Then he spotted her in the crowd. His gaze locked on to her, and all motion seemed to slow down as the crowd tried to figure out what was happening. He jumped off the podium and forced his way through the masses, which parted enthusiastically, slapping him on the shoulder, on the back, even ruffling his hair. A wave of cameras switched course to follow his progress. All heads turned to see what the commotion was—where the champion was heading.
She froze. The moment had come. She could still run. Or she could make it official. F1 girlfriend, committed to a life of the driver. Could she handle this? Same again next year? And after that again?
Adam came closer, his gaze drilling into her. A tiny hint of uncertain smile tugged at his upper lip, his hair just a tad ruffled. His chest heaved under the suit. He stood before her, arms by his sides, waiting … for a signal.
Oh, what the heck.
She took a step forward so her chest made contact with his. Her arm slinked around his neck. She blinked as cameras flashed in her eyes, and then … thud. He grasped her tightly into his scorching hot body, his lips pressing down hard onto hers, familiar, warm and possessive. His hands cupped the back of her head, squashing her ears with the thick sleeves of his flame retardant suit. The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. When he pulled back from her, Adam looked abashed but ecstatic.
She felt free. She didn’t care how many tabloids had that kiss on the front page.
“That’s the last race,” he said. “It stops here.”
“You don’t have to decide that now.”
“No, this is the end.”
“Something tells me it’s only just beginning,” she said.
• • •
The best part was, they could go to the hotel together, hand in hand. This beat the thrill of becoming F1 champion, crazy as it sounded. All he really wanted was Vivienne. Alone. In his bed.
“Okay.” She sat on the bed and looked at him, biting her bottom lip. “I know what you want. And here’s the thing.” Her mouth had flattened into a thin line. “You want me to back off on your family. I’ll do that. I’ll never mention them. I won’t even ask you about them.”
“You can ask me,” he said. “Just don’t talk in public about them.”
“I’m asking you now,” she said, eyes huge. “I mean, I did talk to Jacques Villiers, and I read the file Mack compiled on you, but I could never understand why you left home and why you avoid all contact with them, except with your sister. I could only … guess.”
He sat down on the bed beside her and folded his arms to keep his hands from smoothing over her body as he itched for them to do. He hadn’t told this story to anyone except Reece—who didn’t count. It felt strange—but somehow right that she should know.
“My brother.” He stopped and started again. “Eddie. There was an accident when we were kids—he was fourteen, I was sixteen. Quad bikes.” He squeezed her hand. “Vivienne, everyone knows that now, but what nobody except my family—and Reece—knows is that … I was there. I saw it all happen.”
Vivienne pressed her hand to her mouth.
“There was a gap in the rocks by the cliff face that I’d always race to with him. We’d race up to it dead even until the last moment. He knew I’d back down if I had to. I was the eldest. We were dead even again that day, but his brakes were faulty. So, coming up to the gap where he needed to slow down, he couldn’t stop, and I couldn’t slow down quickly enough.
“We had contact, his bike toppled and he got flung out and landed against a rock. The impact of his spine against the stone was what killed him. I heard the crack, that awful squat sound. I saw his neck at an unnatural angle, too, and that disbelieving look in his eyes that this was it, his time had come to an end.
“I swerved, stopped the engine, jumped off, honestly thinking it would be just another tumble of his, and we’d have a laugh. And then I saw his stillness. I—I screamed at him to hold on, just hold on until I got help. I didn’t think it could be the end. I thought something could be done, you know? That’s what I was thinking. Every second counted. But it didn’t matter. He was already gone.”
“God.” She exhaled. Her face was pale, her eyes huge and tense like she was trying to process this. What damage was this doing to her feelings for him? Well, it was too late for that—she had to know. This was too big a part of him to hide anymore.
“It was part of who he was, or who he wanted to be—the daredevil. Evel Knievel. He tried every stupid move in the book. It was all I could do to maintain his bike in perfect order so that nothing mechanical could go wrong.
“But that week I’d just come back from a karting course and was so excited to be back with him again, and to show him some stunts I’d learned, so we decided to have a race. His brake pads were loose. I’d even checked with Dad beforehand—Dad had been driving the bike that week to inspect vines and said it was in good condition, and I was stupid … stupid enough to believe him.”
“It was an accident.” She stroked his arm, bringing him back to the present. “Not your fault, your father’s, Eddie’s, anyone’s.”
Encouraged, he continued. “I pushed him to race that day. And Dad failed him by not caring for the bike. But of course Dad only sees the blame on my side, and on the side of motor racing in any form anywhere on the planet. He’s always resented my driving, which is why there’s been no contact all these years.”
“And why you left home at seventeen?”
He nodded. “First Mum left, six months after the accident; she couldn’t stand how Dad and I fought nonstop, how Dad wouldn’t back down on forbidding me to drive. Saskia went with her but came back when she realized Dad needed her more. She’s actually a saint. I can’t wait for you to meet her. Anyway, once Sask was back, I left. I dug my heels in even harder, and for me it became a thing of connection to Eddie. Hard to explain …”
“Try me,” she said gently.
“See, driving was all Eddie had been interested in. You should have seen his bedroom, covered with posters of the greats … Senna, Proust, Schumacher, Rosberg, Hamilton. I took up his mantle. Saskia claims I was so mad at Dad for the way he handled everything that I made my career a weapon against him.”
“Did you?”
“No. It was a lot more organic than that. I excelled at mechanics, even then. I’d always let Eddie dream the big-driver dream. He’d have been amazing, Vivienne, and he’d have enjoyed it. He’d have been F1’s golden boy. He had that edge, and that charm. I’d have been his chassis engineer. I’d have liked that.”
“You must miss him terribly.”
“Eddie had such a carefree, take-no-shit attitude—the sunshine of our family, the blond, the extrovert. Always joking. Once he was gone, the color of life just drained out for me. Well, anyway, I fled to Villiers after Mum left—but you know this story, don’t you? It all took on a life of its own, how I worked and worked to get up through the ranks for Formula Renault and F3. Teams took me on because of the way I could fix cars and out-do the competition. I surprised myself to get this far as a driver.”
“Adam, you’re a great driver. And you can let the color back into your life. Different colors, maybe, but just as vibrant.”
He squeezed her fingers. “With you here now, I believe that. And I feel him, up there, saying ‘we did it’ to the entire world.”
“You won it for him,” she said softly.
He nodded. “But he’s giving you the thumbs up, too.”
She smiled. “And your father? Does he still resent … everything you’ve done? What you’ve accomplished? Is it possible he was just afraid of losing another son?”
“I don’t care. You’re coming with me to meet them all, by the way. This darn wedding’s in two weeks’ time.”
“I’d be delighted to, thanks.”
“And bring Liam. I like the guy.”
She pulled his neck down to press her lips to his. Tenderly. But the kiss that started as comfort turned hard, possessive. He tugged her into him. She surren
dered, then lashed back, pressing her body against his, absorbing some of his pent up desperation. He couldn’t think of the future or the past, only the sensational now.
Chapter 30
Menton, France
When the first wave of madness had all died down, they had another serious conversation in Menton, next stop down the coast from Monte Carlo, where they’d holed up in a hidden chalet for a week of glorious, private togetherness. In the soft, November, Riviera sunshine, Viv watched the haunted look of her lover’s eyes ebb away, replaced by new warmth.
“You don’t have to give up for my sake,” she said. “I’m willing to give it a go again out there next year. I love this racing scene. The only thing I didn’t love was the thought that it would tear us apart.”
“It’s what I want, Vivienne.”
“But you’re the champ now.”
He held her close. “And I’ve found a new reason to live. Because I love you.” His hands tightened their grip on her upper arms. “I don’t want to endanger this life in any way. And I don’t just mean the danger of driving itself.”
Her heart hammered. He’d said it. And she felt it. Simple and true, like nothing before.
“I love you, too,” she said.
His eyes flashed understanding, and he bent down and kissed her.
“But what will you do?” It was one thing to say it, but could he really give it all up?
“My sponsorship money’s enough to settle for a moment. Wherever you want to be for your new business—as long as it’s not too far from an airport, please. I’ll be back and forth to help Saskia and Jeff get set up. We just have to get this wedding out of the way first.”
“Can you really turn your back on F1?”
“Well, no.” His expression was suddenly serious. “Chad and Bruce are testing new engines and a new driver next year, and I want to help them out—but as a consultant, tactician, decision maker. I have a feeling the team’s going to be—”
“The best yet.” She laughed. “Don’t say it.”
“That’s where you might come in.”
“Me?”
“The driver. He’s a reclusive Finn. He needs help. PR help. And if anyone knows how to coax a driver out of his shell, it’s you.”
Viv smiled and trailed her finger along his fine upper lip, liking the idea of working in the same arena with Adam very much, and liking that he’d asked. “And look where it got you. You’re in my shell now.”
“No place I’d rather be,” Adam said, catching her fingers and leaning in for another kiss.
Crimson Sneak Peek
for Maybe Baby by Ashlinn Craven
Polly scrunched her toes in agitation as she looked around the stifling fertility clinic waiting room. Two women were still in front of her. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. For an institute that charged her five thousand quid to extract and freeze some teensy eggs, she didn’t expect to have to wait. There was probably some place in Russia that’d do it at a quarter of the price—with no waiting. That was the problem with living in London.
She scanned the magazines on the coffee table overlapped in a neat accordion. Out of sheer habit, she pulled out Brides Monthly—a six-month-old specimen with crow’s feet in the lower right corner from too many page turns. It fell open on “Planning Your Medieval Wedding in Ten Easy Steps.” Yes, they’d done some medieval sites when they were trendy. Back when business was good. She tried to focus, but couldn’t concentrate, and when gold-embroidered costumes started dancing before her eyes, she gave up and tossed the magazine aside.
After another minute, the silence began creeping her out. Polly cleared her dry throat. Some ambient music wouldn’t go amiss. Were they trying to induce conversation among strangers or just too stingy to invest in a sound system?
The other women sat primly cross-legged, flicking through their magazines in that same waiting-room manner, not really reading, just hoping to find a story capable of distracting them. The woman opposite was late thirties-ish, sporting a loud pink paisley jacket and a mop of copper coils. She looked over at Polly who averted her eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. The other, a brunette, looked way too young to be here. What was her problem? Posters on the wall suggested mysterious issues like endometriosis and PCOS, which could afflict any age, supposedly.
Or maybe, she was here for the same reason Polly was.
Perhaps it was stupid at age thirty to be even thinking about egg freezing when there was nothing physically wrong with her and she couldn’t afford it anyway. But she was here now, so she was going to make the most of it. Shedding her denim jacket, she took out her phone to postpone the teleconference she’d miss while sitting here wasting time. Ms. Pink Jacket was definitely gawking over now. Polly tried her best to ignore this and inched the phone closer to her nose.
A welcome breeze of cool air drifted in from the air-conditioned corridor. The receptionist called out the young brunette whereupon the silence got even thicker. What were the chances Ms. Pink Jacket had some horrible fertility challenge and was on her last ever round of IVF and would burst into tears, or worse, launch into a painful description of her failed cycles since she’d “started trying?”
“Holy smoke, I wish they’d fix the bloody air-con.” Ms. Pink Jacket’s strong voice rang out, laced with humor and an Australian twang. She gave Polly an unapologetic once-over and started fanning her face with her magazine. “They’ll bring on premature hot flashes, and push me onto hormone therapy.”
“Yep,” said Polly, making eye contact. “Then charge you extra and still not fix the bloody air-con.”
Pink Jacket smiled. “Dead right. The criminals.”
An awkward silence followed. Polly concentrated on her email, adding deadlines to action points, categorizing them with little colored flags—anything to keep busy.
“What’re you here for?” Pink Jacket’s question was as direct as her hazel-eyed gaze.
“Oh. Well … I’m just getting some eggs frozen.” If they accept payment in miniscule installments.
“Just?” Copper eyebrows shot right up into the come-again? position.
“Well … compared to what others are going through, I’d consider it a fairly benign reason to be here.” Polly forced a smile. “It’s completely voluntary.” She bobbed her head and went back to email flagging. And no, I’m not going to ask you …
Pink Jacket let out a loud laugh. “Completely voluntary? As opposed to when your partner holds a gun to your head?”
Polly straightened. “No, as opposed to when my biological clock sticks a gun to my head. I’m storing up supplies for future use. So I don’t have to think about it now or fret about it later.” It was the truth and the truth was always easier with strangers.
Ms. Pink Jacket fanned herself again. “Quite logical, but you make it sound like preparation for nuclear war or something.”
“I like to be prepared.” Polly shrugged with one shoulder. “For whatever may or may not happen.” All three of her brothers had managed to spawn two kids each by age thirty-five with no negative effect on the upward momentum of their corporate careers. She had no chance of pulling that off on account of her being a) self-employed and b) a total cynic when it came to men and marriage. But that was fine. She had a plan.
Ms. Pink Jacket folded her arms across her ample chest, appearing to give the matter some thought. “You can’t be more than … twenty-eight? Nine? What? Thirty, really? Though with that baby face of yours you’ll probably look the same when you’re forty. Ah, I meant that in a good way of course. Anyway, I’m Karen. Karen Jones.”
Polly extended her hand, flashing her professional smile. “Polly Malone.”
“So.” Karen indicated the room. “I’m exploring procreation options for my fiancée and me. We’re getting married in three months, procreation or not. Mimi—my partner—she’s running around like mad trying to get things sorted.”
Polly’s interest spiked. “Married? Congratulations. Where?”
&
nbsp; “The reception’s in Islington. Mimi—my partner—lives there.”
“I see.” A lesbian wedding would be a new one. About time they broke into that market in fact. “So, are you all organized?”
“Yeah. Well ... we’re getting there. That’s to say, we’re still looking for my outfit, Mimi’s shoes, and a decent DJ. Ah, and the invitation card designs. And the gift registration ... ”
Polly smiled. As expected, Karen's demeanor was showing signs of strain. “What about the website?”
“Website? Ah, no. No website. Julian—Mimi’s brother—he asked us the same thing, but I told him we don’t need one, you know when there’s so much else to—”
“Pardon me for interrupting, but he’s right. You do need one. A website can be an organizational tool. I know you think it’s just extra hassle, but it can actually save you time. And it’s so easy.” Polly leaned forward in her chair. “You just sign up for a service for a small fee and you can customize and manage the guest list, reception planning, gift registration, song playlists. You can source all services through the site too, like a DJ for example, so you don’t have to worry about such details.”
“Yeah? Sounds like someone knows what they’re talking about.” Karen drummed long sun-tanned fingers on the leather armrest. “Sure you’re not trying to sell me something?”
Polly produced her business card. “Actually, I am. Polly Malone Websites. I run a web-design and web-hosting company. We’re full-solution providers, specializing in weddings. I’ll make you a special offer.” Polly extended the silver-embossed card—one from a dwindling supply. With any luck, this one wouldn’t be wasted. “Please think about it. I promise you won’t regret it.”
Karen reached for the card and held it poised between her purple-nailed thumb and index finger. Her eyes locked on Polly’s, scrutinizing her. Then she peered at the card, frowning. Polly squeezed her fist in her lap. Never mind new markets, one new client would get the office rent paid off for last month and shut up that bullying ogre of a landlord.
High Octane Page 58