Chapter Two

Frankie sat with Dean and Ruben as the meal was ordered then served. They hadn’t involved her in the conversation. Their chatter centred around the good old days and all the fun they’d had with hot cars and hotter women.

She dug into her lasagne and thanked the waiter when he delivered her a pint of lager.

“No more of that for me now,” Ruben said with a sigh as he started on his pasta.

“So you’ll never come back? To us?” Dean said with a frown and pulling his attention from her full pint.

“Nah, I don’t reckon so. Things have settled down. I can do without the adrenaline.” He pressed his hand over his chest. “And I’m grateful for what I’ve got and for having a future.”

“Yeah, I guess you were on the point of not having that.”

“Yep, not fun.” Ruben smiled as though shaking off memories. “And Katie is great, understanding and all that.”

“Is it serious?” Dean asked.

“Nah, still getting to know each other.” He had a sparkle in his eye. “But I get the feeling it could be.”

Dean set down his knife and fork and clapped Ruben’s back. “I’m happy for you mate, really happy. Everyone deserves a good woman at their side.”

“Speaking of women.” Ruben nodded over Frankie’s shoulder. “Looks like you have some coming your way, Dean.” He chuckled.

Frankie glanced behind herself. Two tall girls—they weren’t more than twenty or so—were strutting toward their table. Wearing tight skirts, low tops, and more makeup than a cover model for Vogue, Frankie recognized the type well—groupies. Out and about, hoping to see the drivers—no, wait—hoping to bed the drivers.

“Well, hello, ladies,” Dean said, pushing his chair back.

The one on the left, with the blonde hair, giggled. “I hope you don’t think we’re intruding, but could we have your autograph?”

“Sure.”

Frankie glanced at his half-eaten steak. They could have let the guy finish his meal first.

“Just here…” The brunette offered him a black pen then bent toward him. She plucked at the neckline of her already plunging T-shirt and exposed the voluptuous rise of her left breast.

“That where you want it, sweetheart?” Dean asked.

“If you wouldn’t mind.” She tittered.

Dean pulled the lid of the pen off with his teeth. With it still in his mouth, he scrawled his name on her chest.

“Thank you,” she said, licking her lips and stroking her finger over it. “I won’t wash for weeks.”

Dirty cow.

Dean took the lid from between his teeth and smiled, a charm-the-pants-off-a-nun type of smile. He turned his attention to the blonde. “You want the same.”

“No, just a photo.”

“Sure.” He pushed his chair farther back.

She must have taken that as an invitation because she dropped down onto his lap, arms around his neck and long tanned legs crossed over the side of the chair.

“Hey, there we go,” Dean said with a chuckle and appearing only mildly surprised. He looked up and smiled as the other girl took a couple of photographs.

“Finished?” he asked the brunette.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” The blonde on his lap set a loud kiss directly over his lips.

Oh, for God’s sake.

Frankie took a deep slug of her drink. How would she cope with this guy? Her last driver was married with three kids and took no notice of girls, and, in the majority, they sensed his I’m-not-interested vibe and steered clear. But this…

“Well, aren’t you a hottie,” Dean said, stroking his hand down the girls back to her ass.

“I’m glad you think so.” She squirmed on his lap.

He set his hands on her waist. “But right now, I’ve got to eat. I need my strength for tomorrow.”

“I hope you win.”

“Me, too.” He eased her to standing.

“Well, if you need anything.” She coiled a lock of hair around her index finger. “We’re staying in this hotel. Room three sixty…we’ll be waiting.”

“And your name?”

“Hannah.”

“Good to know, Hannah. You have a nice evening now.” Dean pulled his chair up to the table and reached for his knife and fork again.

“We will. Bye and thanks. See you later.” The brunette waggled her fingers then linked hands with her friend. They strutted off, wiggling their asses and their heels clacking on the hard floor.

“Bloody hell, is it always like vultures around a carcass at dinner?” Frankie muttered.

“’Tis when Dean’s about,” Ruben said, stabbing a spear of asparagus and popping it into his mouth. He appeared to be suppressing a grin.

“They must be desperate,” Frankie said.

“Hey, thanks for that.” Dean pulled an expression of deep offense.

“What?”

“That only desperate women would find me attractive.”

She stared at him, looked deep into his stunning blue eyes. He knew damn well that’s not what she’d meant. He knew how goddamn attractive he was, there was no doubt about it. Not only that, he used it to get laid whenever he felt like a shag.

“I guess I’m not desperate then.” She shrugged, going for nonchalant.

“So you don’t find me attractive.”

Fuck, of course she did. But there was no way she was going to stroke his already massive ego. It didn’t need bloating further. “You’re one of the team and just happen to be the driver.”

“That’s not what I asked. I appreciate everyone is important, that we’re in this together. It’s a team sport.” He took a sip of his cola. “What I wanted to know is whether or not you find me attractive.”

“And would you ask me that if I were a bloke? If one of your new lead mechanics was a man, would you be curious to know if he found you attractive?”

His cocky smile faltered.

Ruben chuckled. “Watch she doesn’t slap you with a sexual harassment suit, mate.”

Dean’s smile fell altogether. “Maybe I would ask a bloke the same question. You don’t know that.” He frowned.

Ruben laughed louder. “Yeah, right. ‘Course you would. Now come on, play nicely, you two. You’ve got to work together.”

Frankie tore her gaze from Dean and went back to her meal. So much for discussing tactics, what she had to offer McLaren, or how the season was going. It had turned into the least intellectual conversation of her life.

Dean finished his steak and set his knife and fork together. “What time are you heading home, Ruben?”

Ruben glanced at his watch. “Soon.”

“Well, come and join me in the bar for a nightcap.” He stood.

Ruben raised his eyebrows. “A non-alcoholic one?”

“Of course. Then I’m going to play.”

“What, with Hannah and her friend?” Ruben asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Nah, by myself.” Dean winked.

Yeah, right.

“You still up to all that?” Ruben shook his head.

“Yeah, why not? It helps me sleep.” Dean turned to Frankie. “I’ll see you at the track tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there.”

He turned, without smiling, as though his mood had soured, and left the restaurant.

Frankie finished her pint and sighed. That really hadn’t gone according to plan. Now her driver thought she was either jealous of the girls that sprawled themselves over him and offered their breasts for signing, or she was a prude and looking to sue him.

And she was neither of those things. She just wanted to do her job to the best of her ability and play her part in ensuring McLaren were crowned champions.

Race day dawned bright and sunny, which made the choice of tires to start with an easy decision. They’d go for super-soft.

Frankie showered, pulled her hair into a low ponytail, then headed to the track with her teammates. An early bus had been organized for them so they could miss the worst of the traffic. They’d breakfasted on eggs, bacon, sausages, and toast, but Frankie never could eat before a race. Nerves always got to her, and today, they were especially shaky. Not only was it a new team, it was a new team on a race day. She was putting her trust in them big time.

But why not trust them? They could do their job. She was just overseeing things today. Watching, observing. Paul would have it under control.

Walking to the pits, the buzz in the air, the anticipatory atmosphere quickened her heart rate. It always did. The thrill of what was to come, the speed, the danger, the precision skill required from everyone was what she lived for.

“You okay?” Paul asked.

“Yeah, fine. You?”

“Looking forward to a win. We need the points.”

“We’ll win.”

“I hope so.”

“What time is Dean due here?”

“He won’t be long. He always choppers in.”

“But the hotel isn’t exactly far.”

He shrugged. “I guess he’s not good with traffic jams and if you’ve got a helicopter at your disposal, why not use it?”

“Yeah, I get your point. See you in a minute.”

There didn’t appear to be a female changing room, so Frankie headed into a small office and pulled on her new race day overall. It was skin-tight, cream-colored, and had McLaren written down the right arm and leg. It zipped right up to the hollow of her throat and was completely flame proof. There was no mirror to check it out, but she knew it fit snugger than her previous all-in-one.

Well, if she caught anyone checking out her ass, there’d be hell to pay. She wouldn’t tolerate that from her mechanics, and the sooner they learned that, the better.

She sighed and shoved her bag into the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. Was she Dean bloody Cudditch? Hell, no. Why would anyone want to check out her ass? She wasn’t in love with herself, not like he was.

She walked into the shop. The car was off the ramp, ready and waiting. A sleek silver creature with a blood-red tail fin, Cudditch and the sponsors’ names—Sky, Johnny Walker, Hilton—written in black down the side. The super-soft tires were already in place, and a couple of the team, including Paul, fussed over the nose cone.

For a moment, she paused to admire it. It was so much more than a machine. It was a thing of beauty. A triumph of engineering. A wonder of the modern day.

“Have you ever driven one?”

A deep voice by her right shoulder caused her to turn sharply.

Dean stood beside her, also in his race outfit.

“Yeah, sure.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What was your experience of having all that power between your legs?” He tipped his head and bit his bottom lip.

“Technically, the power is beneath your ass, and I coped with it just fine.”

He bit harder on his bottom lip, pushing the blood from it so it paled.

“What?” She knew he was stopping himself from saying something—something about her ass, no doubt. He’d likely had a good look at it as he’d walked up behind her.

“Nothing.” He shrugged.

“Worried I might sue you?” She frowned.

“Babe, two things you should know about me. If I want to say you have a nice ass, I will. It’s worth the risk.”

“Do not bring my ass into the conversation.”

“I didn’t.” He smiled as though butter wouldn’t melt. “You did that.”

Damn it.

He nodded at the car. “And the other thing to remember is risk is what I thrive on.”

“Are you telling me you’ll risk the car today?”

“I risk that car every time I drive it. But they’re calculated risks. The odds are in my favor. It’s a game of cat and mouse, but I’m the cat.” He stepped a little closer. “Though I’ll confess, the faster I go, the nearer to death I am, the more alive I feel. And there’s nothing, nothing on this earth as good as feeling alive.”

“Frankie, will you come and look at this?” Paul called.

She glanced his way. “Sure.”

“Nice to be wanted,” Dean said and nodded at Paul.

Frankie studied his face. Was he being sarcastic? What kind of response did he expect of her? He was wanted, clearly, by every woman for miles around.

Except by her, of course. She didn’t want him.

“I heard Farrah’s been kicking off about his position.” Jake walked up to them, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Ha, because he’s not in pole.” Dean chuckled. “Serves him right for driving like a fish on qualies.”

Frankie wandered off. It was clear the Farrah and Cudditch feud was still on-going. Likely would be until one of them retired…or worse.

“Hey, Frankie, babe,” Dean called. “Good luck.”

“Yeah, you, too.”

“Ha, I don’t need luck. I’ve got the skill.”

“Call me babe one more time, and you’ll need a whole fucking pile of luck to end the day with your nuts intact.”

For a moment he looked shocked then he burst out laughing.

How dare he.

“Yeah, I’ll remember that.” He shook his head.

Frankie tutted and stepped up to Paul. “Asshole,” she muttered.

“Talented asshole,” Paul said with a grin.

“Mmm…”

They spent the next few hours running checks. Outside, the hum of the crowd grew louder as it increased in size and the excitement built.

Dean hovered around. He spoke to Eric then wanted details of the wing positions. He munched a chocolate bar and had photographs with some big wigs from Sky who were on a tour.

Frankie concentrated on her work and tried her best not to be constantly conscious of his whereabouts. But it was hard. It was as though an energy followed him around, drawing her gaze to him like a magnet.

She wondered what kind of night he’d had. If he’d sought out the glamorous blonde groupie, what was her name? Hannah. For a good romp in the sack. Perhaps her friend had joined in. He certainly didn’t look tired. In fact, he looked perfectly fresh and raring to go. His spirits high.

Eventually, it was time to get onto the track and for the race to begin.

Several mechanics, including Frankie, pushed the car into the pit, stopping it within the blue lines shaped like a box.

“Where’s Dean?” Frankie asked, glancing around.

“Dunno,” one of her mechanics said.

Damn it, now she needed him, she couldn’t find him.

“He’ll be behind the tires,” Jake said.

“What?”

“Over there.” Jake nodded.

To the rear of the workshop, the spare tires were stacked neatly on rolling stands that came on and off the truck. There were more softs, plus intermediates and wets should the weather turn.

“What’s he doing back there?”

“Go see.” Jake nodded as though it were no big deal.

Frankie was confused but went in the direction of the tires just the same.

As she got nearer, she caught a glimpse of him through the gap in the rubber.

The soles of her boots were silent as she peeked around the tall rack.

He’d bowed his head, his shoulders were rounded, and he held a crucifix against his lips.

On the floor in front of him, drawn in vivid white chalk, was a cross.

She looked back up at his face. His eyes were closed, his long lashes resting on his cheeks. He appeared deep in concentration.

For once, he didn’t look as though he were about to come out with some smart ass remark. His face was serious, humble almost.

“Dean.”

He opened his eyes and glared at her.

“We’re ready for you.”

“Fuck.” He frowned at the cross.

“What’s up?”

“You interrupted me.”

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” He rubbed his fingers over his brow.

“Er, are you’re praying?”

“I’m about to dodge a fiery death, drive within a whisker of meeting my maker. Is a prayer beforehand really so weird?”

“No, of course not.”

“I’ll be there a.s.fucking.p. okay.” He shut his eyes again and touched the crucifix back to his lips.

“Yeah, sure, whenever.” She backed away. “No rush.”

That wasn’t true. There was every reason to rush. He needed to get in, buckle up, and head onto the track. But he knew that, right? Dean had been there, done it.

By the time she’d arrived back at the car and put on her own safety hat, Dean was strutting at her side.

Jake passed him his helmet.

“One for the road,” Paul said, handing him a peanut.

Dean took it and popped it into his mouth. Whilst chewing, he pulled up his fire-retardant mask then slammed on his helmet.

Frankie watched as he nimbly slid into his seat and was assisted with not just the five-point seatbelt but also with the steering wheel that slotted into place after he did.

The car was a hive of activity as last-minute checks were carried out.

Dean nodded then gave the thumbs up.

The mechanics stepped back, and the signalman turned his board to first gear.

A low rumble vibrated around the pit as Dean drove into the moving lane.

Frankie stepped into the space the car had occupied and watched as he crawled onto the track. The sleek machine joined the other cars, which sat like growling animals waiting to pounce. He moved past them, past Farrah, and took lead position. He was one of the last to arrive in the line up.

“Everything to race for,” Paul said, his voice muffled through his helmet.

“Absolutely.” Frankie watched as an official with a One Minute sign walked amongst the drivers. “Let’s hope he does it.”

“No reason why not. He knows this track inside out, great weather, the car’s a dream.”

“What’s with the peanut, by the way?”

Paul chuckled. “Ah, he’s a superstitious son of a bitch. Has to chalk his cross and pray behind the tires then eat one shell-less nut before he puts his helmet on.”

“Shell-less?”

“Yeah, and I mean shell-less. It can’t even come onto the track grounds in its shell.”

Frankie stared at Paul, wondering if he were having her on.

“Seriously,” Paul said, holding up his hands. “That’s what it is.”

She sighed. Drivers could be a weird bunch. No doubt he had to masturbate the night before as well, and that’s what he’d been referring to in the restaurant. What had he said, something about playing with himself?

A deafening roar filled the air. The crowd erupted. The scent of rubber and fumes blasted in a hot wind toward the pits.

Frankie’s heart tripped. It always did. The thrill, the excitement, the terror, it got to her.

She glanced at the team. They were on the ball, setting up for a pit stop. Engine starter was on standby in case of a stall, new tires in place, high-speed airguns prepared for action, jack ready to go.

The noise faded a little as the cars became more distant, weaving around the first bends.

Frankie went into the workshop with a few of the other members of the team and looked at the screen.

Dean had held his pole position as they’d gotten away.

Only fifty-two laps to go.