Enright Family Collection (96 page)

“Is that how you had your accident? Going around a corner too quickly?”

“No. One of my brake discs disintegrated and locked my right front wheel. I lost control and slammed into a wall.”

“I didn’t know that brake discs could disintegrate.” She wondered how the brakes on her little red number were holding up.

“Under normal conditions, they don’t. But keep in mind that these cars run at average speeds of one hundred twenty to one hundred thirty miles per hour for a sustained period of time. You might do fifty laps on a three-mile track. That’s one hundred fifty miles, Zoey, at a very high rate of speed. And you’re running for an hour or better, with just a few pit stops—the fewer the better, since they cost you valuable seconds.”

“Seconds? Don’t you mean minutes?”

“I mean seconds. A really good pit crew can get you in and out in maybe eight or nine seconds. That’s changing tires, refueling, everything.”

“That’s hard to believe.” She shook her head.

“That’s why the pit crews are so important, why each man has to be the best at what he does. There’s a lot of money at stake here, Zoey.”

“You mean when you win a race?”

“Not just the individual races. You get points for every race—ten for winning, the runner-up gets six, the third-place driver gets four, fourth place gets three, fifth place gets two, and the number six finisher gets one. They are
tallied throughout the season, and the driver who has accumulated the most points at the end of the racing season is the world champion for that year.”

“What’s the most points you ever got in a race?”

“Three. At Monte Carlo last year. And they were hard won. That race is run on the narrow streets of the city, with tiny turns and spots where it’s almost impossible to get your speed built up before you have to make a hairpin turn. It’s a fun race for the spectators, and of course, it’s Monte Carlo, with all its glamour and mystique. But it’s a devil of a run, and I was lucky to finish in fourth place.”

“You miss it,” she stated simply, and an alarm began to ring inside her head. She tried swatting at it mentally to turn it off, but it wouldn’t go away. His eyes took on a sort of gleam when he spoke of the races he had driven, of his old life, that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Clearly, racing was in his blood. But was she?

“I miss it every day,” he was saying. “But I can’t change what is. I don’t see my ankle making a full recovery. Sometimes I think it’s fine, and then it sort of locks up, unexpectedly. You can’t have that happen when you’re screaming around a track at a hundred twenty miles per hour. If you don’t kill yourself, you’ll be damned lucky if you don’t kill someone else. It simply isn’t worth the risk.”

Zoey turned on the sink and rinsed the lettuce, then tore it into small pieces. So. He couldn’t go back to racing if he wanted to. She wondered how badly he wanted to, but didn’t ask. It made a difference somehow, that he was there, stayed there, because he had no choice. She wondered what would happen if the choice was his to make. Part of her didn’t want to know.

“So, no, I won’t be driving again, but I intend to stay close to the sport. And it will be great to see some of my old friends again. I can’t wait to introduce you to Tony. He’ll be going with us to Silverstone, which is near
Towcester, Northamptonshire, for the race. You’ll like Tony, by the way. He’s quite the character. He was the first friend I made when I came to England for graduate studies.”

“Does he still race?”

“No, no. He, too, was forced to quit following a bad accident that made him stop and count his blessings. But he’ll never be out of the sport completely, either. We’ve talked for years about going into business together someday, you know. Recently he’s been looking into several possibilities. When I spoke with him some weeks ago, he hinted that he has some new venture he wants to talk to me about.” Ben laughed and slid the slab of beef onto the broiler pan. “Could be just about anything. Who knows what he’s come up with?”

A chill passed through Zoey and she shook it off, refusing to acknowledge it. Not now. Later, there would be time. . . .

“We’ll have a wonderful vacation together, I promise.” He turned and smiled at her. “You’ll love the whole race experience. It’s fast, it’s loud, and it’s fun.”

“Will this be the first race where you’ve been a spectator, not a participant?”

“Yes.” He turned back to the stove and fiddled with the broiler switch. “And yes, it will be difficult for me not to be driving. Very difficult. But that’s how it is.”

Later, after Ben had fallen asleep, Zoey thought back to his words. Having herself taken so many years to find her place in this world, her heart hurt for Ben, who, having found his place, was now denied that which he loved to do. It was sweet of him to want to take her to this big English race with him, and to introduce her to his friends. It should be a fun holiday—it had been years since she had been to London, one of her favorite cities for shopping, and she mentally made a list of all the boutiques and little shops she would have to check out before they came home. She had always loved London’s pace, the pomp of Buckingham Palace, the extravagance
that was Harrod’s, even the imagined sense of eerie foreboding she had experienced in the Tower of London. It would be a treat to spend a week there—a week, she reminded herself, she would be spending with Ben.

Then why—she twisted in his arms slowly, so as not to awaken him—did she feel so uneasy?

Chapter
26
 

“Ben, where are you going?” Zoey turned in the small front seat of the sporty tan Jaguar Tony had left for him at the airport for Ben to make the drive between London and Northamptonshire, where the British Grand Prix would run in two days. “The sign for Towcester pointed that way.”

“Just a little detour, my dear.” Ben glanced in the rearview mirror to make certain that no car had emerged from one of those little hidden driveways, thinking to pass him on this narrow road. Seeing no other cars, he eased into the left turn, whistling a happy tune. There was something absolutely wonderful about speeding along a country road in a spectacular car, on a superb summer day, with a dazzling woman at your side. He smiled. Sometimes life was as good as it could possibly get.

“Slow down,” Zoey told him. “I’d like to see a little of the scenery.”

“You can do all the sight-seeing you want on the way back.”

“I thought the race wasn’t till Sunday.”

“Right.”

“Then why are we flying through the English countryside like a couple of whippets?”

“We’re supposed to be at Tony’s in time for tea.”

“Now’s a fine time to tell me. I could have changed into something less wrinkled at the airport.” She frowned. Why do men always overlook little things like that when they make plans? Had she known they’d be making a social call, she would have worn something other than the pale green linen suit, which, after hours of traveling, looked like she’d found it under the bed.

“You look fine, sweetheart. Beautiful.”

She didn’t feel beautiful. She felt travel worn and travel weary, and had spent the past several hours dueling with a tight edginess that had settled under her rib cage. As much as she longed to spend time here with Ben, something had set her instincts on alert. This was
his
territory, and she didn’t know how strong the pull might be.

She leaned back against the seat and told herself to concentrate on the scenery as it zipped by. Fields edged in stone walls, randomly set, picturesque churches and neat, tiny towns, spacious estates surrounded by manicured grounds—all flew past in a blur of shapes and colors.

Ben slowed as they entered a small town with rows of stone town houses lining both sides of the street. A small MarketPlace with several magazine-perfect shops—or
shoppes,
as several of the signs declared—outlined the square in the middle of town, and a lovely old stone church and vicarage defined the outermost limits of the village.

“Pretty place,” Zoey told him.

“Very.” He nodded, and accelerated just slightly as he took the soft turn in the road onto a straightaway.

A mile or so down the road, he pointed to an old stone house that sat back a bit from the road and was surrounded
by gardens and told her, “J. D. Borders, the rock singer, and his family live there,” as they whizzed by.

“I’m sure it was lovely,” Zoey grumbled, “had I been able to see it.”

“I promise, on the way back, I won’t even take the car out of second gear. I’m just anxious to see my friend, that’s all. I’m sorry, Zoey. I will make it up to you on the return trip.”

Twenty minutes later, Ben made a slow right turn up a narrow, tree-lined lane.

“How much farther?” Zoey asked.

“We’re here.”

“We’re where?”

“At Tony’s.”

“Where’s his house?”

“About another quarter mile up the lane.”

“Tell me more about this Tony person.”

“Tony Chapman and I went to graduate school together. He was majoring in engineering, I was majoring in business. We roomed together, became the best of friends. He was the one who introduced me to the racing. We’ve worked pit crews together, we’ve test-driven cars together.” Ben smiled. “We’ve even talked of owning our own cars someday, maybe even having our own team.”

“But not to drive . . .”

“No. We would build.”

“Build the cars?”

He nodded.

“Doesn’t that take a lot of money?”

“Tons.”

“Well, if it’s not too personal to ask, do you have tons of money?”

“When I turned twenty-one, I inherited the money my grandfather had set aside for my mother. I invested it well—acting as my own broker, I am pleased to say—and that money paid for my cars. Of course, I had sponsors to back me financially as well. I don’t know of
anyone who could completely fund their own cars without a few sponsors.” He broke into a grin. “Except maybe Tony.”

“Is he terribly wealthy?”

Ben merely pointed to the large stone house that rose majestically from behind the trees. “Stowe Manor,” he said simply.

“I’ve seen that house before. In magazines!” Zoey leaned forward.

“Tony’s sister is a fashion photographer. She often uses the estate for her shoots.”

“It’s beautiful!” Zoey exclaimed. “And look at that fountain! Wow! A real English country manor house! Wait till I tell Mom!”

Ben came to a stop in front of the house and turned off the engine. Almost immediately the wide front door opened and a tall, lanky man with wavy brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail stepped out. Ben was out of the car in a flash, and Zoey watched as Ben greeted his old friend.

“Zoey”—Ben opened her car door—“please say hello to Anthony Chapman, the twelfth earl of Stowe.”

“An earl,” she repeated as Tony offered her his hand and helped her out. “What do you call an
earl?”

“Tony,” he told her. “You call me Tony. And I’ll call you magnificent.” He kissed her hand, his eyes twinkling. “You’re far too beautiful for this rake. You should be with me.”

Zoey laughed, charmed by his easygoing way and flirtatious manner. The twelfth earl of Stowe was adorable, with baby blue eyes and deep dimples.

“Leave your things.” Tony took both their arms. “Mrs. Bridges has been holding tea, waiting for you, and you know how she hates to serve a late tea, Ben.”

“Mrs. Bridges is still with you?”

“Could you imagine this place running without her? Mrs. Bridges is a distant relative of my mother’s and has been with the family since, oh, roughly seventeen twenty-two or thereabouts,” Tony confided to Zoey.
“We’ve offered her a handsome retirement on several occasions, but she’s convinced that it is she, and only she, who holds Stowe Manor together. She firmly believes that should she turn her back for more than ten minutes, the entire estate would collapse. And the truth of the matter is that she’s most likely right. She’s like a little army drill sergeant, our Mrs. Bridges is, and we wouldn’t have things any other way.”

Tony led them into a wide hall with black and white marble squares on the floor and rich wood paneling on the walls. The eyes from rows and rows of what surely must have been family portraits followed them down the hall. They passed through a maze of rooms until they reached a sunny sitting room overlooking the expansive grounds.

“Well, then, and it’s about time.” The formidable white-haired woman wore a blue and white polka dot dress that fell two inches below her knees and sturdy sensible oxford shoes, and she actually
clucked
as they entered the room. “You have never been on time for tea in this house before and it’s no surprise to me that you’re late today, Bennett Pierce.”

“Ah, Mrs. Bridges.” Ben embraced her fondly, and the stern folds of the woman’s face softened in spite of herself. “You remembered. I’m flattered.”

“It’s not meant for flattery.” She shooed him away even as the smile touched her lips. “Your scones are getting cold and so’s your tea.”

“I’d cross the ocean for your scones and tea”—he kissed her forehead—“cold or otherwise.”