CHAPTER TWO CECI #2
But she couldn’t decide what she wanted that answer to be.
“I’ll remove mine,” he said, “if you remove yours.”
“I’m not wearing a mask,” she scoffed.
He said nothing. His silence annoyed her.
“You’re just deflecting,” she said.
“As are you.”
She had the sudden thought that he had no intention of taking off that mask. And that made her want him to remove it. Now.
Especially if it was Sir Stick.
She reached for it, but he grabbed her wrist.
Callouses? It can’t be Sir Stick. What could he possibly have done to turn a gentleman’s skin into something coarse and rough?
She told herself to pull away, but the electricity that shot through her veins lit a fire between her thighs. It was his thumbs that grazed her flesh.
Back and forth.
Is he tracking my pulse?
That mask tilted down. The thumb stopped. He pulled her wrist closer. She tugged against him but he held firm.
She knew what he was looking at.
He opened his hand, and she left hers resting on his palm for a moment before bringing it back to her side.
“Is that a tattoo?”
She nodded. “Over a birthmark.”
“It looks like a small handprint, like small fingers holding onto your wrist.”
He can see that?
Her mouth was dry. She tried to swallow. Her lips parted and she blinked, surprised at the sound of her voice.
“It’s to remind myself I was born.”
Now why would you tell him that?
The iron mask made a quick and sudden movement. She would have said it flinched, if iron could do that. Even through those slits, she saw something that suggested he was puzzled.
Of course he is. Yeah, well, he doesn’t know my father.
What she’d just said made no sense. To anyone but her.
She wondered at herself for saying it. Especially to him.
She waited. But he said nothing. And yet she felt as if his silence was speaking to her.
She just didn’t know what it was telling her.
She felt a sudden impulse to say something. But not just anything.
Should I?
She lifted her chin, peering at those black slits. “Someone once told me I behave the way I do because I’m looking to get the attention I didn’t get as a child.”
If it was Sir Stick, he’d know she was referring to him.
But again, she got no response.
She tossed her head. “The tattoo reminds me that I’m here, for however long. It reminds me never to hold back; never to look back.”
“But shouldn’t you hold back? I mean … sometimes.”
She thought of Silverstone.
If it’s Sir Stick, he must be thinking of it too.
Had she been reckless, when she’d told Ian to overtake Clarke at Club Corner? But how could she not? It was their last chance, the final push to the finish line. She knew Clarke would take his foot off the gas when he shouldn’t. And that was Anker’s opening.
That was the time to pounce. So that’s what Anker did. What she did. She wouldn’t be doing her job if she didn’t.
Before she’d come to Formula 1 she’d been a successful Formula 3 driver, having won the trophy three times.
There had been talk about her moving up to Formula 2 and one day perhaps even Formula 1.
So, it had been a surprise to most people when she’d stepped out of the cockpit and joined Blue Jet Lightning as a race engineer.
Once she did, it didn’t take long for her to rise through the ranks, finally reaching the top position of team principal.
Not only was she the only female team principal in Formula 1, at twenty-eight, she was the youngest.
“Don’t you ever have regrets?” he asked. “For what you’ve done?”
“I’d rather regret what I do than what I don’t,” she said testily.
Like not driving.
There’s no possible remedy for that kind of regret.
Nothing for me to hold onto. Not even gravity. I’ll never know what might have been.
“You mean like accepting an invitation from those guys and finding out you regret it rather than saying no and not knowing?”
“Those three guys?” she scoffed. “No, I mean stuff that matters. They’re just to annoy my father. And I have good reason for running away from them. Do you know what whoopie pie, dirt cake, and sticky toffee pudding are?”
“I know what sticky toffee pudding is.”
Ceci exhaled. “A whoopie pie is a marshmallow filling stuffed between two soft cookies. A whole lot of mush surrounded by soppy sponge. Dirt cake is chocolate pudding, crumbled cookies, and gummy worms. A big old mess. And sticky toffee pudding might taste good while you’re eating it, but afterwards, there’s all that gummy, gluey goo that just won’t leave. You get my point?”
He cleared his throat.
Was he suppressing a laugh?
“Do you reduce all men to desserts?”
She shrugged. “Men do it all the time. Cake, pudding, jelly bag, honeypot.” She leaned forward and ran her tongue over her lips. “Cherry-red lips.”
She watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed.
He doesn’t have a mask to hide that.
“I don’t,” he said.
She blinked, suddenly surprised to hear him speak after staring at his throat. “What’s that?”
“You said men reduce women to desserts, and I’m telling you that I don’t.”
Enough.
“Take off your mask.”
He flinched, taking a step back.
“Don’t you want to kiss me?” she said in a voice that was hardly above a whisper and forced him to lean forward.
There it is again. That swallow.
She watched as he lifted his hands.
Okay, now I’ll get my answer.
And if it is Sir Stick?
Would she still kiss him?
I’ll give him hell. That’s for sure. But I might kiss him first. Just to see what it’s like.
Suddenly one hand was over her eyes. Startled, she stumbled, her back meeting the stone wall behind her. Her lips parted just as she felt a hand cup her cheek, brush her ear, and burrow so deep, his fingers threaded her hair beneath the wig.
And then his lips.
She knew they were near. She could feel his breath sweep her skin like fingertips over blades of grass.
I can hear it.
Hush.
Suddenly it stopped and was quiet. She felt the weight of him as he leaned into her.
His breath smelled like scotch. He smelled like scotch. Single malt.
And something else. Cloves. And cinnamon?
She felt her upper lip plucked, and his teeth skate across them just before he covered her mouth with his and his wet, warm tongue found hers.
He not only smells like scotch, cloves, and cinnamon; he tastes like scotch, cloves, and cinnamon.
She placed her hands on his torso, reached around and pulled him in deeper, holding on as her legs trembled and heat rose between her thighs.
The sound of crunching gravel reached her ears followed by distant voices.
“Ceci!”
She blinked when his hand no longer covered her eyes. When she caught sight of him, the iron mask was back in place.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be sure you get that rifle back.”
“And if it’s loaded?” she asked.
She didn’t know which surprised her more, her question or his answer.
He took her hand and placed it over his heart, throbbing heavy and hard. It was pounding against his chest as though it were trying to escape.
“In that case,” he murmured, “be kind. Aim here.”