Speed Demons (4 page)

“You think the car’s in danger?” Blythe frowned, gazing around her. “Guess the Weather Channel wasn’t very encouraging.

“My friend’s staying home tending to their house, and my friend’s brother is bringing in his fleet of fishing boats.” Evie closed the door behind them and walked over to a panel on the wall next to the hallway. “Would you light a few of the candles, just in case the power goes out? It’ll get dark in here when the shutters lock into place.”

A humming sound reverberated throughout the house as the shutters closed, the flickering shadows from the candles that she and Blythe lit creating a completely different ambience.

“Cozy.” Blythe pushed herself up and onto the couch.

“We can switch on a few lamps as well. For now we’re fine.”

“Oh. Good.” Blythe looked relieved, which puzzled Evie, since the same woman had hung from a gnarled old oak tree happily snapping pictures only moments ago.

“You’re a bit of a wild woman, aren’t you?” Evie asked, quite enjoying Blythe’s startled expression.

“What? Me? No, not at all.”

“So, I imagined you dangling out there in the storm, huh?” Evie gestured emphatically. “Looked wild enough to me.”

“Eh, I just got a bit carried away when I saw that view with the waves crashing in.” Blythe’s cheeks colored faintly. “I’ve been known to forget everything but my camera.”

“I could tell. You’re lucky that branch didn’t snap off. It’s a very old tree. Sure, you’re small, but still. I wouldn’t want to explain to your publisher how you broke your neck in my garden.” Evie’s lips tightened, and she heard how cold her voice became. “God knows what the press would make of that. ‘Evie Marshall involved in yet another accident with deadly outcome.’”

“Evie. Please. First of all, I’m fine, and you didn’t tell me to climb the darn tree. Second, we’re going to show everybody the truth.”

“
We
are?” Evie sat down at the other end of the couch and kicked her shoes off before pulling her legs up. “You sound awfully confident.”

“You have a solid reputation among your peers. Your fans, especially your female fans, worship you. When it comes to them, you can walk on water.” Blythe spoke in the low tone Evie had already come to associate with her. “I have an equally solid reputation among my peers. I heard from the news desks that buy my pictures that their readers consider my pictures honest. I suppose I enjoy some kind of fame, within certain circles. Between us, we’ll get the truth out there, and we’ll tell the story of how you definitely aren’t a quitter.”

“How can you be so sure of that?” Evie knew she was staring at Blythe like a wide-eyed kid. Did the woman have a damn crystal ball?

“Your road to recovery was fast but can’t have been easy.” Blythe fiddled with the seam on the side of her shirtsleeve. “Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how you’ve pushed yourself to come back so fast. I’ve seen enough traumas to last several lifetimes, and what it takes to bounce back. Not just physically. Mentally too.”

Evie relaxed marginally. Blythe’s face was lit by the candles, and her tousled, blond hair was backlit by the table lamps behind the couch; she looked so young and ethereal. She was clearly neither, and true to form, Evie spoke before thinking.

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

Impossible. Not that people of forty-two looked very old these days, which any of the “Desperate Housewives” would show you, but this woman had to be younger. “You’re kidding.” Evie snorted. “You have good genes, then.”

“I suppose. Hasn’t always been beneficial to look too young.” Blythe shrugged. “My height, or lack thereof, combined with blond hair and freckles, works against me.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. Still, the way you carry yourself and…I’m not sure, there’s something else that makes you look less like a kid.” Evie stopped talking. Blythe was shifting and averting her eyes, obviously beginning to feel even more ill at ease. “Sorry. I tend to speak before I think.”

“It’s all right. I’m really not the person of interest here. You’re the star. I’m just the one doing the documenting. As long as we agree on that.”

“I
was
a star, perhaps. As in past tense.” Evie wasn’t comfortable with the term, never had been. She just wanted to drive her Viper and win races.

“My publisher said you had quite a few offers from other photographers before you said yes to me. I mean the first time around.” Blythe tilted her head. “Why did you end up choosing me and my idea for a project?”

The answer was tricky. “You’re not pushy. I mean, invasive.”

“My camera is.”

“Yes.” Evie tugged at her hair, wrapping it around her hand, a comforting habit from her childhood. “That’s different, though.”

“How so?”

“So many journalists intrude in ways that make me super-defensive. They ask things that have nothing to do with racing, or even with me. My father enters the damn equation sooner or later, and then there are the gender-biased motorsport guys who have to insinuate that my success is nothing more than a fluke. I’ve been known to lose my temper.” Evie shook her head. “I’m just not cut out to be congenial and accommodating when someone pushes too hard. No matter who it is. You push, I push back. Harder.” Knowing that this revelation didn’t put her in a very good light, Evie yanked so hard on her hair that her scalp stung.

“So, the fact that my camera works in silence makes it easier?”

“A camera is objective, no pun intended, and as long as the photographer lets the camera do the work, that’s fine. Unless…” Evie grimaced.

“Unless?”

“Paparazzi. Hate ’em with a passion.”

“Some would argue that they’re just doing their job.” Blythe showed a neutral expression and leaned back and tucked her legs up under her.

“Their job. I’d argue right back that it’s not their job to sneak into the hospital to try to get a picture of my burns. Or follow every step I take on the hospital grounds, shouting offensive questions.” Evie tossed her hair back over her shoulder and tucked a loose strand behind her ear, her movements jerky.

“You compare me to the paparazzi?” Blythe’s voice was quiet and measured.

“You wouldn’t be here if I did. If the most god-awful paparazzi are at one end of the spectrum, then you’re at the opposite end. Your job is as admirable as theirs is horrible and morally debatable.”

Blythe blinked slowly, as if Evie’s statement came as a complete surprise. Had she really thought Evie placed her in the same pit as the paparazzi?

“Perhaps establishing the way you regard my work will benefit everything we do together.” Blythe curled the corners of her mouth, which added to her elfin looks. The combination of her soft, young appearance and her steely, subdued side intrigued Evie.

“I hope so. The old adage that the camera never lies is hardly true anymore, with Photoshop and everything.”

“Then again, that just states that people using Photoshop can doctor and manipulate photos. It has everything to do with the photographer and nothing to do with the integrity of the camera.”

“You make it sound as if the camera is a live entity.”

“Ah. Yes. I suppose I do. My Hasselblad certainly has a temper like a diva.” Blythe’s smile was full and genuine this time.

Eve laughed at the unexpected humor. She had a lot to learn about this woman whom she in her youthful arrogance had pegged as a socially uncomfortable introvert when they first met last year. Already she’d seen Blythe be assertive and humorous, not to mention adventurous up in the tree. Now Blythe looked nothing short of beautiful as she sat curled up on the oversized couch. Her skin glowed softly, and her makeup-free face looked fresh. Her scent was fruity, flowery, and so very clean. Something stirred in Evie’s belly, something even more surprising than Blythe’s unknown qualities. Suddenly Blythe’s lips looked even pinker and softer. Full and curvy, with a perfect Cupid’s bow, they’d revealed small, white teeth when she smiled just now.

“You could name it. Your Hasselblad. I mean, what kind of name is that, anyway?”

“A Swedish name. This camera is made in Sweden. Mostly professionals use it, since it costs a small fortune. Hence me being paranoid with the camera bag.”

“Gotcha. Still, the name. How about…Mabel?”

“Mabel?” Blythe snorted, her eyes becoming narrow slits as amusement made her squint. “My mother had a great-aunt named Mabel. It has to be something sexy. I’m sure some Mabels are hot, but that doesn’t do it for me.”

“And merely Hasselblad does?” Evie giggled. “Okay, hot. Hot, hot. How about Randy?”

This suggestion sent Blythe’s eyebrows hovering just below her hairline. “I think not.”

“So not that kind of hot, huh?” Evie pursed her lips, thinking. “Oh, I’ve got it. Of course, since she’s Swedish, your camera, her name has to be Viktoria, like the Swedish crown princess. Viktoria with a
k
.”

“Viktoria.” Blythe tilted her head, looking like she was actually tasting the name. “Yes. That will do. Viktoria Hasselblad. Sounds like a hot diva.”

“Yeah, I saw a picture of the crown princess. Think she got married a while back. She is a very beautiful, certainly hot, woman.” Evie suddenly realized how she was talking about women with Blythe, who didn’t seem to take any particular notice. In fact, she actually looked pleased that Evie had come up with a name for her beloved camera.

Evie found this love for an object adorable. She could totally relate, since she used to have the same feeling for her car. Evie wasn’t sure she’d be able to feel such devotion for her new car, even if it was the same type. A red Dodge Viper. Sleek, fast, and like a roaring tigress beneath her when she took her out on the course. Not missing the fact that she regarded her car, at least the old one, as a female being, Evie decided to take the plunge. Be a little more personal and let Blythe a tiny bit closer. “We should name my new Viper too.”

Blythe looked up, clearly interested. “So, same type of car. What color?”

“Red. Again.”

“All right…” Blythe lay draped along the armrest, ending up closer to Evie. Her curls bounced around her cheeks as her eyes looked brighter than before. Ice blue to warm, soft aqua in less than a minute. “Female?”

“Absolutely. Female and feline, I’d say.”

“Chloe.”

“Almost. It has a nice ring,” Evie said slowly. “Something exotic like that. Try again.”

“This isn’t my strong suit.” Blythe’s teeth sank into her lower lip. “Let’s see.” She sat in silence for a few moments, her fingers moving in small circles on the armrest, following the texture of the fabric. “I’ve got it!” Blythe slammed her open hand on her thigh. “The perfect name for your car.”

“Well, are you going to tell me?” Evie leaned forward, nudging Blythe’s knee impatiently. “Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.”

Blythe looked down at Evie’s hand and seemed to catch her breath. “I think you should call her Chase.”

“Brilliant.” Evie grinned. “That’s a great choice. We should have a christening party or something. A naming ceremony. But let’s not slam them with champagne bottles or anything like that.” Evie covered her mouth with her hand when a new giggle emerged.

“Slam Viktoria with a bottle? No way.”

“I’ll get tons of bumps and scrapes on Chase, but I refuse to deliberately hit her with a bottle.”

“There are other ways to treat a gorgeous lady,” Blythe said, then colored a pretty pink. “I mean…eh, I don’t know what I mean.”

A sudden hard bang against the east wall rescued her. The wind gave a sorrowful howl as it tore at the house. Blythe looked decidedly uneasy when the sound rose and fell but never really went away.

“Will it be like this the whole time?” Blythe now rubbed both her hands on her designer True Religion jeans. “The storm?” She was paler now.

Without thinking, Evie moved over to the couch. “Hey. The house is solid. We’re safe. I’ve sat out more than my share of storms here. Been snowed in too.” Why was the storm upsetting Blythe so much that she had a hard time concealing her reaction? Blythe was evidently very unnerved about showing any personal so-called shortcomings and was actually trembling. Fine tremors moved from Blythe and over to Evie.

“I know.” Blythe took a deep, shaky breath. “I do know. It’s just the sound.” She paused and closed her eyes hard as the wind roared again. “It makes me—it brings back bad memories.”

“I understand.” Actually, Evie wasn’t entirely sure she did, but she guessed this had to do with an assignment in one dreadful place or another. “Will it help if you hold my hand?”

“Perhaps.” Blythe tentatively extended her hand. “So much for being the intrepid photojournalist that Katie Couric designated me.”

“Oh, she had it right.” Evie took Blythe’s cold, trembling hand in hers. “Nobody in their right mind can witness what you’ve seen and not have some sort of reaction.”

Blythe looked blankly at Evie, maybe trying to determine if she was being condescending. Evie hoped she hadn’t sounded too flippant, which wasn’t what she intended.

“I normally don’t acknowledge these…these flashbacks.” Blythe spoke quietly. “The roar of the storm combined with the whistling gusts of wind sounds like incoming mortars and distant canons. Quite eerie.”

“Glad you told me. Those of us who haven’t lived through something like that are clueless unless we learn about it from people who have.” Evie couldn’t get mushy and compliment Blythe on her obvious courage to put herself in harm’s way. Something made her certain Blythe would recoil at such praise, even if it was true.

“Well. I suppose.” Looking ill at ease, Blythe took a deep breath. “I usually don’t talk about this. I try to let my photos speak for themselves.”

“I can understand that. I think you’re as private as me. I’ve always hated giving interviews to those motorsport reporters who eventually end up asking me stupid, chauvinist questions. I thought that was the worst. Now I know different. It’s much worse when they want to know how I
felt
when I regained consciousness. How I
felt
when I learned of the deaths. How I
felt
when I knew I’d be scarred for life.” Evie lost her breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take that out on you.”