Accelerated Passion (22 page)

“If we couldn’t do what we did, we wouldn’t be the McLaren team.”

“True.” She stepped back and watched as the car was rolled into position.

The pits around them were busy, mechanics bustling like bees around honey. The sounds of engines revving, shouted instructions, the din of the excited crowd rattled around their quiet sanctuary.

There was nothing else for them to do but wait.

“So, here he is, the man himself and in one piece.”

Frankie turned to the doorway to see Eric walking in, clapping and beaming. Behind him was Dean.

Looking every inch the superstar, he had his swagger back and his grin in place. Dressed ready to race, and his stubble neater than it had been for a while, he was camera ready.

She hoped he was track ready, too.

“Hey, Cudditch.” Jake said, slapping him on the back. “You okay, man?”

“Good to go.” He shook hands with a few mechanics as he crossed the floor. He then came to a halt, placed his hands on his hips, and looked at the car. “Fuck me.” He shook his head. “Miracles do happen.”

“She’s ready for action,” Paul said, sweeping his finger over the tail.

“Looks it.” He held up his hands. “I believed you could do it, but, still, seeing it, like new in hours. Bloody awesome.”

“Just need you to win now, boss,” Jake said.

Dean glanced at the big black clock on the wall. “And it’s time to get this show on the road.” He passed his helmet to Enrique then headed to the back of the workshop, reaching for his crucifix as he went.

Frankie watched him disappear behind the tires.

She knew better than to disturb him. Instead, she fiddled with the visor on her own helmet, which, by law, she’d have to wear in the pit.

Within seconds, Dean reappeared. As he drew level with Frankie, Paul handed him a peanut.

“One for the road,” Paul said.

Dean took it and popped it in his mouth. He crunched a couple of times then swallowed.

“You feel up to it?” Frankie asked, touching the side of her head.

“Always.” He grinned.

It was a cocky, smart-ass grin that made her insides tumble and sent a shard of longing to her pussy. If only they were alone. She’d throw herself at him, wrap her limbs around his body. Kiss him ‘til they could hardly breathe. She wanted to do that desperately. Tell him how much he meant to her. That she thought the day at the lake was utterly perfect and what she wanted in her future, too.

She wanted to tell him she knew she could grow to love Henri. He was a great kid. And that she could live the life Dean did because it was already her life.

But she didn’t. Frankie stood there, feet rooted to the spot and a flush of heat burning her skin beneath her tight outfit.

He stared at her, the intensity in eyes making everyone else fade away—the team, the crowd, the millions at home waiting for him to appear. “You run this team pretty well for a girl.”

“Do you want a slap?” She folded her arms and tried her best not to grin.

“Perhaps.” He bit his bottom lip, as though preventing himself from saying more.

Heat bloomed on her cheeks, and her buttocks tingled as she remembered their erotic slapping fun. She jerked her thumb at the car. “So go make our hard work worth it. Win.”

“I intend to.” He pulled up his flesh-colored, fire-retardant mask.

Jake passed him his helmet.

He pulled it on, but through the slit, he was still looking at her. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck. You’ve got the skill and the talent and the best car out there.”

His cheeks bunched a bit, and she reckoned he’d smiled as he’d turned to the car.

Six big strides later, he was at its side. Paul talked him through a couple of points, then he climbed in.

Instantly, the mechanics were prepping him. Seatbelt, steering wheel, visor.

Frankie could feel her blood pressure rising, her stomach tightening. She was both terrified and excited. She wanted him to put everything into it, burn up the rubber, push the car to its limits. She also wanted him to take it easy, just complete the race in one piece.

She shook her head. She couldn’t think like that. This was what they did. Speed was the name of the game, their addiction. Dean was no slow-laner. He constantly strove for more, taking it to the extreme.

He nodded at Paul and gave a thumbs up.

The mechanics stepped back, and the sign turned.

He rolled from the pit. The car a low, sleek, ultra-high speed machine that seemed to stalk its prey, hiding its power as it joined the other vehicles.

This was it.

Race time.

As usual, the mechanics gathered around the screen and placed their headphones on. Frankie grabbed a bottle of water then did the same. The day was hot, but she was hotter. Being around Dean had that effect on her.

“And it’s a big day for Formula One. Hockenheimring always gets the crowd out,” the commentator announced. “It’s a decent line up, too. Mercedes, Red Bull, and Ferrari in the top positions, Williams, McLaren, and Lotus close behind. All prototype cars driven by men who’ve won at the highest level around the world and want to win again. Cudditch is back after yesterday’s crash. No harm done by the looks of it. And like the others, he’s got his work cut out. With high cornering loads and triple-digit speed cornering, they’re really going to be put to the test if they want to be placed. Just to let you know how tight this is going to be, the difference between first and last place in qualifying was only nine-tenths of a second.”

“He should be in pole,” Jake muttered.

“It is what it is. At least he’s there.” Frankie took a sip of water.

Jake glanced at her. “True.”

“This track is awesome,” the commentator went on. “A ribbon of road that will take your breath away and push the drivers and the cars to the limit. Expect drama, expect the unexpected. One tiny mistake could be catastrophic and cost not just the race but also the season. This championship is reaching a critical point. When the flag flies today, there’ll be only three rounds remaining. Tension is starting to build in what’s proving to be a tight battle. Farrah is in top place on the scoreboard, Cudditch close behind. Coming in at third place is Benson with Pelia snapping at his heels. It’s all going to hang on today’s result. Who will snag those points and put themselves one step closer to the World Championship?”

Frankie just wanted the chatter to stop and for the race to start. The sooner Hockenheimring’s sixty-seven laps were underway, the better.

“And they’re off,” the commentator shouted. “It’s fast, dangerous, and demanding. They’re going to have to watch for that first corner. It’s been known to take out cars in the first few seconds. And Farrah has got an early jump, and look how fast it is already. These guys are fearsome today.”

Frankie switched off from the commentary and stared at Dean’s car as he tried to gain an inch and overtake the cars in front of him. He used the track to his advantage, slowing, speeding, making the corners work for him. He gained one, leaving Lotus behind, then managed a sneaky inside move on Red Bull, putting himself in fourth position, not bad at all at the end of the first lap.

“And they’re going into turn four,” the commentator said.  “It’s a downward left-hander, wicked G-force. Cudditch has done it again. He’s left Williams behind. He’s got the pedal to the metal. Clearly yesterday’s problems are exactly that, yesterday’s problem. You don’t see Cudditch make many mistakes, but he did just that. Not now, though. He’s putting serious pressure on the leaders. They’ve got to be worried.”

“Get in there,” Paul said, shaking his fist. “Go, go, go…”

Frankie pressed her hand over her mouth. His tires were hot, she could see the burn, and he’d been a whisker away from losing it on the last two turns. She could hardly bear to watch.

But she did watch. What else could she do?

He stayed in that solid, but aggravating position for another eighteen laps.

“Box, Box,” Jake said, pressing his earpiece. He turned to Frankie. “He’s coming in for a four-tire change.”

“Positions,” Paul said, though he really didn’t need to.

The team donned their helmets and ran to the pit. Everyone had a specific job—jacking, wheel nuts, tires.

Frankie and Paul’s job was to react to anything out of the ordinary.

Within a minute, Dean was pulling in. Heat poured from the car as it was jacked up. Tires were removed, rolled away, and new ones put on in a seamless dance that had been rehearsed a thousand times.

Dean stared straight ahead, gripping the wheel, his concentration on his signal to go again.

A few seconds later, he was roaring away from the pit. Hours of practice had just paid off, and he gained a vital few tenths of a second on Mercedes and squeezed past half a lap later.

As soon as the pit was ready for another stop, the crew removed their helmets and dashed back to the screen, Frankie included.

If he could just pip his nemesis now.

Frankie glugged on her water. She wanted it to be over and for Dean to win. They deserved it, all of them.

“He’s going to…” Enrique said excitedly. “Ah, damn it, not quite.”

It had looked for a moment like he was about to get around the outside of Farrah and take him on the S bend, but it hadn’t quite worked out.

However, when the next hairpin came into view, Dean snaked to the right, then left, surprised Farrah on the inside, and steamed ahead.

“Yes!” Jake thumped the air.

Paul clapped wildly.

“Stay there. Stay there,” Enrique said.

Frankie threw her empty water bottle into a nearby bin. Yes, stay there. Don’t let anyone past. Only two dozen more laps to go, and it’s victory lane.

She could hardly breathe as she watched the second half of the race. Farrah was breathing fire down Dean’s neck, not letting up for a second, trying to get past him.

Her knees were shaky with not using up what felt like nuclear energy inside of her muscles. Her ears rung with the screaming of the engines hurtling past on the track.

“Come on, stay with it,” she muttered.

Each time he took a hairpin, she held her breath. Every time he came out of it, she exhaled. Everything happened so fast, yet at the same time, so slow.

The screen showed fifteen more laps to go.

“Box, box,” Jake said, clicking his fingers in the air.

“Go,” Paul said.

They shot into position. Frankie was glad he was coming in again. The degradation on the tires would be bad by now, and they needed changing. But that would be it then. A three-stop strategy wasn’t for them today, which bought precious seconds.

Once more, in a flurry of activity, the car was jacked, tires changed, then Dean sped away.

Frankie’s heart thumped wildly. That had gone like clockwork, not a thing out of place, no room for improvement.

Around her, the mechanics’ excitement rose. Victory was well and truly within Dean’s reach now. He’d taken the lead and held it steady. Farrah’s frustration was evident in the way the nose of his car was twitching and trying to edge past Dean.

“Come on.” Jake crossed his fingers and held them up. “One more lap to go.”

Frankie pressed her hands over her hot cheeks. She wanted this so badly, for him more than herself. After having to be content with second place in Silverstone, and after yesterday’s crash, a win was just what Dean needed. Already, she could imagine his smile, feel the triumph coming from him.

“And the flag is waving, and it’s going to be Cudditch over the line first,” the commentator announced. “He’s not going to be beaten, and these times are amazing. Farrah has to be kicking himself right now for giving him a bite because he took the whole damn lot. Yes, here he goes, and he’s over the line. The winner of the German Grand Prix is Dean Cudditch, driving for McLaren. He’s going to have to be pretty pleased with himself about that.”

“Whoot!”

“Yes.”

“He fucking did it.”

The mechanics leaped about, slapping each other on the back, hugging, high-fiving. Their grins were wide, their shouts loud.

For a moment, Frankie felt as though she were dreaming. They’d won. They’d rebuilt the car overnight and won. Life was good.

“He’s heading to parc ferme,” Jake said.

The mechanics broke apart, donned helmets, and rushed to the closed parking area where the top three cars would congregate.

Frankie pulled her helmet on and followed at a run. A delirious, floaty feeling filled her veins. She couldn’t wait to see Dean, see his pleasure, share his victory.

Eric rushed into the secure area just after they’d arrived. He was red-cheeked and glowing with sweat, several reporters close behind him. Following the rules, because they weren’t wearing helmets, they all stopped short of the parking spot Dean would take as winner.

Frankie stared at the track, waiting for the low, sleek car she knew as well as the back of her hand to come into sight.

It did, reducing speed as it rolled to a standstill, closely followed by Farrah and Lotus.

The crowd went wild. Screams and shouts and the boom of maracas sang through the air. Dean was always a popular winner.

“Frankie,” Eric called. “Tell him these guys want an interview.”

She turned and gave him the thumbs up. Several flashes went off as photographers took her picture.

Jake and Enrique pulled out the steering wheel. Another mechanic sorted out the safety belt.

Dean placed his hands on the side of the car and sprang up so his feet were on the seat. He punched the air and waved at the crowds. He then stepped out, his long legs making easy work of it.

Frankie felt as though she’d burst with pride. He’d done it. Made the team’s hard work worth it. He’d stared danger in the face and lived to tell the tale.

And, God, she loved him for it.

A small choking sob erupted from her throat and caught behind her helmet.

She loved him. She really did.

He dragged off his helmet and passed it to Paul, who slapped him on the back.

“Well done. Fucking well done.”

The photographers snapped away wildly.

Dean clenched his fists at his sides. He glanced around until his gaze settled on her.