Chapter 3

The Indianapolis 500 is an event that transforms Indianapolis from an ordinary midwestern city into the focus of the racing world. More people watch this one race than any other single sporting event in the country. It is for car racing what Wimbledon is for tennis, what the Kentucky Derby is for horse racing, what the World Series is for baseball—prestige, honor, excitement.

Foxy was relieved that the sky was empty of clouds. There was not even the smallest wisp to hint of rain. The mixture of rain and racing always made her uneasy. A breeze teased the ends of the ribbon that held her hair in a ponytail. Her jeans were old friends, nearly white with wear at the knees and snug at the hips. A baseball-style shirt in red and white pinstripes was tucked neatly into the waist. Around her neck hung the secondhand Nikon she had purchased while in college. Foxy would not have traded it for a chest of gold. From her vantage point in the pits, she could see that the grandstands were empty. Reporters, television crews, drivers, mechanics all milled about attending to business or drinking coffee from foam cups. The air was quiet enough to allow an occasional bird song to carry, but it was not calm. A current ran through the air, stirring up waves of tension and excitement. In less than two hours, the stands and infield would be swarming with people. When the green flag was waved, Indianapolis Motor Speedway would hold four hundred thousand people, a number that rivaled the population of some American cities. The noise would explode like one long roar of thunder.

During the hours that followed, there would be a continuous drone of engines. The pits would grow steamy with heat and thick with the smell of fuel and sweat. Eyes would be glued to the small, low-slung cars as they tore around the two-and-a-half-mile oval. Some would think only of the thrill of the race.

Foxy’s feelings were more complicated. It had been two years since she had stood near a racetrack and six since she had been a part of the racing world. But it was, she discovered as she stared around her, like yesterday. The feelings, the emotions inside her, had not been altered by her absence. There was anticipation, excitement. She was almost lightheaded with it, and she knew it would grow only more intense after the race began. There was a wonder and pride at knowing her brother’s skill, a talent that seemed more innate than learned. But underlying all was a deep-rooted fear, a terror so rich and sharp, it never dulled with the years. All the sensations scrambled inside her, and she knew when the green flag was waved, they would all merge together into one heady, indescribable emotion. Nothing had changed.

Foxy knew the ropes. There were some drivers who would grant interviews and speak cheerfully, casually, about the race to come. Others would be technical or abstract, some belligerent. She knew Kirk would grant early interviews, answering questions with his patented brand of appealing arrogance. To Kirk each race was the same and each race was unique. It was the same because he drove each to win, unique because each race presented problems unlike any before or after. Foxy knew after the interviews that he would disappear and remain alone until it was time to be strapped into the cockpit. From long experience, she knew how to be unobtrusive. She moved among drivers and timers and mechanics and the dozens of other photographers, letting her camera record the prerace routine.

“What are you poking around here with that thing for?”

Foxy recognized the grumble but finished her shot before turning. “Hiya, Charlie.” With a grin, she tossed her arms around his neck and nuzzled his grizzled cheek. She knew he would protest and grumble as well as she knew the hug pleased him.

“Just like a female,” he muttered, but Foxy felt the slight squeeze of his hands on her back before he pulled away.

For the next few minutes, they studied each other openly. She saw little change. There was a bit more gray in his beard, a bit less hair on his head, but his eyes were the same clear blue she had first seen ten years before. He had been fifty then, and she had thought him ancient. As Lance Matthews’s chief mechanic, Charlie Dunning had ruled the pits like a despot. He continued to do so now as the head of Kirk’s team.

“Still skinny,” he said in disgust. “I should’ve known a few years wouldn’t put any weight on you. Don’t you make enough money to eat by taking pictures?”

“No one’s been leaving chocolate bars lying around for me lately.” She pinched his cheek as she spoke, knowing he would suffer torture and death before admitting he had planted chocolate bars for a skinny kid to find. “I missed you at Kirk’s party the other night,” she added as he shuffled and grumbled.

“I don’t go to kids’ parties. So you and the fancy lady are going to take in the Indy and the rest of the Grand Prix races this season.” He sniffled and set his mouth in a disapproving line.

“If you mean Pam, then yes, we are.” Foxy decided Charlie had nearly perfected irascibility. “And she’s a journalist.”

“You just mind that neither of you gets in the way.”

“Yes, Charlie,” Foxy said demurely, but his eyes narrowed at the gleam in hers.

“Still sassy, too. If you hadn’t been so puny, I’d have taken a strap to you years ago.”

Grinning, Foxy lifted the camera and shot a full-faced picture. “Smile,” she suggested.

“Sassy,” Charlie repeated. As his lips started to twitch he turned and lumbered away.

Foxy watched until he had disappeared into the crowd before she turned around. She gave a small gasp as she bumped into Lance. He rested his hands briefly on her shoulders as his eyes locked with hers. She had managed to completely block out the interlude on the glider, but now it all came flooding back in full force. The mouth, which had been hungry on hers, twitched in a half smile.

“He always did have a soft spot for you.”

Foxy had forgotten everything but the dark gray eyes that watched her. As his smile grew, touched now with arrogance, she jerked out of his hold. He was dressed in much the same manner as she was, in jeans and a T-shirt. His hair danced on his forehead as the breeze caught it. Mentally she cursed him for being so wickedly attractive.

“Hello, Lance.” Her voice was marginally friendly with overtones of aloofness. Foxy was pleased with it. “No reporters dogging your footsteps?”

“Hello, Foxy,” he returned equally. “Taking a few snapshots?”

“Touché,” Foxy muttered. Turning away, she lifted the Nikon to her face and became absorbed in setting the aperture. She thought she must have gained an extra sense where Lance Matthews was concerned. His presence could be felt on the surface of her skin. It was both uncomfortable and arousing.

“Looking forward to the race, Foxy, or has it lost its charm?” As he spoke Lance tangled his fingers in the thick softness of her ponytail. Foxy wasted four shots.

“I heard Kirk won the pole position in the time trials. He knows how to cash in on that kind of advantage.” When she turned back to him, her face was calm, her eyes cool. One kiss, she told herself, was nothing to be concerned about. They were still the same people. “I imagine as the owner, you’re pleased.” His smile was not the answer Foxy was looking for. “I’ve seen the car. It’s very impressive.” When he still did not reply, Foxy let out a frustrated breath and squinted up at him. “This conversation is fascinating, Lance, but I really must get back to work.”

His hand curled firmly around her upper arm as she turned to go. He watched her in silence, and she was forced to toss up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “I’m having a small party tonight.” His voice was quiet. “In my suite at the hotel.”

“Oh?” Foxy employed the arched-brow look she had perfected in college.

“Seven o’clock. We’ll have dinner.”

“How small a party?” Foxy met his eyes steadily, though hers were shadowed by her hand.

“Very small, as in you and me.”

“Smaller,” she corrected evenly, “as in just you.” Two mechanics, clad in the vivid red shirts of Kirk’s team, moved past them. Lance’s gaze never wandered from hers. “I have a date with Scott Newman.”

“Break it.”

“No.”

“Afraid?” he taunted, bringing her an inch closer with a slight movement of his hand.

“No, I’m not afraid,” Foxy retorted. The green in her eyes shimmered against the gray in his. “But I’m not stupid either. Maybe you’ve forgotten, I’m not a newcomer where you’re concerned. I’ve already seen your string of—ah—ladies,” she said with a dash of scorn. “It was quite a boost to my education, watching you pick and shuffle and discard. I do my own picking,” she added, growing angrier as he remained silent. “And I do my own discarding. Go find someone else to feed your voracious ego.”

Abruptly Lance smiled. His voice was light and amused. “You still have a vile temper, Foxy. You’ve also got a bright, inquiring mind and energy in every cell. You’ll outdistance Newman in an hour, and he’ll bore you to distraction.”

“That’s my problem,” Foxy snapped, then remembered to jerk her arm free.

“That it is,” Lance agreed cheerfully. He deprived her of having the last word by walking away.

Infuriated, Foxy whirled around, prepared to stomp off in the opposite direction. With a small shock, she saw that the grandstands were filling with people. Time was moving quickly. Annoyed, she swiftly walked down into the pit area.

As she interviewed a rookie driver Pam watched the entire scene between Lance and Foxy. It wasn’t possible for her to hear what passed between them, but she had clearly seen the variety of emotions take possession of Foxy’s face. She watched them with the objectivity and curiosity peculiar to her trade. There was something physical between them, she had only to see them together to be certain. She was certain, too, that Foxy was kicking out against it like an ill-tempered mule and that she had come out second best in the battle that had just taken place.

Pam had liked Lance Matthews immediately. She was prone to judge people quickly, then calculate the most direct and productive approach to them. The consistent accuracy of her judgment had helped her climb to success in her profession. She had judged Lance Matthews as a man who did not so much shun convention as make his own. He would attract both men and women simply because he had so much to offer. He had strength and arrogance and a rich sensuality. Pam thought he would be indispensable as a friend and terrifying as a lover.

The rookie, blissfully unaware of her preoccupation, continued to answer her questions as she wound up the interview. With one eye cocked on Lance’s back, Pam thanked him graciously, wished him luck, and hurried off.

“Mr. Matthews!”

Lance turned. He watched a small, delicate-faced blonde dressed impeccably in gray slacks and a blazer running toward him. A tape recorder was slung over one shoulder, a purse over the other. Curious, he waited until she caught up with him. Pam paused and offered Lance a breathless smile.

“Mr. Matthews, I’m Pam Anderson.” She held out a hand whose nails were polished a baby-pink. “I’m doing a series of articles on racing. Perhaps Foxy mentioned me.”

“Hello.” Lance held her hand a moment as he studied her. He had expected someone sturdier. “I suppose we missed each other at Kirk’s party the other night.”

“You were pointed out to me,” Pam told him, deciding to use flat-out honesty as her approach. “But you disappeared before I could wrangle my way over to you. Foxy disappeared, too.”

“You’re very observant.” Though the annoyance in his voice was only slight, Pam recognized it and was pleased. She knew she had his full attention.

“Our friendship is still at the apprentice stage, but I’m very fond of Foxy. I also know how to mind my own business.” She brushed absently at her hair as the wind teased it into her eyes. “Professionally, I’m only interested in the race and any and all aspects thereof. I’m hoping you’ll help me. Not only do you know what it’s like to design and own a Formula One, you know what it’s like to compete in one. You also know this track and the specifics of an Indy car. The fact that you’re a well-known figure not only in racing circles but in society will add tremendous readability to the series.”

Sometime during Pam’s speech, Lance had stuck his hands in his pockets. He waited for a full ten seconds to see if she was finished before he started to chuckle. “A few minutes ago, I was trying to figure out how you could be the same Pam Anderson who wrote that blistering series on foul-ups in the penal system.” He inclined his head in a gesture she took as a seal of approval. “Now I know. We’ll have plenty of time to talk over the next few months.” Pam watched his gaze shift and focus to where Foxy leaned against a fence and fiddled with lenses. She saw the birth of his patented smile. “Plenty of time.” When his attention darted back to Pam, his grin widened and settled. “What do you know about the 500?”

“The first 500 was in 1911, and the winning car had an average speed of 74.59 miles per hour. The track was originally paved in brick, hence the nickname the Old Brickyard. It’s a full-throttle race where a driver moves to high gear and stays there. It’s not a Grand Prix race because no points are given, but there are many similarities between the Formula One car and the Indy car. There are also a number of drivers who have competed in both the 500 and the Grand Prix circuit . . . like Kirk Fox. The cars here are fueled by alcohol. An alcohol fire is particularly dangerous because there’s no flame.”

“You’ve done your homework.” Lance grinned at the computerlike flow of information.

“Oh, I have the facts,” she agreed, liking the directness of his gaze. “But they don’t tell the whole story. Forty-six people have died at this race, but only three in the last ten years. Why?”

“Cars are safer,” Lance answered. “They used to be built like battleships, and in a crash they stayed solid and the driver absorbed all the power. Now it’s the fragility of the cars that saves lives. Cars self-destruct around a driver, diffusing the power away from him. The restraint systems have been improved, and the drivers wear fire-resistant clothes from the shoes up.” Sensing that the starting time was drawing near, Lance led her back toward the start-finish line.

“So racing has become fairly safe?” Pam asked. Her look was as candid as her voice was soft.

Again Lance gave her his full attention. She was a very sharp lady. “I didn’t say that. It’s safer, but there will always be the element of risk. Without it, a race like the Indy would just be some cars going in a circle.”

“But a crash doesn’t bring the fear it once did?”

He grinned again and shook his head. “I doubt if many drivers think about crashing. If they did, they wouldn’t get into a cockpit. It’s never going to happen to you, always to someone else. When you do think about it, you accept it as part of the rules. A crash is never the worst fear in any case. It’s fire. There isn’t a driver alive who doesn’t have a gut fear of fire.”

“What about when you’re driving and another driver crashes? What do you feel then?”

“You don’t,” he answered simply. “You can’t. There isn’t room in the cockpit for emotion.”

“No.” She nodded. “I can understand that. But there is one thing I don’t understand. I don’t understand why.”

“Why?”

“Why do people strap themselves into a car and whirl around a circuit at earth-shattering speeds. Why do they risk injury or death? What’s the motivation?”

Lance turned and frowned at the track. “It varies. I imagine there’re as many motivations as there are drivers—the thrill, the competition, the challenge, the money, the prestige, the speed. Speed can be addictive. There’s the need to prove your own capabilities, to test your own endurance. And, of course, there’s the ego that goes with any sport.” As he turned back to Pam he saw Kirk step out into the sunlight. “Drivers all have different degrees of need, but they all need to win.”

Foxy moved around the car, crouching and snapping as Kirk was strapped into the cockpit. He pulled the balaclava over his head, and for the moments before he fixed the helmet over it, he looked like an Arthurian knight preparing to joust. He answered Charlie’s questions with short words or moves of his head. Already, his concentration was consumed by the race. Beneath his helmet visor, his eyes were unfathomable, his expression neither relaxed nor tense. There was an air about him of being separate, not only from the people crowded around the car, but from himself. Foxy could sense his detachment, and her camera captured it. As she straightened she watched Lance walk over and bend close to her brother’s head.

“I got a case of scotch says you won’t break the track record.”

She saw Kirk’s imperceptible nod and knew he had accepted the challenge. He would thrive on it. From the opposite side of the car, Foxy studied Lance, realizing he knew Kirk better than she had imagined. His eyes lifted and met hers as the engine roared to life between them. As Kirk cruised onto the track to take his pole position Foxy disappeared inside the garage area.

As the last strands of “Back Home Again in Indiana” floated on the air, the crowd roared with approval at the release of the thousands of colored balloons. For miles, those who were not at the Motor Speedway would see the drifting orbs and know that the 500 was under way. The order was official, ringing out over the rumble of the crowd. “Gentlemen, start your engines.” On the starting grid, tension revved as high as the engines.

The stands were a wave of color and noise as the cars began their pace lap. The speed seemed minimal. The cars themselves, low splashes of color and lettering, were in formation and well behaved. They shone clean and bright in the streaming light of the sun. No longer could bird songs be heard. Suddenly the pace car pulled away and sped off the track.

“This is it,” Foxy murmured, and Pam jumped slightly.

“I thought I’d lost you.” She pushed her sunglasses more firmly on her nose.

“You don’t think I’d miss the start, do you?” There was a long sports lens on her camera now, and she had it trained on the track. “They’ll get the green flag any second now.” Pam noticed that she seemed a bit pale, but as she opened her mouth to comment, the air exploded with noise. With professional ease, Foxy drew a bead on the white flash of Kirk’s racer.

“How can they do it?” Pam spoke to herself, but Foxy lowered her camera and turned to her. “How can they keep up that pace for five hundred miles?”

“To win,” Foxy said simply.

The afternoon wore on. The noise never abated. The heat in the pits was layered with the smell of fuel, oil, and sweat. Out of a field of thirty, ten cars were already out of the running due to mechanical failure or minor crashes. A broken gearbox, a failed clutch, a split-second error in judgment brought the curtain down on hope. Pam had discarded her blazer, rolled up the sleeves of her white lawn blouse, and now stalked the pit area with her tape recorder. Trickles of dampness worked their way down Foxy’s back. Her shirt clung to her skin, and her hair curled damply around her face. But there was another tickle between her shoulder blades, one that had her stiffening and turning away from the track. Lance stood directly behind her. He spoke first but looked beyond her. The track was a valley cupped inside the mountains of the grandstands.

“He’s going into lap 85.” He had a cold drink in his hand and held it out to her without shifting his gaze. Foxy took it and drank, though his thoughtfulness confused her. “Yes, I know. He’s got nearly a full lap on Johnston. Have you timed his average speed?”

“Just over 190.”

Foxy watched Kirk maneuver through a tight cluster of cars. She held her breath as he passed a racer in the short chute between turns three and four. She stared down into floating chunks of ice, then drank again. “You’ve set up a tremendous pit crew. I timed the last fuel stop at under twelve seconds. They’ve given Kirk an edge. And it’s obvious the car’s fast and handles magnificently.”

Slowly Lance lowered his eyes and looked down at her. “We both know racing is a matter of teamwork.”

“All but this part,” Foxy countered. “Out there it’s really up to Kirk, isn’t it?”

“You’ve been standing a long time.” The softness of Lance’s voice brought Foxy’s attention back to him. “Why don’t you sit down for a while.” He could nearly see the headache that was drumming inside her skull. Surprising them both, he lifted a hand to her cheek in a rare gesture of tenderness. “You look tired.” He dropped his hand, then stuck it in his pocket.

“No, no, I can’t.” Foxy turned away, oddly moved by the lingering warmth on her cheek. “Not until it’s over. You’re going to lose that scotch, you know.”

“I’m counting on it.” He swore suddenly, causing her to turn back to him. “I don’t like the way number 15 handles turn one. He gets closer to the wall every time.”

“Fifteen?” Foxy narrowed her eyes as she searched the streaking stream of cars. “That’s one of the rookies, isn’t it? The kid from Long Beach.”

“The kid’s a year older than you are,” Lance muttered. “But he hasn’t the experience to go that high in the groove. He’s going to lose it.”

Seconds later, number 15 approached turn one again, only to challenge the unforgiving wall too closely. Sparks flew as the rear wheels slammed into the solid force, then were sheared off and tossed into the air as the car began to spin out of control. Pieces of fiberglass began to spray the air as three cars swerved, maneuvering like snakes around the wounded racer. One nearly lost control, its wheels skidding wildly before gripping the asphalt. The yellow flag came down as number 15 flipped into the infield and lay still. Instantly it was surrounded by emergency crews and fire extinguishers.

As always when she witnessed a crash, a frozen calm descended over Foxy. She did not think or feel. From the instant the car connected with the wall, she had lifted her camera and recorded each step of the crash. Dispassionately she focused, set speed and depth of field. One of her shots would be a classic study of a car in distress. She felt only a shudder of relief when she saw the driver crawl from the wreckage and give the traditional wave to assure the crowd he was unharmed.

“My God. How can a man walk away from a wreck like that?” Foxy heard Pam’s voice behind her but continued to shoot the routine of the emergency crew in the infield.

“As I told you before, the very fragility of the racer and the improved restraints have saved more than one life on the grid.” Lance answered Pam but his attention was on Foxy. Her face was without color or expression as she lowered her camera.

“But not all of them,” she stated as she caught the blur of Kirk’s car as it whizzed by. “And not every time.” She felt the cold passing as warmth seeped back under her skin. “You’d better go interview that driver. He’ll be able to give you a firsthand report on what it’s like to see your life pass before your eyes at two hundred miles an hour.”

“Yes, I will.” Pam gave her a searching look but said nothing more before she moved away.

Foxy pushed a stray hair from her face, allowing her camera to dangle by its strap. “I suppose number 15 will have more respect for turn one the next time.”

“You’re very professional and unflappable these days, aren’t you, Fox?” Lance’s eyes were cold as steel under his lowered brows. Foxy remembered the look and felt an inward tremor.

“Photographers have to have good nerves.” She met his look of annoyance without flinching. She knew if annoyance turned to genuine anger, he could be brutal.

“But feelings aren’t necessary,” he countered. He gathered the strap of her camera in one hand and pulled her closer. “There was a man in number 15. You never missed a frame.”

“What did you expect me to do?” she tossed back. “Get hysterical? Cover my eyes with my hands? I’ve seen crashes before. I’ve seen them when they haven’t walked away, when there hasn’t been anything to see but a sheet of fire. I’ve watched both you and Kirk being dragged out by the epaulettes. You want emotion?” Her voice rose in a sudden torrent of fury. “Go find someone who didn’t grow up on the smell of death and gasoline!”

Lance studied her in silence. Color had shot back into her face. Her eyes were like a raging sea under a haze of clouds. “Tough lady, aren’t you?” His tone was touched with amusement and scorn, a combination Foxy found intolerable.

“Damn right,” she agreed and tossed her chin out further. “Now, take your hands off my camera.”

At first, the only thing that moved was his left brow. It rose in an arch that might have indicated humor or acceptance. In an exaggerated gesture, he lifted both hands, holding them aloft, empty palms toward her. Still, he did not back off, and they stood toe to toe. “Sorry, Fox.” She knew him well enough to detect the dregs of temper in his voice. Her own anger forced her to ignore it.

“Just leave me alone,” she ordered and started to brush by him. To her fury, he stepped neatly in her path and blocked her exit.

“I’ll just be another minute,” he told her. Before she had grasped his motive, Lance had shifted the camera to her back and pulled her into his arms.

As she opened her mouth to protest he closed his over it and plundered its depths. She was caught fast. Instead of pushing against him, her hands gripped desperately on his upper arms. They would not obey the command her brain shot out to them. Her mouth answered his even as she ordered it to be cold and still. The flame sparked and burned just as quickly, just as intensely, as it had the night on the glider. She could not deny that even if her mind and her heart were her own, her body was his. Never had she known such perfection in a touch, such intimacy, such hunger. She lifted her arms to lock them around his neck as her body melted into his. The whine of finely tuned engines whirled in her brain, then was lost in a flood of need and desire. The people who milled around them faded, then disappeared from her world as she strained closer. She demanded more of him even as she gave all of herself. Ultimately it was Lance who drew away. They were still tangled in each other’s arms, their faces close, their bodies molded. With his quiet, probing intensity, he stared down at her.

“I suppose you’ll tell me I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Would it make any difference if I did?” Her knees wanted badly to tremble, but Foxy forced them to be still.

“No,” he answered. “It wouldn’t.”

“Will you let me go now?” Foxy was pleased at the cool, impersonal timbre of her voice. Inside her stomach dozens of bats were waging war.

“For now,” he agreed. Though he loosened his grip, he kept his hands light on her hips. “I can always pick up where I left off.”

“Your conceit is threatening to outweigh your arrogance these days, Lance.” Firmly Foxy drew his hands from her hips. “I don’t know which is more unappealing.”

Lance grinned at the insult and tweaked her nose in a brotherly fashion. “You’re cute when you’re dignified, Foxy.” His glance wandered over her head as he saw Kirk veer off the track and onto the pit lane. “Kirk’s coming in. With any luck, the second half of the race will run as smoothly as the first.”

Refusing to dignify any of his comments with an answer, Foxy dragged her camera back in front of her and walked away. Tucking his hands in his pockets, Lance rocked gently on his heels and watched her.

Only half of the starters finished the race. Foxy had known Kirk would win. She had studied his face during his brief, final pit stop and had seen the confidence mixed with the strain and tension. Cars no longer looked shiny in the sun but were dull with grime. After the checkered flag came down, Foxy watched Kirk take his victory lap as the roars of the crowd and the crew washed over her. She knew he would come into the pits ready for adulation. His eyes would no longer be opaque. His mouth would be lifted in that easy boyish grin, and all the lines of strain would have magically vanished. Tirelessly he would grant interviews, sign autographs, accept congratulations. The layers of sweat and grime that covered him were his badge of success. He would take it all in, recharging his system. Then it would be over for him, a thing of the past. In two days, they would be on their way to Monaco for the qualifying races. The Indianapolis 500 would be to Kirk no more than a newspaper clipping. For him, it was always the next race.