“Adam, Dad found out you were here, and he threw a complete tantrum. Not that he’d have wanted to see you, but just the principle that you’d come here behind his back and—”
“Saskia, this is not the time. I’m—”
“That’s not it, Adam. He had a heart attack!”
“What?” He gripped the phone tighter. His heart clenched.
“You heard me. He got morose, storming around, banging pots and pans, everything and everyone getting on his nerves. I wouldn’t mind, but then he had to sit down. I mean he was mixing fertilizer one moment, and the next he had to sit on the bench in the garage. Jeff told me. Short of breath, he said, but I think it was a heart attack. A minor one, but still.”
“What? What did you do?”
“Jeff was with him. He rang 911. The ambulance came, and the medics took him in after a bit of an argument from Dad. We’re here now in the hospital, waiting for the result. A nurse came by to say he’s okay, but we’re waiting for the full diagnosis. I blame myself. He should be doing regular checkups at his age. But he refuses to go.”
“He’s too scared they’ll find something wrong with him, and now look what happens,” Adam said, bitterly. He had to undergo routine medicals, and he hated it, too. That much he’d inherited from his estranged parent. But he wasn’t as stubborn as his father. “I’m guessing the last time he saw doctor was when Mum was still in the house.”
“Yes.”
“Were there any signs?”
“Well, in hindsight, yes. He’d been complaining about shortness of breath going up stairs, but we’d put it down to lack of physical conditioning. He claims a good Cab will make him immune to heart attacks. Adam, I’m scared. If he goes—”
“Don’t say that.”
“—I don’t know what I’ll do. The winery can’t run without him.”
“Sure it can. You and Jeff have been doing most of the work for two years.”
“But it’s he the customers come to see, not me. The big ones.”
A shiver rippled through Adam at the truth of this. Why did this have to happen now, when he’d so little control over what he could do? He had to calm her down. “He’s had a scare, Sask. But people do at his age.”
Vivienne was motioning to him. She’d got a taxi.
“Look, call you back. I’m outside. I have to go. Soon as I’m back in my hotel, okay? Wait for my call. Don’t talk to a soul about this.”
He shoved the phone back in his pocket. How could Dad have worked himself into such a frenzy as to cause an actual physical heart attack? Was that even possible? Whatever—it was up to him to manage the consequences now—to get Saskia calm enough to think sensibly again and deal with the paperwork and insurance. But more important, they’d have to plan for whatever press interest this might have stirred up in the hospital. He had to walk Saskia through exactly what to say—Jeff too—in case a journalist came knocking, which could happen any minute.
• • •
When Viv turned around to tell Adam to get in the taxi, she was looking at a different man from three minutes ago. His body was rigid. He nodded curtly and slid inside the car as if in a daze. No smile. No playful tugging on her hand. A strange metamorphosis caused by a short phone call. He sat leaning onto his knees until the momentum of the taxi taking off seemed to wake him up.
“God, sorry, Vivienne.” He took her hand in his. It felt big and warm and comforting, but the guarded look on his face reminded her so much of their earliest encounters that she felt her desire cooling down. Rapidly. The dampness that had spread in her panties seemed to mock her now as she grew ever more uncomfortable sitting in her tight cocktail dress in the stuffy taxi.
“Who was that? Do you have to go somewhere?” She was used to these last-minute urgent meetings spoiling everything.
“Um.” He rubbed his jawline. “That was my sister.”
“Your sister in Santa Ynez? Saskia?”
“Yes.”
“So—is she alright?”
“She’s fine.”
His tone and body language screamed otherwise. Should she intrude? Give him time to say it? She bit her lip, racked with indecision. Why was he looking out the window? God, surely he could tell her if there was something wrong? It wasn’t like she’d broadcast it to the world.
“Adam? You can tell me. Whatever you say to me in private stays that way—by default—unless you want me to say something. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” He reached for her hand, but his eyes showed strain.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” His fingers clasped around hers, just short of the point of pain. He sought her gaze. The guy was being honest at least, if not completely open. But his business was his own until he chose to share. Number one rule in dating drivers—give them space. Let them decide, or else you never knew where you stood with them.
“Good,” she whispered. “Look, we don’t have to be together tonight. If you need time to … I don’t know—”
“Maybe it’s better,” he said. “I feel too … I don’t know … aggressive right now.”
A jolt of reluctant interest shot through her, firing up her system. Her nipples hardened at the illicit thought of him releasing that pent-up aggression in some high-energy sex.
“Not in a good way.” He squeezed his eyes tightly and massaged his temples for a few seconds, then straightened. He pulled her into a soft kiss and muttered, “I’ll make it up to you, I promise, but I need figure out some stuff alone tonight.”
“That’s fine,” she said, hating her body for responding to him while her brain was yelling at her to leave well alone. “My hotel’s before yours, so I’ll pop out, and you drive on. You call me when you’re … you know—”
“I’ll call you.”
She wobbled getting out of the taxi, and her vision blurred with sentimental tears as she clacked through the lobby in her stilettos. Get a grip, McCloud. She still had to pack for the long-haul flight to Heathrow tomorrow. She didn’t need another night of passion, what with all the risk and everything. Too many people milling about—not only was the BBC staying in this budget hotel, but half the American press as well. It was for the best. Really. It was too soon anyway to expect him to treat her like a girlfriend or anything.
She also had a piece to create on the subject of all this soul searching—Adam himself. For God’s sake, they both had jobs to do—this wasn’t a holiday camp. If she couldn’t separate the emotions from the job she was put here to do, then she was already in big trouble.
Chapter 17
Budapest, Hungary
The BBC troops landed in Budapest airport the next day after a long and grueling flight from Montreal with a stopover in Heathrow.
Viv didn’t go to bed like everyone else after checking into the hotel. She’d been awake for thirty-five hours on the go, and the temptation to flop into bed was enormous, but she buried herself in her laptop—editing the “interview” video and preparing a script from her notes. Despite having spent so much time with Adam in Montreal, he’d given her precious little camera time that she could use.
She typed up her narrative feverishly; it had to be raw, fresh, real. Emotive language, emotive backstory. Piecing all the snippets of information from Mack’s files and from Adam’s brief answers together, she could just about pull off this documentary. She’d use her own voice to save time. A brief mention of the Fontaine Fans website wouldn’t go amiss either. The fans were starting to amass. Still a small bunch, but enthusiastic. Her eyelids fluttered as she remembered the intensity of their lovemaking, twisting and turning on the satiny bed sheets. Then the evening with him at the ballet. She’d never wanted anyone so much and then been so thwarted. She turned back to her keyboard, gritting her teeth, forcing her eyelids to stay up.
When she finished, she rooted out a photo of him for the title screen. It was from after the race in Bahrain, where he was talking to an engineer with the desert sunset in the background. Nothing compare
d to the ones she’d taken in her bedroom—but she wasn’t ready to unleash those on the public. They were hers.
The result was a ten-minute piece, “Adam Fontaine—The Man Behind the Helmet.” The final touches like music and graphics rendering would have to be done with an expert like Sarah, but this was the beef, as her boss would say. She closed the laptop and collapsed into a dreamless sleep at 6:00 a.m. local time.
• • •
After breakfast at noon, she headed to the lounge beside the hotel reception to call Sarah to ask for help with the music and editing for her video. “I’m in my room, be down in ten,” her colleague replied cheerfully, sounding like she’d gotten a full night’s sleep.
“Great.” Viv lay back and closed her eyes, enjoying the perfect proportions of the plush armchair, a heavy, elegant 1920s relic that epitomized this hotel. How easy it would be to nod off. She was so, so tired …
Someone touched her cheek. Someone was still touching her cheek, trailing a finger down from her eyebrow to the edge of her mouth and lingering there. It was pleasant … very pleasant. She opened her eyes dreamily.
Reece stood there, immaculate in a tux with a first-class, smarmy smile to match.
Yuck. She lurched forward, fully awake now, rubbing her cheek. Had she drooled?
“God, what time is it?”
“Five past one, Sleeping Beauty.”
She’d been asleep for ten minutes. Her eyes trailed up his dark suit. “Why are you all dressed up?”
“Sponsor meeting.” Reece flumped down in the armchair opposite her. “But, hey, my schedule tonight’s opened up real wide.”
“Has it indeed?”
Reece peered at her face. “You look tired, babe.”
“That’s because I am.”
“Let me carry you off to bed. I promise I won’t touch.”
She shuddered mentally. Was it her imagination, or was there something behind his words, some emotion lurking deep under the perma-tan? “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Important stuff to do. Sorry.”
Sarah breezed into the lounge at that moment. When Reece turned, the young technician stumbled backward, almost knocking over a brass lamp. She reddened to the roots of her red hair and mumbled something incomprehensible. Her knees wobbled under her black lacy skirt as she approached.
Oh, God. Struck dumb, the poor woman. Viv sometimes forgot that other BBC employees didn’t have the same exposure to the drivers as she did. “This is Sarah Deegan, program technician,” she explained, coolly. “Sarah, you know who this is.”
Sarah nodded, still mute. Reece scanned her thin, reedy body, and judging by his expression, categorized her into the “maybe” group. The young woman squirmed under the scrutiny. He nodded, and stood. Sarah backed off a step like a frightened deer. He brushed past her on his way out saying, “Bye, darlings—see you around.”
It took Sarah several moments to recover, standing like a schoolgirl staring into space.
“Bad idea, whatever you’re thinking.” Viv prodded the chair Reece had vacated with her foot.
Sarah flopped down on the same chair and gripped her arm. “He spoke to me! He’s so sexy in real life, too.”
“He’s eye candy, nothing more.” Not even eye candy for that matter.
“I know, I know. Lord, he’s so … young.”
“Older than you, Sarah.”
“Yeah, well, I know, but …”
That love-struck grin lasted the whole three hours they spent on their laptops, selecting music and editing clips. Viv wrestled with her own thoughts as she replayed the clips of Adam, careful not to play any of the more-intimate moments in front of Sarah. Where was he? What was he doing? Why hadn’t he called since he landed? It would be nice to show him this piece before she sent it to Mack.
When she was satisfied that her documentary was final enough, she sent it off to Mack. Sarah was busy on her phone, so Viv waited.
“Thanks so much for your help, Sarah.”
Sarah widened her eyes as she called off. “That was Catherine. She said Adam Fontaine called the studio.”
Viv’s heart jumped. “What?”
“Twice. He asked for you, but obviously you are here. Guess what, he said he’d do a live interview.”
“Oh.” He didn’t have to announce it, did he?
“Yeah. So Catherine gave him a studio slot.”
“Catherine?” The morning show anchor would tear him to pieces given the chance.
“Yeah. Mack’s all excited, Viv. What’s wrong?”
She cleared her throat and looked out the window. “Nothing. I suppose I’d better call him and thank him.” She had to get away from Sarah pronto she could talk to him.
“I’m going to check out the office facilities,” she lied as they passed reception.
“Sure, see you up there later.” Sarah headed to the elevators to their rooms.
Walking past the open doors of the restaurant, she noticed Mack at a table with a bunch of gray, senior executives who were joining the crew on the European leg of the Grand Prix. Groaning, she slid out of view.
Joe the cameraman came up alongside her and asked about setup times in the afternoon. Viv answered tersely, but it was too late. Mack had spotted her. He beckoned her over to his table. She cringed and trudged across the dining room.
“Afternoon.” She smiled at the round of four pasty-faced, middle-aged men.
“This is Vivienne,” her boss said, “We’ve just been looking at that piece you sent me.” He motioned to his iPad and beamed like she’d been awarded the Pulitzer. She held her tight smile in place, wishing she could walk on. “We’ve made it public.”
“I enjoyed it. It was gutsy. Gave Mr. Spock some character, some … color,” the man to her left said, folding his napkin in his lap.
“Sit down, Viv,” Mack said. “We appreciate your efforts on securing a date for the live interview with him, too. I’m presuming that was your doing. Better late than never, eh?”
Approving nods all around.
“Yes, Viv’s full time,” Mack announced. “Probation period ends next week, and she’s here for the long haul.”
Viv let the news seep into her system. God, the relief was almost unreasonable, but she didn’t want to give her horrible boss the satisfaction of knowing she’d actually been worried or anything.
“Thank you,” she said. “And will you allow me to conduct the Fontaine interview, too?”
Mack pulled a doubtful face and shook his iPad. “Well, you went a little too gentle on the guy here. Besides a fresh attack will get different results. Anyway, Catherine’s our interview girl—we all know what a tiger she is.”
The round of men laughed. The way he’d said it, his comment was not without sexual innuendo. Not that Catherine would touch any of these porkers with a barge pole.
“She’s got first dibs, but you can always ask her if you like.”
Oh, bloody fantastic. There was no way in hell Catherine would give up her prize.
As they yapped on among themselves, she picked at her nail polish under the table. It was unbearable sitting here listening to their shoptalk on the antics of the upper echelons of their organization. She excused herself to escape to her room. Eating was impossible.
She’d gained the respect of BBC senior officials. So it was safe to say her job was secure. More than that—she’d gained respect. But where was the wave of relief she’d been expecting? Now all she felt was an itchy kind of agitation, resentment almost. Was that normal?
It was her hormones talking. She couldn’t let her private life get in the way again. Adam was … lovely, but the way he shut her out suggested she was just a nice-to-have on his list of priorities. Although dissimilar in temperament to Ronan and Maddux, they all had that in common. She didn’t want to give him up … not completely … but she’d have to be extra careful from now on. No more ballets. No more anythings in public.
Chapter 18
“What’s the latest?” Adam asked Sask
ia.
“He’s out. He’s home. He’s grumpier than ever.”
“Okay, that’s good then. Is he taking any precautions?”
“They gave him some pills he’s supposed to take every morning. I don’t know, Adam. I can’t monitor him all the time. He keeps saying he’s fine; it was nothing.”
“Well, make sure he takes it easy. No heavy outside work.”
“Would you like to come here and tell him that yourself maybe?”
“Considering what set him off—the news that I’d been home unannounced—I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Yeah, well. I just want him fit and healthy so he can walk me down the aisle come December. Of course, he’s claiming he’ll be dead before that day ever comes.”
Adam frowned. “And blaming me for his own death as well as Eddie’s. Typical.”
Saskia’s laugh was harsh. “Listen to yourself. I’ve a good mind to elope to Vegas and leave the two of you to fight it out of your systems.”
After that call, he wanted to talk to Vivienne so he’d feel better. Dad was just being his belligerent old self. He’d live on another forty years, tormenting everyone around him with his impending next attack. But there was no answer on her mobile.
Adam bit into his knuckle. Where the hell was she? Not at her work. Nowhere in the hotel or around the circuit. No one at the BBC could tell him. This was his only morning off. He’d wanted to show her a bit of Budapest, or if he got lucky, entice her to his bedroom—his or hers, didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He wanted more. He needed more.
Why hadn’t she called him back yet? She wasn’t the play-hard-to-get type. He said he’d call, and he’d called ten times this morning. Had she even made it over to Europe or been re-assigned somewhere? Or was it personal—pissed off about their evening in Montreal being cut short? But how could he explain that whole mess with Dad without explaining the colossal mess that was his life?
Vivienne should get to know his positive side before he subjected her to all the ugliness he hid inside. She’d think less of him; how could she not? Any sane person would. Reece had brushed it off, but he could hardly be classified as sane. The trick was to be more like the charismatic guys she’d dated or hung out with. Keep the focus on her. Keep it light. Wasn’t that the first rule of dating women? Make them laugh?
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