CHAPTER THREE CLARKE
Chapter Three
Clarke
Clarke stood in his childhood home, which was part of a vast estate in Sussex, England. He gazed out a window at the rolling hills covered in snow, his eye reaching as far as the gatehouse, one hand on the rifle that rested on the top shelf of the eighteenth-century mahogany Canterbury.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“How are you going to get that back to her without her knowing?”
“I found out from the Huntingtons she’s staying in London for a few days before going back to the States. I’ll send it special delivery to her hotel and give the Huntingtons’ address as a return address.” He glowered at Athos. “I wouldn’t have to deal with it, if it weren’t for the three of you.”
His other shoulder sagged from the weight of Porthos’s meaty paw.
“Hey,” he boomed. “You agreed to the bet.”
Clarke shrugged them both off and swung around to see Aramis.
Yes, the three musketeers at the masquerade ball were in reality his three elder brothers.
They, like him, had had racing careers, but none as successful as Clarke’s.
Athos now worked in the corporate offices for Elegante Racing, the team Clarke raced for.
Porthos worked as a stunt driver on films. And Aramis was always in search of some purpose, fancied himself a poet, was definitely a playboy and seemed to want to fashion a life for himself that followed in the path of Lord Byron.
The names had been their father’s idea.
And if they’d lived in the seventeenth century, they probably would have been very much like their namesakes. Their father had nurtured a passion for adventure in all of his sons. And that adventure always involved activity that was athletic, daring, and even at times dangerous.
But when Clarke was born, his mother insisted on naming him. Hence, the name Leo.
No one in the racing world called him by his first name.
Not for many, many years now. That, too, could be laid at the feet of Ceci Rivers.
Whenever she referred to him, it was always Clarke Kent.
Somewhere along the way, other people picked up on it and began calling him Clarke.
He never corrected them, so the name stuck.
Maybe he should have. But then he kind of liked it.
Biting his lip, he let out an exasperated breath as he crossed his arms, annoyed by that fact.
Athos folded his arms. “He did more than agree to the bet. He was the one to put it out there.”
Aramis nodded. “After that rant he went on about Silverstone, after seeing her.”
Porthos frowned. “Was it a rant? It didn’t really sound like a rant.”
“For him,” Athos said, dismissively, “it was a rant.”
“I never would have suggested the bet if the three of you hadn’t needled me.”
Porthos puffed out his chest. “What? By saying you’re afraid of the girl?”
Athos shook his head. “That’s all it took.”
“Okay, but I was talking about confronting her about Silverstone. I didn’t say anything about making a move on the girl.”
Athos crossed his arms. “No, you didn’t. That would be Aramis.”
Aramis looked at each of them in turn, smiling proudly.
Athos sighed. “Coming from anyone else, I would have found the suggestion surprising, even weird. Because how you’re supposed to confront the girl about Silverstone and get any satisfaction from doing so by making a move on her is beyond me.
But then it came from Aramis and, as we all know, his mind is like a steel trap when it comes to pussy. ”
Clarke opened his mouth to speak, but Athos held up his hand.
“And yet, that didn’t give you pause. I was prepared to say it made no sense, but you jumped on it before I got the chance.
Therefore, you agreed to the terms of the bet.
The first one who makes a move on the girl wins.
The loser will have to attend the charity auction.
And as you’ll recall, you were going up against the three of us.
So, if any one of us made a move before you did, you would lose. ”
Clarke groaned. Everything they’d said was true.
Athos placed his hands on Clarke’s shoulders and stared at him intently. “Why do you let that girl get to you? And I mean off the track as well as on it.”
“Yeah,” Porthos bellowed, “she’s tiny. You can’t be afraid of a girl that tiny.”
Aramis nudged Porthos. “Remember Katie?”
Porthos blinked. “Oh, yeah.” He paused. “I’d forgotten about her.”
“And Tinkerbell,” Aramis added. “She was really tiny. Was she even five feet? Such a cute girl, but if she got mad—”
Porthos shuddered. “Terrifying.”
There was a moment of silence.
Suddenly gasping, Aramis and Porthos faced each other and cried in unison, “The twins!”
“Oh man,” Porthos said, his voice trembling. “They were really scary.”
“Michael scary,” said Aramis.
“Jason scary,” added Porthos.
“Carrie scary.”
Porthos clasped Aramis’s arm. “Chucky-doll scary.”
Athos rubbed his temples. “My point is, I can’t figure out why you didn’t make a beeline for the girl. You went stark raving mad when you saw her.”
“I did not go stark raving mad,” insisted Clarke.
Aramis looked at Porthos. “He never really does go stark raving mad, does he?”
Porthos shook his head. “I don’t know how he manages it. I find it difficult to not go stark raving mad.”
“All right,” Athos said, “maybe not what would constitute stark raving mad for either of you. But for him.”
Porthos and Aramis eyed each other and then nodded.
“Yeah,” agreed Aramis, “you’re right, Athos. For him, that was stark raving mad.”
Clarke sighed.
“So,” Porthos asked, “what happened after you ran off with her?”
“Come on.” Aramis grinned. “Spill the tea. How far did you get with her? Please don’t tell me you got no further than kissing.”
Athos shoved Aramis. “Why would he want to kiss the woman responsible for that abysmal end to last season? And at Silverstone no less.”
Aramis returned the shove. “Because of the bet. He had to make a move.”
Athos shook his head. “Kissing is much too intimate. A move means something direct, transactional. Nothing sentimental or romantic. Go straight for the honeypot.”
Aramis nodded. “I get your point. Hit that cookie.”
Porthos likewise nodded. “Dive your face smack into that muffin.”
Athos and Aramis stared at Porthos.
He shrugged. “Just a figure of speech, you know.”
Clarke cringed, recalling what Ceci had said about men likening women to desserts.
Athos crossed his arms. “The only reason we went up to her was to run interference for you with Tilney. Otherwise, the douche would have monopolized her. We did it to give you a fighting chance.”
“Well,” Aramis said, “that’s not the only reason. I would have liked to dance with her.” He paused. “Actually, I would have liked to do more than that.”
“Me too,” Porthos said. “That girl is fine.”
Athos sighed. “Okay, I’ll admit she’s attractive. But that’s not the point.”
“She’s more than attractive.”
“She is.”
“That is not the point.” Athos threw up his hands, directing his gaze at Clarke. “I can’t figure out how a guy can get into over seventeen hundred pounds of carbon fiber and drive it around a track at over two hundred miles per hour and be too timid to face a five-foot, six-inch woman—”
“Five-foot-five,” Clarke corrected him.
Aramis grinned. “You measured the girl?”
“I just know. I can tell.”
“Whatever,” Athos said, waving his arms. He took one big inhale and only began speaking again once he’d exhaled. “Explain to me how you can do the one but not the other.”
Aramis grinned. “He’s shy around her.”
“I am not shy!”
“You’re not,” agreed Aramis. “Except around her. Weird.”
It was weird.
Maybe I am a little shy around the girl. But that’s only because of the other thing.
Impulse control. Or rather the lack of it.
What Clarke thought of as that switch. When it was on, it ignited a ravenous desire to win, succeed, and plunge headlong into things that were thrilling, daring, and even at times—dangerous.
All that had been nurtured by his father and his father’s determination that his sons experience anything and everything he’d been denied, his desire that they live life to the fullest.
Turning that switch on had served Clarke well, earning him more championships than anyone racing F1 at present. But it was also responsible for something he couldn’t shake or forgive himself for—something he feared he would never be able to forgive himself for.
When that switch was turned on, it spoke only one language, and its entire vocabulary consisted of three words: Go. Fast. Hard.
He couldn’t even add “consequences be damned” to its vocabulary. Because as far as that switch was concerned, consequences didn’t exist.
But that’s a lie, because I know all too well they do.
And because of that, he’d made a commitment to turn that switch off.
So far he’d been successful. Until that crash at Silverstone and those DMs with Ceci Rivers.
He acted the way he did around her because she made him feel like it was her fingers on that switch. As if it were up to her and not him whether to turn it back on.
His dick twitched, and he hastily turned his back on his brothers.
It wasn’t just the bet that drove him to approach her. He’d felt that urge, that desire to flip that switch, and at the same time flip the script that she was always writing. He wanted to be the one to make her uncomfortable, unable to meet his gaze. The way she’d always done with him.
Before Silverstone, the exchanges between them had been more like a game, although he always felt like he’d come out on the losing side. But since the crash, he wasn’t just unnerved and unsettled around her. He felt like the blood that flowed through his veins was made of fire.
The mask made it easier. Easier to approach her. Easier to take her in my arms and sweep her onto the dance floor without even asking. Easier to … well … do all of it. But what’s the point if she doesn’t know it’s me doing it?
He was a coward for hiding behind that mask. And he hated that.
When he turned around, his brothers were staring at him.