High Octane Read online

  The water went off a few minutes later. After another thirty minutes she still hadn’t emerged, and there was silence behind the closed door.

  He knocked. No answer. “Hello? You all right? Cassidy?” He tried the door and found it open. She lay on the tile in front of the toilet, naked but for the thick, white towel covering her lower half, curled up the fetal position with her head cradled on her arms.

  “Oh God,” he muttered.

  He leaned over. “Cassidy?” No response. He gave her shoulder a little shake. She murmured and tucked her legs in tighter.

  He couldn’t leave her nude on the cold floor. He heaved her up with a grunt. She made a moaning noise, and he carried her to the bed, flipping back the duvet with one hand before releasing her onto the sheets. She reeked of alcohol. He noted a small tattoo of a black outlined object on the inside of her ankle. Some kind of teardrop? No, a stylized helicopter.

  She stirred, and he backed up a step to stare down at the unconscious woman in his bed. Now what? Let her sleep it off? Dig through her purse in hopes of finding a cell phone? Even if he could find the number of the man she’d been with at the party, he didn’t need that kind of scene.

  With a sigh, he undid his tie and kicked off his shoes, preparing for bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and let his eyes freely roam her sleeping body—delicious curves, with tautness that only came from a lifestyle as disciplined as his own. And yet, he’d witnessed all this drinking. A one-off occurrence, maybe? Had she fought with her man? She’d certainly seemed anxious to get out of there. What a shame she had to be comatose.

  Hours later Ronan woke abruptly. The smoke detector in the ceiling above him flashed its red eye. A hotel. But which one? Ah, yes. Brussels. His eyes closed again, but a sound next to him made his eyes ping open again. She was still here? Maybe she wouldn’t mind being awakened. He grinned as his body sparked to life; his cock swelling, he turned onto his side, sliding across the foot of cotton separating them.

  She was curled up away from him, on the very edge of the bed. She made another sound, this one distressed. He froze. She mumbled something he couldn’t quite catch.

  “I know, I know. God!” she said, hoarsely.

  His stomach flipped. Was she on the phone? She still sounded drunk. He sat up. If that guy was on his way up here, things could get ugly. And he avoided ugly—at all costs. But she stayed curled up on her side, mumbling, “Okay. I can see … No … I can’t .... goddamn it ... lost it … Got to put her down ...”

  Ronan touched her shoulder, shook it gently.

  She moaned then; a long, low, pain-filled sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He scooted over to turn on his bedside lamp, then slid back over to give her a shake, harder this time.

  She rolled onto her back and her eyes sprang open. Her body recoiled from him, shock mingled with horror on her face. She put up a hand to ward him off.

  “Hey. Hey, it’s all right. You were just dreaming,” he said, gently.

  Her eyes widened and she covered her face with shaking hands. She sat up and turned her back to him. He heard two shuddering breaths, and then she stood. Before he could say anything, she made her way swiftly into the bathroom, leaving him with a glimpse of her perfectly firm, pale ass.

  He sat up against the pillows. What the hell was that all about? She came out of the bathroom, dress on, avoiding his eyes and the questions in them.

  “Sorry to wake you,” she said, stepping through the threshold into the sitting room, shoes in hand.

  He watched her grab her clutch from the desk. Without so much as a look in his direction, she walked out the door.

  “Hey,” he called out, but the whispered click of the door shutting was the only response.

  Now he was wide-awake, and it was a few minutes past four. Terrific. He eyed the scraps of lace she’d left on the floor of the bathroom.

  • • •

  Eight hours and three espressos later, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her little games, the way she’d picked him up, and then that nightmare and her disappearance, not even bothering to collect her undergarments. What had she said her last name was? God, he was crap at remembering names. He texted his crew chief. “Party last night. Older American guy—know him?”

  “Which one?” came the immediate reply.

  “With a woman half his age.”

  “Christopher James, Supernova Energy. Hot blonde wife.”

  “Not blonde, brunette,” Ronan texted in return.

  “Anderson Miller, oil and gas. Daughter.”

  Miller. She’d said Miller. Oh, pretty damn hilarious. He’d walked right into that one, as she’d never said what the man was to her. He’d just assumed, and she’d let him.

  Cassidy Miller—that was it. He pulled out his laptop and Googled her.

  “Holy crap,” he whispered. No wonder she had nightmares. There were few details: she’d been piloting a medical helicopter that had crashed in Arizona, killing one—a paramedic—four months ago. There were no reports on the outcome of the investigation, just a few articles naming her the pilot, and the deceased, Steve Morten.

  He searched on Morten to find a website memorial with photos of a thirtyish man with a young family, and then snapped the laptop shut.

  This woman and her troubles were a distraction he didn’t need right now. He’d had a slow start to this season, thanks to some trouble with first his engine, then the tires. He had some ground to make up to win the championship. And win it he would. He had the best crew, the fastest car, and a decade of F1 experience. He knew the courses, his weaknesses, and knew he could win. Had to win. Before the damn rules changed yet again and sent him and his team back to square one.

  The Hawes name would be synonymous with world champion this year—before his father left prison. He just needed this year to show the world he could win the title for Britain and put all those rumors to rest. He had to break free from the chains of dishonor his father had cast over his family name and his career. It never took long for some snotty journalist to drag out the skeletons from the closet, and, well, he’d put up with that shit for long enough. He had a finite number of years left, since reflexes slowed with age. Yes, that damned Maddux, barely more than a rookie, had somehow wrangled first place, but not for long.

  A wet course last week in Budapest, and Maddux, who was reckless at all times and doubly so in the rain, had combined to give the American an edge. Most of the drivers had enough sense to ride the edge of fear and focus, the line between control and catastrophe, but not Maddux, or “Mad X” as the other drivers had taken to calling him. Ronan scowled. The fool had gone blasting out on the circuit seemingly intent on killing himself or someone else. And that was the crux of F1. Sure, the advancements to car safety meant they hadn’t had a driver fatality on a course for years now, but make no mistake, hitting a wall at 130 kilometers per hour would still be fatal, safety measures or not. After all, the cars had more in common with jets than automobiles.

  Cassidy had seemed so—normal wasn’t quite the word he was looking for. Grounded, self-assured—funny. And then so drunk. He still couldn’t figure that. She’d been perfectly lucid, and then—bam, slurring, stumbling, and face down on his floor. He’d have been embarrassed, too, but to scurry off without a word?

  He’d never been out with a pilot before. Come to think of it, he didn’t know any female pilots. And a helicopter pilot at that. Too bad about the wreck, but sometimes things happened that were outside your control, and helicopters were sketchy—they seemed to go down frequently, at least according to the news. Sounded like a reasonably exciting career. But there wasn’t much in this world that could compete with his current job. Her loss; he didn’t have time to obsess over a failed flirtation, intriguing though it had been.

  Chapter 3

  Four days after what Cass internally referred to as the Ronan disaster, she stood next to her father, drink in hand, watching the preparations for the Circuit de Spa-Franco
rchamps. He was down there somewhere, Ronan Hawes, adrenaline pumping, getting last-minute instruction or doing some deep breathing, listening to music—whatever it was drivers did to get ready for the race. And this was a long one; more than 300 kilometers.

  “Have you spoken to your mother?”

  Cass pressed her lips together. “No.”

  Her father cleared his throat. “I think she’s worried. They both are, throw them a bone.”

  Last time she’d talked to her stepfather, Jim, he had leaned on her to get her butt back home and get a job before the investigation was complete. He’d argued it was her only chance of being hired after what she’d done This wasn’t the first time since she’d been a spoiled teenager and he’d yanked her out of Rockmont, the exclusive New Hampshire boarding school, that she couldn’t stand his advice. Jim never knew when to leave well enough alone.

  Yet despite their inauspicious beginning, she’d grown to love her stepfather. And as she drew closer to him, distance pushed her further from Anderson. Her mother, Tricia, bitter about the breakup, refused to allow Cassidy to make extended visits to the United Arab Emirates or the other countries where his job took him. Anderson never failed to send cards, gifts, and child support—very generous child support. He’d even gone so far as to set up a trust for her, his only offspring, but then he could afford to be generous. His job had made him extremely wealthy. He’d made a number of efforts to reconnect with Cassidy over the years, but she’d been so caught up in college, then flight school, and finally her career, she hadn’t made time for her biological father, until now.

  “I give out only one bone a year,” she said, meaningfully.

  “Cass.”

  “Anderson,” she replied. “Don’t go there. I know you all mean well, but let me handle it.” She took another sip of the amber liquid, relishing the way it burned on the way down.

  She hadn’t been interested in accompanying her father to all the pre-race events, qualifiers, and trials. Instead, she’d kept herself busy in Brussels’s quaint tea rooms and museums while her father schmoozed his way through parties with sponsors, car companies, tire executives, and the fabulously wealthy individuals who followed the world’s most expensive sport. But now race day was here, the excitement in the stands was palpable, and she couldn’t wait to see what all the fuss was about. Start time was an hour away, and drops were starting to fall. Funny how everyone seemed to be expecting this, and those not already wearing rain gear pulled out brightly colored rain ponchos—no umbrellas permitted—in near unison.

  She spotted Ronan then at the edge of the track, in his red and white gear, sponsor logos emblazoned on his jumpsuit. He was looking up at her box. What must he think of her? Had he figured out who her “old man” really was? Her lips curved upward.

  What was that sticking out of the pocket of his safety suit? She froze. “Binoculars,” she said, curtly.

  Her father handed them to her wordlessly and went back to some discussion about press and promotion with another Nautilus Oil and Gas executive. Cass peered through the lens until she spotted Ronan.

  There was no mistaking that particular shade of teal—and that lacy edge.

  It couldn’t be. She refocused the binoculars and looked again. It must be something else—no. It was the thong she’d left on his bathroom floor.

  Dumbfounded, she handed the glasses back to her father and downed the rest of her drink. He hadn’t seemed like the type to brag about his conquests, but there was no mistaking the implications of that.

  What an asshole! And I thought a British man in the public eye would be discreet.

  “What’s Ronan like?” she casually asked her father when he stepped up next to her.

  “Hmm?”

  “Ronan Hawes,” she repeated. “What kind of man is he?”

  He shrugged, frowning. “They're all the same, these drivers. Competitive, intense. I know Hawes only superficially. I suppose he might be a bit brighter than some. He went to the best schools, before that business with his father—”

  “What business with his father?”

  “Embezzlement. No, no, some type of Ponzi scheme. Apparently he stole the life savings of a few thousand people.”

  “Wow.”

  “The son had a bit of a tough time living it down, early on. Seems his name was mud over in England. Speculation about hidden funds. As you can imagine, people weren't too happy about the idea of their life savings procuring him a spot on an F1 team.”

  Cass took an involuntary step back. “Is that true?”

  “I doubt it. After the investigation and reparations and whatnot, there wouldn’t have been enough money to buy him a seat. He came up the hard way, through the ranks—one of the most skilled in kart racing, cars, you name it. Even as a teenager he won the majority of his races.”

  Anderson’s gaze moved down to the track. “The rumors might have hurt him with sponsorships over the years. He’s not always been associated with the best teams—at least not until last year. That’s when Pantech, the global software company, partnered with Windsor Engineering. They’ve managed to get the best minds in the business collaborating on those Windsor cars. And Hawes has certainly popularized the sport with women.” Anderson winked at her.

  She gritted her teeth. Terrific. She’d left her underwear on the hotel room floor of a panty-collecting womanizer. How many people had seen them leave together? Thank God they hadn’t actually had sex, though that may not matter now, not with him displaying her underwear for all and sundry. Apparently her ability to judge character had been switched into the off position by lust or booze that night, or a combination of both. She cleared her throat. “So he’s got the best team this year?”

  “Yes. This is the year he could win it all. He’s an experienced driver, brilliant really, methodical, a good bet to win or place over the years. The other driver for Pantech-Windsor, Mitchell, is solid too, though. It’s Pantech’s championship to lose.”

  “I’ve never heard that, about his father.” And let’s face it, I’ve read enough websites about him over the last two days.

  “No, it’s been off the radar in recent years. But you know I’ve followed this sport since I was a boy—and given my job, there’s not much I don’t know about F1.”

  Cassidy felt the heat rise in her face. God, she hoped this ridiculous, disastrous encounter would also stay under the radar. Surely Ronan wouldn’t want that kind of publicity?

  Her hands clenched into fists. “Yes, Anderson, I know.”

  She’d like to use those panties to wring Ronan Hawes’s neck.

  • • •

  Ronan flipped up the visor of his helmet. She was up in the Nautilus area with her father, no doubt. Good choice of seats. They’d have a great view of the pits, and more important, the La Source hairpin. Anderson Miller had been around the sport for years. Ronan had even had occasion to mingle with him. No wonder the man had looked familiar. And the daughter was what? Bored? Looking for a little excitement by shagging an F1 driver? There was something about her … something that infused his thoughts more often than a failed one-night stand warranted. Maybe it was simply the contrast to Viv. Guarded wouldn’t be a word he assigned to Viv. And the idea of Vivienne behind the controls of a helicopter made him shudder.

  Still, he had Cassidy’s souvenir. Wrong shade of blue, a few shades off his favorite color, but it just might appease the gods of good fortune. Thank heavens he hadn’t chucked it out. He exhaled deeply and snapped down the visor.

  Time to concentrate now. Anything could happen midway through the season, with plenty of points up for grabs. He and Maddux had shared the podium a number of times already. No one had a runaway lead, and teams were fighting for every point. Tires, engines, and fuel mixes were making headlines, and everyone was under scrutiny by the press and the public. There were huge changes coming next year. A major shakeup in the rules, so the rumor mill had it. He had no doubt the rumors were true—as soon as your team had mastered the rules
and applied them to the engineering, they changed again. That was just the way F1 worked.

  Pantech-Windsor’s head steward, Benny, smiled down at him, chewing gum at sixty miles an hour. “Warm-up lap in two minutes. Ready for this, mate?”

  “You bet. Can you make this bloody rain disappear?”

  Benny’s weather-beaten, old face creased into a grin. “It’s Spa, what do you expect? But it’s not too slippery yet. Just take it easy on the La Source, especially toward the end.”

  “Yeah,” Ronan said, not meaning it.

  “And mind you don’t cut a corner in the Bus Stop chicane.”

  “Don’t remind me.” He revved up the engine and listened for Benny’s inevitable final question through the headphones. “Gonna win this one, mate?”

  Ronan squeezed the steering wheel through his thick gloves. “Count on it.”

  He always hated this formation lap, but it was necessary to warm up the tires and get traction on the track, especially on a day like this. He accelerated off when it was his turn and, when the lap was done, joined the other cars assembled on the grid. He’d qualified in first place during the trials, so he took pole position. Already a good start. He stared up at the five lights. Would there ever come a time when his heart wasn’t ready to explode at this point?

  A trickle of sweat started to pour down his forehead until it seeped into the padding at his cheekbone. As if it’s not wet enough. He’d never won this course, even though Britons or Germans traditionally won it. He couldn’t resist one last peek at her, still hidden behind those binoculars. Binoculars trained on him. He shoved the scrap of lace further into the pocket of his suit to be sure she didn’t catch sight of it.

  She pulled the binoculars away from her face and gave him a one-finger salute.

  She couldn’t possibly know he was looking at her. He must’ve made some sound of surprise into his mouthpiece.