the bright lights of three countries outside the capsule window.

  Being in his arms was torment. Beautiful torment.

  Chapter 12

  While Belamar conducted business in the hotel room the next day, Brynn braved the city on her own. Armed with a travel guide, she strolled the city, buying souvenirs for friends and her parents. By the time she got back to the hotel, she was exhausted and still had to make preparations for the race that night.

  But she supposed it was worth it, as she stood next to Belamar, watching the brightly colored cars scream around the track.

  “Tough course for Maddux,” he said, sending her a hard look.

  She raised her binoculars, hiding her expression. Did he know about their outing to the Flyer? No, she was just being paranoid.

  “How so?”

  “Difficult to pass. One of the tougher courses to overtake—plus he’s had trouble with his tires in the past and this course is particularly unforgiving on the rear tires.”

  “How did he do last year?”

  “Eighth.”

  “Oh.”

  “Pantech-Windsor seems unbeatable this season.”

  “Maddux was third last week,” she said.

  He laughed. “Yeah, in Italy. But here? I wouldn’t bet on him. Not in that car and not this track.”

  Belamar lifted his binoculars to his eye and muttered to himself about downforce.

  All his attention was now focused on the cars that came barreling down the road so close together at such a high rate of speed. She would never follow another car that closely. Certainly not a car worth what these machines cost, at night under bright lights, and at that rate of speed. She understood the physics of drafting, just not the logic.

  Between Belamar’s health and Maddux’s interest, she was a jangling mass of stress and nerves. This was far from the relaxing trip she’d envisioned. After their ride on the Flyer, he’d merely dropped her at her room. He was always distracted the night before the qualifiers, he told her, but a little part of her had been disappointed. He’d pursued her, embraced her, but apparently she didn’t even rate a good night kiss.

  Not that I wanted one.

  She’d tried to convince Belamar to put on a mask—at least for the race. He’d just looked at her and shaken his head. Was $4 million to a cancer charity worth the stress of negotiation with this man over his health? If she didn’t manage to keep his cancer from spreading, keep his organs healthy, there was no way he’d be eligible for the stem cell transplantation, the treatment most likely to extend his life. Had she been clear enough about what was riding on the decision he’d made to take this trip?

  This had been such a bad idea.

  They were heading into flu season and his immune system was barely limping along. Any infection could cause a health crisis—and from there things would go down like a stack of dominoes—flu, to pneumonia to organ failure, she’d seen it countless times under the best circumstances.

  Her gaze swept the crowd in the stands around them, in search of sneezing, coughing fans. Nothing. Just a bunch of people waving flags and screaming each time the cars appeared. “Good God,” Belamar said, binoculars glued to his face again. He hobbled to his feet and pumped a fist in the air.

  Brynn rose, too, pulling up her own binoculars.

  Maddux’s green and black Supernova car was no longer in the middle of the pack. He was coming down the track toward them, five lengths back from the lead blue car.

  Belamar hooted. “Whoa! He’s coming up on the left … ”

  “I thought you said … ” The words died in her throat as Maddux’s car pulled up, level with a green and yellow car.

  Her eyes widened behind the plastic rims of the binoculars. “Oh, God. Did they just bump?” she whispered to herself since the crowd was screaming too loudly for anyone to hear her.

  Maddux held on, pushed past the car, into the turn, and shot out ahead, into fourth.

  “What driving, eh?” Belamar said, chuckling. “That boy is ballsy.”

  She distantly realized her hand had moved to her throat, her body rigid.

  Brynn lowered her binoculars as the racers disappeared from sight again. “I thought you said they didn’t pass much on this course.”

  “They don’t usually, certainly not at that turn. Brilliant bit of driving. Too bad about the car troubles this season—without all the troubles with the engine he’d be in contention again. But this late in the season? Not a chance. Supernova probably won’t get it together for next season either. They lost one of their best engineers to Pantech,” he muttered to himself.

  “Was that dangerous? That maneuver? It looked like they bumped each other.”

  “Was it dangerous? Yes, especially here. This road is bumpy, the conditions humid. Takes quite a toll on the drivers. They expend nearly twice as much energy on a lap here than the Monaco street course.” He nodded. “Very risky. Good news is the sport hasn’t killed anyone on a circuit lately. There are safety measures. The cars—”

  “It was a stupid move.”

  The adrenaline surge that had flooded her body receded, leaving her shaky, her stomach queasy. Belamar looked to be relishing the near disastrous pass. He lowered his head and gave her a superior look over his glasses.

  “It’s racing. There’s a metric ton of car and testosterone out on that asphalt.” He chuckled. “I’m not sure if the cars bumped or their egos did.”

  Perhaps the whole spectacle might be more entertaining if she didn’t have a personal interest in one of the drivers—if her heart weren’t in her throat, her eyes unable to leave the helmeted man in the cockpit of the green and black Supernova car.

  • • •

  Now that the Singapore race was over, she and Belamar would be heading to Nagoya, Japan, by way of Tokyo. Belamar had a few days of business to attend to now that his health was improving, at least until the next round. She’d planned to attend a medical conference before Nagoya. Once she got the results of his recent blood work back, she could decide on another round of treatm
ent. Treating his type of cancer was a delicate balance—too many treatments too soon could overwhelm his system.

  She was continually at war with herself on whether it was better to continue the medications or delay treatment. This week he seemed to be improving.

  If only he weren’t so stubborn.

  If only she hadn’t agreed to this.

  Her stomach was perpetually snarled up from the war within herself, debating the pros and cons with each laboratory test result. Ultimately she did what she always did: explained everything in lay terms and allowed the patient to make the call. He elected to continue treatment.

  They had flights out Tuesday morning for Tokyo. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket.

  A text from Maddux. Her heart leaped and she quashed her excitement.

  “Have you left?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Free?”

  She stared at the letters on the phone.

  If only she were really free.

  Brynn debated her response for several long seconds.

  “Yes.”

  “Meet me at two after briefings?”

  “Where?”

  “Lobby.”

  “OK”

  She put the phone away, heart racing with anticipation and excitement. It was only noon, and she’d spent the morning window shopping in the Marina area.

  Belamar appeared from the bedroom and poured a cup of coffee opposite from where she sat in the armchair. “Working?” she asked him.

  “All day.” He took a sip of coffee. “Plans?”

  “I thought I’d head out later, you know, tour around a bit.”

  His gaze was shrewd. “Thought you did that this morning.”

  “Yes, well. There’s not much to do here in the hotel.”

  “Knock yourself out. I’ll be here.”

  Despite the level of care—she’d had to play the dual role of nurse and doctor to him in Belgium—he wasn’t someone she could feel close to. Her feelings spun on a carousel of irritation, pity, and anger.

  The public Belamar was all charm and wit. He was a popular guy on the F1 circuit with seemingly limitless understanding of the sport—its past, present, and future—or at least that’s what she’d gleaned that from the wife of a German automotive manufacturer.