The Heart's Victory (7 page)

“Starting pitcher for the Red Sox.” His eyes dropped to the elegant curve of her neck as she threw back her head and laughed.

“I bet you've got a whole bagful of pitches.” She sighed with the pleasure of laughter. “You never told me how much I won in there.”

“Hmm?” Lost in the flicker of moonlight in her hair, he listened with half an ear.

“How much did I win in the casino?” she repeated, pushing dancing curls from her face.

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Fifty, fifty-five thousand francs.”

“What?” The one syllable was half laugh, half choke. “Fifty-five
thousand?
That's—that's more than ten thousand dollars!”

“At the current rate of exchange,” Lance agreed carelessly.

“Oh, good grief!” Her hands flew up to cover her mouth as her eyes grew impossibly wide. “Lance, I might have lost!”

“You did remarkably well.” Amusement was back in his eyes and in his voice. “Or remarkably poorly considering your desire to lose.”

“I had no idea I was gambling with that kind of money; I never would have tossed it around that way. Why . . . you're crazy!” Helplessly she began to laugh. “You're a lunatic. Certifiable.” She dropped her head to his shoulder as her laughter floated warmly on the quiet night. When he brought his arms around her, she made no protest. “I might have lost, you know,” she managed between giggles. “And I might easily have fainted cold if I'd have found out how much those chips were worth while the wheel was still spinning.” Taking a deep breath, she lifted her brilliant eyes to his. “Now, it seems I've added to your already disgusting fortune.”

“The winnings are rightfully yours,” he corrected, but Foxy stepped back horrified.

“Oh no, it was your money. In any case . . . ” She paused, distracted, and plucked a daisy from a clump of grass at the foot of the sea wall. The champagne was still flowing. “In any case,” she repeated as she tucked the flower in her hair, “you wouldn't have expected me to make up your losses.” With this logic, she began to walk again, holding out a hand for his. “Of course,” she began on a new thought, moving away before Lance could take her hand. “You could buy me something extravagant.” She whirled back to him with a smile. “That would be perfectly aboveboard, I believe.”

“Is there anything particular you have in mind?”

Her footsteps clicked on the sidewalk as she continued to circle away from him. “Oh, perhaps a pack of Russian wolfhounds.” Her laughter drifted. “Or a line of those marvelous horses with the sturdy legs . . . Clydesdales. Or a flock of Albanian goats. I'm almost certain they have goats in Albania.”

“Wouldn't you rather have a sable?”

“Oh no,” she answered. She wrinkled her nose and, either by accident or design, moved just out of his reach. “I don't care much for dead animals. I know! A pair of black Angus so I can start my own herd.” The decision made, she stopped. Lance slipped his arms around her. “You will be sure to get one male and one female, won't you? It's very important if you want things to move along properly.”

“Of course,” he agreed as his lips traced her jawline.

“I shouldn't tell you this.” Foxy sighed as her arms encircled his neck. “I'm terribly glad you intimidated Scott.”

“Are you?” Lance murmured, gently nipping at the pulse in her throat.

“Oh yes,” she whispered and drew him closer. “And I'd very much like it if you'd kiss me now. Right now.” The last word was muffled as their lips found each other.

They seemed to fuse together in one instant of blinding heat. The instant was an eternity. She tangled her fingers in his hair as if she could bring him yet closer when now even the breeze from the sea could not come between them. Her body had molded to his as if it had no other purpose. She could feel his heart beat at the same speeding rhythm as her own. Unnoticed, her shawl slipped to the ground as he explored the smooth skin of her back. Together, they began to taste more of each other. His lips tarried on her throat, lingering and savoring the sweetness before moving to trace her cheekbone and whisper over her closed lids.

She discovered a dark, male flavor along the column of his neck. She wanted to go on tasting, go on learning, but his mouth demanded that hers return to his. The power of the new kiss pierced her like a spear of lightning, shooting a trembling heat through her every cell. With a moan, she swayed against him. Lance plundered her surrendering mouth, drawing more and more from her until she was limp in his arms. When his lips parted from hers, she murmured his name and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I don't know if it's you or the champagne, but my head's spinning.” Foxy shivered once, then snuggled closer. Lance moved his hand to the base of her neck and tilted her face back to his. Her eyes were dark and heavy, her cheeks flushed, her mouth soft and swollen from his.

“Does it matter?” His voice was rough as he tightened his grip to bring her closer. She did not resist, but stepped back into the fire. “Isn't it enough to know that I want you tonight?” he murmured against her ear before his tongue and teeth began to fill her senses again.

“I don't know. I can't think.” Drawing away, Foxy took two steps back and shook her head. “Something happens to me when you kiss me. I lose control.”

“If you're telling me that so I'll play fair, Foxy, you've miscalculated.” In one quick motion, he closed the distance between them. “I play to win.”

“I know,” she replied and lifted a hand to his cheek. “I know that very well.” Turning, she walked back to the sea wall and breathed deeply to clear her head. She leaned back and lifted her face to the moon. “I always admired your unswerving determination to come out on top.” She lowered her face to look at him, but his was still shadowed by the palm. “I loved you quite desperately when I was fourteen.”

He didn't speak for a moment but bent and picked up her wrap. “Did you?” he murmured as he stepped from the shadows.

Moonlight fluttered over her as she tossed windblown curls from her eyes. “Oh yes.” Relaxed, Foxy continued with champagne-induced honesty. “It was a wonderfully painful crush, my very first. You were quite impressive and I was quite romantic.” Lance was beside her now, and Foxy turned her head to smile at him. “You always looked so indestructible, and very often you brooded.”

“Did I?” He answered her smile as he lay the wrap over her shoulders.

“Oh yes. You had this single-minded intensity about you . . . You still do a great deal of the time. It's terribly attractive, but it was more pronounced when you were racing. Then, there were your hands.”

“My hands?” he repeated and paused in the act of reaching in his pocket for his lighter.

“Yes.” Foxy surprised him by taking both his hands in hers and studying them. “They're quite the most beautiful hands I've ever seen. Very lean, very strong, very elegant. I always thought you should've been an artist or a musician. Sometimes I'd pretend you were. I'd set you up in a drafty old garret where I'd take care of you.” She released his hands and pulled absently at her wrap as it slipped off her shoulders. “I wanted badly to take care of someone. I suppose I should've had a dog.” She laughed lightly but was too involved with her memories to notice that Lance did not laugh with her. “I was snarling jealous of all those women you had. They were always beautiful. I remember Tracy McNeil especially. You probably don't remember her at all.”

“No.” Lance flicked on his lighter and frowned at the flame. “I don't.”

“She had beautiful blond hair. It was clear down to her hips and straight as an arrow. I hated my hair as a child. It was all curly and unmanageable and such an awkward color. I was quite certain the only reason you kissed Tracy McNeil was because she had straight blond hair.” The scent from Lance's cigar stung the air, and Foxy breathed it in. “It's amazing how naive I was for someone raised in a man's world. Anyway, I languished over you for the better part of a year. I imagine I was a nuisance around the track, and you were very tolerant for the most part.” A yawn escaped her as she grew sleepy in the sea air. “After I turned sixteen, I felt I was quite grown up and ready to be treated as a woman. The crush I'd had on you became very intense. I'd find every opportunity to be around you. Did you notice?”

“Yes.” Lance blew out a thin stream of smoke, and it vanished instantly into the breeze. “I noticed.”

Foxy gave a rueful laugh. “I thought I was being so clever in my pursuit. You were always so kind to me, I suppose that's why when you stopped being kind, it was all the more devastating. Do you remember that night? It was at Le Mans, the twenty-four-hour race,” she went on before he could answer. “The night before the race I couldn't sleep so I walked down to the track. When I saw you going into the garage area, I was certain it was fate.” With a sigh, Foxy absently fingered the flower in her hair. “I followed you in. My palms were sweating. I wanted you to notice me.” Turning her head, Foxy met Lance's eyes with a gentle smile. “As a woman. A girl's right on the border at sixteen, and I wanted so desperately to get to the other side. And my feelings for you were very adult and very real, even though I had no idea how to handle them.

“I was very nonchalant when I came in, do you remember? ‘Hello, how are you, couldn't you sleep?' You were wearing a black sweater; black always suited you. You were very remote, you'd been remote off and on for weeks. It only made you more romantic.” With a soft, low laugh, she lifted her palm to his cheek. “Poor Lance. How uncomfortable my adulation must have made you.”

“
Uncomfortable
is a mild word for what you were doing to me,” he muttered. Turning away, he tossed his cigar over the wall and into the sea.

“I wanted to be sophisticated,” she went on, not hearing the annoyance in his tone. “I had no idea how to make you want to kiss me. I tried to remember all the ploys I'd ever seen the heroine use in the movies. It was dark, we were alone. What next? The only thing I could come up with was to keep as close as possible. You were tinkering under the hood of the car, doing your best, I'm sure, to ignore me so that I'd go away and let you get on with it. There was just that one small light on, and the garage smelled of oil and gasoline. I thought it was as romantic as Manderley.” Foxy turned and grinned cheerfully while the wine made her remember. “Romance has always been my big weakness. Anyway, I was standing behind you, trying to think of what to do next, and I began to wonder what in the world you were doing to the car. I started to peek over your shoulder just as you turned around, and we collided. I remember you grabbed my arms to steady me, and my knees turned to water instantly. The physical part of it was incredible, probably because I'd never experienced it before. My heart started pounding, and my skin went hot then cold. It seemed as though I'd be swallowed up by your eyes, they'd gotten so dark, so intense. I thought:
This is it.
I was positive you were going to pull me into your arms and kiss me. I
knew
you were. We were Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh and the garage was Tara. Then you were shouting at me, absolutely livid that I was continually in your way. You swore magnificently, giving me a good shake before you pushed me away. You said some really dreadful things; the worst, to me, was that you called me an annoying child. Anything else, I could have passed off, but that crushed my pride and my ego and my fantasies with one blow. I never gave a thought to the tension you must have been under with the race the next day, or to the simple fact that I
was
in your way. I only thought about what you were saying to me and how it hurt. But I've always been a survivor. As soon as it began to hurt too badly, my defenses came up. When I turned and ran out of that garage, I didn't love you anymore, but I hated you almost as obsessively.”

“You were better off,” Lance murmured. After a moment, he twisted his head and ran a fingertip down her cheek. “Have you forgiven me?”

Foxy gave him an easy smile. “I suppose. It's been years, and since it cured me of being in love with you, I should be grateful.” With another yawn, she rested her head against his shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose you should,” he agreed softly. “Come on, I'll get you back before you fall asleep on the sidewalk.”

Drowsy but willing, Foxy went with him as he slipped an arm around her waist.

Chapter 5

Monaco's Grand Prix is a classic example of a round-the-houses circuit. The course is short, just under two miles, and in the heart of a crowded civic complex. No part of the circuit is straight for more than a few feet, and among its eleven curves are two hairpins. One lap includes seventeen corners. The course is anything but flat; its ups and downs range from sea level to 132 feet above. Its hazards include curbs, sea walls, a three-hundred-foot tunnel, utility poles, and, of course, the sparkling Mediterranean. For the driver, there is not a second's rest in the hundred laps. It is short, slow, and unlike any other Formula One course in the world. It stands as a great test of man and machine as its constant demands make it more fatiguing than longer, faster circuits. Here was a course that tested a car's reliability and a man's endurance. Still, it remains romantic and somehow mystical, like a yearly joust before the prince and princess.

Through quick maneuvering, Pam had managed to corner Kirk for an interview. There were just over two hours before race time, and the pits were crowded and noisy. Monaco's pits stood exposed to the course at the head of the small, picturesque harbor. Behind them, the water was crowded with yachts and sailboats. Pam found herself glancing around for Foxy. Though it annoyed her, she knew she would be more comfortable if she did not interview Kirk alone. Pushing this thought aside, she looked directly into his eyes. This type of contact was as essential to her style as her clean-lined, elegant clothes and her calm, unruffled manner. The sharp, probing, tenacious mind was well camouflaged by the fragility of her appearance.

“I've heard a lot of differing opinions on this course,” she began, adding her professional smile. “Some, especially the carmakers I've spoken to, consider Monaco a drawing-room circuit. How do you feel about it?”

Kirk was leaning back against a wall, sipping from a foam cup. Thin wisps of smoke rose from it. His eyes squinted against the sun, and he looked completely at ease. Pam felt stiff and formal. It annoyed her that Kirk Fox always caused her to feel stiff and formal and somehow out of place.

“It's a race,” he answered simply as he watched her over the rim of his cup. “It's not fast. It's rare a driver goes over a hundred and forty and usual to go less than thirty on the hairpins. But then, it's more a test of stamina and ability than speed.”

“The driver's or the car's?” Pam countered.

His eyes crinkled deeper at the corners as he grinned. To her fascination, they seemed to grow greener. “Both. Two thousand or more gear changes in two and a half hours is a strain on a man and a machine. And there's the tunnel. You go from daylight to dim and back to daylight. Do your batteries ever run down?” he asked, taking the tape recorder that hung at her side.

“No,” she returned coolly. If he was going to laugh at her, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of reacting. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “You had a crash here two years ago that totaled your car and broke your left shoulder. Will that experience affect your driving today?”

“Why should it?” Kirk countered, then drained his coffee. He was watching her with complete concentration, oblivious to the milling crowds in the pit area.

“Don't you worry about crashing again?” Pam insisted. As the frisky breeze tugged at her hair she tucked it behind her ear with a quick, impatient gesture. There was a tiny turquoise stone on the lobe. “Don't you ever consider that the next time you crash, you might be killed? Doesn't that come home to you, particularly when you pass over the part of the course where you crashed before?”

“No.” Kirk crushed the cup between his fingers, then tossed it carelessly aside. “I never think about the next crash, only about the next race.”

“Isn't that foolhardy?” Knowing her tone had become argumentative did not prevent her from continuing. She was irritated with him without having a clear reason why. Pam always conducted her interviews craftily, charmingly. Now she knew she had lost the reins but felt no impulse to reach for them again. “Or are you just smug? One instant of miscalculation, one insignificant mechanical flaw, can result in disaster, yet you don't think about it? You've had your share of crashes, been yanked out of wrecks, had your bones broken, and been laid up in hospitals. Tell me,” she demanded, “what goes through your mind as you're roasting in the cockpit, hurtling around a track at two hundred miles an hour? What do you think of when they're strapping you into that machine?”

“Winning,” Kirk answered without hesitation. The sharpness of her tone apparently bounced off the smooth nonchalance of his. His eyes roamed calmly over her face. The faint pink tint that temper gave her skin emphasized its flawlessness. He wondered how it would feel under his hand. The gold of her hair grew more vibrant as the sun washed over it. Pam watched the journey of his eyes and frowned. His eyes dropped to her lips.

“Is winning really all that important?”

Kirk's gaze shifted from her mouth to her eyes. “Sure. It's all there is.”

It was clear from his tone that he was completely sincere. Helplessly Pam shook her head. “I've never known anyone like you.” It was unlike her to lose her temper on the job, and she took a long breath to steady it. “Even here among all these other drivers, I haven't met anyone who thinks along the same straight, unswerving line you do. I suppose if you had the choice, you'd like to die on the track in a blaze of glory.”

Kirk's grin was quick. “That would suit me, but I'd like to put it off about fifty years, and I'd prefer it to be
after
I'd crossed the finish line.”

Pam's lips curved of their own accord. He was outrageous, she thought, but honest. “Are all race-car drivers as mad as you are?”

“Probably.” Before she realized his intent, Kirk tangled his fingers in her hair. “I wondered if it was as soft as it looked. It is.” The back of his hand brushed her cheek. “Like your skin.” Pam's usual aplomb deserted her, leaving her silent and staring. “Your voice is soft, too, and very appealing. I like the way you always look as though you've stepped out of a bandbox. It gives me the urge to muss you up a bit.” His voice was as insolent and amused as his grin.

Pam felt her cheeks grow warm and was infuriated. She had thought she had left blushing behind years before. “Is this a pass?” she asked in a scathing voice.

Kirk laughed, and she heard a trace of Foxy in the sound. “No, it's just an observation. When I make a pass, you won't have a chance to ask.” Still grinning, he pulled her close and planted a long, hard kiss on her mouth. He thought she tasted like some rich, dangerous dessert and lingered over her longer than he had intended. When he released her, he felt the small whisper of air escape her lips as if she had held it there in surprise. “That,” he said easily, “was a pass.”

As he turned and sauntered away Pam lifted a finger to trace the place where his mustache had brushed her skin.
A crazy man,
she decided, unwilling to admit how deeply shaken she was.
A truly crazy man.

***

Nearly two hours later, Foxy stood in almost the precise spot where her brother had been. Her mood was just short of grim. All too clearly, she remembered every detail from the evening before. The wine had not been kind enough to dull her memory.

I told him to kiss me, she thought on a wave of self-disgust. I practically ordered him to. It wasn't bad enough that I went out with him when I should've known better, but I made certain he knew I was enjoying myself every minute. Blasted champagne! Letting out her breath in a huff, she crammed the straw hat she wore further down on her head. Then I babble on about the silly crush I had on him when I was a teenager. Oh boy, when I go out to humiliate myself, I don't do it by halves. All that business about being in love with him and fantasizing about him. Closing her eyes, Foxy made a strangled sound in her throat. The breeze blew from the harbor, cooling her skin under her white gauze blouse. She set her teeth and lifted her camera as the parade lap began. I wonder if it's possible to avoid him for the rest of the season? Better, she added as she worked systematically, for the rest of my life.

As the drivers lined up for the green flag Foxy scurried for a new angle. In a moment, the air thundered with engines, and utilizing the motor drive, she shot each row of cars as the flag set the start. Crouched on one knee, she caught the low, fragile sleekness so unique to the Formula One racer. Her movements were calm and professional, absorbing her concentration, lending her an air of efficiency at odds with the sassy straw hat and thin, faded jeans. The lead car was already rounding the first curve before she rose. As she turned back toward the pits she collided with Lance. His hands came out to steady her, bringing her an uncomfortable sensation of déjà vu. Hastily Foxy disentangled herself from his hold, then made a business of adjusting her camera.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know you were behind me.” Realizing she would have to meet his eyes sooner or later, she tossed her hair behind her shoulder and boldly lifted her chin. The amusement she had expected to see on his face was absent. There was no mockery in the dark gray depths of his eyes. She recognized the long, thorough study he was making and backed away from it. “You're looking at me as though I were an engine that wasn't responding properly.” Frowning, Foxy busied herself by dragging sunglasses out of her camera case. She felt more at ease once they were in place. A shield was a shield, however slight.

“You might say I found a few surprises when I opened the hood.”

Foxy was not certain how to take the quiet quality of his voice. His continued unblinking study was unnerving. She knew he was capable of watching her endlessly without speaking. He could be incredibly, almost unnaturally patient when he chose to be. Knowing she would be outmatched in this sort of contest, Foxy took the initiative. “Lance, I'd like to speak with you about last night.” Her sophisticated demeanor was hampered by rising color. The roar of engines cut her off, and she turned away to watch the cars hurtle by. The pack was still thick after the first lap. Cheeks cool, Foxy took a deep breath and turned back to Lance. His eyes left the track to meet hers, but he said nothing. He was waiting, composed and contained. Foxy could have cheerfully strangled him. “I wasn't really myself last night, you see,” she began again. “Wine...liquor has a tendency to go straight to my head, that's why I usually avoid it altogether. I don't want you to think, that is, I wouldn't want you to feel...I didn't mean to be so...” Frustrated, she jammed her hands into her pockets and shut her eyes. “Oh, help,” she muttered and turned away again. Lance remained silent as she squirmed and struggled. She wondered how it was possible to cast the line and be the fish at the same time.

That was brilliant, Foxy, she berated herself. Why don't you try again, maybe you can top your own incoherency record. Get it out quick and stop stammering like an idiot. Setting her chin, she turned to face him again, meeting his eyes straight on. “I didn't mean to give you the impression I would sleep with you.” Once it was said, Foxy let out a hasty breath and plunged ahead. “I realize I might have given that impression last night, and I don't want you to misunderstand.”

Lance waited nearly a full minute before he spoke, all the while watching Foxy steadily. “I don't believe I misunderstood anything.” His comment was ambiguous and left her floundering.

“Yes, well...I know when you took me back to my room you didn't, well, you didn't...”

“Make love to you?” he supplied. In a quick move, he stripped off her sunglasses, leaving her eyes vulnerable. Even as she blinked against the change in light, he closed the slight distance between them. His hand came to her arm, warning her not to back away. “No, I didn't, though we're both perfectly aware that I could have. Let's say I had a whim to play by the rules last night.” His smile spread lazily, packed with confidence, while his voice became low and intimate. “I don't need champagne to seduce you, Foxy.” His mouth lowered to brush lightly over hers before she could move. It was a kiss that promised more.

Infuriated by his calm arrogance, incensed that her pulses had responded instantly, Foxy snatched the glasses back from him and jerked away. “Stuff your seductions.” Her suggestion was drowned out by the noise of the second lap. Foxy threw an annoyed glare over her shoulder at the line of cars. Temper sparked in her eyes when she turned back to face Lance. “Just remember that last night was a lapse of intelligence on my part, that's all. And all that—that stuff I talked about . . . ” To her greater fury, she felt her cheeks grow warmer. What had possessed her to confess that foolish crush? “All that business about that night in the garage was just as ridiculous as it sounded.”

“How ridiculous was that?” Lance asked with an ease in direct contrast to Foxy's agitation. She barely resisted stomping her foot.

“I was sixteen years old and very naive. I'm sure it's not necessary to go into it any further.”

“You're not sixteen anymore,” Lance commented with a slight inclination of his head that reminded her of the elegant man of the evening before, “but you're still naive.”

“I am not,” she blurted out indignantly, then saw his brow lift and disappear under his fall of hair. Knowing her dignity was threadbare, she drew herself straight. “That's hardly relevant and strictly a matter of your own opinion.” He smiled at that with quick charm, and Foxy hurried on. “I've got work to do, and I imagine you can find something to keep you busy for the next ninety-eight laps.”

“Ninety-seven,” Lance corrected as the leaders sped by. “Kirk's in third position,” he noted absently before he looked back down at Foxy. “My opinion, Fox, might be to your advantage as it should induce me to continue playing by the rules for a while longer. It makes an interesting change.” He grinned, a crooked, challenging half grin, and she was instantly wary. “There's no telling when I'll stop being a nice guy, though.”