Accelerated Passion (4 page)

He dropped his hands from the back of his head and stalked up to her.

Despite herself, Frankie backed away. Her shoulders hit a filing cabinet, which clattered against the wall.

“You interrupted me when I was saying my pre-race prayer.”

“I…er…yes, sorry about that. I wasn’t sure what you were doing, and it was time to go.”

He stepped closer, so close she could see every speck of stubble on his cheeks and every whisker on his neatly trimmed beard—the fury in his eyes.

Frankie moved to the left, slinking away from the filing cabinet.

He followed.

She pressed up against the wall. “Really, is this all about me talking to you back there?”

“Not just talking, interrupting.” He pressed his palms to the wall either side of her head, trapping her in.

Her heart rate picked up, breathing was getting hard, not least because his spicy cologne tickled her nostrils. It was rich and sultry and laced with fresh sweat and the heat of the track.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“You cost me that fucking race.”

“Don’t be so stupid. Vittrosi’s crash and Farrah pipping you on that bend did it.”

“Blah, blah, blah. No, I have my routine. I draw a cross behind the tires, I pray alone for thirty seconds then I eat one shell-less nut. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done.”

“But that’s…well, for want of a better word, nuts.”

“Maybe it is to you.” He moved closer still, his legs touching hers. “But for me, for the team, it’s how we roll.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed. “If you want to stick around you’d better get fucking used to it.”

“Whether or not I stick around isn’t up to you.” She hoped she’d sounded surer than she felt. Dean was the big ‘I am.’ The one the sponsors and McLaren wanted happy. If he started kicking off about her being on the team, well, it was only likely to go one way.

And she needed a job.

“Besides, I know now,” she said, chancing a smile. “So it won’t happen again.”

He shook his head. “Whose bloody idea was it to have a female lead mechanic?”

“Oh, we’re back to that, are we?” Her hackles rose again. “And don’t you think that a new male mechanic might have interrupted you, too? How would he know any better than me?”

He said nothing, just stared at her.

She went to move, but he shifted with her.

“Dean.”

“He might have done the same.” His nose twitched. He was breathing fast. “And more fool him.”

“Why? What would you have done?” She paused and put her hands on his chest, pushed at him.

He didn’t move.

“Let me out.”

“You want to know what I would have done to a rookie mechanic who thought he could fuck up my ritual?”

I’m no goddamn rookie.

“Yes.”

“I’d have kicked his sorry ass. He might have gotten a black eye out of the deal, too.”

She tilted her chin. “So kick my ass. Blacken my eye. I don’t want to be treated differently because I’m female.”

His mouth twisted. “Yeah, right. I’m really into beating up women.”

“Just holding them hostage.” She pushed again. “Move.”

He didn’t budge. It was like having a slab of concrete in front of her.

He lowered his head.

She froze.

His nose was almost touching hers. His breaths washed over her lips.

Her stomach did a strange flip and sent butterflies around her body. The look in his eyes, it was so intense, so wild, so damn sexy. Fuck, to have him looking at her like that if they were naked, alone, about to get carnal…

“Frankie,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Don’t fucking do it again.”

He pushed back from the wall and turned.

Within a second she was alone and staring at the door as, once again, the blind rattled with the force of the slam.

She blew out a breath.

What the hell…

Her heart raced, her muscles were tight, as though she’d done a workout. A tug of longing pulled at her core.

Longing. For what?

For that prick Dean Cudditch? Not likely. He was a Neanderthal. A man who was clearly flirting with sanity—shell-less goddamn peanuts, chalked crosses, rituals.

She ran her fingertips over her lips. For a moment she’d thought he might kiss her.

No, that was stupid thinking. He was stopping himself from throwing a punch. Fury burned bright in his irises, but he’d kept it contained.

She pushed away from the wall. Her knees were weak, and a wave of nausea went through her. Despite the race going well from a mechanical point of view, she still felt as though she’d failed.

“Damn it,” she said, pulling in a deep breath. “I won’t let you get to me, Dean Cudditch. I did my job. You just didn’t do yours.”

She stepped out of the office, the workshop now a swarm of people. The mechanics were rushing about like ants, taking things apart, their air guns squealing. Eric was back with an army of suited men, the sponsors, and Dean was having to smile and shake hands with them.

But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. She knew him well enough to be able to see the tension in his handsome face. She’d bet her best ratchet that all he wanted to do was climb aboard his fancy chopper and get the hell out of Silverstone.

But he couldn’t.

This was also part of his job.

Just like working with her team at the end of a race was part of hers. They’d be at it until midnight, so she knew she might as well get started.

She threw one last glance his way as she picked up a spanner.

He was staring straight at her.

Frankie had been right. It was midnight by the time the car, in its entirety, was ready to be packed onto the truck the following day.

They’d be heading to Germany to prepare for the next race in a few weeks’ time. The Hockenheimring circuit was one of Frankie’s least favorite. Known amongst the drivers as the graveyard, she was always glad when the last car got over the finish line, regardless of the team.

“Hey, you gonna have a drink with us?” Paul asked as they ambled into the hotel lobby.

“Yeah.” She led the way to the bar. “My treat, though. What you having?”

“Ah, cheers, I’ll have a beer.”

She took orders from several other members of the team—some had headed straight to their rooms—then loaded up a tray at the bar with seven pints.

She carefully carried it across to her group who were chatting animatedly now they’d had the chance to sit and relax.

They were a great bunch of guys. A variety of nationalities all working together with a mutual love of the perfect engine and insane speed.

She set down the tray and picked up her own pint, took a sip.

“You’re not a
vino blanco
girl?” Enrique, one of the younger mechanics, asked. He was cute, with olive skin, a Spanish accent, and strong aftershave.

“Nah, can’t you tell?” She laughed then wiped the back of her hand over her lips to remove the froth her beer had left behind.

He chuckled. “Tell me why you are here? Why a mechanic and not a hairdresser?”

Frankie sat next to him. “Do you want a bloody slap?”

He chuckled. “No, I think it would hurt from you.”

She grinned. “It would.” She set her drink down. “You want to know how I got here?”

“
Si
, tell me.”

“I was a science geek at school, maths, too. Then I went on to university, Sydney, to study engineering. While I was there, I got into karting. Loved it. The speed, race strategy, all the little things you could do to improve the time. And do you want to know what I loved most?” She leaned forward.

“Yeah, what?” Paul asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Jake nodded and slurped his drink.

“I liked to see the boys’ faces when I took off my helmet and they realized they’d been beaten by a girl.” She laughed. “It gave me great pleasure to dent their egos. Why shouldn’t I be able to win just because I’m a girl? I can drive, and I can drive fast.”

Enrique chuckled. “I bet you can.”

“So how’d you end up on the Ferrari team for five years?” Jake asked.

She pulled her hair out of its ponytail. Her scalp was aching from having it pulled back tight all day. “I worked my way up the ranks. Got some post-grad experience with Honda then started as a junior.” She nodded at Enrique. “Like you’re doing now. It was just a case of sticking at it. Lots of people don’t. The hours, the constant traveling is a killer. Puts a strain on every relationship you have.”

“Tell us about it,” Paul said. “Which reminds me. I should call home, see how things are going. The kids are on summer holidays, always sends Mandy crazy, well, more crazy than usual.” He stood and fished his phone from his pocket. Stepped away.

“So where is the hero of the hour?” Frankie asked. She’d tried to sound casual, because, well, she wasn’t really interested in where Dean Cudditch was.

“Dunno.” Jake shrugged. “Drinking away his sorrows. Fucking some tart senseless to get losing to Farrah out of his system.”

Frankie took a big drink.

The thought of Dean fucking wildly, all that pent-up passion she’d seen in his eyes unleashed, was enough to flood her pelvis with heat. At the same time, it made her want to throw something.

Why? What does it matter to me who he fucks?

“Is that what he does?” she asked.

“Hey, you’ve read the gossip mags, right?” Jake said.

“Yeah, well, I don’t believe everything I read.” Frankie shrugged.

“When it comes to Dean, you should. Twice a month, for one day only, he’s a model citizen during the season, no booze, early to bed. The rest of the time, it’s anything goes in Dean Cudditch world.”

Frankie nodded. She’d seen pictures of him with a variety of starlets over the years—tall with big tits and bubbles of blonde hair seemed to be his type. But he’d never married, never been tied to anyone for a length of time.

What must that be like? To never have a special someone? To always be roaming the planet with a fast car and a group of idolizing fans?

Frankie finished her drink, chatted some more with Enrique about his home town in Catalonia then excused herself.

It had been a long first day. Emotionally tiring as much as physically.

She showered, brushed her teeth, and slipped into bed. It was then she realized she hadn’t even eaten.

But she wasn’t really hungry, well, not for food anyway.

Frankie’s dreams were a jumbled collection of images. Dean was there. His eyes flashing with the same intensity as when he’d pinned her up against the wall. She was aware of his body pressing into hers—the heat of his skin, the shape of his mouth, the sexy smell emanating from his flesh.

Again, she’d touched him, palms flat on his chest. But this time, she didn’t push him away. In her nighttime fantasy, her mind conjured up an erotic scenario where she’d drifted her hands lower. Slipped them over the soft smooth material of his driver’s outfit and searched out his groin.

He was hard. So hard. And the shape of his cock easy to make out.

“Frankie,” he’d groaned. “Suck me.”

And she had. She’d dropped to her knees, his suit magically gone, and stared at his big hard cock jutting toward her.

“Please,” he’d begged, slotting his hands into her hair. “Do it.”

Her mouth had watered with the longing to taste him, to feel his warm shaft slipping over her tongue. And then she’d done it, taken him to the back of her throat in one fast gulp.

He’d groaned, a long, low, guttural sound that made her want to come. And then she was preparing to come. In her dream. She was sucking off Dean, yet her clit was being stimulated, the pressure building, a coil of lust spinning in her pelvis and getting ready to release.

He held her tighter, shoved deeper into her throat, filling her with his taste, his release, his desire.

As she swallowed him down, she came. A hard, fast orgasm that stole her breath and shot to her toes and the top of her head. She curled forward, sat up. Dean gone from her mouth, her belly was tight, and her heart raced.

She opened her eyes, blinked a few times as she orientated herself to the hotel room. Her brow was damp, as was the hollow of her throat. The sheets were tangled around her ankles, and her right hand was down her knickers, her fingertips still eking out the last of her climax.

“Fuck it,” she muttered, flopping back onto the pillows with her arms spread out to the sides.

Having sexy, orgasmic dreams about Dean-fucking-Cudditch was the last way she wanted to start her morning.

The drive to Hockenheim took two full days. The car, packed up on a heavy loader, was escorted by another truck that carried the mechanics’ specialized equipment and the spare tires and parts.

Frankie opted to drive one of the support cars. Paul, Jake, and Enrique were happy to catch a lift.

“As long as you don’t think you are on the track as soon as we hit the
autobahn
,” Enrique said as he settled himself in the back.

“Well, now that you mention it, that’s not a bad idea.” She smiled sweetly in the mirror at him.

“Come on, we’ve got a long way to go.” Jake laughed.

The first leg of the journey was easy, and once on the ferry to Calais, Frankie took a moment to herself.

She found her way on deck. The weather was mild, the English Channel flat, and the watery horizon melted into the sky that was practically the same color blue.

Holding onto the rail, Frankie dragged in a deep lungful of salty air. The last couple of days had been intense. She’d always known switching teams would be hard. That she’d have to prove herself, cope with the odd prick who thought she didn’t know what she was on about.

But in reality, the team was faultless. They were consummate professionals, accepted her experience—or at least appeared to—and respected her background. They were also damn good at their jobs. They were elite, the best of the best.

But Dean.

He was an entirely different kettle of fish. What the hell was she going to do if she couldn’t win his confidence? It was essential he had faith in her. As he’d said himself, Formula One was a team sport, and each team member had to trust one another.