Chapter 2

Over the next hour, the house filled with people and grew noisy. As the room filled, the patio doors opened to allow guests to spill outside. The night was warm and still.

For Foxy, there were both new faces and old friends. She wandered from group to group, assuming the role of unofficial hostess. The caterer’s proud balance had been long since shattered as trays and bowls were scattered throughout the house. People milled in every corner. Still, the breezy informality of the party was linked with a common bond. These were racing people, whether they were drivers, wives, or privileged fans.

Flushed and laughing, Foxy answered the door to admit a late arrival. Her smile of greeting faded instantly. There was some satisfaction to be gained from seeing a look of surprise in Lance’s gray eyes. It came and went with the lift and fall of his brow. Slowly he took his gaze over the length of her. There was a look of consideration on his face, which Foxy equated with a man about to purchase a piece of sculpture for his den. Instantly the ease fled from her stance as her chin lifted and her shoulders straightened. Annoyed, she gave him the same casual appraisal he gave her.

Both his turtleneck and slacks were black. The night apparel lent him a mysterious, dangerous look only accentuated by his leanness and reckless looks. About him was the odd air of calm Foxy remembered. It was an ability to remain absolutely motionless and absorb everything. The true hunter possesses it, and the bullfighter who survives. Now, as she knew he was absorbing her, Foxy challenged him with her eyes though her heart beat erratically. Anger, she told herself. He always makes me so angry.

“Well, well, well.” Lance’s voice was quiet and oddly intimate over the hum of the party. He met her eyes, then smiled at her sulky pout. “It seems I was wrong.”

“Wrong?” she repeated and reluctantly shut the door behind him rather than in his face.

“You have changed.” He took both her hands, ignoring her sharp jerk of protest. Holding her away from him, he let his eyes roam down the length of her again. “You’re still ridiculously thin, but you’ve managed to fill out a bit in a few interesting places.”

Her skin trembled as if a cool breeze had caressed it. Furious with the sensation, Foxy tried to snatch her hands away. She failed. “If that’s a compliment, you can keep it. I’d like my hands back, Lance.”

“Sure, in a minute.” Her anger and indignation rolled off him as he continued to study her. “You know,” he said conversationally, “I always wondered how that funny little face of yours would turn out. It had an odd appeal, even when it was splattered with transmission fluid.”

“I’m surprised you remember how I looked.” Resigned that he would not let her go until he was ready, Foxy stopped struggling. She took a long, hard look at him, searching his face for any flaws that might have developed during the past six years. She found none. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Thanks.” With a grin, he transferred his hold to her waist and led her toward the sounds of the party.

“That wasn’t intended as a compliment.” Foxy had a strange reaction to his quick grin and intimate touch. The wariness remained with her, but it was tempered with amusement. Foxy drew firmly away from him as they entered the main room. It was, she reminded herself, always so simple for him to charm her. “I imagine you know just about everyone.” She made a quick sweep of the room with the back of her hand. “And I’m certain you can find your way to the bar.”

“Gracious to the last,” Lance murmured, then gave her another measuring stare. “As I recall, you didn’t always dislike me so intensely.”

“I was a slow learner.”

“Lance, darling!” Honey Blackwell bore down on them. Her hair was short and fluffed and silver blond, her face pretty and painted, her body all curves and dips. She had money and an unquenchable thirst for excitement. She was, in Foxy’s opinion, the classic racing leech. As her arms circled Lance’s neck he rested his hands on her generous hips. She kissed Lance with single-minded enthusiasm as he watched Foxy’s disdainful smirk over Honey’s bare shoulder.

“Apparently, you two have met.” Inclining her head, she turned and moved to the center of the party. And apparently, she added to herself, you can manage to amuse yourselves without me. Feeling a hand on her arm, Foxy glanced up.

“Hi. I knew you’d stand still long enough eventually for me to introduce myself. I’m Scott Newman.”

“Hello. Cynthia Fox.” Her hand was taken in a very proper shake.

“Yes, I know. You’re Kirk’s sister.”

Foxy smiled at him as she completed her study of his features. His face was well formed, just escaping fullness. His eyes were deep brown, his nose straight, his mouth long and curved. He wore his brown hair at a conservative length, neither long nor short. They stood eye to eye, as he was a few inches short of six feet. He was handsomely tanned and trim without being lean. His three-piece suit was well cut, but the jacket had been casually left unbuttoned. He was, Foxy decided, the perfect model for a study of up-and-coming young executives. She thought briefly that it was a pity he hadn’t dressed up the beige suit with a deep-toned shirt.

“We’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few months,” he told her, unaware of the trend of her thoughts.

“Oh?” She gave him her full attention as she eased out of the way of someone bearing a tray of crackers and Gouda cheese.

“I’m Kirk’s road manager. I see to all the traveling arrangements, accommodations for him and the crew, and so forth.” His eyes smiled over to hers while he lifted his glass to his lips.

“I see.” Foxy tilted her head, then tossed back her hair. “I haven’t been around for a few years.” Catching a glimpse of her brother out of the corner of her eye, Foxy focused on him, then smiled. He had the animated look of a knight-on-quest as a brunette hung on his arm and a small tangle of people hung on his words. “We didn’t use a road manager when I was on the team,” she murmured. Foxy remembered more than once falling asleep in the backseat of a car in a garage that smelled of gasoline and stale cigarettes. Or camping on the infield grass, waiting for the morning and the race. He’s a comet, she thought, watching her brother. A brilliant, flaming comet.

“There’ve been a number of changes in the past few years,” Scott commented. “Kirk began winning more important races. And, of course, with Lance Matthews’s sponsorship, his career has come more into focus.”

“Yes.” She gave a quick laugh and shook her head. “Money talks after all, doesn’t it?”

“You haven’t got a drink.” Scott noticed the lack of glass, but not the sarcasm in her voice. “We’d better fix that.”

“Sure.” Foxy linked her arm in his and allowed him to lead her to the bar. I don’t care one way or the other about Lance Matthews’s money.

“What would you like?” Scott asked.

Foxy glanced at him, then at the short, graying professional bartender. “A spritzer,” she told him.

***

Moonlight shone through the young leaves. The flowers in the garden were still new with spring, their colors muted with night. Their fragrance was light and tender, only whispering of the promise of summer.

With a mighty sigh, Foxy dropped on one seat of a white glider and propped her feet up on the other. Dimly over the stretch of lawn, she could hear the sounds of the party ebb and flow. By slipping into the kitchen and out the back door, she had escaped to steal a few moments of quiet and solitude. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and clashing perfumes. Foxy took a long, greedy breath of spring air and pushed with her feet to set the glider into motion.

Scott Newman, she decided, was handsome, polite, intelligent, and interested. And, she admitted, ordinary. Rolling her eyes on a sigh, Foxy stared up at the sky. Wisps of dark clouds were edged in gray. As they passed lazily across the moon the light shifted and swayed. There I go, she mused, being critical again. Does a man have to stand on one foot and juggle for me to consider him entertaining? What am I looking for? A knight? Foxy frowned and rejected the choice. No, knights are all polished and shiny and pure. I think my taste runs to something with a bit of tarnish and maybe a few scratches. Someone who can make me laugh and cry and make me angry and make my knees tremble when he touches me. She laughed quietly, wondering how many men she was looking for. Leaning her head back, she crossed her ankles. The hem of her dress lifted to tickle her knee. Tossing up her arms, she gripped the slender poles on either side of the glider. I want someone dangerous, someone wild and gentle and strong and smart and foolish. With another laugh for her own specifications, she stared up at the stars. With a hazy blue light, they peeked and glimmered through the shifting clouds.

“Which star do I wish on?”

“The brightest is usually the best.”

With a quick gasp, Foxy dropped her hands and searched for the owner of the voice. He was only a dark shadow, tall and lean. As it moved she thought of the steady stalking grace of a panther. Lance’s black attire blended with the night, but his eyes caught the luminescence of the moon. For a moment, Foxy felt an eeriness, a displacement of the quiet suburban garden into a primitive, isolated jungle. Like a large cat of prey, his eyes glowed with their own light and conquered the dark. Shadows fell over his face and deepened its chiseled lines. She thought Lucifer must have looked equally dark and compelling as he fell from heaven into the flames.

“What are you wishing for?” His voice was so quiet, it shook the air.

Suddenly Foxy became aware that she was holding her breath. Carefully she released it. It was only the surprise, she insisted, that had made her skin quiver. “Oh, all I can get,” she returned flippantly. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be knee-deep in blondes.”

Lance swung onto the glider. “I wanted some air,” he told her as he stood staring down at her, “and some quiet.”

Disturbed that his motives mirrored hers, Foxy shrugged and closed her eyes as if to ignore him. “How did you manage to tear yourself away from Miss Lush Bust?”

The sounds of the party penetrated the quiet of the night. Foxy felt his eyes on her face but stubbornly kept hers closed. “So,” he murmured, “you’ve grown claws. You shouldn’t sharpen them on someone’s back, Foxy. The face is cleaner.”

She opened her eyes and met his. Reluctantly she admitted that she had been nasty from the moment she had seen him again. Unprovoked nastiness was out of character for her. Foxy sighed and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually make a habit of snarling and spitting. Sit down, Lance, I’ll try to behave.” A small smile accompanied the invitation. He did not, as she had expected, sit across from her. Instead, he dropped down beside her. Foxy stiffened. Either unaware of or unconcerned by her reaction, Lance propped his feet next to hers on the opposite bench.

“I don’t mind sparring, Fox, but a rest between rounds is always refreshing.” Pulling out his lighter, he flicked it at the end of a long, thin cigar. The flame licked and flared. Strange, she thought as she relaxed her muscles, how clearly I remember that scent.

“Let’s see if we can manage to be civilized for a few minutes,” Foxy suggested and twisted slightly to face him. A smile hovered on her lips. She was an adult now, she reminded herself, and could meet him on his own terms. “Shall we discuss the weather, the latest best-seller, the political structure of Romania? I know”—she propped her cheek on her palm—“the race. How does it feel to be designing cars instead of racing them? Are you more hopeful for the Indy car you designed, or the Formula One for the Grand Prix races? Kirk’s done very well on the GP circuit since the season opened. The car’s supposed to be very fast and very reliable.”

Lance saw the mischief in her eyes and lifted a brow. “Still reading racing magazines, Foxy?”

“If I didn’t keep up to date, Kirk would never forgive me.” She laughed, a low, heavy sound.

“I see that hasn’t changed,” Lance commented. She gave him a puzzled smile. “Even at fifteen, you had the sexiest laugh I’d ever heard. Like something stealing through the fog.” He blew out a stream of smoke as she shifted in her seat. Moonlight showered on her hair, shooting out hundreds of tiny flames. She felt just the smallest hint of his power tempting her.

“The main branch of your company is in Boston,” Foxy began, navigating to safer ground. “I suppose you live there now.”

Lance smiled at her maneuver and tipped off the ash at the end of his cigar. “Most of the time. Ever been there?” He tossed his arm over the back of the seat. The gesture was so casual Foxy was barely aware of it.

“No.” The glider’s motion continued, slow and soothing. “I’d like to. I know there are fabulous contrasts. Brownstones and ivy, and steel and glass. I’ve seen some very effective pictures.”

“I saw one of yours not too long ago.”

“Oh?” Curious, she turned her head toward him and was surprised to find their faces nearly touching. His warm breath touched her lips. The power was stronger this time, and even more tempting. As she inched cautiously away his eyes never flickered from hers.

“It was taken in winter, but there was no snow, only a bit of frost on naked trees. There was a bench, and an old man was sleeping on it wrapped up in a gray and black topcoat. The sun came low through the trees and fell right across him. It was incredibly sad and quite beautiful.”

Foxy was for the moment at a total loss. She had not expected Lance Matthews to possess any sensitivity or appreciation for the fine points of her craft. As they sat in silence something was happening between them, but she knew neither how to resist or encourage it. It was something as elemental as man and woman and as complex as emotion. His eyes continued to hold hers as his fingers tangled in the tips of her hair.

“I was very impressed,” he went on as she remained silent and perplexed. “I noticed your name under it. I thought at first it couldn’t be you. The Cynthia Fox I remembered didn’t have the ability to take a picture with that much depth, that much feeling. I still knew you as a wide-eyed adolescent with a vile temper.” When Lance broke the look to flick away the stub of his cigar, Foxy let out a quiet, shaky breath.

Relax, she ordered herself. Stop being an idiot.

“In any case, I was curious enough to do some checking. When I found it was you, I was doubly impressed.” As he turned back to her one brow lifted and disappeared under the tousled front of his hair. “Obviously you’re very good at what you do.”

“What? Play with cameras?” But she smiled with the question. The evening air had mellowed her mood.

His grin was quick. “I’ve always thought a person should enjoy their work. I’ve been playing with cars for years.”

“You can afford to play,” she reminded him. Her voice cooled without her being aware of it.

“You’ve never forgiven me for having money, have you?” There was a light amusement in his voice that made her feel foolish.

“No.” She shrugged. “I suppose not. Ten million always seemed so ostentatious.”

He laughed, a low rumble, then tugged on her hair until she faced him again. “Only new money is ostentatious in Boston, Foxy. Old money is discreet.”

“What constitutes ‘old,’ financially speaking?” Foxy found she enjoyed his laugh and the friendly hand on her hair.

“Oh, I’d say three generations would be the bare minimum. Anything less would be suspect. You know, Fox, I much prefer the lily of the valley to the gasoline you used to wear.”

“Thanks. I do wear unleaded now and again, but only when I’m feeling reckless.” She rose with a sigh. It surprised her that she would have preferred sitting with him to rejoining the party. “I’d better get back in. Are you coming?”

“Not yet.” He took her hand and with a swift jerk spun her around until she tumbled into his lap.

“Lance!” With a surprised laugh, she pushed against his chest. “What are you doing?” Her struggles were halfhearted, though his hands were still firm on her waist. Foxy’s mood was still mellow.

“I never kissed you hello.”

Laughter died on her lips as she sensed danger. Quickly she jerked back, but he cupped his hand around the base of her neck. She managed a startled “no!” before his mouth closed over hers.

The kiss began light and teasing. Indeed, she could feel the curve of a small smile on the lips that touched hers. Perhaps if she had struggled, perhaps if her protest had continued, it would have stopped at a careless brush of lips. But as their mouths met, Foxy froze. It seemed her heart stopped pumping, her lungs stopped drawing and releasing air, her pulse stopped beating as her blood lay still. Then, in a sudden wild fury, her blood began to swim again.

Who deepened the kiss first she would never know. It seemed instantaneous. Hot and hungry, their mouths took from each other in a moist, depthless, endless kiss. The muffled groan that touched the air might have come from either of them or both. Her breasts were soft and yielding against his chest as she used tongue and teeth and lips to take the kiss still deeper. He explored all the intimate recesses of her mouth while she wallowed in his flavor, his scent, in the feel of his skin against hers. His hand moved once in a long, bruising stroke down her back and waist and over her hip and thigh. The thin material of her dress was little more than air between them. At the rough caress, Foxy strained closer, nipping his lip to provoke more heat. His answer was to crush her mouth savagely, desperately, until her senses tangled into ecstatic confusion. With a quiet sound of pleasure, she went limp in his arms. Their lips clung for an instant longer as he drew her away.

Her eyes seemed as gray as his as they watched each other in silence. Her arms were still locked around his neck. Foxy could no longer smell the flowers but only his warm, male aroma, she could no longer hear the laughter of the party for the quiet sound of his breathing, she could no longer feel the breeze, but only the spreading heat of his hands. Only he existed. An owl swooped from the tree behind them and hooted three times. Instantly the spell was shattered. Foxy shuddered, swallowed, and struggled to her feet.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” As tingles continued to race along her skin she avoided his eyes and brushed distractedly at the skirt of her dress.

“No? Why not?” Lance’s voice was as calm as a shrug. “You’re a big girl now.” He stood, and she was forced to tilt her head to see his face. “You enjoyed that as much as I did. It’s a little late to play the flustered maiden.”

“I’m not playing the flustered maiden,” Foxy denied hotly as her eyes shot back to his. “Whether I enjoyed it or not is beside the point.” Realizing she was fitting his description precisely, she tossed her hair behind her back in annoyance. She planned to make a dignified exit as she stepped from the glider, but Lance stopped her with a hand on her arm before she had taken two steps across the grass.

“What is the point, Fox?” He no longer sounded amused or calm but irritated.

“The point is,” she said between her teeth, “don’t do it again.”

“Orders?” he murmured softly. “I don’t take orders very well.”

“I’m not asking for a ham on rye,” she countered. “I was off guard.” Foxy tried to reason out her response to him while justifying it. “And—and tired and perhaps a bit curious. I overreacted.”

“Curious?” His laugh was male and again amused. “Did I satisfy your curiosity, Foxy? Maybe like Alice, you’ll find it ‘curiouser and curiouser.’ ” He trailed his fingers lightly up her arm. Foxy shied away as her skin trembled.

“You’re impossible!” She pushed the hair from her face in impatient fury. “You’ve always been impossible.” With this, she whirled and ran toward the safety of the party. Lance watched her dress float and swirl around her.