Accelerated Passion - Steamy Sporting Romance

“But…you’re a girl.”

“Er, yeah, last time I looked.” Frankie resisted the temptation to throw a wrench at the gorgeous man standing in front of her.

“She’s the best of the best.” Eric Tucker, the man who’d hired her, rested his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture.

“Well, obviously I need the best of the best. It’s what I’m used to.” Dean Cudditch, Formula One champion, shifted the helmet in his hand and continued to stare at Frankie as if she were some kind of alien lifeform.

“And you’ve been trying to replace Ruben for the last few years,” Eric said, “but it hasn’t been happening. Now is the time to get a lead engineer like Frankie on board.”

“I can do the job,” Frankie said. “Wouldn’t be standing here if I couldn’t.”

What a prick. Why should he need convincing? She had top university qualifications, practical know-how, the experience. Hell, she had experience coming out of her ears. Five years traveling the world on the Ferrari team did that to a person.

Dean frowned and rubbed at the crease marks on his forehead. The fireproof mask he’d worn when driving must have had a kink in it during his training lap. “And you’re Australian.”

“And that’s a problem because…?” Fuck it, amazeballs driver or not, she was going to kick him in the balls in a minute.

“It’s not a problem.” He kind of shrugged, and the cream all-in-one racing suit he wore creased around his collarbones. “Just haven’t heard of you.”

“It’s a big world. You can’t possibly know everyone.” And she was beginning to wish she didn’t know him. Sure, she’d admired him from afar for years. What woman wouldn’t? He ticked all the boxes—sexy, talented, rich, dangerous—though now he was adding asshole to the list she suddenly wasn’t as keen as she had been.

“The world of Formula One isn’t that big. It’s the same people doing the rounds year after year.” He frowned.

“Yeah, well, I’m a highly qualified engineer, not an adoring groupie. Maybe that’s why you’ve missed me while you were bedding all those other women who follow drivers around, strutting their stuff at parties in tight dresses but can’t tell one end of the car from the other.” She was on a roll. “And I wear this so you can’t see my tits.” She plucked at the shapeless oil-stained overall she wore. “So perhaps that’s why I didn’t appear on your radar. Well, I’ll tell you something. I’ve been working the circuits, managing a team, a winning team, I might add, and if it hadn’t been for Eric doubling my salary, I wouldn’t be standing in front of your misogynistic, misinformed, egotistical sorry ass now, would I? And, while we’re on the subject—”

“Okay.” Eric squeezed her shoulder. “We get your point.” He coughed as though uncomfortable.

Frankie swallowed down her next words which were a combination of player, jerk, and risk-taker.

One side of Dean’s mouth twitched.

She wasn’t sure if it was the start of a smile or if he wanted to retaliate to her outburst.

He narrowed his eyes and continued to survey her.

She bit on her bottom lip to prevent speaking further.

Sometimes, Francesca May, try thinking things instead of saying them.

Her mother’s words came back to her. Damn it, this wasn’t a good start to her new job. Dean had to trust her with his life. He’d be depending on her for not just glory but also safety, and she’d called him a whole ream of unpleasantries the moment they’d met.

“Well then,” Dean said, his voice unnervingly calm. “Seems like you can talk the talk…what did you say your name was?”

“Frankie. Frankie Wright.”

“Ah, yes, Frankie. As I was saying, it seems like you can talk the talk, but can you walk the walk?”

She beat down a wave of irritation that swarmed within her. Wasn’t that what she’d just said? “Yes.”

“In that case.” He stuck out his hand. “Welcome on board the McLaren team. May your time here be happy and prosperous.”

It hadn’t been the reaction she’d expected. She stared at his out-stretched hand. He still wore his black driving gloves. “Er, yes, thanks.” She shook, trying to project strength even as his big fingers wrapped around her much smaller ones and squeezed.

He smiled. A sudden, full-wattage smile that showed his perfect white teeth, balled his cheeks, and creased the corners of his eyes. “Great, and now you’re on board you should join us this evening in the hotel restaurant. It won’t be late, just dinner, no parties or strutting girls.”

She’d planned on ordering room service in the hotel they were staying in at Silverstone, then getting an early night. Tomorrow was a big day. “But I—”

“No buts. I’ll see you later. And so will all the team. If you’re going to be running the show with Paul, they need to get to know you.”

“Excellent idea.” Eric rubbed his hands together. “Perfect. Get to know each other.”

Dean winked at her. “I agree. Perfect.” He turned and strode from the workshop, his soft-soled boots silent on the concrete floor.

She tore her attention from what would be a damn cute behind if the owner hadn’t been such a jackass. Had he really just winked at her? Her irritation shot up another level. Seriously. This guy was a joke. If she’d been a man, walked in here with everything she had to offer, Dean wouldn’t have winked at her, not a chance in hell. He’d have been overjoyed to have someone who knew what the hell they were doing—an experienced, competent expert in the field. Jeez, the sponsors Eric represented were paying through the nose for her. It was about time McLaren started winning again, and she was the one for the job.

The question now was could Dean Cudditch drive them to victory?

“I’m, er…sorry about him,” Eric said when Dean had gone from view.

“Hardly your fault.”

“I should have warned him.”

“Warned him.” Frankie laughed, though the sound held little humor. “What, that he had a new female lead mechanic?”

“Well, er…not so much that, just it’s a big race tomorrow and maybe he would have appreciated a little more notice. But with all that’s been going on and…”

She shook her head. “Every Grand Prix is a big one, every point counts. All he needs to know is that I’ll be watching over everyone, seeing how they operate, checking the safety side of things. Tomorrow and in the weeks to come, I’ll be as interested in the mechanics of the team as that of the car.”

Eric rubbed his finger over his bottom lip. “Mmm, I like that about you. How you see the big picture as one entity.”

“Formula One is like a fine Swiss watch. Each individual part, whether human or made of metal, has to interact seamlessly. It’s the only way to stay on top of those all-important nanoseconds which make the difference between winning and losing.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Here’s hoping for some big wins. And speaking of watches.” He glanced at his Rolex. “I have to get going, but enjoy your first day with your new team and dinner tonight.”

“I’m sure dinner will be an eye-opener.”

“I don’t say this often about Dean, but the night before a race, I won’t be worrying about him. His focus will be set on winning.” He held out his hand. “Again, welcome aboard. I hope you’ll be happy with us.”

“Thank you.”

Eric left, and Frankie headed back to the gearbox she’d been tinkering with.

“That went well,” Paul, her new colleague said, then turned down the edges of his mouth.

Jake set his attention on her, a frown in place that covered the whole front section of his bald head.

Frankie huffed. “Yeah, well. It’s not the first time I’ve come across male chauvinist pigs, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

The two men glanced at each other.

“What?” she said, holding up a wrench.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all.”

* * * *

A couple of hours later, Frankie was alone in her hotel room and liking it that way just fine. She couldn’t be bothered with getting dressed up and heading to the hotel restaurant for dinner. She was all out of being sociable. A first day with a new team and the toe-curling interaction with her infamous new driver had sapped her enthusiasm for small talk.

She glanced at the room service menu. Nothing appealed to her despite the fact she was hungry. Sighing, she went to the window and looked down at the hotel gardens. It was a pleasant summer evening, the shadows were long, and the lawn neatly mowed.

A movement to the right caught her attention. It was a man talking on his phone and pacing next to a laurel bush.

Dean Cudditch.

She retreated slightly, into the darkness of her room, but continued to observe him.

He took several steps, turned, and walked back the way he’d come. He then stood still and pushed his hand over his short black hair. He wasn’t talking, but seemed to be listening intently.

Frankie took the opportunity to study him in this unguarded moment. His face was recognizable to almost anyone in the Western world. His trademark short, dark goatee gave him a bad-boy, almost piratical, appearance, and his heavy brows added to the look. If he hadn’t made his fortune as a Formula One champion, he could have made just as many millions as a model. There was a cockiness to him that appealed to lots of women—not her, obviously—and according to the gossip magazines, Dean Cudditch took full advantage of his sex appeal by bedding as many beautiful fans as he could. If all the articles were to be believed, Dean drove hard and fast but partied harder and faster. He lived life at full speed whether he was behind a wheel or not.

He was talking now. Frowning. He appeared worried or as if the conversation was hard work.

Frankie wondered who was on the other end of the line, but not for long, because he ended the call and slotted his phone into the back pocket of his dark jeans.

He glanced up at her room.

Frankie gasped and took another step backward so she could no longer see him.

Had he felt the heat of her gaze?

No, impossible.

Had he seen her staring at him?

Oh, God, she hoped not. The pompous git would think she fancied him. As if? She had better things to do with her time than be another one of his conquests. Her tits were real, not like his usual choice of bed partner, and to go with her real boobs, she liked real feelings and real passion.

Not that she’d had much bed action for a while. Cody had been her last boyfriend. He’d been sweet, too sweet. She’d grown tired of him, the spark had gone and she’d called it quits. It would have been easy to blame her job, constantly traveling with the team made it complicated for relationships, but the truth was, she’d fallen out of lust with him.

Tutting, she picked up the menu again. What to have? “Oh, sod it.” She flicked it aside. “I’ll go downstairs for dinner.”

If nothing else, to prove to Dean Cudditch that she wasn’t sitting in her room, fantasizing about getting hot and sweaty with him. She couldn’t bear the thought of him thinking she was like the others and would drop her panties in a heartbeat to get a piece of him.

Because there was no way that was going to happen.

She opened the wardrobe door and surveyed the meagre collection of clothes she’d hung there earlier that day. She was a jeans kind of a girl. Sparkly tops, cashmere, and heels weren’t her thing. Opting for skinny pale jeans, flat sandals, and a plain white top, she hurriedly dressed. She pulled her curly brown hair back into a low ponytail, added a squirt of perfume, a sweep of lip balm, and a pair of gold studs to her ears.

That would have to do.

She grabbed her phone, mimicked what Dean had done earlier by shoving it into her back pocket, then headed out of the room.

The long corridor was quiet, the carpet a strange orange and blue diamond pattern. Frankie headed to the elevator then descended to the ground floor.

As the doors opened, she heard the low hum of conversation, and the smells of dinner flooded her nostrils. She placed her hand on her stomach—it was about to rumble—and walked across the lobby.

A receptionist smiled at her then went back to her computer screen. The bar area was occupied by several men, none of whom were part of her new team, though she guessed they were McLaren. Heading through the doors of the restaurant, she spotted Paul and Jake. They were sitting with the other members of her mechanical crew, which totalled fifteen. Head of the table, as though he were Lord of the Manor, was Dean Cudditch.

He looked up as she walked in, pausing his conversation with a man she didn’t recognize. He was cute, with long sideburns, an easy smile, and clearly at home with Dean and the others.

Frankie nodded a curt greeting to Dean and made a beeline for a spare seat next to Paul. There was no food on the table, so she figured she hadn’t changed her mind about joining them too late.

“Hey, Frankie, how are you?” Paul asked, smiling up at her.

“Fine. You ordered yet?”

“No, just sat down. Had a beer in the bar first. Well, some of us did. Not Dean obviously.” He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want him to have booze in his system for tomorrow’s starting line up.”

“No, of course not.”

“Can I get you a drink?” Jake asked. “Glass of wine?”

Frankie turned to him. “Actually, a beer would suit me, if that’s okay.”

“Coming right up.” He stood and ambled from the room.

Frankie glanced at Dean again.

He sat with his elbows on the table, hands steepled in front of him, fingertips on his bottom lip. He appeared to be listening to the man at his side but was staring straight at her.

She shuffled in her seat. Surely, he didn’t still have a problem with her being female and taking such a senior position. If so, she’d have to show him what was what.

Which she would anyway. The moment she had the lay of the land, saw her new team in action, she’d make the necessary tweaks and do her stuff. There was always room for improvement. A micro-second here, a tiny alteration there, and the sum total of those changes would add up to make a massive difference to the end result.

Winning.

And it was about time Dean started winning again. He’d won more Grand Prix titles than anyone else in the world, but for the last few years, victory had evaded him. Because no matter what she thought of the man, his driving skills were second to none, and he deserved to lift that trophy again and be crowned World Champion.

A few minutes later, Jake wandered back with half a lager in his hand. “Here you go.” He set it in front of her.

“Cheers.” She took a sip. Generally, she’d have a pint, made sense, less trips to the bar, but her team would soon learn that about her.

“Do you know Ruben Strong?” Paul asked, nodding in Dean’s direction. “The bloke chatting to Cudditch.”

“No, should I?”

“I thought you might. He was on our team for years, had your job, but he had to stop work.”

“Stop work?”

“Yeah, he was sick,” Jake said.

Frankie studied him. He was laughing at something Dean had said. “He doesn’t look sick now.”

“Nah, they fixed him.”

“Had a new bird on his arm when he called by the pits,” Paul added. “Reckon that helps a fella feel better, too.” He laughed.

“Yeah, and Ruben always did like the girls.”

“Just like Dean does,” Frankie added. “Unless, of course, they’re responsible for his pit-stops.”

Paul’s smile slipped.

Jake had a sip of his drink.

Damn, why did I say that?

“I’m sure it will all work out fine,” Paul said. “I think it’s great you’re here. We need fresh blood, fresh eyes on the choreography, and you’ve been there done that with Ferrari.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugged. “I have.”

“And I, for one, will be happy to work under you,” Jake said.

Paul chuckled.

“Oh, fuck, you know what I mean,” Jake added, his round cheeks flushing. “Take orders, be beneath you, do what you say, follow orders.”

“Digging in deeper, man,” Paul said, laughing louder.

Jake groaned. “Not literally under you.”

“I know what you mean.” Frankie smiled. “And for the record, I’ve been known to get my whip out and deliver a few lashes when blokes don’t do as they’re told.”

“Whip? Who has a whip?”

Frankie looked up.

Dean stood at her side. He had one eyebrow raised, and a half smile played with his lips.

“Er, no one,” Frankie managed.

“Shame, that sounds like fun.” He held out his hand. “Come and meet Ruben Strong. He was my lead mechanic for years and a true legend. Helped the team to victory several times over.”