Accelerated Passion (23 page)

Frankie froze.

That look in his eyes.

She’d seen it before.

He marched up to her and placed his hands on her helmet.

“Dean…” she whispered.

His eyebrows pulled low as he tugged her helmet off. Her hair fell down her back, and she suddenly felt very small standing in front of him.

He shoved her heavy safety hat at Enrique, who stood at his side.

“I won,” he said quietly to her.

“I know.” She nodded as she stared up at his handsome face. “Congratulations.”

He reached behind her and pulled the band holding her hair back. He smoothed it off so her curls fell over her shoulders and tickled her ears and cheeks.

“Dean…?” she said again.
What the hell is he doing?

“I won the German Grand Prix, and now I want to win you…” He paused, a small tendon twitched in his jaw as he held her cheeks. “Tell me I have, Frankie. Tell me I’ve won you, too. Not just for today, tomorrow, but well into the future, forever, if you’ll have me.”

She swallowed. Her eyes stung. Did he even need to ask?

She nodded. It was only a tiny movement.

Suddenly, she was in his arms and being hoisted into the air. He pressed his lips to hers in a hungry, possessive kiss as he cupped her ass in his palms.

Frankie flung her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist. Her heart soared. Her soul brimmed with happiness.

He spun, a full three-sixty, not breaking the kiss.

The team whistled and clapped. The photographers and reporters went crazy, shouting questions and taking pictures.

On and on, they kissed, his tongue stroking hers as he held her as though he’d never let her go, one hand now buried in her hair and the other scooped under her ass.

Frankie believed she’d burst with joy. She didn’t care if the whole world knew she was in love with her driver, Dean Cudditch, because it was true. She was hopelessly, ridiculously head over heels in love and lust with him.

Eventually, he broke the kiss. He was breathing fast and grinning. “Not such a secret any more, eh?”

“You planned that.” She stroked her fingertips over his bristly jawline.

“I reckoned I deserved it after my win.”

“You did.” She touched the tip of her nose to his. “I love you.”

He pulled in a sharp breath. “That’s good to hear.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, because I’m really fucking in love with you. I’ve never felt like this before. You’re it, Frankie. You’re the one for me.”

He kissed her again, and this time, the rest of the world really did fade away.

Four months later

Frankie looked at her scarlet fingernails and wondered if her hands belonged to her. She then studied her shiny polished toenails and thought the same thing. If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed she could be so girly.

As for the white halterneck pantsuit she’d opted for, well, that was as close to a dress as she was ever going to get. But, hell, it was pretty damn feminine, even for her. It made her legs appear long and slim, her waist narrow, and was low enough to give a hint of her cleavage. She hoped Dean liked it.

Her phone beeped. It was a message from Dean.

I’ve just parked up. Hope you’re ready, babe. OXO

She smiled. The evening stretching ahead would be one of glamour and fine dining, not to mention schmoozing with all the stars of the Formula One world. She’d always wanted to go to the annual FIA’s prize-giving ceremony, but the opportunity hadn’t arisen before because she’d been home in Australia each time it had come around.

This year, however, she’d been happy to delay her Christmas visit and go to the ceremony as Dean’s date. Hell, she was proud to be his date, the woman on his arm, the person he said he couldn’t be without.

And what was even better was he’d agreed to come to Australia with her next week for the festive season. She couldn’t wait to introduce him to her family. She knew they were going to love him just as much as she did.

She reached for her compact and dusted her nose then slipped the pale green powder case into her scarlet clutch. Carefully, she added a touch more lipstick—the matt red one the makeup girl had recommended—then put that in her clutch, too.

Finally, she placed her feet into sandals that matched her nails, bag, and lips. They had heels, but not too high. Nothing worse than aching feet, and she knew there’d be plenty of standing around at the event.

There was a knock on the hotel room door, and Frankie rushed to open it, a smile already in place.

“Wow,” Dean said, holding out his palms as he took in her outfit. “Damn shame we have somewhere to be.”

She kissed him then grinned. “No reason why you can’t hold that thought.”

“No reason why we can’t scrap the whole event and just enjoy this fancy hotel room.”

She stepped back and swatted him on the shoulder. “And let down your fans and the team? I really don’t think you’d do that, Mr. Cudditch, not even for a raunchy evening.”

“Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” He winked then straightened out his tux. “How do I look?”

“Like a sporting legend.”

She took in his dapper appearance. She still hadn’t decided how she liked him best—in his driver’s outfit, casual jeans, smart suit…or naked. They all appealed to her, and she was sure she’d never get enough of each sexy look.

“Hang on. I’ll just get my purse.”

She headed back into the room, well aware his attention was on her ass in the tight outfit.

He let out a whistle. “Damn, everyone is going to be so jealous of me tonight.”

She smiled and turned as she picked up her bag. “And why is that?”

“Because not only am I world champion, I also have the world’s sexiest woman on my arm.”

Happiness flooded through Frankie. He always said the nicest things that made her feel so special, so adored.

He held out the crook of his arm. “Come on. The red carpet awaits.”

They headed down to the lobby then out into the hot evening air. Doha was scorching even at this time of day.

A long, shiny black limo awaited them with a driver holding open the back door.

Frankie stepped toward it, feeling as though she were flying high. How very different her life was to this time the year before. Not that she hadn’t been happy then. She had been, but now she was in love with a wonderful man who loved Formula One every bit as much as she did. What could be better?

Before long, they pulled up at the grand conference center the glittering ceremony was to be held in. The roads were busy with fancy cars and reporters’ vans, and huddles of Formula One fans stood beneath large canvas sheets, which provided them with shade.

Pulling up at the end of the red carpet that had been laid out, Dean took her hand. “You okay?”

“Yes.” She drew in a deep breath.

“Sure?” He frowned.

“Yes, I’m sure. Just not used to the attention the way you are.”

“You’ll get used to it. Let’s face it, you’ve been in enough magazines now and on the cover of nearly every newspaper in the world after I won in Germany.”

“I know, but…well, I wasn’t expecting that, so it was okay. This, now, I know I’ll be photographed and asked questions, and I can’t help but feel nervous.”

“Why? You can answer any question they throw at you, and you look amazing.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “And what’s more, you have me at your side. I’ve got your back, always. Come on.”

The door opened, and he stepped out. Immediately, he turned and reached for her.

She took his hand, glad of his strength and solidity as she emerged from the car and looked around at the excited faces and the line of photographers.

“Dean, Dean…over here.”

“Autograph, please!”

“Can we just have a minute?”

“Sky Sports, live on air…”

Dean tightened his grip on her and headed toward a gaggle of female fans. They bounced on the spot, their grins wide, and held out either pens and paper or mobile phones.

“Hey,” he said.

“We love you,” squealed an Asian girl who shook her head in excitement, her glossy black hair swinging wildly.

Dean chuckled and took her offered pen. He signed the event leaflet she offered.

“Thank you, thank you.” She hugged it to her chest and looked like she might faint with happiness.

“Please,” said another girl, thrusting forward her camera. “A selfie.”

Dean leaned in for the shot, not letting go of Frankie’s hand for a moment.

Frankie set a smile on her face, knowing that she was the envy of these girls. But they didn’t really know Dean Cudditch. They thought they did. They’d created an illusion in their mind of who he was and what he was like. But did any of them know he adored all Xbox games and not just racing ones, or that marzipan was a big no-no for him, or that he had a wonderful son who was the apple of his eye?

No, only she knew the real Dean, and only she indulged in pillow talk with him about aerodynamics and fuel weight. How many other women in the world could do that, or, more importantly, thought it was hot to do so?

Her heart rate settled. Yes, she should be here. They were made for each other, her and Dean. Like a perfectly engineered machine, their bodies, minds, and souls worked together seamlessly.

Dean finished with the group of fans and urged her toward the Sky Sports reporter gesturing wildly.

“Hey, Dean, congratulation on claiming the world championship.” The reporter shoved a fluffy gray microphone forward as his cameraman shifted a heavy-looking bit of kit on his shoulder.

“Thank you.” Dean released Frankie’s hand and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her up against his side.

“Your fourth career title came at the end of an enthralling, season-long battle with Farrah, and you thrilled fans worldwide as you both battled tooth and nail for the ultimate prize. How did it feel to finally win?”

“Bloody amazing.” Dean laughed. “Always happy to win, but never happier than when it’s put Farrah in second place.”

The reporter smiled. “So will there be brawls in the bar tonight between you two?”

“Of course not. We’re sportsmen
and
gentlemen.” Dean tilted his chin as though mildly offended by the question.

“There was a controversial collision at the Belgian Grand Prix. How did it feel to have just missed that?”

“Like Lady Luck was on my side?” He glanced at Frankie and a smile caught the corner of his mouth.

“And you have a beautiful lady at your side tonight, too.” The reporter swung Frankie’s way, as did the camera, the lens glinting in the sunshine. “How does it feel to be swapping the pits for the red carpet, Francesca?”

She pulled in a deep breath and stretched her smile wider.

Dean held her a little closer.

“I’m more at home in the pits, to be honest,” she said and laughed gently.

“Well, you certainly don’t look out of place here,” the reported said, giving her outfit an appreciative nod. “In fact, you look amazing. Don’t you think, Dean?”

“Of course, that’s what I think.” He breezed his lips over her temple, his stubble just catching on her skin.

“And not just a pretty face,” the reported added, directing his microphone at Dean again.

“You’re right there. She has an incredible ability to get the best out of every aspect of the car.” He paused. “Neither the car nor me could function without her.”

She turned to him, and he kissed her, on the lips this time.

The reporter chuckled. “Well, I guess sparks are definitely flying for you two. Thanks for chatting to Sky Sports.”

Dean grinned at her then nodded his thanks at the reporter.

Next, they paused at a group of young male fans who also wanted selfies and had McLaren shirts they wanted signing.

Frankie was getting hot, the evening sun pouring onto her bare shoulders.

“You okay?” Dean whispered against her ear.

“Yes, fine.”

“One more stop then we’ll get into the air conditioning.”

“Whatever you want to do.”

“I want to get out of this heat. A tux is not the best thing to wear outdoors in Doha.”

After a brief chat with a German news team, they headed through the swanky glass entrance to a vacuous lobby.

Immediately, they were offered champagne, and Frankie savored the bubbles popping on her tongue as the cool air rained down on her.

“Phew, that’s better,” Dean said, also taking a sip of his drink.

“Much.”

“We should go and schmooze with the sponsors. You up for that?”

“Of course.” She was up for anything if it meant being with Dean.

The first half of the evening sauntered past in a gentle flow of Formula One conversations—the ups and downs of the season, the surprises and disappointments, and the predictions for the next year. Frankie loved it all and was happy to chat about any subject that was up for discussion as long as it included racing.

Dean was never more than a few steps from her, and mostly he was by her side, touching her, holding her hand, and a few times, she caught him gazing at her.

She guessed the outfit really had been a success, despite it feeling not quite her when she’d initially tried it on.

They were seated together in the main dining room. As the first course was served, Frankie had to pinch herself to make sure she was really there, sitting with Dean Cudditch and the McLaren big wigs and sponsors.

A large stage was set before them, spotlit with red and silver lights, and Dean’s winning car taking pride of place on a podium, sparkling like the champion it was.

God, she loved that car!

Main course consisted of tender beef fillet with truffle sauce and dessert a selection of four different tarts. Frankie discovered one had a layer of marzipan and leaned over to warn Dean.

He pushed it to the side of his plate and, beneath the table, stroked her leg.

When the plates had been cleared and yet more champagne served, the president of FIA took to the stage. He was a gray-haired man, with a slack, wrinkled face and an easy smile. Frankie had always liked what she’d heard about him.