Accelerated Passion Page 3

  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.

  Chapter Three

  “There’s a crash on the hairpin,” Paul shouted.

  “Shit, who is it?” Frankie peered at the screen.

  “It’s Mercedes, Vittrosi, I think.”

  The car was spinning but slowing, the front left tire clearly blown. It bounced against the cushioned barrier. Some pieces flew from the front and narrowly missed landing in the crowd. One more spin, and it came to a halt. A posse of emergency workers raced over, fire extinguishers gushing white foam the moment they reached the car.

  “Jesus,” she muttered. Crashes always sent a chill up her spine. Even though the drivers were well-protected, things were still too close for comfort.

  “Where’s Cudditch?” Jake asked.

  “He was way ahead when it happened. Farrah is still biting his heels.”

  “Gonna be like that the whole way.” Frankie glanced out at the track as the safety car sped past. They’d all have to slow and maintain position while the debris was cleared up. “As long as this doesn’t turn the tables. Mess up his concentration.”

  “Nah, he’s solid.” Jake took a slug from a can of Red Bull. “Takes more than that to shake him.”

  But the crash did shake Dean, and he lost to Farrah on a corner as soon as the race re-started.

  “Fuck it!” Jake said, chucking his empty can into the trash.

  “Loads of time for him to regain that distance,” Frankie said, popping a stick of gum into her mouth.

  Several laps later, Dean pulled into the pits. The mechanics were at the ready. Like a wonderfully planned trapeze act, tires were changed, the tail adjusted, and a piece of wreckage was pulled from the air intake. It all took less than three seconds.

  The signal went, and Dean was back on track, tearing up the gears in hot pursuit of his nemesis.

  “Go on…” Frankie said. “Do your stuff.”

  But Dean didn’t do his stuff. Farrah’s lead extended to the point he had no hope of catching him. By the forty-ninth lap it was obvious that unless Farrah had some catastrophic engine failure, Dean was going to have to be content with second place.

  “Fuck, he’s not going to be happy,” Paul said as he busied about.

  Frankie spat her gum into a nearby bin. “Neither is Eric.”

  “I ain’t so worried about Eric,” Paul muttered.

  As the final lap got underway, she told Paul what a great job the team had done. They were efficient, disciplined, and gaining any extra nanoseconds to speed them up was going to be a big task. The mood was sombre, though. They’d deserved to win. They all felt it had been stolen from them. Points were all well and good, but first places were what they wanted.

  The chequered flag waved. The crowd cheered. Farrah raced over the finish line with Dean a split second behind him.

  Twenty seconds later, Dean pulled into the pits.

  As soon as Jake slid out the steering wheel, Dean was up and out of the car. He practically crackled with annoyance. His shoulders were tense and raised around his ears, and his strides long and fast.

  He dragged off his helmet, tugged at his mask then threw both at a nearby mechanic who caught them with a grunt as they collided with his belly.

  “You,” he said, pointing at Frankie. “Come with me. Now.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make me say it again.” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes flashing.

  Frankie glanced at the team. They were all standing still, staring her way. None of them looked like they’d swap places with her.

  “The car,” she said, pointing at it. “Guys…”

  “Yes, of course,” Jake said, turning back to it.

  She frowned and followed Dean. He was pacing toward the small office she’d used to get changed in. Once there, he opened the door and held it wide so she could step inside.

  “What’s up?” she asked, folding her arms. She had no idea. The pit stops and tire changes had been seamless. The car ran like a dream. She’d fulfilled all her responsibilities.

  He slammed the door. A skinny blind that covered the glass on the upper section rattled.

  “You. That’s what’s fucking up.”

  “What the bloody hell have I done?” Had she heard him right?

  “You…” He shoved his hands behind the back of his head, clasped his fingers there, and stuck his elbows out to the side. “You interrupted me.”

  “I did what?” Now she was really confused.

  He turned, paced to the wall, and kept his back to her.

  Despite the tension of the moment, she couldn’t help admiring the way his outfit stretched across his broad shoulders, and how his snug suit hugged his buttocks.

  Several seconds later, he turned to her again. If she’d thought he’d be calmer, she’d been mistaken.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She indicated the door. “And if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  He dropped his hands from the back of his head and stalked up to her.

  Despite herself, Frankie backed away. Her shoulders hit a filing cabinet, which clattered against the wall.

  “You interrupted me when I was saying my pre-race prayer.”

  “I…er…yes, sorry about that. I wasn’t sure what you were doing, and it was time to go.”

  He stepped closer, so close she could see every speck of stubble on his cheeks and every whisker on his neatly trimmed beard—the fury in his eyes.

  Frankie moved to the left, slinking away from the filing cabinet.

  He followed.

  She pressed up against the wall. “Really, is this all about me talking to you back there?”

  “Not just talking, interrupting.” He pressed his palms to the wall either side of her head, trapping her in.

  Her heart rate picked up, breathing was getting hard, not least because his spicy cologne tickled her nostrils.
It was rich and sultry and laced with fresh sweat and the heat of the track.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

  “You cost me that fucking race.”

  “Don’t be so stupid. Vittrosi’s crash and Farrah pipping you on that bend did it.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. No, I have my routine. I draw a cross behind the tires, I pray alone for thirty seconds then I eat one shell-less nut. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done.”

  “But that’s…well, for want of a better word, nuts.”

  “Maybe it is to you.” He moved closer still, his legs touching hers. “But for me, for the team, it’s how we roll.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed. “If you want to stick around you’d better get fucking used to it.”

  “Whether or not I stick around isn’t up to you.” She hoped she’d sounded surer than she felt. Dean was the big ‘I am.’ The one the sponsors and McLaren wanted happy. If he started kicking off about her being on the team, well, it was only likely to go one way.

  And she needed a job.

  “Besides, I know now,” she said, chancing a smile. “So it won’t happen again.”

  He shook his head. “Whose bloody idea was it to have a female lead mechanic?”

  “Oh, we’re back to that, are we?” Her hackles rose again. “And don’t you think that a new male mechanic might have interrupted you, too? How would he know any better than me?”

  He said nothing, just stared at her.

  She went to move, but he shifted with her.

  “Dean.”

  “He might have done the same.” His nose twitched. He was breathing fast. “And more fool him.”

  “Why? What would you have done?” She paused and put her hands on his chest, pushed at him.

  He didn’t move.

  “Let me out.”

  “You want to know what I would have done to a rookie mechanic who thought he could fuck up my ritual?”

  I’m no goddamn rookie.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d have kicked his sorry ass. He might have gotten a black eye out of the deal, too.”

  She tilted her chin. “So kick my ass. Blacken my eye. I don’t want to be treated differently because I’m female.”

  His mouth twisted. “Yeah, right. I’m really into beating up women.”

  “Just holding them hostage.” She pushed again. “Move.”

  He didn’t budge. It was like having a slab of concrete in front of her.

  He lowered his head.

  She froze.

  His nose was almost touching hers. His breaths washed over her lips.

  Her stomach did a strange flip and sent butterflies around her body. The look in his eyes, it was so intense, so wild, so damn sexy. Fuck, to have him looking at her like that if they were naked, alone, about to get carnal…

  “Frankie,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Don’t fucking do it again.”

  He pushed back from the wall and turned.

  Within a second she was alone and staring at the door as, once again, the blind rattled with the force of the slam.

  She blew out a breath.

  What the hell…

  Her heart raced, her muscles were tight, as though she’d done a workout. A tug of longing pulled at her core.

  Longing. For what?

  For that prick Dean Cudditch? Not likely. He was a Neanderthal. A man who was clearly flirting with sanity—shell-less goddamn peanuts, chalked crosses, rituals.

  She ran her fingertips over her lips. For a moment she’d thought he might kiss her.

  No, that was stupid thinking. He was stopping himself from throwing a punch. Fury burned bright in his irises, but he’d kept it contained.

  She pushed away from the wall. Her knees were weak, and a wave of nausea went through her. Despite the race going well from a mechanical point of view, she still felt as though she’d failed.

  “Damn it,” she said, pulling in a deep breath. “I won’t let you get to me, Dean Cudditch. I did my job. You just didn’t do yours.”

  She stepped out of the office, the workshop now a swarm of people. The mechanics were rushing about like ants, taking things apart, their air guns squealing. Eric was back with an army of suited men, the sponsors, and Dean was having to smile and shake hands with them.

  But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. She knew him well enough to be able to see the tension in his handsome face. She’d bet her best ratchet that all he wanted to do was climb aboard his fancy chopper and get the hell out of Silverstone.

  But he couldn’t.

  This was also part of his job.

  Just like working with her team at the end of a race was part of hers. They’d be at it until midnight, so she knew she might as well get started.

  She threw one last glance his way as she picked up a spanner.

  He was staring straight at her.

  Frankie had been right. It was midnight by the time the car, in its entirety, was ready to be packed onto the truck the following day.

  They’d be heading to Germany to prepare for the next race in a few weeks’ time. The Hockenheimring circuit was one of Frankie’s least favorite. Known amongst the drivers as the graveyard, she was always glad when the last car got over the finish line, regardless of the team.

  “Hey, you gonna have a drink with us?” Paul asked as they ambled into the hotel lobby.

  “Yeah.” She led the way to the bar. “My treat, though. What you having?”

  “Ah, cheers, I’ll have a beer.”

  She took orders from several other members of the team—some had headed straight to their rooms—then loaded up a tray at the bar with seven pints.

  She carefully carried it across to her group who were chatting animatedly now they’d had the chance to sit and relax.

  They were a great bunch of guys. A variety of nationalities all working together with a mutual love of the perfect engine and insane speed.

  She set down the tray and picked up her own pint, took a sip.

  “You’re not a vino blanco girl?” Enrique, one of the younger mechanics, asked. He was cute, with olive skin, a Spanish accent, and strong aftershave.

  “Nah, can’t you tell?” She laughed then wiped the back of her hand over her lips to remove the froth her beer had left behind.

  He chuckled. “Tell me why you are here? Why a mechanic and not a hairdresser?”

  Frankie sat next to him. “Do you want a bloody slap?”

  He chuckled. “No, I think it would hurt from you.”

  She grinned. “It would.” She set her drink down. “You want to know how I got here?”

  “Si, tell me.”

  “I was a science geek at school, maths, too. Then I went on to university, Sydney, to study engineering. While I was there, I got into karting. Loved it. The speed, race strategy, all the little things you could do to improve the time. And do you want to know what I loved most?” She leaned forward.

  “Yeah, what?” Paul asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  Jake nodded and slurped his drink.

  “I liked to see the boys’ faces when I took off my helmet and they realized they’d been beaten by a girl.” She laughed. “It gave me great pleasure to dent their egos. Why shouldn’t I be able to win just because I’m a girl? I can drive, and I can drive fast.”

  Enrique chuckled. “I bet you can.”

  “So how’d you end up on the Ferrari team for five years?” Jake asked.

  She pulled her hair out of its ponytail. Her scalp was aching from having it pulled back tight all day. “I worked my way up the ranks. Got some post-grad experience with Honda then started as a junior.” She nodded at Enrique. “Like you’re doing now. It was just a case of sticking at it. Lots of people don’t. The hours, the constant traveling is a killer. Puts a strain on every relationship you have.”

  “Tell us about it,” Paul said. “Which reminds me. I should call home, see how things are going. The kids are on summe
r holidays, always sends Mandy crazy, well, more crazy than usual.” He stood and fished his phone from his pocket. Stepped away.

  “So where is the hero of the hour?” Frankie asked. She’d tried to sound casual, because, well, she wasn’t really interested in where Dean Cudditch was.

  “Dunno.” Jake shrugged. “Drinking away his sorrows. Fucking some tart senseless to get losing to Farrah out of his system.”

  Frankie took a big drink.

  The thought of Dean fucking wildly, all that pent-up passion she’d seen in his eyes unleashed, was enough to flood her pelvis with heat. At the same time, it made her want to throw something.

  Why? What does it matter to me who he fucks?

  “Is that what he does?” she asked.

  “Hey, you’ve read the gossip mags, right?” Jake said.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t believe everything I read.” Frankie shrugged.

  “When it comes to Dean, you should. Twice a month, for one day only, he’s a model citizen during the season, no booze, early to bed. The rest of the time, it’s anything goes in Dean Cudditch world.”

  Frankie nodded. She’d seen pictures of him with a variety of starlets over the years—tall with big tits and bubbles of blonde hair seemed to be his type. But he’d never married, never been tied to anyone for a length of time.

  What must that be like? To never have a special someone? To always be roaming the planet with a fast car and a group of idolizing fans?

  Frankie finished her drink, chatted some more with Enrique about his home town in Catalonia then excused herself.

  It had been a long first day. Emotionally tiring as much as physically.

  She showered, brushed her teeth, and slipped into bed. It was then she realized she hadn’t even eaten.

  But she wasn’t really hungry, well, not for food anyway.

  Chapter Four

  Frankie’s dreams were a jumbled collection of images. Dean was there. His eyes flashing with the same intensity as when he’d pinned her up against the wall. She was aware of his body pressing into hers—the heat of his skin, the shape of his mouth, the sexy smell emanating from his flesh.

  Again, she’d touched him, palms flat on his chest. But this time, she didn’t push him away. In her nighttime fantasy, her mind conjured up an erotic scenario where she’d drifted her hands lower. Slipped them over the soft smooth material of his driver’s outfit and searched out his groin.