Her world was dominated by racing cars and the men who drove them, her heart captured by the brash contender for the Grand Prix championship.
Billie Gentry was sixteen when she watched her beloved father’s Formula I Alfa Romeo spin out of control and careen into the Sicilian mountainside during the grueling Targa Florio.For years she fought to erase the memory of that tragic day.Now, her job as a photojournalist for Attention magazine has taken her to Monaco where Brice Logan, the reckless contender for the Grand Prix world championship, is determined to show her that he—and race car driving—are in her blood. As Billie races against love, she must confront the memories, the fear of losing Brice to the dangers of the sport and the treachery of a jealous rival for love to triumph at the finish line.
Excerpt
“So, you’re the photographer from Attention!” He stepped out of the shadows. “And here I thought you were Hughes’s mistress. It looks like I was wrong about you.”
“Were you eavesdropping?” she demanded.
He gave her a guilty little smile and jumped over the low wall that separated their balconies.
“Your presence is untimely,” she said.
“It would have been a hell of a lot more awkward if I’d made my presence known while he was here.”
“You’re impertinent.”
He came to stand beside her. Nodding toward the city that glittered several stories below he said, “Pretty, isn’t it?”
The lights of Monte Carlo sparkled up and down the boulevards. The headlights of expensive sports cars flashed by. In the harbor dim lights flickered in the cabins of luxury yachts, glowing like lanterns strung across the dark water.
From the corners of her eyes she stole a peek at him as he gazed out on the night. Once again she was struck by his extraordinary good looks. His hair was as dark as anthracite. Beneath it a classic profile was silhouetted against the lights of the city. The only splash of color among those sun-bronzed features was the electric blue of his eyes, when he turned to her and said, “This place is a toyland. A great big playpen for the rich. Sometimes I have to ask myself what I’m doing here. But then I climb into the cockpit of my Ferrari and I know.” He laughed softly. “It makes all the rest tolerable—the hype, the reporters, the photographs, and the idiots like Rene who think their money can buy a winning team. When you have that kind of money, anything is expendable. If a car breaks down, he buys another one. If a driver dies, he replaces him with someone else.”
Detecting the undisguised bitterness in his tone, she ventured, “If you feel that way, why do you drive for him?”
“Auto-racing is an expensive sport,” Brice said matter-of-factly. “Without sponsors it would die. Years ago it was for the rich young men who wanted something to do with their money and their time. These days it’s the owners who have all the money. In your father’s day a driver arrived at the track with his crash helmet, drove his race and went home or back to his hotel afterward. Today, it’s partly politics, mostly public relations. A driver has a responsibility to the people who put up the money. In my case, the money comes from Rene Leon, so I put my personal dislike of the man aside.”
He drew on his cigarette and let the smoke curl out into the night. “I put up with him because there’s something more important to me. And that something takes place every time I slide down into the cockpit and take the wheel in my hands. The minute I’m only doing it for the money is when I say good-bye to Rene Leon and his friends. Until then…” He flicked the glowing stub of his cigarette into the darkness. “At least they’re worth a laugh or two, don’t you agree?”
“On the contrary,” she replied, frowning. “I don’t find your friends amusing at all.”
“You must be referring to Renata. She’s a handful, I’ll grant you that. But you shouldn’t let her bother you. She’s a victim of her own lifestyle. She was weaned on the high-life. She rounded off her education in a finishing school of nightclubs and black-tie parties. While other people were learning how to count their money, Renata was learning how to spend her father’s. Paris is her home, but Monte Carlo is her playground. Here she has her pick of yachts and villas in which to do her bed-hopping.”
Amazing by his apparent lack of caring, she said, “And you don’t mind that?”
“Why should I? I don’t own Renata.”
“Well, she certainly seems to think she owns you.”
“That’s her style. Renata wants whatever she can’t have, and I guess that includes me.”
Billie’s tone turned dry when she said, “Those were not the protests of a reluctant lover I overheard yesterday through the wall.”
He lifted an inquisitive brow at her. “Eavesdropping?”
“Certainly not. If you don’t want your neighbors to share your intimate moments, you should keep the volume turned down.”
A devilish glint sparked in his eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re even more beautiful when you’re angry?”
For some crazy reason, even a stock line like one that quickened Billie’s blood, and suddenly, she was all too conscious of the closeness of him. Despite the smile playing across his lips, there was something almost menacing about him. Perhaps it was only that he was unlike any man she’d ever known. He lacked the self-control of Paul Colby and the sophistication of Christopher Hughes. Into her nostrils wafted not the tweedy, outdoor scent of Paul’s aftershave lotion, nor the spicy aroma of Christopher’s expensive cologne, but rather the pure animal scent of the man.
“Hughes was right about you,” Brice said. “You’ve got this sport in your blood as much as I do.”
Alarmed, Billie drew back, but his hand closed over her arm. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to talk about it? All right, let’s talk about something else, like the guy you left back in New York, the one you’re running away from.”
He was pulling her closer as he spoke until she felt the soft texture of his shirt against her skin and his warm breath on her cheek. “So you’re here to sort things out,” he said in a mocking drawl. “Well, I’ll tell you something. If you have to think about whether you love that guy, then you don’t.”
She began to protest, but his mouth came down over hers, staunching any objection she might have made. He kissed her thoroughly, his tongue probing the corners of her mouth, his lips impatient as though he had waited far longer than he should have to kiss her.
This is a sentimental and epic story about a young man, injured in the Viewnam War, who returns to Dallas, Texas, in 1964, and begins rebuilding his life. Set against the rock and roll era of the early 1960’s, when casual sex and recreational drugs w
