The Heart's Victory (3 page)

“I was very impressed,” he went on as she remained silent and perplexed. “I noticed your name under it. I thought at first it couldn't be you. The Cynthia Fox I remembered didn't have the ability to take a picture with that much depth, that much feeling. I still knew you as a wide-eyed adolescent with a vile temper.” When Lance broke the look to flick away the stub of his cigar, Foxy let out a quiet, shaky breath.

Relax,
she ordered herself.
Stop being an idiot.

“In any case, I was curious enough to do some checking. When I found it was you, I was doubly impressed.” As he turned back to her one brow lifted and disappeared under the tousled front of his hair. “Obviously you're very good at what you do.”

“What? Play with cameras?” But she smiled with the question. The evening air had mellowed her mood.

His grin was quick. “I've always thought a person should enjoy their work. I've been playing with cars for years.”

“You can afford to play,” she reminded him. Her voice cooled without her being aware of it.

“You've never forgiven me for having money, have you?” There was a light amusement in his voice that made her feel foolish.

“No.” She shrugged. “I suppose not. Ten million always seemed so ostentatious.”

He laughed, a low rumble, then tugged on her hair until she faced him again. “Only new money is ostentatious in Boston, Foxy. Old money is discreet.”

“What constitutes ‘old,' financially speaking?” Foxy found she enjoyed his laugh and the friendly hand on her hair.

“Oh, I'd say three generations would be the bare minimum. Anything less would be suspect. You know, Fox, I much prefer the lily of the valley to the gasoline you used to wear.”

“Thanks. I do wear unleaded now and again, but only when I'm feeling reckless.” She rose with a sigh. It surprised her that she would have preferred sitting with him to rejoining the party. “I'd better get back in. Are you coming?”

“Not yet.” He took her hand and with a swift jerk spun her around until she tumbled into his lap.

“Lance!” With a surprised laugh, she pushed against his chest. “What are you doing?” Her struggles were halfhearted, though his hands were still firm on her waist. Foxy's mood was still mellow.

“I never kissed you hello.”

Laughter died on her lips as she sensed danger. Quickly she jerked back, but he cupped his hand around the base of her neck. She managed a startled “no!” before his mouth closed over hers.

The kiss began light and teasing. Indeed, she could feel the curve of a small smile on the lips that touched hers. Perhaps if she had struggled, perhaps if her protest had continued, it would have stopped at a careless brush of lips. But as their mouths met, Foxy froze. It seemed her heart stopped pumping, her lungs stopped drawing and releasing air, her pulse stopped beating as her blood lay still. Then, in a sudden wild fury, her blood began to swim again.

Who deepened the kiss first she would never know. It seemed instantaneous. Hot and hungry, their mouths took from each other in a moist, depthless, endless kiss. The muffled groan that touched the air might have come from either of them or both. Her breasts were soft and yielding against his chest as she used tongue and teeth and lips to take the kiss still deeper. He explored all the intimate recesses of her mouth while she wallowed in his flavor, his scent, in the feel of his skin against hers. His hand moved once in a long, bruising stroke down her back and waist and over her hip and thigh. The thin material of her dress was little more than air between them. At the rough caress, Foxy strained closer, nipping his lip to provoke more heat. His answer was to crush her mouth savagely, desperately, until her senses tangled into ecstatic confusion. With a quiet sound of pleasure, she went limp in his arms. Their lips clung for an instant longer as he drew her away.

Her eyes seemed as gray as his as they watched each other in silence. Her arms were still locked around his neck. Foxy could no longer smell the flowers but only his warm, male aroma, she could no longer hear the laughter of the party for the quiet sound of his breathing, she could no longer feel the breeze, but only the spreading heat of his hands. Only he existed. An owl swooped from the tree behind them and hooted three times. Instantly the spell was shattered. Foxy shuddered, swallowed, and struggled to her feet.

“You shouldn't have done that.” As tingles continued to race along her skin she avoided his eyes and brushed distractedly at the skirt of her dress.

“No? Why not?” Lance's voice was as calm as a shrug. “You're a big girl now.” He stood, and she was forced to tilt her head to see his face. “You enjoyed that as much as I did. It's a little late to play the flustered maiden.”

“I'm not playing the flustered maiden,” Foxy denied hotly as her eyes shot back to his. “Whether I enjoyed it or not is beside the point.” Realizing she was fitting his description precisely, she tossed her hair behind her back in annoyance. She planned to make a dignified exit as she stepped from the glider, but Lance stopped her with a hand on her arm before she had taken two steps across the grass.

“What is the point, Fox?” He no longer sounded amused or calm but irritated.

“The point is,” she said between her teeth, “don't do it again.”

“Orders?” he murmured softly. “I don't take orders very well.”

“I'm not asking for a ham on rye,” she countered. “I was off guard.” Foxy tried to reason out her response to him while justifying it. “And—and tired and perhaps a bit curious. I overreacted.”

“Curious?” His laugh was male and again amused. “Did I satisfy your curiosity, Foxy? Maybe like Alice, you'll find it ‘curiouser and curiouser.' ” He trailed his fingers lightly up her arm. Foxy shied away as her skin trembled.

“You're impossible!” She pushed the hair from her face in impatient fury. “You've always been impossible.” With this, she whirled and ran toward the safety of the party. Lance watched her dress float and swirl around her.

Chapter 3

The Indianapolis 500 is an event that transforms Indianapolis from an ordinary midwestern city into the focus of the racing world. More people watch this one race than any other single sporting event in the country. It is for car racing what Wimbledon is for tennis, what the Kentucky Derby is for horse racing, what the World Series is for baseball—prestige, honor, excitement.

Foxy was relieved that the sky was empty of clouds. There was not even the smallest wisp to hint of rain. The mixture of rain and racing always made her uneasy. A breeze teased the ends of the ribbon that held her hair in a ponytail. Her jeans were old friends, nearly white with wear at the knees and snug at the hips. A baseball-style shirt in red and white pinstripes was tucked neatly into the waist. Around her neck hung the secondhand Nikon she had purchased while in college. Foxy would not have traded it for a chest of gold. From her vantage point in the pits, she could see that the grandstands were empty. Reporters, television crews, drivers, mechanics all milled about attending to business or drinking coffee from foam cups. The air was quiet enough to allow an occasional bird song to carry, but it was not calm. A current ran through the air, stirring up waves of tension and excitement. In less than two hours, the stands and infield would be swarming with people. When the green flag was waved, Indianapolis Motor Speedway would hold four hundred thousand people, a number that rivaled the population of some American cities. The noise would explode like one long roar of thunder.

During the hours that followed, there would be a continuous drone of engines. The pits would grow steamy with heat and thick with the smell of fuel and sweat. Eyes would be glued to the small, low-slung cars as they tore around the two-and-a-half-mile oval. Some would think only of the thrill of the race.

Foxy's feelings were more complicated. It had been two years since she had stood near a racetrack and six since she had been a part of the racing world. But it was, she discovered as she stared around her, like yesterday. The feelings, the emotions inside her, had not been altered by her absence. There was anticipation, excitement. She was almost lightheaded with it, and she knew it would grow only more intense after the race began. There was a wonder and pride at knowing her brother's skill, a talent that seemed more innate than learned. But underlying all was a deep-rooted fear, a terror so rich and sharp, it never dulled with the years. All the sensations scrambled inside her, and she knew when the green flag was waved, they would all merge together into one heady, indescribable emotion. Nothing had changed.

Foxy knew the ropes. There were some drivers who would grant interviews and speak cheerfully, casually, about the race to come. Others would be technical or abstract, some belligerent. She knew Kirk would grant early interviews, answering questions with his patented brand of appealing arrogance. To Kirk each race was the same and each race was unique. It was the same because he drove each to win, unique because each race presented problems unlike any before or after. Foxy knew after the interviews that he would disappear and remain alone until it was time to be strapped into the cockpit. From long experience, she knew how to be unobtrusive. She moved among drivers and timers and mechanics and the dozens of other photographers, letting her camera record the prerace routine.

“What are you poking around here with that thing for?”

Foxy recognized the grumble but finished her shot before turning. “Hiya, Charlie.” With a grin, she tossed her arms around his neck and nuzzled his grizzled cheek. She knew he would protest and grumble as well as she knew the hug pleased him.

“Just like a female,” he muttered, but Foxy felt the slight squeeze of his hands on her back before he pulled away.

For the next few minutes, they studied each other openly. She saw little change. There was a bit more gray in his beard, a bit less hair on his head, but his eyes were the same clear blue she had first seen ten years before. He had been fifty then, and she had thought him ancient. As Lance Matthews's chief mechanic, Charlie Dunning had ruled the pits like a despot. He continued to do so now as the head of Kirk's team.

“Still skinny,” he said in disgust. “I should've known a few years wouldn't put any weight on you. Don't you make enough money to eat by taking pictures?”

“No one's been leaving chocolate bars lying around for me lately.” She pinched his cheek as she spoke, knowing he would suffer torture and death before admitting he had planted chocolate bars for a skinny kid to find. “I missed you at Kirk's party the other night,” she added as he shuffled and grumbled.

“I don't go to kids' parties. So you and the fancy lady are going to take in the Indy and the rest of the Grand Prix races this season.” He sniffled and set his mouth in a disapproving line.

“If you mean Pam, then yes, we are.” Foxy decided Charlie had nearly perfected irascibility. “And she's a journalist.”

“You just mind that neither of you gets in the way.”

“Yes, Charlie,” Foxy said demurely, but his eyes narrowed at the gleam in hers.

“Still sassy, too. If you hadn't been so puny, I'd have taken a strap to you years ago.”

Grinning, Foxy lifted the camera and shot a full-faced picture. “Smile,” she suggested.

“Sassy,” Charlie repeated. As his lips started to twitch he turned and lumbered away.

Foxy watched until he had disappeared into the crowd before she turned around. She gave a small gasp as she bumped into Lance. He rested his hands briefly on her shoulders as his eyes locked with hers. She had managed to completely block out the interlude on the glider, but now it all came flooding back in full force. The mouth, which had been hungry on hers, twitched in a half smile.

“He always did have a soft spot for you.”

Foxy had forgotten everything but the dark gray eyes that watched her. As his smile grew, touched now with arrogance, she jerked out of his hold. He was dressed in much the same manner as she was, in jeans and a T-shirt. His hair danced on his forehead as the breeze caught it. Mentally she cursed him for being so wickedly attractive.

“Hello, Lance.” Her voice was marginally friendly with overtones of aloofness. Foxy was pleased with it. “No reporters dogging your footsteps?”

“Hello, Foxy,” he returned equally. “Taking a few snapshots?”

“Touché,” Foxy muttered. Turning away, she lifted the Nikon to her face and became absorbed in setting the aperture. She thought she must have gained an extra sense where Lance Matthews was concerned. His presence could be felt on the surface of her skin. It was both uncomfortable and arousing.

“Looking forward to the race, Foxy, or has it lost its charm?” As he spoke Lance tangled his fingers in the thick softness of her ponytail. Foxy wasted four shots.

“I heard Kirk won the pole position in the time trials. He knows how to cash in on that kind of advantage.” When she turned back to him, her face was calm, her eyes cool. One kiss, she told herself, was nothing to be concerned about. They were still the same people. “I imagine as the owner, you're pleased.” His smile was not the answer Foxy was looking for. “I've seen the car. It's very impressive.” When he still did not reply, Foxy let out a frustrated breath and squinted up at him. “This conversation is fascinating, Lance, but I really must get back to work.”

His hand curled firmly around her upper arm as she turned to go. He watched her in silence, and she was forced to toss up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “I'm having a small party tonight.” His voice was quiet. “In my suite at the hotel.”

“Oh?” Foxy employed the arched-brow look she had perfected in college.

“Seven o'clock. We'll have dinner.”

“How small a party?” Foxy met his eyes steadily, though hers were shadowed by her hand.

“Very small, as in you and me.”

“Smaller,” she corrected evenly, “as in just you.” Two mechanics, clad in the vivid red shirts of Kirk's team, moved past them. Lance's gaze never wandered from hers. “I have a date with Scott Newman.”

“Break it.”

“No.”

“Afraid?” he taunted, bringing her an inch closer with a slight movement of his hand.

“No, I'm not afraid,” Foxy retorted. The green in her eyes shimmered against the gray in his. “But I'm not stupid either. Maybe you've forgotten, I'm not a newcomer where you're concerned. I've already seen your string of—ah—ladies,” she said with a dash of scorn. “It was quite a boost to my education, watching you pick and shuffle and discard. I do my own picking,” she added, growing angrier as he remained silent. “And I do my own discarding. Go find someone else to feed your voracious ego.”

Abruptly Lance smiled. His voice was light and amused. “You still have a vile temper, Foxy. You've also got a bright, inquiring mind and energy in every cell. You'll outdistance Newman in an hour, and he'll bore you to distraction.”

“That's my problem,” Foxy snapped, then remembered to jerk her arm free.

“That it is,” Lance agreed cheerfully. He deprived her of having the last word by walking away.

Infuriated, Foxy whirled around, prepared to stomp off in the opposite direction. With a small shock, she saw that the grandstands were filling with people. Time was moving quickly. Annoyed, she swiftly walked down into the pit area.

As she interviewed a rookie driver Pam watched the entire scene between Lance and Foxy. It wasn't possible for her to hear what passed between them, but she had clearly seen the variety of emotions take possession of Foxy's face. She watched them with the objectivity and curiosity peculiar to her trade. There was something physical between them, she had only to see them together to be certain. She was certain, too, that Foxy was kicking out against it like an ill-tempered mule and that she had come out second best in the battle that had just taken place.

Pam had liked Lance Matthews immediately. She was prone to judge people quickly, then calculate the most direct and productive approach to them. The consistent accuracy of her judgment had helped her climb to success in her profession. She had judged Lance Matthews as a man who did not so much shun convention as make his own. He would attract both men and women simply because he had so much to offer. He had strength and arrogance and a rich sensuality. Pam thought he would be indispensable as a friend and terrifying as a lover.

The rookie, blissfully unaware of her preoccupation, continued to answer her questions as she wound up the interview. With one eye cocked on Lance's back, Pam thanked him graciously, wished him luck, and hurried off.

“Mr. Matthews!”

Lance turned. He watched a small, delicate-faced blonde dressed impeccably in gray slacks and a blazer running toward him. A tape recorder was slung over one shoulder, a purse over the other. Curious, he waited until she caught up with him. Pam paused and offered Lance a breathless smile.

“Mr. Matthews, I'm Pam Anderson.” She held out a hand whose nails were polished a baby-pink. “I'm doing a series of articles on racing. Perhaps Foxy mentioned me.”

“Hello.” Lance held her hand a moment as he studied her. He had expected someone sturdier. “I suppose we missed each other at Kirk's party the other night.”

“You were pointed out to me,” Pam told him, deciding to use flat-out honesty as her approach. “But you disappeared before I could wrangle my way over to you. Foxy disappeared, too.”

“You're very observant.” Though the annoyance in his voice was only slight, Pam recognized it and was pleased. She knew she had his full attention.

“Our friendship is still at the apprentice stage, but I'm very fond of Foxy. I also know how to mind my own business.” She brushed absently at her hair as the wind teased it into her eyes. “Professionally, I'm only interested in the race and any and all aspects thereof. I'm hoping you'll help me. Not only do you know what it's like to design and own a Formula One, you know what it's like to compete in one. You also know this track and the specifics of an Indy car. The fact that you're a well-known figure not only in racing circles but in society will add tremendous readability to the series.”

Sometime during Pam's speech, Lance had stuck his hands in his pockets. He waited for a full ten seconds to see if she was finished before he started to chuckle. “A few minutes ago, I was trying to figure out how you could be the same Pam Anderson who wrote that blistering series on foul-ups in the penal system.” He inclined his head in a gesture she took as a seal of approval. “Now I know. We'll have plenty of time to talk over the next few months.” Pam watched his gaze shift and focus to where Foxy leaned against a fence and fiddled with lenses. She saw the birth of his patented smile. “Plenty of time.” When his attention darted back to Pam, his grin widened and settled. “What do you know about the 500?”

“The first 500 was in 1911, and the winning car had an average speed of 74.59 miles per hour. The track was originally paved in brick, hence the nickname the Old Brickyard. It's a full-throttle race where a driver moves to high gear and stays there. It's not a Grand Prix race because no points are given, but there are many similarities between the Formula One car and the Indy car. There are also a number of drivers who have competed in both the 500 and the Grand Prix circuit . . . like Kirk Fox. The cars here are fueled by alcohol. An alcohol fire is particularly dangerous because there's no flame.”

“You've done your homework.” Lance grinned at the computerlike flow of information.

“Oh, I have the facts,” she agreed, liking the directness of his gaze. “But they don't tell the whole story. Forty-six people have died at this race, but only three in the last ten years. Why?”

“Cars are safer,” Lance answered. “They used to be built like battleships, and in a crash they stayed solid and the driver absorbed all the power. Now it's the fragility of the cars that saves lives. Cars self-destruct around a driver, diffusing the power away from him. The restraint systems have been improved, and the drivers wear fire-resistant clothes from the shoes up.” Sensing that the starting time was drawing near, Lance led her back toward the start-finish line.