by Robyn Grady
Feeling ill, she leant back in her chair and stared blindly at the ceiling.
She had to face facts. He’d used her. She wasn’t inadequate as the press had depicted. It was worse.
She was an outright fool.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TWO weeks later, standing in the pits in Catalunya, Spain, Alex watched over his team as they ran their battery of checks on his car’s precision instruments.
He usually got off on the noise of the pits … tools clanging, crews conversing, motors revving. The smell of oil and rubber and elbow grease was normally a great stimulus. The anticipation of feeling tyres gripping asphalt as he zipped around another competition track was a huge buzz. Alex thought he’d never grow tired of it.
And yet today those much loved highs were noticeably absent. In fact, his gut was mincing, and not with its usual healthy mix of pre-performance nerves and adrenaline. His malady wasn’t because he didn’t believe in his ability, he decided, heading toward the team manager, who was watching a sequence on a monitor at the rear of the pit. He would not only race this weekend, he would win. He’d made sure he’d set Libby Henderson well outside his radar so he wouldn’t have that distraction playing on his mind. No way did he need to combat the same kind of turmoil he’d endured before charging out at the track before his accident.
Six weeks on, he’d digested all the family news. Jacob had returned to the scene and was working to restore old Wolfe Manor. According to Annabelle’s latest communication, Nathaniel was happy and married to his new bride. She’d even sent photos of the day. Sebastian’s five-star hotel—the London Grand Wolfe—was certainly something.
And Annabelle …
Frowning, Alex remembered Libby’s question about whether brother and sister had ever discussed that tragic night. For twenty years he’d managed to keep those thoughts—his sense of guilt—from intruding on his life too much. And yet lately, the more he thought about that time, the more the fact that he’d never had the courage to look Annabelle in the eye afterward niggled the hell out of him. The real kicker was that in his heart he’d always known that by avoiding her gaze, brushing the subject under that mat, he’d only hurt her more.
His focus wandered over to the recording that the team manager was watching on the pit monitor. He recognised the track, the car. He sure as hell remembered the crash. Alex shuddered. He understood everyone was eager for that kind of incident never to occur again. Every factor leading up to, as well as the accident itself, would be mulled over and dissected again and again in a bid to avoid a repeat performance. But, dammit, he couldn’t bear to watch it even one more time.
As he pivoted away, that tendon in his shoulder twinged again. He hid his flinch, then slid a casual glance around. No one had noticed. Cupping the joint, he rotated his arm and felt the faint ache again, just for a second. His strength in his injured shoulder was so much better than it had been two weeks ago. Still, every now and then …
Deep in thought, Alex moved out toward Pit Row.
Morrissey has been in communication with the replacement physio Alex had hired, and was happy with the subsequent report. After his own examination, Morrissey had cleared Alex for this round. Jerry Squires, however, had offered a stinging remark. ‘If your shoulder doesn’t hold up because of the incident with that woman, I’ll sue for malpractice.’
Alex hadn’t been certain which incident the team owner meant. Libby’s fall, which Alex had caught and the new physio had reported on, or the affair?
Either way, no matter how their relationship had ended—and it hadn’t ended well—Alex would never allow Libby to be hurt because of him. He’d hurt her enough already by refusing to see her. By saying goodbye with nothing more than a note. After what they’d had together, she must despise the sound of his name.
Alex pushed those thoughts aside as his ears pricked to a different kind of hype. Before a major competition, certain members of the public were permitted down Pit Row to see, firsthand, their favourite teams and drivers prepare for the big day. Rotating the arm again, Alex moved outside and scanned the clutches of people. His attention hooked on a particular boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen, wearing a shirt sporting Alex’s team logo. When the boy recognised the World Number One, he bounced on the spot and his face split with a smile that warmed Alex’s heart to its core.
Remembering a time he’d been that young and enthusiastic, Alex came forward.
‘You like racing?’ he asked the boy.
‘Muchas. Sí.’ He translated into English. ‘Very much.’
Smiling, Alex nodded. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Carlos Diaz.’
‘When you grow up, you’d like to race?’
Carlos’s dark eyes flashed and his little chest puffed out. ‘I want to be like you. Brave. Smart. The best there is, señor!’
His mother patted the boy’s dark head and apologised. ‘El chico, he has no father, but he has his dreams.’
Lowering his gaze, Alex remembered back and murmured, ‘Reaching for dreams is what keeps us alive.’
The boy beamed at him—all faith and pride and resolve—and a shiver chased over Alex’s skin as he was taken back to a time when he’d raced through the Oxfordshire countryside, chasing wild dreams with no one of patience or knowledge to guide him. Then Alex felt that homemade medal resting in his pocket, heavy as it never had been before.
Thoughtful, he fished the medal out and examined the tarnished surface of his most prized possession. The rough-hewn circle had become so much a part of him; Alex had believed he would carry it to his grave. This medal represented the opening of his gate. His escape. A new beginning. But maybe after all this time …
As he weighed the medal in his palm, his gut knotted and his fingers reflexively curled over to make a fist. But then an odd sense of calm settled over him, like a friendly hand squeezing his shoulder or patting his back, and exhaling, smiling, he reached out his hand to the boy.
‘This might not look like much,’ Alex said, revealing the medal again, ‘but for me, it’s worked miracles. It represents hope and determination and most of all it’s about belief. Belief in yourself.’ His opened hand nudged nearer. ‘I want you to have it, Carlos.’
The boy’s eyes bugged out. A heartbeat later he exploded into a barrage of animated Spanish. His mother was beside herself, holding her brow and thanking Alex repeatedly too. A sense of relief—and right—washed over him.
Alex clapped the boy’s shoulder, then ruffled his hair.
‘I’ll have my assistant come over and get your contact details. Let’s see if we can get you started.’ He held up a warning finger. ‘But first you’ll need to learn everything there is about cars. You need to learn to appreciate their power.’
Then you can learn to harness and direct your own.
Carlos grabbed Alex’s hand and pressed his mouth to the knuckles. ‘Gracias, gracias, Señor Wolfe.’
As he walked away, first to find Eli to have him speak with the boy, then to the team manager to relay his decision about stepping aside, Alex faced the cold hard truth of what he had done and immediately found peace with it.
He might want to tell himself different, but he was less than a hundred per cent fit to drive. He might be fit enough in the future. He couldn’t know that for certain. What Alex did know was that he was able and willing to face that reality, look it in the eye, no matter how uncomfortable. And Libby Henderson had helped him do that.
After such a horrendous start, he was grateful for the significant life racing had provided. Grateful for his fans and his sponsors. But today he understood there was more. So much more. Question was …
After what he’d put her through, would Libby ever let him reach out and claim it?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHEN Libby’s cell phone rang, she reached to pick up. Then she saw the ID and her hand snatched back.
She had no appointments this morning. She’d told Payton she’d be in late—her bookkeeping needed atten
tion and she could do that away from the office. After dressing, she’d packed up her laptop, took a walk and had ended up here, at the café where she and Alex had breakfast together those weeks before. She’d ordered pancakes and had forced her mind upon work. Too much time had been wasted on the frustrating question of Alex Wolfe.
Whenever thoughts of the weekend they’d spent together seeped in, she thrust them away. Two weeks on, those couple of days simply didn’t seem real. If she hadn’t kept the magazine shots and pearl charm, she might think that time with Alex was nothing but some fantastic dream.
The public must have thought so too. After the day that obnoxious reporter had hounded her, the paparazzi’s interest had died. Instinct must have told them there wasn’t an ongoing story and instinct was right.
So why was Alex calling now? What did she have that he could possibly want? After the way he’d treated her, she sure as hell wanted nothing from him.
By the time her mind stopped spinning, the phone had quit ringing, and the smell of coffee and natter of early-morning café patrons filtered back. With a pulse drumming in her ears, Libby retrieved the message. As she listened to the rich timbre of his voice, her head began to tingle and, after a time, she remembered to breathe.
Alex wanted her to come to his Rose Bay home. He was there, waiting for her now. He could send a car if she preferred. Then his voice deepened and he said that he was sorry for the way he’d behaved, the way he’d dismissed her when she’d obviously felt so bad about what had happened.
Libby’s back went up.
He was sorry?
So he should be.
But then she wondered. Today, Friday, was the first qualifying round in Spain. In the paper, on the sports news, everyone had been saying that Alex Wolfe was back and ready to take pole position this Saturday in Catalunya. And yet he was here in Sydney?
Libby quarrelled with herself for another ten minutes before she packed up, slid into her car and drove to Rose Bay with her fingers clenching the wheel and her heart in her throat the whole way. If he wanted to see her, hey, she wanted to see him too, but not for let’s-kiss-and-make-up time, if that’s what he expected. She could think of only one reason for Alex being here rather than in Spain. He’d re-injured that shoulder during practice and had decided to reinvest in his original blindly trusty physio. To even think he believed she would roll over and do his bidding after the way he’d cast her off made her blood boil.
When she pulled up at his lavish home, memories of that fateful first day resurfaced. Unbelievably, the nerves mixing in her stomach were even worse today. But that wouldn’t stop her from finally giving Alex a piece of her mind. He’d better have hold of his seatbelt.
Stealing herself, Libby moved up those front steps, pressed the doorbell and, counting her heartbeats, impatiently looked around. About to press again, the door fanned open. She thought she was prepared for this meeting, but standing framed by that soaring doorway, Alex looked so regal and fresh and handsome and …
Near.
Coming back, Libby straightened and balled up her hands. She would not let herself be distracted. She had a score to settle—an ego to cut down to size—and this was the time to do it.
Libby nodded a cool greeting. ‘How are you, Alex?’
‘I’m good. Great actually.’ With his usual casual grace, he stepped aside. ‘Please, come in.’
‘I thought you’d be busy on the track,’ she said with remarkable poise as she skirted around and moved inside.
As he shut the door, she turned, ready to tell him that if his shoulder was still troubling him, he had better find someone else because she was no longer available. And if purple pigs had begun to fly and he was after some female companionship, he could wind out his string and go fly a kite. But before she could start, Alex was explaining about Spain.
As they stood in the massive foyer’s soft fans of light, he recalled the excitement in the Spanish pits and how his team manager had watched and re-watched his spectacular crash. He admitted that, although his shoulder had been cleared in time for Spain, at the last moment he accepted that his current weakened condition wouldn’t do his team any favours. And so, unbelievably, he’d stepped aside from racing until further notice. Then he described a young boy he’d met in Pit Row. A boy who dreamed of racing and being just like his hero, Alex Wolfe.
Despite her agenda, as Alex’s story unfolded, Libby found herself absorbed.
‘I gave Carlos, that boy,’ he explained, ‘my medal from Carter White.’
Libby’s head kicked back. The medal his mentor had made and given him all those years ago? It meant so much to Alex. She couldn’t accept that he’d handed it over to a stranger.
‘But why?’ she asked.
‘It was time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘To accept the past and move ahead with my future.’
He said this boy, Carlos, had no father. Alex had set up a personal sponsorship to help with the boy’s education and passion for cars. While he was on sabbatical he intended to scout for more talented teens who could use a little help.
When he took her hand, Libby was so taken aback by all she’d heard, she lacked the presence of mind to pull away.
‘I came back, Libby. I’ve missed you.’ He searched her eyes. ‘I was hoping that you’d missed me too.’
He looked at her with such intense emotion. With obvious desire. But instead of being moved the way he so obviously hoped she would be, all the feelings she’d unintentionally put on the back-burner since stepping into this house came bubbling up in a thick hot rush. Tears prickled behind her eyes. How dare he lay all that on her, then tell her that he missed her, as if he hadn’t discarded her so callously before he’d left. As if he truly cared.
‘You haven’t mentioned the note you had Eli deliver to me,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice level. She was angry. Hurt. And, dammit, justified in feeling that way.
He looked sheepish. ‘I needed to get back on track.’
‘Pity you didn’t quite manage it.’
His eyes flashed before he stepped closer and she had to arch her neck to look into his stormy gaze. ‘Don’t you understand what I’m telling you? Don’t you know why I’m here?’
‘Not to have me work on your shoulder?’ she mocked.
His brows drew in. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then I’m guessing you’d like to sleep with me again.’
‘Don’t reduce it to that,’ he growled.
Emotion swelled and clogged her throat. ‘You shut the door in my face,’ she ground out, ‘flicked me away like a fly, and you honestly think I’ll throw my arms around you now?’
‘I said I was wrong,’ he stated. ‘I apologised.’
She glared at him, then turned to leave.
Apology not accepted.
But he caught her wrist. When her fiery gaze met his, his expression was set, assured … and at the same time wary.
He almost smiled. ‘You don’t want to go.’
‘You don’t know what I want.’
‘Then I’ll tell you what I want.’
He scooped her close, and before she could think to wind away, his mouth was covering hers and all the nights she’d spent dreaming of him, all the times she’d wanted to cry, came leaping up. He’d left her. She’d thought he was never coming back, and yet here he was, holding her, kissing her, telling her that …
That he still wanted her.
She didn’t want to kiss him back. She wanted to break away. Run away. She had more self-respect, more moral strength, than this.
But as the kiss deepened, and the flames licking at her veins multiplied and spread, gradually, somehow effortlessly, she felt her arms lift, circling and helping to press her body against his. If this was a dream, God help her, she never wanted to wake up.
An eternity later, the kiss ended softly but the heat of his lips remained close. He murmured one simple word.
‘Stay.’
Her h
eart squeezed. Despite everything she knew and feared, she wanted to. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t let her heart railroad her head when she knew later she’d regret it. She shouldn’t have kissed him back. She should never have come. She dropped and shook her head.
‘No.’
He folded hair back from her face. ‘What’s stopping you?’
‘Sanity,’ she said. ‘Pride.’
‘They’re both overrated.’
She gave into a grin but then swallowed it back down. ‘Dammit, Alex, I’m not supposed be amused. I’m supposed to be—’
But when his lips grazed hers, the tail of that thought evaporated as a tingling wondrous thrill ripped through her. The final bricks of that wall crumbled and fell, and any remaining doubt or annoyance were replaced by an energy of a different kind—an awareness so consuming and overpowering that the battle was all over.
She was lost.
Taking soft slow kisses, he kneaded her upper arms, making her blood heat and hum. He’d missed her.
She sighed against his lips.
She’d missed him more than air.
Seconds melted into scorching minutes. As he gathered her closer, she ironed her palms over his shoulders, his chest. Her fingers twined around his shirt buttons while their kisses grew steamier still. With him leading her, they blindly headed for the stairs. His shirt fell halfway up, her shirt followed close behind. At the top of the stairs, breathing laboured, his mouth broke from hers long enough to smooth the pad of his thumb sensually over her lower lip, then guide her into the master suite.
The room was cool and dark and predictably large. The carpet and satin spread on the king-size bed were steely grey. The sheets were already folded down and the heavy curtains pulled against the morning sun.
He took her hand and, his eyes on hers, led her to one side of the bed before deliberately lowering his mouth to the curve of her throat. When his teeth grazed the skin, she shivered and sighed until all her breath was gone, then she arched her neck and offered more.