High Octane

by Ashlinn Craven

  “I’m thrilled. And thrilled for your win!”

  “Thanks. Anyway, show me this engagement ring of yours.”

  “Oh you don’t seriously want to see that.”

  “True. But you’re going to show me anyway.”

  She wiggled her ring finger under his nose. He had to agree that the ruby stone was unusual and pretty damn gorgeous in the golden dusk.

  “You or Jeff?”

  “Oh, I chose it. But he has good taste.”

  “Good taste in women?”

  “Impeccable.” She poked him in the ribs. “So how long you hanging around for? Dad’s not back ’til Sunday.”

  “Just this evening. I’ve to get back to the hotel tonight at Santa Barbara. I’m heading back to LAX tomorrow first thing to fly to Dallas. Practice.”

  “Right. I won’t be able to watch it live on Sunday. Father Dearest’s been grumpy—all this avoidance of Formula One you know—it’s a full-time job and it takes a lot out of him and us.”

  “Sorry you’re caught in the middle there.”

  She snorted. “Anyway it’ll be heaps better when Jeff and I move out after the wedding. Dad won’t be able to dictate what we watch on TV then.”

  “He does that?”

  “Have you any idea how frustrating it is to have your brother racing live and not being able to watch, especially when he wins? My phone was hopping with friends and neighbors congratulating me before I even knew you’d done it in Bahrain.”

  “I’ll let you know in advance next time.”

  “You winning Texas?”

  “Bet on it.”

  “Maybe I will. Interest picking up here since Bahrain, you know? Local press is full of it.” She shot him a worried look. “Not just the racing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People called Fontaine Fans are coming to ... well to do wine tasting, only they don’t know a pinot from a merlot, and they ask about you. They talk about a fan site called FontaineFans.com where they meet up. We’ve had, like, two such groups in the last two days.”

  God, FontaineFans.com. He’d forgotten about the stupid site. He still had 3,348 unread mails sitting in his mailbox. Probably more. He should have asked Vivienne McCloud if she’d any involvement there, and if she had, to put a stop to the nonsense. Only he hadn’t seen her since that hot encounter in the steam room. God, she looked gorgeous in a bikini.

  Saskia rubbed her forehead in agitation. “Adam? They asked about Eddie. They called the house on Monday after your win. Luckily it was me who answered and not you-know-who. At least I could fob them off—”

  “Christ, no.” Adam clenched his eyes shut. Worst-case scenario—Dad being confronted about Eddie’s death by a group of racing fans. “He’d take a pitchfork to them.”

  Saskia eyes widened as her head bobbed up and down in agreement.

  Images swirled in Adam’s mind of Eddie’s broken body lying against the rock in Henson’s field, his neck twisted at an impossible angle, his fine, blond hair matted with blood and clay. The gap between the rocks was only wide enough for one quad bike. Eddie knew that, he’d known it; they’d done it many times before. Eddie would have braked last minute if he’d been able to. Adam took a shuddering breath.

  Of course, Dad couldn’t see to it that Eddie’s brakes worked properly. Dad was too like Eddie—a big picture person, not interested in the details—the details of running a winery profitably, the details of maintaining an engine properly, the details of ensuring functioning brake pads. No, he had run on hope. Hope that had extinguished once his dearest, blond son had been crushed and then his brokenhearted wife had divorced him within the year.

  Adam swallowed. Particles of sawdust agitated his throat. “How did they ask? Did they ask like they knew I was there? Were they fishing around? Or was it just idle curiosity?”

  “How should I know?” She kicked the sawdust over the tracks she’d made with the tip of her shoe and then sniffed in the dust. “But these were two female fans and they seemed to … well, like you.”

  “What did you say about Eddie?”

  “Nothing, of course! What do you take me for? Dad’s the only one who talked to the police that day. Sergeant Wade’s dead years now. Nobody has to know you were there unless you want them to know, Adam. Jeff has sworn to secrecy, and I trust him with my life. But you do have to make your story, and you have to stick to it. Decide it and let me know—now. If a question like that ever gets asked live, how will you cope?

  “I don’t do live interviews. Not personal ones anyway.”

  “You can’t be at your level and not get interviewed. It’s going to happen whether you like it or not. You managed to avoid it two years ago by having that accident when you got famous … which you know some people might interpret as being something you actually wanted.”

  “Sask,” he warned. God, another woman with ridiculous psychological theories about him.

  He strode over to the red truck that had been bothering him in the corner of the barn. The truck looked like it hadn’t been driven in several months. “What’s wrong with this?”

  “Bad rear axle. Gear system broken, too.” She sighed. “Jeff tried to—”

  “Christ no, let me look. Is my toolset still under the window bench?”

  “Yeah, I’ll get it.”

  Adam rolled up his sleeves, laid out his tools on a large black towel and started fixing the truck. She sat on the floor watching him, as if they were fifteen and twelve again, with Eddie skipping around the place, telling dumb jokes and making them laugh.

  It hurt to picture that. Charming, funny Eddie at age fourteen, the oldest he’d ever get. But the repetitive motion of twisting off the oil-slicked bolts, the quiet buzz of flies, the soothing presence of his sister, all conspired to reduce the old hurt to a smooth, delicate kind of melancholy, like a fine Pinot.

  “How are the wedding preparations coming along?” he asked after a while.

  “Well, fine. Apart from an obvious gap in the invitee list. Mum’ll be there with Harry. She’s got no issue being in the same room as Dad. Just you missing.”

  He remained silent.

  “You should talk to him. It’s been twelve years now.”

  “I’ll think about it.” But it was funny how every year of non-communication got easier. If it weren’t for this wedding there’d be no issue at all.

  “And if you do come, should I book you in for one or two people?” She had a mischievous glint in her eye.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”

  “Hey, I’m not the only one around here who can propagate the Fontaine genes. You’re going to be thirty soon.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Oh I don’t worry about you”—she huffed—“I want the pressure lifted off me a little bit, you know?”

  “One of these days, Sask. I promise. It will get easier. Sooner rather than later.”

  “Well, you don’t make promises lightly, so I’ll have to believe you. Come on to the house now and say hi to my fiancé.”

  Adam nodded and wiped a spanner clean on an oily rag. He’d managed to get the truck going with a satisfying roar.

  “What’ll I tell Dad when he comes back?” Saskia asked, locking the barn door behind them. “Miraculous recovery?”

  “Tell him Jeff fixed it. No one will dispute it. Least of all Jeff.”

  Saskia laughed and slapped his arm. “Oh, go back to Texas and your fancy cars, would you?”

  Chapter 11

  When Adam sped over the finish line in Austin in first place again the following day, Viv squeezed her fists under the desk in glee. On air, she and Rick debated about the man in green’s championship chances. She offset her furtive hopes by predicting that Reece would win.

  Off-air, Mack was on a rampage through the studio. There was no escape. Sarah made hand signals behind his back, but Viv wasn’t in the mood.

  “You were supposed to have an interview yesterday, and now he wins on h
ome soil!” he thundered. “What’s the point?”

  She held her chin high. “Look, I asked him a week ago, and he said no, and he’s been in California with his family since then. I wrote up a piece for the website, and I talked to the son of his former sponsor, Villiers, on the phone, who confirmed that yes, the money came from him and not from the Fontaine family. I’ve succeeded in building up an aura of mystery around him, and the comments on the website have been numerous. Over two hundred. That’s not nothing, Mack.”

  She didn’t mention her own secret fan club website, FontaineFans.com, she’d started in her spare time in the evenings. She’d even recruited her computer whiz brother to help design the templates and set it up with an Internet provider.

  Mack tensed his fingers in front of her as if crushing an invisible skull—hers. “We have the current Formula One leader here, and we haven’t got a solitary interview with him. This is your responsibility. This is not what I call world-class journalism!”

  His voice rang out, penetrating every cable-strewn corner, every paper-littered alcove of that studio. Other employees turned around in theoretical sympathy for her before swiveling back to whatever they had been doing.

  Viv propped her chin onto her fingers, willing her heartbeat to return to normal. So fire me. She couldn’t bear this confrontation. Nobody else had managed a live interview either, so why all the theatrics?

  “Honestly, I don’t know why I pay you,” Mack continued. “We’ll have to pick up with someone else in Hungary who can actually get an interview with the front-runner. Someone with a bit more nerve.”

  Yeah, good luck with that. Now every news outlet in the world wanted to know who this guy was. The Belgian stations had claimed Adam back as one of their own, and he’d answered some post-race questions in French. She’d watched that one three times because he’d sounded so sexy.

  Reece was on the main studio TV screen being interviewed at the FIA post-race press conference, his confident voice booming out. “One more, one more and I could have given it a good go. I wasn't close enough, but next lap I would’ve. But unfortunately that was it.” He flashed his trademark lady-killer grin right into the camera. “So, a bit gutted, but still, second place, still close to the championship, and many more races to go.”

  The screen switched to Adam being asked the secret of his success.“No secrets; it’s been hard work, really constructive work.” She turned to watch closely. His face was flushed, the dark stubble on his jaw glistening with sweat, or champagne. Even through her present misery she felt a massive throb of attraction. “We stumbled in the beginning. We fell, we built it again, and the team has been building and building. It's remarkable, the actual car itself; the downforce is excellent. It's the best engine this garage has created.”

  Mack waved this off. “Blah blah blah. Bullshit. This is the guy who was shouting at the engineers only this morning. Come on, I want to know why.” He gestured toward her laptop screen as if the truth was somehow lurking in there.

  She escaped to the canteen with Sarah. Sarah dumped three packets of sugar in succession into her latte foam and stirred. “Are you okay, Viv?”

  “I’ve had a few pushy bosses in my time. It’d take more than this to get me down.”

  “No one’s managed to land a studio interview with Fontaine. Not now, not two years ago either, when he won a few qualifiers. So why’s Mack giving you such a hard time about it?”

  “My guess? He thinks I should be able to sleep with Fontaine—me being the famous F1 slut and all—and get him to reveal his darkest soul to me.”

  Sarah looked at her in dismay.

  “It’s all right, Sarah. This is why he hired me—not for my journalistic qualities, but because I’d already slept with two of them. Foot in the door. Who cares? It’s what I make of the opportunity that matters.”

  “Yes, you’re right. But I thought you—with your master’s degree and everything—wouldn’t have to stoop to that.”

  “Ah yes. Journalism-slash-psychology. That’ll get me a lovely web content editor job in some pharmaceutical conglomerate where I wax lyrical about drug trials.”

  “You’ve done that?”

  “And several others like it—soul destroying. Back then I was just working to live, and party and have fun in London. But, hey, looks as though my dream job isn’t exactly coming up roses either.” She tried to smile.

  Sarah peered into her latte. “Then this is probably not the best time to tell you, but …”

  “What?”

  Her friend winced. “I saw the roster for the next five. After Budapest?” She sucked in breath through her teeth. “You’re not on it.”

  Blood pounded in Viv’s ears. “Are you sure about that?”

  “No, but there’s a big TBD with three question marks where your name should be. I mean it could mean nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing, Viv; don’t read too much into it. But do go have a talk with Mack.”

  Viv’s heart plummeted. He’d already decided? Was it time to start searching for job number thirteen? Damn Mack anyway.

  Chapter 12

  Montreal, Canada

  Adam watched the TV in disgust, but he couldn’t make himself switch it off. It was his one free day in Montreal before the qualifiers started, and he lay on the hotel bed, catching up on the BBC omnibus edition on F1. After the Texas race coverage from Sunday, there were interviews with all the drivers. Reece, Maddux, David Anderson, and yes, himself. He’d done okay in the press conferences and the quick interviews at the podium, concentrating on the facts, on the race itself. He’d not come across as a complete robot, as far as he could tell.

  But what was this stuff? Reece in some kind of glitzy BBC sports personalities chat show with the audience hanging off his every word? Someone must be holding up signs telling the studio audience when to laugh, because he wasn’t funny. He was flirting with Vivienne McCloud.

  The worst part? They looked good together—Aryan twins—Reece in his tight white T-shirt, yellow leather jacket—who the hell wears yellow leather?—and tight, gray jeans, and Vivienne in her crisp white, body-hugging dress and light yellow scarf. Like they’d color coordinated beforehand. Maybe they had. Adam pushed mute so he could watch her without Reece’s irritating voice ruining it for him.

  Except now her body language became even more apparent beneath the poise and the elegance—touching her neck, behind her ears—flirting, subconsciously telling the audience Reece was hers? God, it was so obvious. And no wonder—wasn’t Reece the twin of her ex, Ronan? Didn’t he have the same swagger, the same easy way with the ladies? The same bucketload of British charm? She was falling for it, like all women did, or she’d already fallen.

  When the interview switched to the commercial break, he switched off the TV and turned on the laptop. The Pantech-Windsor guys had mentioned some article just published on him on the BBC website. Normally he’d ignore it, but they said it was written by Vivienne McCloud. What could she have to say about him?

  Damn. She’d gotten in touch with Villiers. Jacques—the son. He speed-read the entirety of the article. The report pointed out that his sponsorship money had come from Villiers and not from his father as previously supposed, and that his family had wanted him to pursue a career in winemaking rather than driving. All civilized and polite. Not a word of Eddie, thank God. The tone, in fact, was favorable.

  But it wouldn’t take long for someone else to interview Villiers and then to start attacking Saskia or his father with questions about that awful day and why he’d left home so suddenly. And that someone could either be a professional or an amateur from that ridiculous fan site. Vivienne McCloud had single-handedly released a flock of vultures on Saskia and Dad. Someone had to tell her to stop.

  • • •

  After the live chat show, Viv showered and made her way a few blocks from the serviceable press hotel to the drivers’ swanky hotel. She took an armchair in the lobby with a view of the main revolving doors. Her plan was to sit tight unt
il Adam Fontaine walked by. Then she was going to throw herself at him, figuratively speaking, and tell him that she was his best hope of getting a fair, sympathetic interview. If that didn’t work, she’d play the pity card: it was either that or she’d lose her job.

  A long forty-five minutes later, having brushed off four polite staff inquiries, she was starting to feel pathetic. Even a social recluse couldn’t stay in his room all day, could he? Or did he manage to sneak out some back way? She wouldn’t be surprised if there were a secret VIP exit for the F1 elite somewhere on the executive level. Was he even there last night? Maybe he kept a hot girlfriend under the radar and they were—

  Then she saw him. Instead of the usual black, he had on a red-checkered lumberjack shirt that made him look tons more approachable. After discussing something at reception, he donned a red baseball cap and his Police glasses. She wouldn’t have recognized him if she hadn’t been watching the whole time. Well, except for the lean legs and the perfect ass in the snug jeans She might have recognized those.

  She got up to intercept him, but he was heading in the wrong direction—not the taxi rank out front, but the garage. Shit.

  A crowd of tourists had entered reception and blocked her path, but she wriggled through and rushed to the door of the garage. A dusty draft assailed her, making her cough as she took the concrete steps down.

  Had he parked in level zero or level minus one? Peering in through the door of level zero she could hear nothing. She scrambled down to minus one. She opened that door in time to see the taillights of a Cadillac disappearing up the ramp. Shit again.

  She raced back up the two flights of steps and bounded out the door, almost tripping over a suitcase one of the tourists had abandoned in the middle of the floor. Panting, she got to the head of the empty taxi queue outside and clambered into the front of the first taxi.

  The driver was a woman of about her own age.

  “Go around the corner first,” Viv said, panting, “to the guest parking garage exit.”