The Heart's Victory (9 page)

“I'm going to make love to you,” he told her in a statement that reflected a rising temper.

“Yes,” she agreed with a nod. A smile touched her lips as she recognized the nervousness in his tone.
He's just as terrified as I am,
she realized when, after a brief hesitation, Kirk stalked into the room. Quietly Pam closed the door behind him. They turned to face each other.

“I don't make promises.” His voice was rough as he studied her. His hands stayed firmly in his pockets.

“No.” Her robe whispered gently as she moved to switch off the light. The room was softened by starlight and moonbeams. In the courtyard below her window someone spoke quickly in Italian, then laughed heartily.

“I'll probably hurt you,” he warned in a lowered voice.

“Probably,” Pam agreed. She walked to him until they were both silhouetted in the moonlight. He found her perfume quiet, understated, and unforgettable. “But I'm much sturdier than I look.”

Unable to resist, he lifted a hand to her hair. It was as soft as a cloud under his palm. “You're making a mistake.” In the dim light, he watched the sheen of her eyes.

“No.” Pam lifted her arms until they circled his neck. “No, I'm not.”

On a low groan, Kirk pulled her against him and took the offered mouth. As she felt him lift her Pam melted against him.

Chapter 6

There was the usual crush of people and noise as the starting time approached. The light, insistent drizzle did nothing to hamper attendance. The skies were lead-gray and uncompromising. Slicks were exchanged for rain tires.

Foxy stood before the basin in the empty ladies' room and rinsed the taste of sickness from her mouth. With the absent gestures of habit, she sponged her face and touched up her pallor with makeup. The palms of her hands were still hot and moist, and automatically she ran cool water over them. The drone of the loudspeaker penetrated the walls. Knowing she had only a few minutes until the start, she picked up her camera case and hurried out. The swarming crowd swallowed her instantly. Because she was preoccupied she didn't notice Lance until she was nearly upon him.

“Cutting it a bit closer than usual, Foxy?” She glanced up just as the thrust of the crowd pushed her against him. His grin faded as his hands touched the still clammy skin of her arms. “You're like ice,” he muttered, then pulled her free of the throng and into a narrow hallway.

“For heaven's sake, let me go,” she protested. Her legs were still a bit rubbery and nearly folded under her at the sudden movement. “They're going to start in a minute.”

Ignoring her, Lance put a firm hand under her chin, then jerked her face to his. His eyes were narrowed and probing. Color had not yet returned to her cheeks, and the camouflage of makeup did not deceive him. “You're ill.” The statement came partly as an accusation as he propped her against a wall. “You can't go out there while you're sick.” Lance slipped an arm around her waist to lead her away, and she struggled against him. The sound of revving engines filled the air.

“For Lord's sake!” Foxy pushed unsuccessfully against him, frustrated by his interference. “I'm sick before every race, but I don't miss the start. Let me go, will you?”

His expression altered rapidly from surprise to disbelief to fury. Trapped between him and the wall, Foxy saw the changes and realized she had made a mistake. “You'll damn well miss this one,” he grated, then half dragged, half carried her away from the pits. Feeling his grip, Foxy conceded and went peacefully. In silence, he led her to the restaurant under the main grandstand. “Coffee,” he barked to the waiter as he pushed Foxy into a corner booth.

“Listen, Lance,” she began, recovered enough to be indignant.

“Shut up.” His voice was quiet, but so full of fury, she obeyed instantly. She had seen him angry before, but she decided she would have to go back some years to find a memory of an anger that sharp. His mouth was set in an uncompromising line, his voice vibrated with temper just under control. But it was his eyes, heated to a smoky gray, which kept her silent. Discretion, she reflected, sometimes is the better part of valor.

The restaurant was empty, silent save for the vibrations of the cars outside on the grid. There was a gray wall of gloom beyond the window, broken only by thin, clear rivulets of rain on the glass. Foxy watched one wind its slow, erratic way down the pane. The waiter set a pot of coffee and two cups on the table between them, then disappeared. The look in Lance's eyes told him he wanted solitude not service. Picking up the angry vibes Lance transmitted, Foxy watched as he poured the coffee into each cup. Curiosity began to temper her annoyance.
What is he so worked up about?
she wondered.

“Drink your coffee,” he ordered in clipped tones.

Her brows arched at the command. “Yes, sir,” she said humbly and lifted her cup.

A flash of trembling fury sparked in his eyes. “Don't push me, Foxy.”

“Lance.” She set down her coffee untasted, then leaned toward him. “What's the matter with you?”

He studied the perplexity on her face before drinking half his coffee, hot and black. The pallor clung stubbornly to her cheeks, lending her a look of vulnerability. Her eyes were young and earnest as her own coffee sat cooling in front of her. “How do you feel?” he asked as he drew out a cigar and his lighter.

“I'm fine,” she answered cautiously. She noted he didn't light the cigar but merely twirled it between his fingers. Silence spread again.
This is ridiculous,
Foxy decided, and opened her mouth to demand an explanation.

“You're sick before every race?” Lance demanded suddenly.

Foxy hesitated over the question and began to stir her coffee. “Listen, Lance—”

“Don't start with me.” The sharp order startled her and she lifted her eyes and encountered dark fury in his. “I asked you a question.” His voice was too controlled. Though never timid, Foxy respected a temper more volatile than her own. “Are you ill, physically ill,” he repeated in slow, precise tones, “before every race?”

“Yes.”

Though soft, his oath was so violent she shuddered. Her wary eyes settled on his face. “Have you told Kirk?” he demanded.

“No, of course not. Why should I?” His temper flared again at the incredulity in her voice. Sensing danger, Foxy quickly laid her hand on his. “Lance, wait a minute. In the first place, at this point in my life, it's certainly my problem. When I was a kid, if I had told Kirk how I reacted to the start of a race, he would have worried, he would have been concerned, he might even have banned me from the track. All of those things would have made me guilty and miserable.” She paused a moment and shook her head. “But he wouldn't have stopped. He couldn't have stopped.”

“You know him well.” Lance drained his cup, then poured more from the pot. His movements were smooth but Foxy was aware that his temper was just below the surface.

“Yes, I do.” Their eyes met again, his heated, hers calm. “Racing's first with Kirk, it always has been. But I've always been second.” Foxy made an imploring gesture, wanting him to understand her as badly as she had wanted Kirk to understand the night before. “That was enough. If he had put me first, he would have been a different person altogether. I love Kirk just the way he is . . . maybe because of the way he is. I owe him everything.” As Lance opened his mouth to speak Foxy rushed on. “No, please listen, you don't understand. He gave me a home, he gave me a life. I don't know what would have happened to me after the accident if I hadn't had Kirk. How many twenty-three-year-old men would choose to be saddled with a thirteen-year-old girl? He's been good to me. He's given me everything he was capable of giving. I know he's not perfect. He's moody, he's self-absorbed. But, Lance, in all these years, he's never asked for anything except that I be there.” She let out a long breath, then stared into her coffee. “It doesn't seem like much to ask.”

“That all depends,” Lance said quietly. “But in any case, you can't be there forever.”

“No, I know that.” Her shoulders moved with her sigh. Facing the window again, she watched the rain trickle down the glass without seeing her own ghostly reflection. “I realized this time around that I can't cope with it anymore, not in person anyway. I can't handle watching him get into a car and waiting for him to crash, knowing one day he might not walk away from it.” She shifted her eyes back to Lance, and for a moment they were drenched in despair. “I won't watch him die.”

“Foxy.” Lance leaned over to take her hand. His voice was gentle now, without any sign of temper. “You know better than most that not every driver is killed on the track.”

“I don't love every driver,” she countered simply. “I've already lost two people in a car. No, no,” she said quickly as he began to speak. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, simultaneously shaking her head as if to push the words away. “I don't dwell on it. I don't think about any of this often. You go crazy if you do.” After taking a deep breath, Foxy felt more composed and met his eyes. “I'm not morbid about all of this, Lance. I just don't cope with it very well. And it gets harder all the time.”

“I know the danger shouldn't be minimized, Foxy,” Lance began, frowning at the weariness he saw in her eyes. “But you're aware of the improved safety features. A driver's much more protected than he used to be. Fatalities are the exception, not the rule.”

“Statistics are just numbers on paper. They don't mean anything to me.” She smiled as his brows drew together, then shook her head. “You can't understand because you're one of them. You're a unique breed. You all say you race for a variety of reasons, but there's really only one. You race because you love it. It's your mother and mistress and best friend. Drivers flirt with death, break their bones, singe their skins, and get back on the grid before the smoke's cleared. In the hospital one day, in the cockpit the next; I've seen you do it. It's like a religion, and I can't condemn it any more than I can comprehend it. Some people call it a science, but that's a lie. I've lived with it all my life, and it never makes any more sense. That's because it's emotional, and emotions rarely make sense.” Foxy leaned her head against the cool glass of the window and stared into the rain. “I keep hoping one day he'll have had enough. Someday he'll find something else to take its place.” When she looked back at Lance, her eyes were steady and studying. “I always wondered . . . Why did you quit?”

“I didn't love it anymore.” With a half smile, he reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear.

“I'm glad,” she said simply, smiling back at him. Toying with her coffee, she lapsed into silence a moment. “Lance, you won't say anything about this to Kirk?” Foxy lifted her eyes and used them shamelessly.

“No, I won't say anything.” He watched relief flutter over her face before she lifted her cup. “But, Fox.” The cup paused at her lips. “I'd like you to skip the last races in the circuit.”

“I can't do that.” She shook her head as she tasted the coffee. It was strong and cold, causing her to wrinkle her nose and set it back down. “Not only because of Kirk, but because I have a commitment to Pam.” Foxy leaned back and watched Lance frown at her through a haze of cheroot smoke. “It's my job to photograph these races, and my work is very important to me.”

“And when the season's over?”

It was her turn to frown. Her eyes reflected the gray light coming through the window. “I have my own life, my own work. I have to resolve to myself that I can't be a part of Kirk's life. I'm not equipped for it. My emotions are too near the surface. And I'm a coward,” she added briskly, then started to slide from the booth. “I have to get back.”

Lance was out of the booth before her and blocking her way. Even as her eyes rose to his in question, his arms came around her. He drew her close, nestling her head against his chest. “Oh, don't,” she murmured and shut her eyes. A treacherous warmth flooded through her. “I can't handle you when you're kind.” She could feel his lips trail over her hair while his hand moved gently up and down her spine. “Lance, please, if you're not careful I'll start flooding the place with tears, and you've already terrified the waiter.”

“Tears?” He spoke quietly, as if considering. “You know, Foxy, I don't believe I've ever seen you cry, not once in all the years I've known you.”

“I have an aversion to humiliating myself in public.” She felt cozy and pampered and entirely too right in his arms. “Lance, please don't be nice to me. I could get used to it.” She lifted her face, but her smile never materialized. She could read his intent in his eyes. “Oh, help,” she murmured as his mouth touched hers.

There was no need to brace herself for the explosion because his lips were gentle. There was no demand, no fire, just a lingering tenderness. Even as she felt her bones melt into submission, she felt oddly protected. The slow, soft embrace confused her, disarmed her, seduced her more successfully than his most ardent demand. His lips were warm, tasting hers without pressure, giving only comfort and pleasure. She had not known he was capable of such poignant tenderness. Because he was not asking, she gave more freely. The kiss lengthened, but remained a quiet gift. Reality slipped away leisurely, leaving Foxy with only Lance inside her world. When her mouth was free, she could not speak. Her eyes asked him questions.

“I'm not quite sure what to do with you,” he murmured. Taking a handful of her hair, he let it run through his fingers. “It was simpler before I found out you had a fragile side. I doubt that I deal very well with frailty.”

Nonplussed, Foxy bent to lift her camera gear. She had not felt fragile until he had touched her so gently. Knowing there was no safety in the feeling, she tried to shake it off. “I'm not frail at all,” she denied, then stood straight and faced him.

A smile flickered over his face, lifting his mouth and lighting up his eyes. “You don't like to be.”

“I'm not,” she countered with a quick shake of her head. No one had ever made her feel that way before, and Foxy was afraid he would touch her, making her feel that way again. She knew from experience that only the strong survived intact.

Lance studied her face before he took the camera case from her. “Humor me then,” he suggested, then closed his hand over hers to lead her outside.

***

When the team returned to the States, Kirk led the competition for the world championship by five points. A win at Watkins Glen would give him the title. But through the high spirits and growing confusion, Foxy noticed subtle changes in the people closest to her. She herself had been preoccupied since the race in Italy. Something seemed to be nagging at the outside of her mind. The sensation did not make her uneasy as much as curious. She was accustomed to being in full control of her thoughts and feelings, but now it seemed part of her mind belonged to someone else. She found herself thinking more and more of Lance.

Since their talk over coffee, he had treated her with a strange gentleness. Oddly the gentleness was mixed with an aloofness that only added to Foxy's confusion. Since the kiss he had given her in the restaurant, Lance had not touched or indeed attempted to touch her again. Having never seen him be gentle or diffident before, Foxy began to wonder if she really knew him as well as she had assumed. Unwillingly she was drawn to him.