High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

Bruce shrugged. “Let’s just say a risk that he doesn’t need to take.”

  “Is it because of the way the press handled the accident with Reece in Malaysia?”

  Bruce prodded the beer mat against the counter. “That didn’t help, I suppose.” He scanned her face and then seemed to make a snap decision. “Look, in the beginning half of the season, Adam was Supernova’s second driver, no problem. But ten races in, he was outperforming Reece consistently in the practice runs and qualifiers—and before Malaysia, Charles, team manager, decided to try Adam out as first driver.

  “Reece was furious because his contract now said he should give way to Adam if they found themselves at the lead of a race. No driver wants to be beaten by the one guy who has the same equipment as he does—much less be ordered to give way to him. So in Malaysia, Reece decided he wanted to keep that one for himself.

  “They were neck and neck, charged into curve twenty-seven together. Adam assumed Reece would obey the rules and hang back. There was shouting; there was contact. Adam went spinning off and crashed against the barriers, heavy impact, which shattered his leg. Reece went on to win and got Charles to say that he’d still been designated first driver and this was all agreed tactics.”

  “But how did he get away with it? I mean there are radio recordings, no?”

  “Charles’s radio message was so cryptic it could have been interpreted both ways. I talked to Charles myself. Eventually the old bastard admitted that he may have covered up a little. What was the alternative? Fire Reece and have no drivers? He wasn’t about to do that. The Supernova team won that season. They got a good, obedient replacement driver for Adam for the rest of the races who was happy to be second driver to Reece.”

  She frowned. “But why didn’t Adam say something?”

  “It was too late—his word against Reece’s. Nobody cared. Reece’s contract was changed back before anyone saw it. Charles had a winner on his hands—he sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything.”

  Bruce glanced around and, seeming satisfied they weren’t being eavesdropped on, continued, “There were connections too. After Malaysia, Reece introduced Charles to a high-class bartender named Julie”—he shrugged—“who became his mistress.”

  “Giving Charles another reason to ‘forget’ he’d made Adam first driver?”

  Bruce gave her an appraising look. “No flies on you. Reece was more popular all around, so it didn’t play out in Adam’s favor. Everyone assumed sour grapes on Adam’s part. It fit; it was easier.”

  “But it’s so unfair,” she said.

  “Drivers ignoring orders to stay behind their teammates or to let them past is nothing new, love. There areplenty others standing around you in this very room.”

  “Yes, but the cover up?”

  “Yeah, that was low.”

  Bruce had a face you automatically trusted—besides, why would he make this stuff up?

  “But listen, don’t start writing up any of this stuff I’m telling you. Take it from me—you don’t want to mess with Supernova’s lawyers.”

  “Sure. So that’s why Adam hates Reece?”

  Bruce winced. “He didn’t always. They were actually good friends—very good friends—for a while, until it became obvious that Adam wouldn’t ever be content as second driver. Drivers can’t afford to build true friendships. You know that yourself, love. Hurts their racing.”

  Viv nodded. In her experience, drivers tolerated nothing and nobody that would hurt their racing. You had to tiptoe around them all the time, produce glamorous smiles in the sunshine, and disappear when the going got rough. “Why are you telling me all this? This isn’t common knowledge.”

  “You care about people, don’t you?”

  She straightened her posture. “I like to get to the truth of things.”

  Bruce grinned. “Well, you’re going to have fun around here.”

  • • •

  “Oui?” Adam said warily into his phone when he’d found a quieter, but hotter, corner outside the bar. It was Saskia’s number, but Jeff might’ve hijacked her phone again—

  “It’s me.” His sister’s soft tone sounded distant over the line from the States.

  He relaxed his shoulders against the gritty wall. “Hey, Sask.”

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” These days, she spoke only English to him, and she managed to sound a bit more Californian every time he talked to her. He missed her badly; he hadn’t seen enough of her since he’d joined F1which she was fond of reminding him about.

  “Not as such.”

  “Okay, here goes … wait for it … I’m engaged!” she said with a self-conscious giggle afterward. “I mean, Jeff and I are engaged.”

  “Whoa, Sask … that’s … that’s news.” Adam stared up at the peeling yellow plaster on the ceiling. “Dad’s okay about it, is he?”

  “Yes, of course he is.”

  He could picture the vertical line forming between her elfin eyes, matching the peevish tone that had crept into her voice.

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” she continued. “Jeff’s been amazing this past year; he’s practically taken over the day-to-day running of the winery.”

  “I know.” In fairness, Saskia had become happier, more settled, less needy, adopting Jeff’s relaxed attitude to life and his West Coast accent. God knows, she deserved her happiness, even if it left him even more out in the cold.

  But Jeff had turned up conveniently soon after the winery had started to go into profit and he could live off it. Where had he been during the tearful years when Saskia had run things on her own with Dad, in near poverty? What did Jeff have to show for his previous life? Nothing. A ski bum—that’s what he was underneath and always would be. “When’s the wedding?”

  “Don’t worry, we’re holding on ’til your season’s over. December fifth’s the date. We’re doing it right here in Emily’s Hill, in the south vineyard. Won’t that be romantic?”

  “I guess.” Adam wiped beads of sweat from his hairline with the cuff of his overall.

  “Maybe we’ll have something else to celebrate then, yes?”

  “If you mean the championship, count on it.”

  “Fantastique. Then we can have a celebrity wedding, can’t we? We’d be B-celebs if you won.”

  “If you say so.” His cool tone was deliberate so she’d wake up any decade now and address the problem here.

  “Oh God … you and Dad. Look, I have thought about it. And I have a plan.”

  “I’m not showing up unless he actually wants to see me. Sorry, but you know how it is. And Sask,” Adam paused, “none of your games, okay?”

  He hung up.

  Turning toward the door of the bar, he deliberated. No, it was time to a call it a night. Little point in going back in there and getting more questions. She’d have moved on by now anyway.

  Chapter 2

  Next morning, Viv’s phone trilled at what felt like an ungodly hour, only it wasn’t. It was a boringly normal 8:00 a.m. Emirate time. Day three in Abu Dhabi, and she was still disorientated. She peered at the phone. UK number. Maybe her brother Liam wanting the usual blow-by-blow account of her evening hobnobbing with the drivers? But not his number. And it was the middle of the night in Britain. She pressed the fragranced quilt against her cheek. Work! Must be work.

  Before she’d fully come to her senses, Mack’s booming voice over the line informed her of an interview with a sponsor called Al-Saeed, some big shot whose money decided the fate of the Pantech-Windsor team. Rumors circulated that he was pulling out. It was a matter of strategic importance within F1 circles. Mack wanted the scoop. He wanted it today. This morning.

  “One last thing,” her boss said, making his first pause in the rapid-fire monologue, “He’s in Riyadh.”

  “Riyadh?” Viv shot up into sitting position. Five hundred miles away.

  “Yeah, Riyadh. I’ve arranged the flight. At noon. You’ll arrive there after one, get the interview, be back on circuit before they finish the qualifi
ers for some interviews with the drivers and the engineers and whoever else you can get your claws on. Oh, and this guy is a traditionalist; you’ll need to wear a headscarf and an abaya.”

  An abaya. Ironically, she’d been this close to bringing the black cloak-like garment that an Iranian friend had suggested, but had decided against it at the last minute to save on suitcase space. Abu Dhabi and Bahrain were not strict enforcers of Sharia law; it sufficed for non-Muslims to cover up limbs and chest. But Riyadh was a whole different ballgame. Abayas and headscarves were non-optional wardrobe items for women of any persuasion.

  Wonderful.

  “I’d a hard enough time getting Al-Saeed to agree to being interviewed by a woman,” Mack grumbled. “It’s not like I have a whole sodding team out there to cater to these people’s every goddamn whim. So, don’t be late. Grab your gear.”

  Viv tossed the phone on the bed. “Holy Mother, how am I even supposed to get one?” Okay, Yas Viceroy was one of the finest five-star hotels in Abu Dhabi. They must have a five-star solution service on hand for silly Western damsels stranded without their abayas. She dialed reception.

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “I need to buy an abaya. Do you stock them in the hotel shops?”

  “No ma’am. But you can go to the mall, and they have a very good selection, ma’am. We can call a taxi for you. No problem.”

  “Yes, um,” Viv paused, rubbing her forehead. “Maybe later. I’ll call you later. Thank you.”

  Damn. This meant she’d have to go outside the hotel, and all she wanted to do was have a quiet breakfast and lock herself up in her air-conditioned room to prepare for her TV interviews at the qualifiers this afternoon—her first-ever F1 appearance as an official reporter, as opposed to official girlfriend. She glanced around the room desperately … maybe a curtain? A sheet? No. Wrong color.

  She was being ridiculous. What kind of world-class journalist was she if she couldn’t handle the little hiccups that always accompanied global travelers? She grabbed her purse and marched out her door to the elevators. After a quick breakfast, she’d just zip to the mall on the way to the airport. End of story.

  Dashing full speed around the breakfast buffet, she met Reece Marlowe deliberating over some sushi in a glass vitrine. “Always wondered if one should eat sushi for breakfast,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I wouldn’t risk it,” she said. “You know what happens when you barf with a helmet on.”

  Reece’s face twisted. “My, you are a charming princess this morning. What’s wrong? You fall out of the bed?” He leaned closer. “Get tangled in the sheets? Aha-ha. Who was it this time? Who’s lucky number three?”

  And there it was. The unspoken question, now very much spoken. She forced a smile. “What makes you think it’s only number three?”

  That shut him up. She turned to the coffee machine and busied herself making an espresso. It was far too early to be dealing with Reece without caffeine in her system.

  “Is that all you’re having?” Reece continued, undeterred, as she sat down at the nearest table with the espresso and a croissant.

  “I guess.”

  “I guess you need some help. Come over to our table. We’ve enough to feed a small army.”

  “Reece, if you really want to help me, you could find me an abaya. And a hijab.”

  “Abaya? Hijab?”

  “Uh-huh. See what the women are all wearing on their heads, or is that too high up on their bodies for you to have noticed? That’s a hijab.”

  “Ah,” he grinned. “So that’s what they’re called.”

  “Well?” As she didn’t expect him to actually solve this, she wanted him out of her way.

  His gaze landed on a young waitress bending over to clean off a table at the far side of the room, and Viv couldn’t miss the gleam in his eye. “Here’s the deal. If I get you an abaya and a hijab, will you come for a drink with me after the qualifiers tonight? A proper drink, not one where you scoot off to talk to the miserable half of the Gatari team.”

  “In the next half hour?”

  His gaze trailed after the young waitress’s curvaceous butt as she entered the kitchen. He shrugged. “Hell, yeah.”

  “Deal.” She tapped her wristwatch to let him know she was already counting down.

  He swept his hand across her shoulder as he strutted off. Viv plastered on a confident smile and looked around to check if anyone had noticed Reece’s pretend familiarity.

  She caught the eye of Adam Fontaine, who was sitting on his own in the dead center of the room, chomping his way through a croissant. He broke off eye contact and seemed to be tracking Reece’s departure from the room, his expression blank.

  She smiled at him tentatively, but then the two Finns, Hänninen and Voutilainen, plunked down in front of him, blocking her view. Knocking back her espresso in one gulp, she got up to leave.

  • • •

  Half an hour later, Viv descended from her room ready to hit the road. There wasn’t a hope in hell that Reece would come up with the goods, but it was only polite to honor their arrangement to meet at the dining room entrance in thirty minutes. At the forty-minute mark, she picked up her handbag and headed toward reception. Just as she’d called for a taxi, she heard a male voice boom out.

  “Viv. Wait.”

  Reece sauntered up, his sneakers squeaking on the marble floor.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “No.” His brows rose in his tanned face. “I can’t believe the women here. That cute little waitress looked at me like I was the devil incarnate when I was just trying to make pleasant conversation and do you a favor. I had to scamper before she summoned her menfolk to stone me or—”

  “All right, all right,” she said. He’d been overconfident in his ability to attract the waitress, centuries of religious tradition notwithstanding. Ten out of ten for arrogance. It must be hard for him, discovering that not everyone swooned at his Formula-One-champion feet. “You did your best.”

  “So.” He clapped his hands. “Still on for that drink tonight?”

  “Let’s see—later.” She turned and made a dash for the front door. Her taxi to take her to the mall was waiting in the already muggy heat. She jumped into the freezing vehicle and grinned at the sight of Reece standing where she’d left him, folding his arms across his chest. Just how easy did he think she was? “To the mall and then on to the airport please,” Viv said to the driver, forgetting to avoid eye contact in the rearview mirror. The driver responded with a frown.

  She sped through the mall, grabbing the first example of each item she saw in the first traditional clothes shop that presented itself. No haggling involved, which was most certainly a tourist’s mistake. Only back in the taxi did she convert from dirham to pounds and discover she’d forked out five hundred quid for the abaya alone—a freaking week’s budget.

  The material was thick and very black—not her color at all. Several lines of Swarovski crystals garnished the top seam. No wonder it had cost a minor fortune. As the taxi was so cold, she was happy to drape the heavy fabric around herself.

  She stared out at the hi-tech Masdar Institute as they zipped along the highway to the airport. You couldn’t pull off futuristic in cloudy Britain somehow, but here architectural lines were etched with convincing precision against the deepest of blues.

  Just as she was settling into the drive and daring to relax a little, she felt a bump, bump, bump, and assumed it was the tire. Forgetting all propriety, she searched for the driver’s reaction in the rearview mirror. His scowl made her flinch. The man, a sinewy twenty-something with a nondescript face half covered by a beard, hopped out of the car, muttering to himself. He circled the vehicle four times. It was obvious he hadn’t a clue what was wrong. Viv didn’t even pretend she wasn’t watching. Five agonizing minutes went by on her wristwatch.

  I’ve had enough of this shit.

  The wall of heat nearly knocked her down when she stepped out of the car, but the abaya shiel
ded her from the sun’s harsh rays. She circled the car once to establish that indeed it wasn’t the tires. She motioned to her phone and then to his, hoping he’d take the hint and call for someone. He shook his head and indicated with agitated gestures that she return to the back seat.

  She frowned back at him. Wonderful, a macho man who couldn’t ask for help. It was already 11:00 a.m. She could miss her flight, boarding at 11:20 a.m. How the hell did you call for emergency pickup in this desert anyway? The driver was now making a big show of inspecting the engine. Did he know the first thing about cars?

  Viv took her phone out of her purse. Of course, she didn’t have data roaming to look up taxi numbers. All she could do was call the hotel to send a new car. If she had reception. She stared at the non-existent bars of the signal strength. None. Holy crap. How could this be, surrounded by hi-tech? Unwilling to believe it, she tried dialing anyway, but it was useless. Hopeless. Infuriating.

  A plane passed overhead with a lazy roar and a perfect line of white against the blue. She shielded her eyes, watching it. KLM. Take me with you to Amsterdam. Mack would crucify her if she didn’t get this interview with Al-Saeed, and her failure would prove that she couldn’t handle herself on her first real assignment.

  She scuttled forward for a peek, ignoring the look of abject terror on the driver’s face when he saw her inspecting the engine. He made shooing motions with his hands.

  “Look, whether you speak English or not, I have a flight to catch, and no charming old customs are going to make me miss it. Let me have a look. I know what I’m doing. Oh no … I think it’s the transmission.” Great. No way of fixing that in the short term, certainly not standing here on the side of the road.

  The man’s eyes were frantic. Sweat trickled into his thick, black beard. Viv peered around—what was he so afraid of? And what was so bloody fascinating? In every single car that passed, people’s noses were pressed to the windows as they watched. She swung back to him. “You can’t fix it. Call someone or give me the number of another taxi service. Do something!”

  He shook his head and returned to his futile inspection of the engine, flinching like a nervous cat every time she took a step closer.