“Sorry. It’s Sarah; I have to answer this or she’ll be calling me all night.”
“Go for it,” he said.
Viv turned away from him and walked with the phone toward the bathroom door.
“Coming to the bar after?” Sarah asked.
“Not tonight.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, yes,” Viv said, with all the naturalness of an Al-Qaeda hostage with a gun pointing to her head.
Sarah’s voice reduced to a hush. “Is he talking?”
“Give us a chance.”
Adam was examining his fingernails in a show of not listening.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” Sarah said. “Want me to call back again in an hour just in case?”
“No! I mean … it’s fine.”
“I’ll go then. But I’ll call you first thing.” Viv knew she would, too, so she turned the phone off and lobbed it onto the nightstand.
He perched against the armrest of one of the typical hotel room chairs. “Nice ring tone.”
She chuckled. “Every time I see my brother, Liam hijacks my phone and puts something ridiculous on it because he knows I’m too lazy to change it.”
“Do you see him often?”
“Well, not since I started this job, but I’ll see him at Silverstone when we get there. He’s based in London. Programmer for a private bank. Seven years younger than me. I love him to bits.”
“Of course you do,” he said, looking down. He ran his fingers through his hair. The call had distracted him. “Does Liam like Formula One?” he asked in a stilted tone.
“Yes, yes, he does. Very much so.”
“Good.” He looked over again. She was beginning to feel like a science experiment the way he kept sneaking glances at her as if to make sure she hadn’t tiptoed away. “Do you like Formula One?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But is this what you want to do with your life?”
She opened her mouth to give the formulaic answer and then stopped. His lonely, somewhat feral quality enticed her to drop the perfect, poised journalist act and be honest with him. “No, it’s not. I just ended up here. In Formula One I mean. I do want to be a journalist though, yes.”
“It’s a strange place to start.”
She shrugged. “I know. But it is what it is.”
He waited for more.
“Journalism is a tough nut to crack, and I take my opportunities as they’re dished out to me. I got this one handed to me on a silver plate. I would be stupid not to make the most of it, regardless of my past.”
“Yes, I understand.”
She pressed the camera on, focusing it on the two armchairs by the balcony door, her makeshift studio. With the backdrop of glittering hotel lights, tall palms, and smoggy Montreal skyline, it didn’t look too far off a professional studio setup, and it was real.
Satisfied, she beckoned for him to take one chair, and she sat in the opposite, sliding an empty mug toward him. She poured a measure of gin into her own and settled back on her chair.
“We’re pretending it’s coffee, okay?” She waggled her eyes toward the camera. Crossing her legs, her bare foot accidentally grazed his lower leg. Even through denim, she felt the hardness of his calf muscle. She caught his eye for a quick moment, and that’s when she saw it—the flash of understanding, the unspoken man-to-woman communication. Oh, sweet Jesus.
She bit her bottom lip and focused on pouring the tonic into her gin and keeping her feet to herself.
“So,” she said, brightly. “Let’s start. You don’t mind if I take written notes as well, do you?”
“Do what you need to.” Adam, whose attention had been wandering around the room, came back to focus on her. He looked at the camera and seemed to be calculating something. Pushing his armchair back, he splashed a good measure of the single malt into his mug. He dragged the chair forward again and held up his mug in toast. “Nice coffee.”
“That’s a wide-zoom lens in the camera,” she teased.
“No, it’s not.”
She grinned. He was right.
“Let’s begin with your recovery, Adam,” she said. “The ankle and leg injury.”
“It’s fine now,” he said, tapping out Morse code with his long ring finger on the table. “Doesn’t affect my driving in any way.”
She’d interviewed children who were more comfortable. His eyes wandered. He kept rubbing his jaw, shifting his position. He didn’t smile. His whole demeanor screamed I don’t want to be doing this.
“And the head injury?”
“That’s fine too. I can still do everything I could do before.”
“You were in hospital for seven months in Belgium, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why there?”
“Why not?”
“Well, why not a US hospital, as you were resident in the States at the time of the accident?”
“I preferred Belgian.”
“French-speaking staff?”
“There was that. Plus the fact that Wallonians are a discreet lot.”
Viv chuckled. “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t know many, apart from yourself, and I think we can agree that you play your cards close to your chest.”
He nodded. Then shrugged.
“Yet you agreed to this interview,” she prompted.
“I prefer it come from you, if it must come from somebody, and you keep assuring me it does.”
She’d cut this bit out in her edits. This was a tad too personal. “Why me?”
“You talked to Villiers.”
She put down her pen. “So?”
“You didn’t make up some bullshit story around it.”
“Well, I didn’t have all the facts, and I work for the BBC, which kind of likes stories to be based on fact.”
“You protected Al-Saeed.”
Cut, cut, cut. She wouldn’t be able to use any of this. Maybe it made more sense to forget the interview and try to understand the man. No wait, her job. Mack! She needed camera footage no matter what.
“You also didn’t mention the oversteer … to Reece.”
“Of course not. Why on earth would I do that?”
“I don’t know.” He averted his gaze.
Viv sank back in the chair, appalled by what she suspected was going through his mind about her and Reece. She stood up and turned off the recorder and the camera. “Look, I promised you I wouldn’t mention it, didn’t I?”
“If you’re involved with him, you’re compromised.” He tapped out more Morse code.
Her hackles rose. “I told you there’s nothing going on. Even if I have—in the past—slept with a driver—it doesn’t mean that I’m going to sleep with every driver I happen to meet, now does it?”
“Why did you split up? Maddux, I can understand, but Hawes? Did he not treat you right?”
She fought to control her temper. “Look, we are so not talking about this. Could we please switch back to me asking you the questions now?”
“And yet you want me to talk about my history. For all I know, you leaked a story, and that’s why Hawes dumped you—”
She stepped away from the camera. “Where is this coming from, Adam? Read my lips, I dumped Ronan … although I do prefer to think of it in other terms, and it was nothing to do with what you’re saying. I wanted … more.” She put a hand to her pumping temples and sat back down on the chair opposite him. Adjusting her body into regal pose, she fixed him with what she hoped was the coolest of gazes but suspected wasn’t. “More in the sense of commitment, you understand?”
Adam frowned and raised the whiskey to his lips, wetting them with the amber liquid. He looked at her solemnly and took a longer drink.
Why oh why had she let him know all this before she’d wrung a drop of information out of him? Yes, according to him, this was the most interesting thing about her still. How could she have dumped one of their golden boys? Who did she think she was, in other words? It was t
he same old resentment and hawkish curiosity that had followed her since day one of this job.
She crossed her arms and eased back in her seat. He mirrored her actions. Their elongated shadows flitted across the walls, interacting, colliding with every gesture in the glow of the lamp. A long silence followed.
“We’re not here to talk about my love life,” she said and rose to switch on the camera again “Now, let’s talk about your race today. You must be very disappointed with your did-not-finish.” God, he was bringing out a snarky streak in her that she didn’t even know she possessed.
“That was unfortunate. We need to fix the problem and make sure it doesn’t happen again. And it won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Preparation. Losing happens. It concentrates the mind. It reveals weaknesses in the engine, the team, the system, the driver.”
“You seem very calm for someone who didn’t finish, and who’s fallen down a place overall to second.”
“You expect me to sulk about it?”
“Well, for instance.”
“That’s not my style.”
“Hmm.” She licked the sticky tonic off her lips, scribbling down “sulking not my style” on her pad with a frowning smiley beside it. Bluffing probably, but maybe she could make something of his stoicism. She looked up and caught him staring at her with his dark eyes.
“Did I say something interesting?” he asked.
“No, you’ve been terribly boring so far. This is my to-do list for tomorrow.”
In one smooth, panther-like move, he reached across the glass table and swiped the pad from her lap.
“Hey,” she yelled, leaping up, grasping thin air. “Give me that.”
“Nope.”
“Honestly—behave yourself, Fontaine.”
He slid back into his chair and scanned her notepad at his leisure. A slow smile formed, instantly brightening his features. She stared at him, at the sheer novelty of his amused face. He looked like a different person.
“I’m on your to do list?” He chuckled—a sound she’d never heard before. It made her scalp prickle, in a good way.
“For tomorrow?” he asked. Here, bathed in the soft glow of her bedroom lamp, it was nothing short of a miracle how alluring he’d become. His gaze roamed her face with a new tenderness. An entrenched journalistic instinct flared up and made her rise slowly from her chair. She fiddled with the camera viewfinder, getting him into focus against the muted light.
Click. Adam Fontaine with bedroom eyes and a sensual glow. Click.
She’d nailed it. Photo of the year. Cover of Time magazine.
Triumphant, she looked up again. For once it was she who had to break off the eye contact. This interview wasn’t going the way she’d planned. It wasn’t going at all. The only thing going was a bedroom ambiance so thick you could cut it with a plastic baby knife. Major mistake. Earth calling Viv. Come in, Reporter Viv for the Beeb …
“Do you mind if we continue the interview?” she asked, clearing her throat.
“If you must.”
“I must.” She saved the photo and changed the camera setting back to video mode.
“Did you always want to be a Formula One driver?”
“Since I was sixteen, yes.” A small, pained smile crossed his face. His eyes turned downward and flickered in a manner that suggested he was searching memories, painful ones.
“And before that?”
“I’ve always liked machinery. When I was four, I wanted to be a mechanic. And I became one. But I guess being a driver is a more aspirational choice.”
“It depends on what you’re aspiring to,” she said. “Fame, fortune, women … I mean, if you like those things, they go hand in hand with being an F1 driver.”
He remained silent, his intent gaze doing all the talking.
“I’m not sure you do like those things though,” she pressed.
“I like you.”
“Okay, that’s it.” She leapt up to switch off the camera.
She felt a presence behind her. Spinning around, she was unprepared for how his hard chest a mere inch from her touch would affect her senses She nearly knocked the 3,000-quid camera from its tripod. “W—what are you doing?”
He cocked his head shyly as if to say, “Your move.” His gaze wandered from her eyes to her lips and neck … and then back to her lips. This was the hungry look of a starving man, and she had an urge to feed him.
He eased her fingers from the camera, and she let her hand go limp. “You don’t need to put me on your to-do list,” he said in a low tone with the undercurrent of male animal. He squeezed her fingers in his tough, leathery hands. “I’m right here.”
“I … can see that.” She allowed her gaze to rest on his mouth. It was a sensitive mouth, one she’d studied many times, with a tiny tilt upward left of the bow of his top lip, through which a hint of white teeth flashed. Until now, she hadn’t noticed the delicate laughter lines etched into those sculpted cheeks. How did he get those?
He leaned closer, and her chin tilted up to him of its own accord. His gaze searched hers, as if testing her resistance one last time, then grew heavy lidded. His lips brushed against hers, easing her into the kiss. His teeth explored her bottom lip and then sucked gently. Something told her this wasn’t just for fun. This man would never be just for fun. He would always be intense. About everything. Her body thrummed with excitement.
His mouth pressed into her, and he slid his tongue inside, rubbing slowly against hers. Single-malt flavored, smoky and smooth. She reached up to cradle his neck, feeling short hairs at the back of his skull brush against her fingertips. It felt dizzying, intoxicating, drugging. Like she was in free fall—like something she’d been planning on doing for ages.
He continued kissing her until she couldn’t think anymore. She lost all sense of time or place. Her whole body had woken up to his touch, to the power and the need that emanated from him. His hand slipped to her neck, and he kept kissing. “Vivienne,” he whispered. He pulled back and set his forehead against hers.
Her mind went blank, lost in a burning need that set her body throbbing. Those hands, she wanted them all over her. It had to be him. And it had to be now. That was all her brain could currently manage.
“Do you want this?” His breath tickled her ear, sending a delicious quiver down her spine. “I know you have a job to do.”
She nodded and pulled him by his belt nearer to the bed. She searched his dark eyes for a sign. Her mouth burned with the sensation of him, and her thoughts thickened with sheer animal lust. They stood in silence.
He pulled her in and brushed his lips across her cheek. It felt glorious. Shivers rippled across her skin.
“I like you, too,” she whispered.
She saw an innocent, almost childlike satisfaction spread across his features. He angled his head and kissed her, his lips warm, insistent. She lost herself in the taste of him, the whiskey and the commanding feel of his mouth. He advanced forward until her back pressed against the wall. He cupped her head in his hands, and his torso pressed into her. She felt his hard musculature and the hollow of his abdomen. The warm, clean scent of his skin gave her a huge rush. And that was with his T-shirt on.
She ached for him, and the burn of desire coursed through her body. They didn’t break the kiss. Viv’s fingers moved down from his neck and curved around his shoulders, pulling him in, trying to get closer, but with clothes on she couldn’t get close enough.
His mouth moved over her jaw and trailed down her neck. Her spine quivered as he licked her sensitive skin along her collarbone.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He moved his hands down her back and smoothed his palms over her butt, pushing his fingers into the waistband of her jeans, beneath her cotton thong. She leaned her head into his chest and felt his heartbeat and breath speeding up.
“Kiss me then,” he said.
She fitted her mouth back to his
, back where it belonged. Her hands scrambled now, pushing up under his T-shirt, running along warm, taut skin. After a mini-eternity of bliss, he held on to her forearms and broke off the kiss.
“Take this off.”
She unbuttoned the fiddly buttons on her blouse. His glittering eyes followed her every move. When she stood half naked in front of him, he stroked below her breasts with his thumbs, outlining the rib cage, as if committing her shape to memory. He ripped off his own shirt and pulled her in close so she could breathe in the heat of his skin. He smelled of hotel soap. She needed more now. That sensation of him pressing between her legs suddenly became the sole thing in her universe.
He trailed a finger down her torso, slowly between her breasts, stopping at the top of her jeans. “I’ve wanted to touch you since the first moment I met you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know you. I don’t get involved with women I don’t know.” He trailed his fingertips over her breasts, and she gasped as he narrowly missed each nipple. For the lucky women that he did get involved with, he knew what he was doing. She closed her eyes and felt a growing dampness in her underwear.
“Why’s that?” she murmured. Talking was becoming an extreme effort, but she’d kick herself later if she didn’t find out these things.
“They’re either locals that I’ll never see again or touring groupies that I will.”
Her eyes popped open. “But journalists are okay, huh?”
“Sometimes I have to make exceptions,” he said with a glint of mischief in his eye. He tugged her hips into him and held her tightly. Bending with his mouth to her ear, he asked, “Let’s lie down.”
“Mmm.” She planted a kiss at the base of his neck, wriggled free, and slid down on her back onto the cool sheets of the bed. She looked up at him. He looked sinfully good half naked in his black jeans. She held an arm up to him. He clasped her fingers in his, kissed them and then mounted the bed, knees on either side of her legs. Gently, he took her shoulder and pushed her back onto the pillows. His gaze rose to meet hers. “I don’t have protection.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I do. Bathroom.”
High Octane Page 47