She offered her sympathy. The young Arab waved her off. “He’s not happy,” he whispered. “Daughter missing.”
“Missing?”
“Yeah, two weeks.”
“Really? How awful.”
“She’s seventeen,” he added as if this explained everything. Without another word he buried the cigarette butt beneath a tangle of pink flowers and strolled off through the long corridor of arches, his sandals slapping against the stone tile.
She knew that in this strict society it was unlikely the daughter ran away, and this could mean a kidnapping—especially when coupled with a potentially large transaction of money. Did Al-Saeed need his F1 money to pay a ransom?
The poor sheik—he must be so worried about his daughter. No wonder he didn’t want anyone to know why. It could ruin his daughter.
She wasn’t going to be that journalist.
Instinct told her not to tell her boss. Mack was curt on the phone when she got back to Abu Dhabi, but he accepted her story that Al-Saeed was a bad-tempered despot who’d changed his mind on the sport. He conceded that a few seconds of footage from the interview would suffice to prove they’d talked to him first, so it didn’t matter how the grumpy sheik had conducted himself. Mack forgave her less for the plane being delayed and not managing to interview any drivers down at the qualifiers.
“Marlowe got pole position as expected,” he said.
“Fontaine?” Viv asked.
“Fifth. Not happy.”
“Fifth doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Hah, you don’t know Fontaine. He’ll be pacing around now. He’d been telling people he had a winner of a ride. Cocksure of himself he was. Now he’s back in his den howling at the moon or whatever it is he does at night.”
She chuckled. “Now there’s an interview I’d like to get.”
Mack’s laugh boomed loud. “Girl, keep talking like that, and you and me are going to get along just fine.”
Chapter 4
The next morning, Sunday, Viv found herself sitting in the spot she’d coveted for a long time—the cream leather couch in the all-glass BBC Abu Dhabi studio above the starting line. She had a perfect view from here, better than from the jam-packed stands. Unlike the conditions borne by the mere mortals sweltering outside in the mid-afternoon heat, this studio was air-conditioned.
The preparation, the speculation, and the posturing all came down to one crucial two-hour slot starting in five minutes. Excitement crackled in the air, making the hairs on her neck stand on end. She hadn’t managed a bite of breakfast.
Her job was to chat during the race whenever there was a break in the blow-by-blow commentary, to keep a nice back-and-forth going between the main commentator, Rick Everett, and herself. She’d be the yin to his yang. She’d bring up the backstories, speculate on why things were happening and on how the gladiators were feeling in their cockpits zipping around the circuit at ungodly speeds per hour.
“You’ll have notes, but once you’re on camera you’ll be ad-libbing your little heart out. Whatever happens, just remember to look relaxed, okay?” a red-haired waif of a technician called Sarah briefed her as Viv was getting her makeup done.
“I’ve been on camera before.” Viv waved off the makeup artist who was trying to apply blusher. “I’m looking forward to it.” Well, she’d done some stints as a local TV journalist in Edinburgh after graduation, but nothing like this. Nothing like five hundred million viewers.
“Have you practiced the Finnish names?” Sarah asked.
“Hänninen, Voutilainen.”
“Lord, you’re good. And Greek guy?”
“Papastathopoulos.”
“You’ll be fine.”
The race started without hiccups. Rick’s commentary fizzed with excitement, and she marveled at the energy he infused into his voice. Then again, the man was a rabid fan. Beside him, it wouldn’t be too hard to come across as the voice of reason and calm and deep inner reflection.
The starting lights flashed on, and a scream of tires and engines cut the air. Reece in pole position had pulled off first, as expected, and most drivers retained their starting grid positions for the first five laps.
“Gonna be a boring one,” Sarah said in Viv’s headphones, which was surprising, since talking on air was verboten. Sarah raised her mug of tea in rebel salute.
She nodded back, glad to have an ally in this strange new world of live F1 reporting. And a predictable race would be a nice, gentle way to start the season. In many ways, this was the first day of her real career.
“No ... wait!” Rick yelled. Viv flapped down her notes and stared at the screen. “He’s leapfrogging Hawes and now Anderson ... this is incredible! Fontaine is gaining on Reece and Bates. After starting in fifth, Fontaine has managed to make up ground in a truly spectacular way.”
She watched the green streak of lightning zoom into third place, just behind Maddux. “How did he do that?” she wondered aloud.
Rick’s voice had calmed down after a lap, and he gave the thumbs up, a cue for some chitchat. “Indeed, Viv, how did Adam Fontaine do that? That’s the question we’re all asking.”
“Well, this is the new Honda GTX we’ve been speculating about,” she said, heart thumping with the pressure of having to deliver intelligent, rapid-fire commentary. “Built in the garages in Tokyo and shipped to Gatari’s HQ in Atlanta, it’s been a closely kept secret for over a year. But, Rick, it looks like they’ve got something here. The magic of Japanese engineering. Or is it the driving panache of Adam Fontaine?”
Rick laughed. “I don’t know, Viv, but panache is a word that certainly springs to mind. See how he overtook Anderson on the straight? I didn’t even think that was possible. The speed of the thing. Question is, will those soft tires hold out until the end?”
“Yes,” she agreed, “that’s something he’ll have to watch. An extra pit stop for tires will lose him those precious seconds he’s now gained on Reece Marlowe and Maddux Bates.” It felt weird referring to her ex, Maddux, like this. She knew her voice shook a little at times, but with any luck her audience would put it down to the general excitement of the race.
“He’s trying to overtake again! Adam Fontaine’s trying to overtake,” Rick yelled.
She watched, fascinated, forgetting to comment, as Adam’s green car sailed past Maddux, then, going into the curve, settled into second behind Reece.
• • •
Adam stared at Reece’s tail end. He bit down on his bottom lip and thought a silent prayer, the same one as every time.
Are you watching up there, little brother? Help me out here.
He glanced at his battered old watch that was stuck at one minute to four, as it had been ever since he’d taken it from Eddie’s cold wrist.
“Adam, your settings are fine. Remember to go to fuel mixture 5 and revs 7,” Bruce’s voice crackled through his headphones. “No, make it revs 8 please, revs 8.”
“Got it.”
Reece kept blocking him in four successive turns, but Adam lost no ground.
“Beautiful mate, beautiful,” Bruce crooned.
Several minutes later he said, “There’s a yellow flag up somewhere, uh, I’ll let you know where.”
Who is it?
“There’s a Pantech-Windsor off somewhere, there may be debris on the track. We don’t know where yet … uh, wait. It’s in turn 14, turn 14. Be careful.”
“Okay.” Pantech-Windsor; either poor Hawes again, or Papastathopoulos.
The next laps passed without incident, and Adam got into the zone where velocity, time and gravity obeyed different laws than in normal life.
“All right mate, Maddux is in P3 right behind ya. Race order is MAR, FON, BAT, AND, VOU.Nice job of keeping the rear pressures high, keep it up.”
Then, “Adam, tell me about the car. How is it?” Bruce’s anxious voice sounded in his ears, halfway around lap twenty.
“It’s got poor grip; I’ve oversteer again.”
“Revs 7
and push, push Reece down the straight,” Bruce replied. “Let’s build a cushion for the pit stop.”
Adam’s pit stop went without a hitch, and he joined the race again ahead of Maddux, but he needed every ounce of concentration with the damn GTX oversteering.
“Revs 7, please, Adam.” Bruce again. “Keep pushing; this is looking good. It’s still really, really tight to Reece.”
On lap forty-six, it was Chad Teague, his team manager, shouting excitedly in his headset. “Reece has just pitted, you need to push, come on!”
Like he needed to be told. This was his window of hope to gain time over the Englishman. Adam willed the GTX to warp speed. But as he continued to circulate toward his planned stop on lap fifty-five, he began to catch lapped traffic. He cursed under his breath.
“Okay, mate, we’re on it already,” Bruce said.
“I’ll arrive in the traffic soon!”
“I know, mate. We’re going target plus 5 now, that should be okay for us.”
On lap fifty-four, one lap earlier than planned, the team called Adam into the pits.“Where’s Reece, where is he?” Adam yelled.
“Only three seconds ahead. And Maddux is eight behind—stuck behind Pete.”
Adam grinned. It was just he and Reece now. And then on lap sixty-three, he finally saw it: a chance to pass.
“Last lap?” he called.
“Yeah, mate, last lap.”
Adam blinked the sweat from his eyes. He’d need to overtake Reece in one of the curves of death between now and the finish … not something he liked to do, ever, and with the car oversteering like it was, it was far too risky. He sped over the line in second position, very close on Reece. Close, but not close enough.
“Well done, mate,” Bruce said, breathing heavily into the microphone.
Adam tried to swallow his disappointment as he addressed his team of engineers. “Thank you, guys. Merci, merci à tous.” Then he whipped off the headphones in irritation and steered the car back to base.
• • •
Viv tried to clear her head of dizziness. She’d watched the same pattern repeat itself. Adam was nail-bitingly close to overtaking Reece on the straights, but once a bend came, he seemed to pull back. By the end of the race, everyone in the studio was exhausted from his repeated attempts on the first position. The end positions were Reece Marlowe, Adam Fontaine and Maddux Bates.
“By leapfrogging Hawes and Anderson, Fontaine managed to make up ground in a truly spectacular way, but it just wasn’t enough. And so, folks, an electrifying race has drawn to a close,” Rick concluded in his plummy Sussex accent. “A fight between equals. Now over to Viv for a word.”
The camera zoomed in on her, the studio lighting glaring into her retinas. “Yes, Rick, I can’t believe it, but despite all the attempts on his lead, the reigning champ has managed to keep a grip on it. He’ll be a happy man tonight.” Determined to infuse some personality into this, she added, “I hear Marlowe is quite the party man.”
Rick chuckled. “Yes, Marlowe may be tenacious, but he’s always realized there are other things in life than motor racing, such as partying. I’ll bet he sinks a few beers tonight. So what about Fontaine, Viv?”
“Um, well, he definitely deserves a few beers as well.”
“Yes, he must be frustrated after that. I mean, eighteen points are eighteen points, not to be scoffed at, but still … so close and yet so far.”
“I agree …” She faltered. Think, Viv, think. “I noticed that he very nearly overtook Marlowe on the second to last straight I believe if the straight had been two hundred meters longer, he might have made it.”
Rick nodded sagely and looked straight into the camera. “I believe if the entire race had been on a straight he’d have won it, too.”
“Yes, he seemed to be guarded in curves.” She warmed to the topic. “It may be connected to the race two years ago when he tried to overtake Marlowe in a bend in Malaysia and spun out of control, shattering his ankle. I think overtaking in curves is his Achilles heel.”
“Heel or ankle?” Rick quipped, eliciting groans from the cameramen.
She forced a chuckle. “Well, he’ll have to get beyond it if he’s to beat Marlowe this year. They have special therapists for overcoming phobias. In fact, some drivers have been known to do hypnosis to aid in this, so they can free up their minds for driving.”
“And there you have it, folks, from a woman with degrees in journalism and psychology,” Rick said, beaming at her. From behind the cameras, the program director made the chopping signal, which meant five seconds until the break.
With the cameras off, Viv removed her microphone and stared into space for a moment.
“You were great, darlin’; you were just great,” Rick enthused. He seemed to be as excitable and likable off-screen as on—which was not always the case, as Viv well knew.
“Thanks.” She felt herself blushing out of happiness and sheer relief. The toughest job was done for the day. They’d get someone else on now to do the postmortem analysis of the race. She was expected to go down and get some opinions for the website articles, so saying bye to the crew, she packed her bag and left the studio.
She placed herself strategically near the podium so she could grab a winning driver or two to talk to when they stepped off. But she soon discovered the naiveté of that idea. The place was mobbed with too many reporters pushing, grasping for a piece of them.
Reece Marlowe was surrounded by fans and journalists alike and thrived on the attention. Adam Fontaine looked like he was charging through the enemy line on a battlefield, looking neither left nor right. Third-place Maddux Bates was lapping it up, waving magnanimously as if he’d won first place. There was no way of approaching any of the trio without getting crushed.
From her position, she kept her eye on Adam. He navigated to the edge of the crowd and disappeared into the VIP hospitality tent. Viv pulled out her press pass and scuttled over to the tent, microphone in hand.
Inside the stifling VIP tent, the BBC’s race coverage was being replayed on a huge plasma screen, and the racing community was glued to it. Two air-conditioning units whirred away uselessly in the middle of the tent. She grabbed a vodka and tonic to celebrate her first real TV exposure in her job.
Seeing herself up there on the big screen was unsettling. Hearing herself speak was even weirder—she sounded breathless, high pitched. And, in this last part they were now showing, she was coming across as some kind of self-styled, psychoanalytical guru on the mind of a motorsports driver.
“It’s great, Viv,” a Pantech-Windsor replacement driver said, standing beside her.
“Thanks,” she said, and plunked herself down at their table for some insider analysis of the race.
After getting the full spectrum of Pantech-Windsor opinions, she rose to get water from the bar at the back of the tent. She was glad of the semi-darkness after all the bright lights. As she stood at the bar, she rested her head on her forearms. Her brain was spinning from the day’s exertions. And she’d only been watching the race.
If she didn’t toughen up, she’d never pull this off week after week for the next nine months of season. Stamina was important to a journalist, to an F1 journalist, doubly so. Maybe she should start going to the gym every morning, like they all did?
“What was all that?” a staccato voice resonated in her ear. She whipped her head up and drank in the sight of Adam Fontaine in his green overalls, their luridness less obvious in the gloom, his neat, dark hair even blacker with sweat, his sharp cheekbones protruding from the shadows.
He didn’t look happy.
“All what?” she asked.
“The pseudo-psychology. This—this fear-of-curves bullshit.”
“I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t.”
Viv held her chin high. “Excuse me?”
“You didn’t think.” Adam’s dark eyes narrowed. “After yesterday, I thought you had a brain. But no, you’re just like the rest of the
m. You’ll say anything if you think it’s entertaining.”
“Well.” She slapped her palm against her throat. “If anything I said is untrue, I’m sure you’ll be able to correct me and let the audience in on the real facts of the matter.” She pulled out her microphone and waggled it under his chin, tempted to whack him with it.
Before she even registered movement, her wrist was enclosed between his thumb and index finger. She felt callouses where his fingers joined his palm. He guided her arm and the microphone downward, gently but firmly. It forced her to step forward, closer to him. He caught her gaze for a long, strange moment. His eyes, when he wasn’t averting them, were quite beautiful—dark, engaging and haunted. His rigid jawline seemed to soften. She couldn’t move, speak or think while he looked down at her like this, at such close quarters. Something deep inside of her did a cartwheel … and then a backflip. She forgot to breathe until he looked away again.
Oh no, she thought. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Chapter 5
Adam had to force himself to release her smooth wrist. The sensation of her skin lingered on in his palm and sent a shiver of awareness through his fingers and up his arm. His anger dissipated. He stepped backward. He hadn’t meant to violate her personal space. It had just happened. Now her hazel eyes were drilling into his soul, and she looked beautiful with her flushed face tilted upward.
He cleared his throat. “I drove carefully in the corners; it would have been suicide otherwise.”
“I’m still allowed to have an opinion on that,” she said, rubbing the wrist he’d held. He hadn’t hurt her, had he?
“And that’s your opinion?” he asked. “Fear?”
“Well, if it’s not fear, then what is it?”
“It’s oversteer, plain and simple.”
Her forehead creased. “Oversteer?”
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