Jacob Hunter threw down his book and sat up. His muscles were tense. As he swung his legs over the side of the king-sized bed, he felt a stab of pain. The muscles in his calves were so tight they seemed to vibrate like guitar strings. He walked stiffly to the bathroom and winced as he stepped into the shower.
The pain didn’t surprise him. For the past weeks, he’d been pushing his body to the limit. But this feeling was different. He couldn’t attribute it all to lactic acid in his quads. He felt keyed up. Preoccupied. The hot water sluicing over his shoulders couldn’t relieve the knot in his chest. Even the muscles in his jaw felt like they were about to snap. He groaned and turned his face to the water. Relax, he told himself.
The criterium didn’t start until five P.M., but Jacob had to be there hours early to warm up and check the course. The race would be short, intense, and dangerous. Sixty minutes of hard, technical riding through the streets of Vail. Though he hated to admit it, Jacob still felt a rush of nervous energy before every race. But even a case of the pre-race jitters couldn’t explain this degree of agitation.
Jacob had more to worry about than his performance in the criterium. Usually, he raced like he had something to prove. This time, he’d be racing like he had something to hide. His number one priority was dodging the journalists that swarmed Vail like a plague of locusts. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. Once he actually craved the attention that the media lavished on football heroes and baseball stars. He’d wanted the fanfare, the acceptance. Cycling had never been popular in America. The sport had never received the appreciation it deserved. In Europe, Jacob was loved and hated. Loved for his raw talent, that mixture of grace and brutal strength that powered him through to a victory at the Paris-Roubaix. And hated for exactly the same thing.
He still remembered the sneering French television announcer who’d cried out in disdain and disbelief: “It cannot be! The cowboy has crossed the finish line! And the real cyclists are far behind!” The Europeans appreciated cycling but they had little appreciation for American cyclists winning their most treasured races. The Paris-Roubaix Classic was one of the continent’s oldest and most important races. A good finish in the Paris-Roubaix separated the cyclists from the cycle-tourists. And winning …
Winning didn’t mean you were good. Winning meant you were God.
Jacob remembered every second of the race. He’d thought his teeth were going to break as he rode across the cobblestones. His elbows turned to jelly. Sixty miles of pure pain. As well as the equally grueling, but less jolting sixty miles of pavement. When he’d gone down in the mud and scrambled up again with a gaping gash in his thigh, everyone was sure he was out of it. But in that final sprint, he’d outpaced not only the world champion cyclist, but his own body. His own dreams. He was moving beyond the speed of thought. Every fiber of his body was tearing. Burning up. He’d never been so close to dying. He’d never felt so alive.
It was the best day of his life. And nobody back home gave a damn.
However, in the past few months, things had changed. Some bigwig in L.A. had gotten the idea that cycling could be the next big thing — if the races had the right down home flavor and a spectacular, all-American venue. If there were an American face to put on the posters.
Jacob rubbed his hands over his face, tried to release the tension in his jaw. It was useless. He shut the tap, dried, and dressed. He glanced at the pile of newspapers on the table — his image graced the front page of every one.
It was almost funny. A year ago, he was on cloud nine. Winning the Paris-Roubaix. Catapulting to international fame. Best of all, becoming the poster boy at the center of an American cycling renaissance. He’d always wanted his country to embrace cycling. To recognize the sport for what it was. The ultimate test of the body and mind. The most beautiful sacrifice a man could ever make to speed. To freedom.
Now, he’d give anything to rewind the clock. To go back to the days when the French booed him in the streets. And the Americans … Well, the Americans didn’t care enough to ignore him. They didn’t even know he existed.
Thanks to the funds and enthusiasm of that L.A. bigwig, a new race had been born. A race modeled on the European classics but with an American twist. It would be bigger. Harder. Longer. It would take place in Colorado, starting only a few dozen miles from the town where Jacob grew up. And it was supposed to be a media firestorm.
Even today’s criterium was just an excuse to drum up attention for the big race, now only ten days away. They were calling it the Colorado Classic. They were calling Jacob Hunter the hometown hero. And all eyes were on him, following his every move. He was jumping out of his skin with the pressure. Every second it got worse.
And yesterday, his sponsors had dropped a bomb.
They’d given a reporter permission to shadow him all through the next week leading up the Colorado Classic. They even wanted him to give an interview today. Before the criterium. They’d scheduled the meeting for noon in the hotel restaurant. As if Jacob could eat while he fielded the questions of a news hound determined to invade his carefully guarded privacy … what little there was left of it. He’d argued with the sponsors until he was hoarse, but they were determined to grab whatever share of the spotlight Jacob was offered by the American media. They sponsored athletes, they reminded him, for business reasons, not personal ones. Besides, they assured him, it would be nothing but a celebrity profile, a fluff piece. Little did they know how dangerous any attention could be for Jacob right now, even from the most star-struck of journalists.
His anger ebbed as the memory of his other preoccupation arose in his mind, bringing with it a flood of sensation throughout his whole body. The smell of a woman’s hair, floral and fresh … the taste of her honey-sweet mouth … the feel of her firm, silky flesh under his hands … those outrageous curves he’d traced like a blind man. He couldn’t stop himself. He tried to piece together the body he’d never seen in daylight. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the sensual recollection of that moment under the stars, when he and a stranger had fallen together into the feverish heat of one another’s arms.
He so rarely had a moment to himself. He should have resented the fact that another hotel guest had invaded one of his only retreats. Instead he’d been tantalized by the unknown woman’s presence, immediately drawn to her throaty voice, her lithe form slippery with water.
It had been sexually exciting, yes, but it had also stirred deeper feelings … feelings of exhilaration, of yearning. He remembered those feelings. He’d felt them during his first years of serious cycling as an adolescent, when he’d ventured further and further from his hometown of Leadville, Colorado, seeking out isolated stretches of highway, riding through mountain passes and alpine fields strewn with wildflowers. He got faster and faster, until he truly felt he was flying, alone and free. The pure love of speed kept him going, always looking for the long, sweeping descent on the far side of a pass or an unbroken straightaway on which he could pump his legs like pistons to bring himself closer and closer to pure velocity. The brutal grinds up the endless faces of Colorado peaks were worth it for those moments, however brief. Eventually he’d realized the climbs themselves were equally exhilarating in their own way. In the same way that any immense effort, however punishing, is satisfying when it achieves its goal.
Jacob left his room. He entered the elevator and punched the button for the lobby. He lifted himself up and down onto the balls of his feet, trying to expel his restless energy. He reminded himself of how far he’d come. He had achieved most of the goals he’d set for himself. At twenty-seven, he was in the best condition of his life, and he had the wins to prove it. Now he was back where he’d started … and it was a matter of pride that he dominate the field in the criterium and the upcoming Colorado Classic.
It should feel good to return home. To compete on his own landscape, the topography that had shaped his body, that had given him the drive to conquer the peaks of the Alps and the Pyrenees. It should feel good.
It didn’t. He was in agony.
He sighed, feeling the weight of his stress descend again onto his shoulders. As he exited the elevator, he glanced at the clock on the wall and realized he was already late for his interview. His abdomen clenched. He felt less than certain that he could traverse the rocky terrain of a conversation with a reporter who wanted to write a profile about his life. Who wanted to expose him, all his private thoughts and concerns. Who wanted to make his secrets into her next headline.
Hell no.
In a split second, Jacob made his decision. He passed the entrance to the restaurant quickly but with his head up, as if daring anyone to stop him. Let the reporter sit there and wait. Suddenly, Jacob spotted the Directeur Sportif’s assistant, Ben, coming into the lobby through the main doors.
“Hi Jake.” Ben smiled. The lobby was dim, but Ben didn’t remove his wraparound sunglasses. He broadened his cocky smile and pretended to shoot Jacob with his finger. Jacob forced a smile. Normally, he’d rather take a real bullet than buddy around with Ben, but today was different. Today Ben might be of service.
“Playing chauffeur?” asked Jacob innocently. Ben often ferried equipment back and forth to races. He also ferried whoever the sponsors designated their current VIP. Usually some sporting goods tycoon they wanted to impress. Or a smarmy reporter.
Ben shrugged. “I’m the only guy around here that can handle four wheels.”
“It’s a burden, I know,” said Jacob. “Listen, are you driving … ” What was the reporter’s name, again?
“Ariel Hayes,” Ben supplied.
“Ariel Hayes,” repeated Jacob. “To the race today?”
Ben folded his arms across his chest and looked at Jacob suspiciously. “Yeah,” he said.
“Well, I’m going to give her a ride instead,” said Jacob. “That way we can talk more. You can turn in your keys and spend the afternoon in the Biergarten.”
In addition to being challenging races, criteriums doubled as citywide parties, with spectators mobbing the closed-off streets, drinking and shouting. Biergartens sprang up overnight. At the Mt. Hood criterium, the downtown had smelled like someone had opened a liquor-filled fire hydrant.
Strangely, Ben didn’t look pleased to be discharged of his duty. Finally, he pulled off his sunglasses and gave Jacob a look that Jacob couldn’t interpret. “Sure,” he said. “See you at the race.” As he turned away, Jacob could have sworn he winked.
What was that about? Were he and Ben involved in a pissing contest he wasn’t aware of? It seemed like every interaction he had these days was tainted.
Except for last night.
No. He couldn’t dwell on last night. It was as distant as a dream. Just made him feel worse.
At least he’d taken care of that reporter. He hoped Ariel Hayes waited for a good long time before she realized that Jacob Hunter wasn’t going to show. How long before she realized her ride was similarly MIA?
Swinging easily through the front door, he examined his conscience for feelings of guilt. Nope. Reporters were vultures. As a cyclist, Jacob had to overcome challenges every day. Let Ariel Hayes fight for her interview. If she wanted to ask him questions so badly, she could chase him down. Maybe she would get a firsthand taste of the most important, the most newsworthy, thing about him.
He was very, very fast.
• • •
The Colorado air was cool and dry. Endlessly fresh. Breathing hard, Jacob sprinted through the final lap of the criterium. He’d dominated the race and was easily forty meters ahead of his closest competitor. He sat up on his bike and saluted before he’d even crossed the finish line. In response, the crowd went wild. Jacob heard screams and popping bottles and a chorus of female voices chanting his name. He bowed his head briefly over his handlebars, taking deep breaths.
Did it, he thought. Exhilaration mingled with relief. Someone was thrusting a magnum of champagne into his arms. Steven Fratello, one of his teammates, had already opened another magnum and was aiming the spuming bottle at Jacob’s chest. Jacob felt the cool liquid hit his throat, spraying across his face and dripping down to soak his jersey. He licked his lips. The champagne tasted surprisingly sweet.
Steven seemed to read his mind. “Not as dry and light as the champagne at Roubaix?” he joked. “You turned into some kind of froggy snob? Used to the finer stuff?”
Jacob met Steven’s fist with his own in a victory pound and Steven took the opportunity to grip his hand and raise it high in the air. Mugging for the cameras. Jacob couldn’t help but grin as the crowd responded. “You’re still a ham, Fratello,” he said.
“Give ’em what they want, Jacob baby,” Steven shouted, shooting champagne into the crowd. “This is an exhibition. Exhibit something. Break out the six-pack.”
Jacob had to laugh. Steven’s light-hearted positivity always made him feel better. It was a relief to know he had a true blue friend in the competitive world of pro cycling. “Twelve-pack,” he quipped back and tugged down the zipper of his jersey.
“That’s better.” Steven laughed. “You just decimated the criterium! You gotta look like a hero.”
“I don’t look like a hero?” asked Jacob.
“A minute ago you looked like you were involved in a hit-and-run with someone’s grandma. But now you look okay.”
“Okay?” Jacob had to wipe another burst of champagne from his eyes. “You trying to drown me?”
“I am trying to deify you, my friend,” shouted Steven, head tipped up toward the dimming sky. He hooted and flung the magnum, tackling Jacob and dragging him off his bike.
“We’re the best,” Steven panted. “Enjoy it.”
Jacob’s body was still surging with adrenaline. Steven was right. He needed to stop worrying. Too bad it felt like the problems he’d managed to leave behind at the starting line were right there waiting at the finish.
Not now. Not now. Enjoy it, Hunter, he told himself. Jacob cracked his own magnum of champagne and soaked a howling Steven.
“All right, all right,” Steven begged, warding him off. “Podium’s getting cold.”
Feeling happier than he had in a long time, Jacob went to receive his trophy. But up on the podium, his momentary elation faded quickly. The flashing bulbs, the fat-cat grins of his sponsor’s representatives, the squealing women — he wanted out of there. Pushing through the throngs that swarmed the podium, he looked for the signs and banners that bore his name and the company he raced for. There were his people, such as they were. He barely felt the congratulatory thumps as he entered the little cordoned off area. He thrust his trophy and check at Ben.
“Put these in the RV,” he muttered. He ducked behind the banners to change rapidly into his street clothes. His skin was still sticky with champagne — all he wanted was a shower and a rubdown. He had to get back to his hotel. Unfortunately, Vail was still in chaos from the race. Punch-happy brawlers were blocking the traffic patterns that the beleaguered police were trying desperately to reestablish. He pushed through the crowd, hoping his nondescript black t-shirt and jeans would provide enough of a disguise. He’d hardly gone five yards before a microphone thrust itself under his nose. A woman with frosted hair that looked harder and more protective than his helmet was staring at him through designer glasses. Her make-up was about three-inches deep.
“Another magnificent performance from Jacob Hunter,” she exclaimed, blinking her thickly lashed eyes. “Jacob, you’re causing quite the sensation in Vail.”
“Great,” he said, trying to move around her. Her cameraman was beaming a light into his face. He took a step and was almost clotheslined by the microphone wire. He stumbled and cursed. That would look good. Breaking his collarbone evading the press.
The reporter didn’t seem to notice that he’d nearly sprawled onto the pavement. She closed the distance between them, still prattling. “Jacob, what would you say to people who wonder whether it’s physically possible to achieve the kinds of times you’ve been clocking?”
He grunted, trying to shield his eyes from the light.
“Jacob, what would you say to people who think you’re getting help?” She stepped even closer.
“Jacob Hunter,” she said in ringing tones, “are you using EPO?”
EPO.
Those three letters hit Jacob like the prongs of an electrified trident. He still wasn’t used to reporters in the U.S. knowing anything about cycling, let alone being versed in the technical terms associated with cycling’s leading scandals. Hearing this woman rattle off the name of the sport’s most notoriously abused performance enhancing drug was amazing. More amazing by far than the accusation. He’d become accustomed to that back in France.
Suddenly it occurred to him that this woman might very well be Ariel Hayes. She certainly wouldn’t have any reason to like him, not after the stunt he’d pulled earlier in the day. Maybe he’d managed to turn his celebrity profiler into a witch hunter. His sponsors were gonna love this. He switched on the charm.
“I don’t have anything to say to those people,” he responded with a crooked grin. Experience had taught him that this grin was a lady-pleaser. “I’m not here to talk. I’m here to ride. I’m here to ride because I love it. I’m going to let my riding speak for me. I’ll see you at the Classic. Excuse me.” He pivoted and strode quickly in the other direction, ducking behind a row of press vans, and turning down the street where he’d parked his motorcycle.
There it was. Shining blackly in the gathering dusk. A Ducati Monster. He’d be able to maneuver through the downtown mayhem and slip back to his hotel. A hot shower and a visit to Bernadette, his soigneur. He couldn’t wait.
He straddled his bike, settled his helmet into place, and started to roll it out into the street. At that very moment, a cherry red convertible squealed up beside him. The driver’s side door flew open.
“Where’s the criterium?” the woman shouted. Her voice was husky, urgent, and she nearly ran around the front of her car. She stood only a few feet away from him, her full breasts moving up and down against the thin fabric of her shirt. He put his feet down and steadied his bike, drinking her in.
She was striking. A cascade of unruly red locks fell to her shoulders. Longer strands brushed the tops of her breasts. Her hair made a startling frame for her high cheek-boned face, the milky white skin dusted with pale freckles. Her enormous green eyes were almond-shaped, fringed with thick lashes. Her lips were full, the bottom lip maddeningly so. He couldn’t look at it without wanting to bite it. To take it between his teeth.
“The criterium,” she was saying. “The criterium.”
He’d forgotten she’d even asked him a question. Now those green eyes were turning to glimmering slits.
“Dammit,” she growled, and turned away to get back into the car. He couldn’t help but follow the slender length of her graceful legs up to where her lush, perfectly shaped bottom filled out the back of her tight, knee-length black skirt. His groin tightened. He raked a hand through his hair ruefully. He was reacting to her like a middle-schooler. Must be the adrenaline.
“Criterium’s over,” he called to her.
She wheeled around and stared at him across the hood of the car. Then she cursed again in that low, husky voice. Jacob kick-started the bike and it roared to life.
The woman had thrown open the door of her car, obviously furious. Suddenly, she shouted to him again, half in the door. “Who won?” she shouted.
He grinned, not the crooked grin. A genuine smile, the first real smile he’d managed in weeks. “I did,” he answered. After doing everything in his power not to draw attention to himself, he couldn’t believe what he was saying. But the look on her face was worth it. He closed his visor and opened the throttle.