by Vella Munn
Her Corvette had been found, out of gas, on I-5 heading north. It had been stripped of all personal possessions. The police weren’t done with it yet. When they were, she would scour it inside and out, a dozen times if that’s what it took. Then she would take it onto the oval track and drive and drive until it felt as if it belonged to her again. Then—
“We talked about calling your folks.”
“How?” Mara asked too quickly. “The way that bunch moves around—”
“You could find them if you tried. Just leave a message at one of the racetracks they’re going to.”
“What would I tell them? There’s nothing they could do. And Mom would be on the next plane back here.”
“Don’t give me that, Mara,” Clint interrupted. “You don’t want to tell them because the Curtis family is supposed to personify the macho image, and you don’t want to do anything to tarnish that. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Mara made no attempt to keep up her end of the conversation. She would tell her mother about her “adventure”—that’s what she’d call it. But not yet. Not until the shadows no longer pressed around her. Not until the wound at her throat healed and she could speak without fear in her voice. “Speaking of parents, you’re going to need your spare bedroom back.”
“We’ll worry about that when the time comes. In the meantime, I want you to go on staying with me.” Clint turned away.
“I’m grateful. But, Clint, this came at a bad time for you. Your dad’s health—”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that.”
Mara nodded. The only thing she was capable of today was wandering through her rooms, running her fingers over vibrant ferns, fluffing a throw pillow, lingering at the bank of trophies that chronicled her father’s racing career. She stopped at her answering machine and hit the Play button. Tucked into the middle of a half-dozen messages for the racing school was her mother’s voice.
“Sweden. It’s Saturday so it must be Sweden. Wish you were with us, honey. The usual problems. There’s something wrong with the ignition system in Matt’s Beretta, and Steve’s going through tires like there’s no tomorrow, but they’re both finishing in the money, and that’s what counts. Steve says for you to build another shelf because he’s got some trophies for you to store. I’ve been entering my share of races, but the less said about that the better. Your dad’s back is giving him trouble, but he’s too stubborn to admit it. I hate talking to this machine. I don’t know when we’ll be back your way, two months at least.”
Two months. Two months without seeing her family. She should be used to this. Before the abduction, Mara would have simply accepted what made her different from her parents and brothers. But now her mother’s voice, hollow from the long-distance call, brought her close to tears. She loved them. Just because she didn’t want to bounce from one race to another and was exhausted from the effort of battling the tension that was part of watching her family compete, didn’t mean she didn’t love and miss them.
No! She wouldn’t think about her parents and brothers. She wouldn’t think about Friday night and the necessity of talking to a detective, and the question of when she’d be able to stand staying in her own home alone. Instead she would concentrate on making a living.
A minute later Mara led the way out of her mobile home and across the track she would be making payments on for longer than she wanted to think about. Her tennis shoes made a soft pad-pad sound on the already warm asphalt. There were no motors revving yet, and because Mara’s only real neighbors were silent desert creatures, she caught the sound of the wind blowing over the flat acreage.
For the first time since she moved here Mara sensed, not her land around her, but isolation.
This week’s students were waiting out by their cars, five men and a woman. The familiar routine claimed her. No matter what had happened, she had work to sustain her.
The woman looked to be in her late thirties, slim with small diamond earrings. She was standing beside her Alfa Romeo as if it were a wild stallion she’d just roped. Mara sized her up in a look. Money.
Two of the men, Mara remembered from their applications, came from the same high-tech company. Notes on their applications had said that taking the Curtis course was part of a confidence-building program for them. One man was barely out of his teens. His Mustang had gone through so many modifications that probably only the horse emblem was original. And the middle-aged gentleman standing next to him looked as if this was the last place he wanted to be. Mara guessed he’d racked up so many tickets that someone had put pressure on him to do something about his driving skills. He’d probably fight her every inch of the way.
The fifth man stood next to a bloodred Jaguar. His cobalt-blue eyes rested on her, and yet she sensed that he was testing, absorbing, appraising his surroundings. Mara understood, because in the space of a single evening, she had been taught to trust nothing and no one.
Without looking into the Jag, Mara knew the driver’s seat would be pushed all the way back to accommodate his height. He wore jeans and a knit pullover. The wind whipped his dark-toasted hair. Despite the bright early-morning sun, he wasn’t wearing sunglasses.
In his dark, deepset eyes Mara read recognition.
Her attacker! That was insane. Still, despite her angry denial, Mara remained tense. Maybe he’d seen her before, and maybe this was simply part of the insanity. Before Friday night, men had been friends or clients, fellow car enthusiasts or business associates. Now, thanks to a monster with a knife, a new element had been added. She wouldn’t put a name to that element, just as she wouldn’t lock eyes with the owner of the Jag. Whatever his message, and there was one, he could keep it to himself.
“First, to introduce myself, I’m Mara Curtis, owner, instructor, mechanic and anything else the job calls for,” she began, taking comfort from words she’d spoken more times than she could remember. “I’m aware that it’s quite a drive out here, but that’s the only way I could provide the space needed for this operation.”
Mara slipped into a sketchy history of the school’s evolution, explaining that she had begun it four years ago. “I learned auto racing at my father’s side. He taught me just about everything there is to know about controlling an automobile, no matter what the situation. That’s what I’m committed to passing on to my students.”
“Curtis?” the man with the Jag interrupted. “Your dad’s Mark Curtis?”
Mara nodded. His voice. She’d never heard it before. That knowledge made it possible for her to relax. He was simply another student, not part of the nightmare.
“Then we are in good hands,” the man told the others. “Miss Curtis’s father is a professional driver. He’s made a name for himself at the international raceways. He’s still racing? Even after that crash?”
“It’s his life,” Mara said simply, and then took the kind of breath that had sustained her whenever she watched her father pull up to a starting line. It helped. A little. At least it allowed her to remember why she was here…and reject the big man’s impact. “I want all of you to understand something,” she said automatically. “From reading your applications, I know that each of you is here for a different reason. Although my personal background is the racing circuit, it doesn’t hurt my ego that only one of you has such aspirations.” She smiled at the young man with the modified Mustang. “I keep the classes small enough that each of you should be able to get the individualized instruction you need. We’ll come back out here to work on practical applications. However, first we’re going to go through a classroom experience. If you’ll follow me…”
Mara started toward the small building which contained her driver-education classroom, grateful that she didn’t have to get into a vehicle with any of the men, yet. Through the use of visual aids and driving simulators, she and Clint could handle the more elementary aspects of the course.
After a break she launched into chapter two of her introduction. She noted that, except for the middle-aged business
man, her students all leaned forward, concentrating. She also noted that the man who knew about her father was watching, not the facts and figures she presented, but her.
She wished she could tell him to stop.
A little later Mara let Clint take over. He demonstrated the proper way to sit behind the wheel, upright, with one’s back pressed against the seat so as to feel the car’s response. “Hands at nine and three o’clock,” Clint explained. “Nudge, don’t grip the gearshift. And never stomp the brakes.”
Mara’s concentration faded. Something more essential than work reached out to her. Intrigued, wary, unnerved, she answered the call. The big man with the wind-touched hair wasn’t listening to Clint, either. “I know something,” Mara read in his appraisal of her. “Something no one else here knows.”
Although she remained convinced he wasn’t her attacker, Mara still felt sick. Sick and hot and cold. She didn’t risk another look at the man until the morning break. Then, while the woman with the earrings cornered Clint, and the two from the high-tech firm entertained themselves by slicing through a superior’s reputation, she willed herself to remain where she was while the man, Reed Steward, joined her.
“Your father’s practically an institution,” he told her. “He did have a serious wreck, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I admire anyone with the guts to get back on his feet after something like that. He wasn’t able to race for about a year, was he?”
Mara fought off the impact of having a strange man this close to her. He couldn’t know it, but he’d touched on a turning point in her life. “It was a long time ago.”
“About five years. I saw a picture of what was left of his car. I don’t know how he survived.”
“My father’s too tough to die. At least that’s what he tells us.”
“But he came close.”
“Yes,” Mara admitted. “He came close.” Close enough that when the year of healing was over, Mara knew she couldn’t sit through any more races if someone she loved was involved.
“That must have been hard on all of you. And he’s still racing?”
“So are my brothers.”
“Why?”
Why? “Because it’s in their blood. Because they’re crazy. Because that’s the way they supported Mom and Dad while he was healing.” The conversation wasn’t going where she wanted…if she wanted a conversation at all. Where was Clint? No. She had to do this on her own. “That’s quite a car you have, Mr. Steward. You don’t see too many red Jags.”
“That’s what the guy who sold it to me said. That’s how he tried to justify the price. Please—” his voice slowed, “—call me Reed.”
Why? I’m not going to see you after this week. “Have you had it long?”
“I just bought it. I had the engine modified to allow for the fastest acceleration possible. Maybe you’d like to look at it later. Take it through some curves.”
“Maybe. What kind of business are you in?”
Reed shifted his weight. He could have used the gesture to bring himself closer, but he didn’t. Despite her relief, Mara found she had to concentrate on the act of breathing. “I’m in the business of making money,” he told her. “You see a lot of high-performance cars, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“They fascinate me. Owning them, that is.”
“That could turn out to be an expensive hobby.”
“It could.” Reed worked up a smile. Mara took note of the effort and wondered if their conversation came any easier to him than to her. “The thing is,” he told her, “I don’t like paying retail. There are other ways… You really live out here?”
Cold touched her. Mara wasn’t sure she could keep her reaction from him. “I hope we’ll be able to live up to your expectations,” she said, sidestepping. Where she lived was none of his business. “If there’s anything you’d like covered that isn’t part of the program, ask.”
“Actually…” Reed’s voice dropped, “…if you aren’t busy later, I’d like to discuss my situation.”
There it was. The come-on. Mara had grown up around men who wore their masculinity like badges. The macho image—men dominating the world of fast cars—had been part of the fabric of her whole life. She should be immune by now.
But she wasn’t. Not today. Not with this man.
“I’m going to be busy this evening,” she told him. “I have loaner cars for students who don’t have their own. One of them—the timing’s off.”
“You’re not going to need them this week. We all have our own.”
Reed was right. Working on a car wasn’t how she expected to spend her evening. But Mara wasn’t going to tell this stranger about her appointment with a police detective. “I’ve committed myself to something.”
“Have you?” Reed nodded, then turned away and sat back down. It wasn’t until Clint was five minutes into a discussion of the advantages of steering around a hazard versus using one’s brakes that he pulled himself back to why he was here.
No matter what his reaction to finding out his instructor was the woman he’d seen Friday night—and there was a reaction—he would have to keep that fact separate and isolated from his job. She might have been a victim. She might have evoked emotions in him he didn’t understand, emotions he wanted, yet at the same time didn’t want. But right now the only thing he should be thinking about was that her work brought her in contact with the world of high-performance automobiles.
That world had almost killed Jack, and Reed’s purpose here was to infiltrate it. Until and unless he knew Mara better, everything he said and did around her had to be calculated. His life depended on it. What he’d said to Mara Curtis about his interest in expensive automobiles had laid the groundwork. He would work from that base.
He wouldn’t think about how much he’d wanted to comfort her Friday night, or how inept that emotion made him feel.
Reed sensed her incredible green eyes on him. He turned quickly, forcing the unspoken contact. For six, maybe seven seconds there was communication, vague and undefined. Then Mara pivoted away and he was left looking at her slim back.
Did she remember him? He didn’t think so; there’d been nothing in her expression to indicate that. But maybe she, in the same way he did, knew what to reveal and what to keep hidden. He would be wise to remember that.
At noon Mara’s secretary brought in sandwiches for the whole group and a message for Mara. “Detective Kline,” she explained. “He wanted to know if you could come in this afternoon. I told him that wasn’t possible. We settled on 6:00 p.m. if that’s all right with you.”
Mara nodded and placed the note with the telephone number on her desk. She’d go to the police station, but it would be a wasted trip. She had nothing left to tell him. Nothing more she remembered. “Did he say anything else?”
“Just that he thinks they’ll be able to release your car soon. When I think of what you went through…”
Mara had told Diane only the bare details. As far as Diane understood, Mara’s main concern was with getting her car back. “I just want to get this over. If it means a late dinner…”
Reed couldn’t hear much of what the two women were saying—just the words get this over and a tone that shouldn’t come from a woman who’d carved out her own business. He waited until Mara left her desk before walking over to it. The note gave a time, the name of a detective, a phone number. In a glance, Reed committed everything to memory. If he was here simply, as he’d told himself, to do a job, he wouldn’t be concerned with what Mara might discuss with the detective. But he was curious. That’s all, curious.
After lunch, classroom instruction gave way to behind-the-wheel experience. Mara explained that the first assignment would be driving through an obstacle course. “We’ll start at twenty miles an hour and then increase the speed. Remember—concentration, smoothness and consistency.”
When Reed’s turn came he found himself paired with Clint. At first Reed handled his assignmen
t confidently. Gradually, however, Clint asked him to increase his speed until he was aware of nothing except gripping the wheel as he zipped around the barriers.
“Good reflexes,” Clint acknowledged after Reed successfully held the needle at seventy-five. “You didn’t allow yourself to be distracted. That’s essential.”
Reed took a deep breath. The exercise had left him tense and wondering what had gone through Jack’s mind during those final seconds before the crash. However, what was important now was focusing on why he was here. “It’s a good thing you’re with me,” he began, every word calculated. “I would have been distracted if you were Miss Curtis.”
Clint didn’t blink. “Not if you want to get your money’s worth out of this course.”
“Maybe. But a woman like that… She’s like a fine car, if you know what I mean. There’s not enough of them in this world.”
“Yeah?”
Ignoring Clint’s noncommittal grunt, Reed plunged on. “You know what I mean. Take this.” He brought his hand down hard on the Jag’s steering wheel. “This isn’t just a car. It’s a piece of me. Great cars, a truly fine woman…those are the kinds of things I’m after.”
Clint reached for the door handle.
“Don’t you agree?” Reed pressed. “Look, you gotta love speed as much as I do. Wouldn’t you like to have the most beautiful woman in the city sitting next to you, cruising in a car that commands attention?”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe about it. Look. I’ve got money. More money than I know what to do with.” Reed nearly choked on the lie. Still, because it was necessary and he knew how to do the necessary, he went on. “For a lot of people, that’d be enough. But now that I’ve got the dough, what comes next? I look for ways to get what I want without having to put out a lot. There’s more challenge in that.”
“Whatever turns you on.”
Reed was losing Clint. Although he was relieved the man hadn’t bitten, Reed made one more stab. “I’ve got this thing about walking into a dealership and letting them take me to the cleaners. That’s not the way I want to do business. If a man saw a car he liked and that car happened to belong to someone else—well, if he had the right connections, he could get his hands on it. If you know what I mean.”