The Racing Driver's Wife

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2015 Raven McAllan

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-426-5

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: JS Cook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To The RavDor Chicks, JoAnne, my editor, and all at Evernight. Thank you for everything (and giving me a good excuse not to disturb the dust bunnies).

  THE RACING DRIVER’S WIFE

  Their Wives, 2

  Raven McAllan

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  The music was tinny, the breeze nippy and it made the notes ebb and flow. As she blew on her hot mulled wine, Darcy was glad she'd decided to spend her precious day off at the Christmas market, and not cleaning. The dust bunnies could wait. This five or six hours of cold crisp air—albeit with added hints of hot fat and hamburgers—fairground rides, trinkets and gifts, excited kids and oohing and aahing tourists couldn't. It heralded the end of the year, and the start of the next. With Christmas Day in the middle. Darcy adored Christmas and this year she'd decided to have it on her own, at home, with everything she loved, and not pander to anyone else. Selfish maybe but oh boy was she looking forward to it. Her day.

  Darcy wandered by the stalls and glanced at the more than hot bod of a guy who stood behind a stall selling the most fantastic earrings. Now if only he came gift wrapped as well, he'd be perfect in my stocking. She sniggered to herself. Who was she kidding? Guys like that were firmly attached. With baggage.

  The only baggage she wanted was a pair of intricately carved wooden earrings shaped like tiny bells. Don't kid yourself, given half a chance you'd take the stallholder as well.

  The guy behind the stall smiled and Darcy's body went to mush. Talk about sex on legs. Dark hair that curled over his collar, equally dark eyes that seemed to have golden fire in their depths and the sort of elegant hands you could imagine running all over you. He had enough red-hot sex appeal to set the Forth on fire, let alone a wee Scottish lassie, as her grandpa called her.

  "Hi there." The accent was definitely Mediterranean. "Can I help you?"

  Oh yes. Her mind went blank. What did she want? Apart from him.

  He stood patiently and watched her, as a faint smile played around his mouth and his eyes sparked in the electric lights dotted around the stall. It was the type of smile to make your legs give under you and your body tighten. The expression, 'if he played his cards right, he could have me', shot to the front of her mind, and stayed there.

  "Cara?" Brandy and honey, whisky and wood smoke. All blended in one southern Mediterranean accent.

  Darcy would have laughed before then, if people said they heard music playing and nothing else, but she was damned sure the Christmas carols blaring over the tannoy had changed to violins.

  With a jolt she realised the guy was waiting for her to answer him. "Oh er yes, those earrings please." Thank goodness I checked the price earlier. It would be too embarrassing if I didn't have enough cash.

  He wrapped them up deftly in tissue paper. His hands were elegant, with long fingers, neatly filed nails, and she noticed no rings. The watch was a Tag Heuer, and half hidden under the sleeves of his dark blue jumper. Not that those things told you anything these days. Not all married men wore rings and knock-off fakes of expensive timepieces were two a penny.

  He held out the package. "They'll suit you." He winked. "Pity I can't see you model them, eh?" The tone inferred the words he didn't say. Something along the lines of, like those and nothing else?

  Don't even go there. Think of the accent. Yep definitely Mediterranean, maybe Italy?

  He handed the parcel over, nodded as she thanked him, and turned to a couple who waited patiently to be served, his attention no longer on her. Ah well, for all of one hundred and twenty seconds he made her feel like the centre of the universe. Darcy smiled ruefully and backed away. What was the point in indulging in wishful thinking about a hot guy she'd seen for two minutes? He'd be married with a wife and two point four kids. All the good ones were. She'd go and watch the ice skating before she headed for something to eat and then catch the train home. Via another mug of hot mulled wine and maybe a gluten free pancake. She'd noticed and noted that stall earlier.

  Twenty minutes later she leaned on the rink's barriers and studied a tiny, red dungaree-clad tot who was no more than four years old and could do more on the ice than Darcy could off it.

  "Looks good fun doesn't it?" The deep male voice, with its ‘come to bed’ accent reminded her of smooth rich chocolate, warm furry velvet…and sex.

  Darcy turned and looked at the tall, dark-haired man beside her. Her legs almost buckled as her body decided mushy was the way to go.

  "Not if you keep falling on your tush," she said and could have kicked herself. What made her use that word for goodness sake? Talk about retro. The guy laughed.

  "That depends who picks you up. Are you up for being picked up?" He raised an eyebrow and winked. "You game for risking it? In the best possible way, of course."

  The double entendre made her giggle. "Well, um," Darcy looked down at his bare ring finger and back at his face. It seemed he understood his question because he smiled and shook his head.

  "No ring, no wife, S. O. Or even non S. O. I was married." His face darkened for a second and a bleak expression crossed his face so briefly Darcy wondered if she had imagined it, before he sighed and straightened his shoulders. "She left me and rightly so."

  "Damn, I'm sorry. It’s none of my business."

  "Of course it is. You have integrity and don't want to consort with a married man."

  Consort, there's a nice old fashioned word.

  Darcy kept her face straight. "True enough."

  "How about you, Miss…Mrs…?"

  "Now, I could say Ms., and confuse you, but I won't. Single," well it was almost true, and sounded better than separated from a bastard, never see him, thank goodness, "spinster of the parish and no significant other either. "Darcy Murray."

  Liar, liar pants on fire.

  She held her hand out and he took it in his. The hand that dwarfed hers was warm and slightly calloused. He rubbed her fingers and Darcy gasped at the sparks of electricity that passed between them.

  "Ah sorry, not enough hand cream and too much stall building." He let go of her hand and stuck his own hands in his jeans pockets. "Amongst other things."

  Darcy was human enough to see how the action stretched the denim and outlined his contours, and bit back the groan that hovered over her lips. It would be mortifying to show him how he affected her.

  "So Miss Darcy Murray, spinster of some parish. Are you game? Will you trust me to pick you up, dust you down, and not take advantage?"

  Why not? It's about time I did something other than work and sleep.

  "Okay, as long as you accept I'm a klutz."

  He raised a dark-haired eyebrow.

  "Seriously, I'm so clumsy it's a wonder I'm ever let loose with oil, let alone needles. Oh I'm a physio." She, carefully omitted the 'was' and 'only for a few selected friends' and did her best not to make her tone too interrogative, but hell she didn’t even know his name. "And I do acupuncture.”

  "Ah, I'm not—a physio. I work with cars. Gil Lawre
nce."

  Why did he hesitate over his profession and name? It irritated Darcy. Did he think she was going to ask for a free service for her car or something? She bit down the sarky retort she wanted to give and smiled instead, impressed with her self control. After all, how many people was she truly honest with? Honest enough to inform them that, 'oh I write erotica but I still do a bit of physio just to keep my hand in'. Not many.

  "Cars and carnival stalls?"

  "Cars are my life, carnival my hobby. Okay, carnival is me helping out a friend whose wife went into labour early. I got a frantic phone call, called in a flight path, grabbed the plane and arrived in time to get a crash course in health and safety, and remember how manual, manual labour is."

  "Pleased to meet you." She didn't question some of his phraseology. After all it could be because English wasn't his first language. "Okay, let's skate…or fall on our bums." And boy didn’t she think she had a nicely wadded bum to land on. Gil, she must remember to call him Gil, on the other hand seemed as if he may well be short on the padding. Even under his long, droolworthy leather coat, his ass seemed perfectly designed to swoon over. Darcy mentally rolled her eyes at her fanciful notions. They were going to skate for goodness’ sake, not indulge in a mutual grappling session. More's the pity. Argh give over, and grow up.

  Gil grinned. "Well, at the risk of sounding sexist and getting my face slapped, it's a lovely bum you'd land on. Not that I think you will. You look as if you have a great sense of..." he paused and took her hand, "balance."

  The icy air chilled her cheeks and Darcy laughed with exhilaration. What wasn’t there to be happy about? As Gil whirled her around someone bumped into her. Her hand slipped out of his grip, her hair fell out of its precarious knot and covered her vision, and she flailed in the air as she tried to save herself. Gil made a grab for her, but it was too late. To Darcy's embarrassment, her hand brushed his groin as she felt herself fall. Sugeroony, embarrassment central here. Darcy forced herself not to hold on to that hard bit of body she connected with. She moved her hand faster than if she'd been stung, ignored the laugh he emitted, and took a deep breath as she braced herself against the thump when the ice jumped up to greet her.

  What a way to go.

  ****

  It wasn't ice on her bum, but her face was wet. Darcy opened her eyes and groaned in disgust. She was eye level to the carpet. Dust bunnies hid under the bed, mocking her. The duvet was askew, with her legs tangled in it and her hair dripped water onto her cheeks. The glass of liquid that usually sat on her bedside table was now on its side. Its erstwhile contents dripped from where it had upturned, and bounced off her scalp.

  To add insult to injury the clock radio began to chirrup, and the five o'clock pips announced the time.

  Not the way to greet your day off.

  Cussing the fact she'd forgotten to unset the alarm, and wondering why on earth she'd had such a vivid dream—mind you she admitted it had been an amazing time—Darcy padded into the bathroom and dried her hair with a towel. It was the one day per week that she chose not to set the alarm, but it didn't seem to have mattered. It was a pity, because her usual Sunday routine, of leisurely getting up, a long soak in the bath and reading not writing, would be superseded by manning a stall at the village spring fair. She'd intended to sleep in, have that leisurely bath, and then do a bit of sun worshipping in her garden before she headed out. It was forecast to be a hot—well hot for Scotland—day, and she intended to make the most of it. Instead of getting the day started gradually, here she was, at silly o'clock, wide awake and raring to go. After she'd fought for the fete to be a late afternoon affair so they could enjoy fireworks at the close, as well.

  Being reminded of one magical night a few months earlier hadn't been on her agenda.

  It was strange, Darcy mused, as she set the coffee machine to make the first, and what she considered the finest cup of the day, that Scotland frequently got the best weather in May. Not that long ago she'd been slipping over the driveway, using the ashes from the fire to grit the path to the log shed. The local ambulance service was kept busy ferrying people with limbs broken on the ice to hospital. Before they knew it, the fire would be cleaned out for the summer, and it would be limbs broken on the hills and screes that gave them too much work.

  She added milk to the coffee, and wandered into the garden to drink it. Her cottage was private enough not to worry if anyone saw her nightie with 'F1 drivers do it faster' emblazoned across the front. Really it deserved an honourable burning, it was so faded and out of shape. Maybe she'd had her dream because she was wearing it? Rubbish. Maybe it’s the fact the Grand Prix is back in Europe. And there's going to be interviews on T. V. No, scrap that. An interview. A hell on wheels why now, why me and… Oh grow up. Disgusted with herself Darcy downed the rest of her coffee and headed for a shower. She was in no mood to have a bath anymore. She'd work off her mood by weeding.

  Several hours later, she stretched to get the kinks out of her aching back, and checked the time. It was no good; she'd have to watch the interview show before she had another shower. Really, her brain was scrambled. Why had she showered and then gardened? She still had to get ready to be sociable and sell raffle tickets.

  Everything was in the wrong order.

  It's all his fault.

  However much she tried to kid herself, she accepted she could no more ignore the show than she could go back to being a full time physio. Both were impossible. With a resigned sigh, Darcy washed the muck off her hands, poured a glass of fruit juice and turned on the T.V. in her conservatory.

  The sun streamed through the windows and the open doors, and cast shadows over the screen. Even though she might like it to be unwatchable, Darcy adjusted the blinds so the rays didn't cause trouble, and opened the doors wide to let fresh air in, before she settled in the chair. Why on earth she put herself through such torture she'd never fathom.

  Because I'm a glutton for punishment. Because I shoved him away, because…

  The familiar music blared out, and almost like a rabbit caught in the glare of a lamp, Darcy stared at the screen. Her stomach churned and with a grimace she set the glass of juice down, and crossed her arms over her tummy.

  "So, just over a week to go until the fifth race, and as ever a familiar pattern seems to be emerging." The commentator's upbeat voice made her want to throw the remote control at the television. It was just as well she wasn't holding it, and she'd have to make an effort to grab the thing. A new T.V. was not on the list of ‘got to buys’ for the year.

  "And also as ever, new controversy seems to be surrounding our championship leader. Usually it's of the annoying his team mates with his narrow vision and determination type. This time it's reports of a woman. But not as you think. Our champion hasn't been caught with his trousers down or lap dancing with a rival's wife. Oh no, anything but. Therefore, just to satisfy your curiosity, and yes, ours as well, we caught up with him during the week, when we sent Lindy to ask him to set the record straight." The picture cut to outside a very luxurious motor home, where a man and a woman sat alongside a low table.

  Ha! Now that is nice. Wonder what it's like inside?

  The woman—obviously the so named Lindy—beamed at the camera. "Welcome to Mid-race Talk. As you see I've got the man himself so I can get his side of the story, the story that's set everyone agog. For years he's been called aloof, a loner, a man with no life outside Formula One. Some even wondered why he chose not to have anyone at the track to support him. He's even referred to himself as Billy No Mates. Now a story has emerged, one that makes people wonder about him more than ever." She waved one hand in the air. "So, Gael, is it true? Are you married?"

  "Married?" a well known voice said from the open doorway. "Why yes. Almost three years now, and before you ask…"

  "I'm faithful to my wife," said the man on the television. "She is my life."

  Chapter Two

  Gael Lorenzo ducked the remote control as it flew through the air in h
is direction, and caught it in one hand.

  "How on earth you ever get from A to B when your coordination is so bad I have no conception," he said as he walked into the room and put the control down on the table. He made sure it was well out of Darcy's arm reach. He knew how sneaky she could be if she thought the occasion warranted it. Damned if he wasn’t more nervous then before a race. He was under no illusion that the next few moments were going to be sticky. "That was more likely to hit the window than me."

  Darcy made a sound somewhere between a scream and a snort. "Ass. You scared the living daylights out of me. And as for your one-upmanship, how on earth you lie so successfully and don't bat an eyelid, I have no conception," Darcy said. "'My wife is my life’," she parroted and rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah, that'll be right. After your car, your team and…"

  "And nothing, cara." One-upmanship? He'd thought he was very restrained. He made no mention of open doors, lack of security, self-preservation or the like. "You believe what you will, but I speak the truth. If my wife would let it be so." He shrugged. "Then it would be. However, she chooses to live her own life, and I have to accept that." He winced as he became oh-so-very Italian. It was a measure of his concern and the knowledge of just how important this meeting was.

  Darcy turned toward the television where the bouncy idiot he'd had to endure warbled on in her happy-clappy manner. Gael braced himself. He knew what was about to come, and he'd hoped to speak to Darcy beforehand. It seemed a tractor and trailer, and a laden log lorry who just knew they owned the road, had put paid to that. He'd spent twenty minutes breathing their fumes, before passing in a spot only the brave or foolhardy would use. It wasn't that you couldn't see any oncoming traffic—the road ran straight for nigh on half a mile. It was the width of the ruts and gravel that was tricky. Gael got by with no more than an inch on each side and a dozen or so scratches from the gravel where it jumped up and scored the paintwork. As it was a hire car, he guessed that his chance of a cheap rental ever again had just disappeared down the toilet.