The Heart's Victory (10 page)

She noted a change in her brother. He grew more quiet and more withdrawn. Because she had seen him go inside himself before, Foxy accepted it. She attributed his mood to pressure over the championship. In Pam, she saw a growing serenity. Often during the qualifying races and long practice sessions, Foxy wished for a portion of Pam's absolute calm.

The 2.3-mile course climbed and weaved through terrain that was alternately wooded and open. Trees were ablaze with autumn colors, which grew more vibrant with each passing day. Foxy had forgotten that New York possessed such rustic charm. October leaves stretched toward a hard blue sky and swirled and spun to the ground. There was the combination of biting air and heat from the sun so peculiar to fall. Of all the tracks she had seen in a decade of her life, Foxy favored Watkins Glen. There was something simple and basically American about it.

She watched the race begin through the lens of her camera.
The last one,
she thought, and let out a long breath as she straightened. Beside her, Charlie Dunning stared after the cars while he rolled the stub of a fat cigar around in his mouth.

“This'll do it, Charlie.” Foxy smiled as he turned to her, squinting against the sun.

“Don't you get tired of taking pictures?” he demanded as he scowled at her camera.

“Don't you get tired of playing with cars and chasing women?” she countered sweetly.

“Those are both worthwhile occupations.” He pinched her waist and snorted. “You're getting skinnier.”

“You're getting cuter.” Foxy rubbed his grizzled beard with her palm and winked. “Wanna get married?”

“You're still a smart-aleck brat,” he grumbled as he turned a rosy pink under his whiskers.

Grinning, Foxy dipped in his shirt pocket and pulled out a candy bar. “Let me know if you change your mind,” she told him as she unwrapped the chocolate and took a bite. “I'm not getting any younger, you know.”

With grumbles and mutters, Charlie moved away to lecture his mechanics.

“That's the first time Charlie's blushed in his life,” Lance commented.

Foxy twisted her head and watched him approach. An odd thrill sped up and down her spine before it spread out at the base of her neck. His dark gray turtleneck was snug, showing off his lean torso. His mouth was cocked in a half smile. Abruptly she felt the memory of its pressure on hers. The sensation was so genuine, so vital, she was certain he must feel it too. As she looked at him it was as though a thin veil lifted from her eyes, and she saw him clearly for the first time: the dark gray eyes that saw so much and told so little, the well-shaped mouth that could give such pleasure, the firm chin and rawboned features that were so much more interesting than clean good looks. This was why Scott Newman had seemed so dull, why no boy or man she had ever known had measured up in her eyes. There was only one, had always been only one man in her heart.

I've never stopped loving him,
she realized on a wave of alarm.
I never will.

“You all right?” He reached for her as the color drained from her face. The gesture, coupled with the concern in his voice, snapped her back to reality.

“No...yes, yes, I'm fine.” Foxy brushed a hand over her eyes as if to clear the mists. “I—I was daydreaming, I suppose.”

“About wedded bliss with Charlie?” The careless brush of his hand through her hair sent tremors speeding through her.

“Charlie?” Blankly she glanced down at the chocolate bar in her hand. It was softening in the sunlight. “Oh, yes, Charlie. I was—I was teasing him.” She wished desperately for a moment alone to pull herself together. Her mind was whirling with new knowledge. All of her senses seemed to be competing with each other for dominance.

Lance studied her with growing interest. “Are you sure you're all right?” His brow lifted in that habitual gesture and disappeared under his hair. “You look rattled.”

Rattled?
she thought, nearly giggling at the understatement. I'm going under for the third time. “I'm fine,” she lied, then forced herself to smile. “How are you?”

Cars wound around the “Ss” and zoomed past. Absently she wondered how many laps she had missed while she had been in her trance. “Just fine,” Lance murmured. There was a faint smile on his lips as he watched her. “Your chocolate's melting.”

Dutifully Foxy took a bite of the bar. “What will you do after the race is over?” she asked, hoping she sounded only mildly interested.

“Relax.”

“Yes.” A portion of the tension slid out of her shoulders as she glanced around. It would be over in a matter of hours. “I guess we all will. It's been a long summer.”

“Has it?” Lance retorted. Foxy wore a white Oxford shirt under a navy crew-neck sweater. Carelessly, Lance rubbed the collar between his thumb and forefinger while his eyes rested on hers. There was something proprietary in the casual gesture. “It doesn't seem very long ago that you popped out from under the MG in Kirk's garage.”

“It seems like years to me,” Foxy murmured as she turned back to the track. Cars hurtled by, and the noise was one continuous demand—roar and whine. She could smell oil and gas and heated rubber. “It doesn't seem to bother Pam at all,” Foxy commented as she spotted the small blond figure near the edge of the pits. “I suppose it's easier if you're not personally involved with one of the drivers.”

With a quick laugh, Lance took her chin and examined her face. “Do you need glasses or have you been off in space for the past few weeks?”

“What are you talking about?” Foxy was not ready to have him touch her and carefully backed away.

“Foxy, my love, Pam is very personally involved with one of the drivers. Take off your blinders.”

Eyes narrowed against the sun, Foxy turned to study Pam's profile. She was watching the race steadily with her delicate hands tucked into the pockets of a spotless ivory blazer. Foxy turned back to Lance's amused face with a sharp glance. “You don't mean Kirk?”
Of course he means Kirk,
she realized even as she spoke. I'd have seen it myself if I hadn't been so tangled up with Lance. “Oh dear,” she said on a sigh.

“Don't you approve, little sister?” Lance said dryly, then turned her back to face him. His hands remained light on her arms. “Kirk's a big boy now.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous.” Foxy pushed her hair behind her back in a quick gesture of annoyance. “It's not a matter of approving, and in any case, Pam's wonderful.”

“Then what's the problem?”

Foxy turned and gestured to where Pam stood. Her hair was rolled neatly at the nape of her neck with only a few wisps dancing gently around her composed face. “Just look at her,” Foxy ordered impatiently. “That's how Melanie Wilkes would look today. Lord, she even sounds like her, with that quiet, cultured voice. Pam's tiny and fragile and should be serving tea in a drawing room. Kirk will swallow her whole.”

“You've forgotten what a strong lady Melanie Wilkes was, Foxy.” His fingers trailed lightly over her cheek. “Think about it,” he advised before he turned and walked away.

For some moments, Foxy stood still. Being in love with Lance was not a new sensation, but now she loved as a woman and not as a child. This was no fairy-tale crush but a real, encompassing need. She knew now the agonies and joys of being in his arms, knew the heat and pressure of his mouth. She could never, as she had at sixteen, be content with making him the hero of her dreams. And after tomorrow, she remembered and shut her eyes against the painful reality,
I'll very likely never see him again.
Unable to deal with her situation, Foxy pushed it from her mind.

And now, there's Pam and Kirk,
she reminded herself. Her loyalties at war, she walked over to the blond woman and stood beside her as the grid vibrated with passing cars.

“He's taken the lead a bit sooner than usual,” Pam commented as she followed the flash of Kirk's car. “He wants badly to win this one.” With a light laugh, she turned to Foxy. “He wants badly to win every one.”

“I know . . . he always has.” The calm blue eyes caused Foxy to take a long breath. “Pam, I know it's none of my business, but I'd . . . ” With a sound of frustration, she turned back to the track and stuck her hands in her pockets. “Oh, I'm going to make a terrible fool of myself.”

“You think I'm wrong for Kirk,” Pam supplied gently.

“No!” Foxy's eyes grew wide with distress. “I think Kirk's wrong for you.”

“How strangely alike the two of you are,” Pam murmured, studying Foxy's earnest face. “He thinks so, too. But it doesn't matter, I know he's exactly right for me.”

“Pam . . . ” Foxy shook her head as she searched for the right words. “Racing . . . ”

“Will always come first,” Pam finished, then shrugged her slim shoulders. “Of course I know that. I accept that. The fact is, as much as it surprises even me, it's partly that which attracted me to him—the racing, his absolute determination to come out on top, his almost negligent attitude about danger. It's as exciting as it is frustrating, and I'm hooked. I think I'm going to be terrified, and then when the race starts, I'm not. I want him to win.” She turned to Foxy with a brilliant smile. “I think I'm almost as bad as he is. I love him, I love who he is and what he is. Being second in his life is enough for me.” Hearing her own words echo back to her, Foxy could do no more than stare out at the track. “I'm not trying to usurp your place with him,” Pam began, and Foxy turned back quickly.

“Oh, no. No, it's not that. It's nothing like that. I'm glad for Kirk, he needs someone . . . someone who understands him the way you do.” She ran her fingers through her thick mane of hair. It glowed like the russet leaves on the surrounding trees. “But I care about you, too.” She made a frustrated gesture with her hands as if that would help her express herself. “He can be cruel by just forgetting.”

“I don't bruise easily.” Pam laid a hand on Foxy's shoulder. “Not as easily, I think, as you do.” At Foxy's confused expression, she smiled. “It's easy for one woman in love to recognize another. No, no, don't start babbling a denial.” She laughed as Foxy's mouth opened then closed. “If you need to talk, we will. I feel quite an expert on the subject.”

“It's academic,” Foxy told her with a restless movement of her shoulders. “Tomorrow we'll go our separate ways.”

“You still have today.” Pam gave Foxy's shoulder a quick squeeze. “Isn't that really all there is?”

It happened so suddenly. At first Foxy's brain rejected it. Even as Pam spoke, Kirk rounded the turn in front of them. She saw him swerve to avoid the abrupt fishtailing of the racer to his right, then waited for him to regain control. She saw the skid begin, heard its squeal echo through her head as she watched it grow wider and more violent. Part of her brain screamed in panic while still another kept insisting he would pull out of it. He had to pull out of it. The sound of the blowout was like a gunshot and just as lethal. Then there were columns of smoke and shrieking metal as the car slammed into the wall and careened away. Wheels and pieces of fiberglass rained in the air as the racer continued to spin wildly.

“No!”
The cry was wrenched from Foxy as she darted toward the track. With one quick jerk, she freed herself from Pam's restraining hand and ran.

Jagged pieces of fiberglass flew with deadly abandon. A fear greater than any she had ever known filled her, blacking out all thoughts, all feelings. Her only reality was the twisting hulk of machine that held her brother in its bowels. Inches from the grid, her breath was cut off by a vise around her waist. The force lifted her off the ground, and she kicked uselessly in the air to free herself. She shook the hair from her eyes in time to see Kirk's car topple into the infield.

“For God's sake, Foxy, you'll kill yourself.” Lance's voice was harsh in her ear as she writhed and struggled for freedom. In terror, she waited for the belching smoke to burst into flame.

“Let me go!” she shouted as she realized the vise around her waist was his arm. “It's Kirk, can't you see? I've got to get to him.” Her breathing was ragged as she clawed at the imprisoning arm. “Oh God, I've got to get to him!” she shouted again, desperately fighting to free herself.

“There's nothing you can do.” Lance jerked her back against him, cutting off her wind for a moment. Over her head, he could see members of the emergency team spraying the wreck with extinguishers while others worked to free Kirk from the cockpit. “There's nothing you can do,” he said again. Her struggles ceased abruptly. She went so completely limp, he thought she had fainted until he heard her speak.

“Let me go.” Foxy spoke quietly now, so that he barely heard her. “I won't do anything stupid,” she added when he did not lessen his grip. “I'm all right, Lance, let me go.”

Slowly he lowered her back to the ground and released her. She neither turned to him nor spoke, but watched in silence as they pulled Kirk from the wreckage. She gave no sign that she knew Pam stood beside her. Behind them, the pits were like a tomb. The white flag fluttered in the autumn breeze.

Chapter 7

The walls in the hospital waiting room were pale green. The floor was uncarpeted; an inconspicuous beige tile with tiny brown flecks disguised a day's collection of dust and dirt. On the wall opposite Foxy was a print of a Van Gogh still life. It was the sole spot of color in the drab little room. Foxy knew she would never see the print again without remembering the hours of torment and ignorance. Pam sat near the window, framed by drapes just darker than the walls. Occasionally she took sips of cold coffee. Charlie sat on a vinyl sofa and gnawed at the stub of a long-dead cigar. Lance paced. Unceasingly he prowled the small room, sometimes with his hands in his pockets, sometimes smoking. Once or twice, Foxy heard Pam murmur something to him, then caught the low rumble of his response. She did not hear the words, nor did she attempt to. They did not interest her. She felt the same nameless, unspeakable fear she had known in the first moments of consciousness after her own accident. She had been helpless then, and she knew she was helpless now. Lance had been right when he told her there was nothing she could do. Now Foxy accepted it. Anger and panic were buried under the numbing terror of the unthinkable. Her mind drifted and emptied as she stared at the Van Gogh print. Kirk's skid had begun more than three hours before.

“Miss Fox?”

With a jolt, Foxy was pulled back to the present. For a moment, she merely stared at the green-gowned figure in the doorway. “Yes?” she managed in a surprisingly strong voice as she rose to meet him. It floated through her mind that the doctor was very young. His mustache was dark but reminded Foxy of Kirk's. His surgical mask hung by its ties at his throat.

“Your brother's out of surgery.” There was a quietness to his voice, which, like his hands, he used for healing. “He's in recovery.”

Cautiously Foxy held off relief and kept her gaze steady on his face. “How extensive are his injuries?”

The doctor heard and respected the control in her tone, but saw that her eyes were hurting and afraid. “He had five broken ribs. His lungs collapsed, but they've been reinflated and the concussion's mild. The ribs will be painful, but since there was no puncture, the danger's minimal. His leg . . . ” He hesitated a moment, and Foxy felt a fresh thrill of fear.

“He didn't . . . ” She swallowed, then forced herself to ask. “He didn't lose it?”

“No.” He took her hand for reassurance and found it ice cold but without a tremor. “But it's a complicated injury, we've had to do some reconstructing. It's an open, comminuted fracture, and there's some artery damage. We've realigned the bones, and the outlook is good that he'll have full use of the leg in a few months. Meanwhile, there's a risk of infection.” After releasing her hand, the doctor allowed his gaze to sweep the people behind her before returning to Foxy. “He's going to be here for some time.”

“I see.” Foxy let out a shaky breath. “Is there anything else?”

“Minor burns and abrasions. He's a very lucky man.”

“Yes.” Foxy's agreement was solemn as she stared down at her hands. She joined them together, not knowing what else to do with them. “Is he conscious?”

“Yes.” The doctor grinned and looked younger yet. “He wanted to know who won the race.” Foxy bit her bottom lip hard and continued to look straight ahead as he went on. “He'll be in a room in about an hour; you can see him then. Only one visitor tonight,” he added firmly, again letting his eyes trail over the people behind Foxy. “The others can see him tomorrow. We're not giving him a phone for twenty-four hours.”

Foxy nodded and spoke quickly. “Miss Anderson will stay to see him tonight then.”

“Foxy,” Pam began, shaking her head as she stepped forward.

“He'll want you,” Foxy told her as their eyes met. “He'll be satisfied knowing I was here. You will stay, won't you?”

Feeling tears well up behind her eyes, Pam nodded quickly, then turned away. She had managed with a great deal of willpower to remain composed during the wait. Now, Foxy's simple generosity did what the hours of torture had not. Moving to the window, she stared out and let the tears have their freedom.

“The desk has my number,” Foxy told the doctor. “Will you see that I'm called if there's any change before morning?”

“Certainly. Miss Fox,” he added, recognizing the signs of shock and fatigue in her eyes. “He's going to be fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Charlie, wait around and take Pam back after she's seen Kirk,” Lance ordered as he took Foxy's arm. “I'll take Foxy now.” He turned to the doctor and spoke briskly. “There'll be reporters downstairs in the lobby. I don't want her to have to deal with them tonight.”

“Take the service elevator down to the garage level. There's a cabstand near the entrance.”

“Thanks.” Without waiting for her assent, Lance began to lead Foxy down the corridor.

“You don't have to do this,” she said. Her voice held no inflection at all as she allowed herself to be piloted.

“I know what I have to do,” he tossed back and jammed the button on the service elevator. Behind them, the crepe soles of nurses' shoes made soft sounds against the tile.

“I didn't thank you before for stopping me from running out on the track.” There was a quick ding of a bell before the doors slid open. Foxy made no protest as he pulled her into the empty car. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Stop it, damn it! Just stop it.” He whirled and took her by the shoulders. His fingers pressed tightly into her flesh. “Scream, cry, take a punch at me, but stop acting like this.”

Foxy stared up into the furious heat of his eyes. Her emotions refused to surface. Her defenses remained sealed, as if they knew it was still too soon to allow anything to escape. She spoke quietly and her eyes were dry. “I already did all the screaming I'm going to do. I can't cry yet because I'm still numb, and I don't have any reason to take a punch at you.”

“It was my car, isn't that enough?” he demanded. The doors opened, and he took her hand before he stalked out. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the garage as he pulled her toward the entrance.

“Nobody forced Kirk into that car. I'm not blaming you, Lance. I'm not blaming anyone.”

“I saw the way you looked at me when they pulled him out.”

Fatigue was pouring over Foxy as Lance nudged her into a cab. Turning her head to face him, she made herself speak clearly. “I'm sorry. Maybe I did blame you for a minute. Maybe I wanted to blame you or anyone else who was handy. I thought he was dead.” Because her voice trembled slightly, she paused until she was certain she could continue. “I've tried to be prepared for something like this every day of my life. But I wasn't prepared at all. It doesn't seem to make any difference that I've seen him crash before.” Foxy sighed and leaned back against the seat. The streetlights came through the cab window to dance on her closed lids. “I don't blame you for what happened, Lance, any more than I blame Kirk for being who he is. Maybe this time he'll have had enough.”

No answer came from Lance but the click and hiss of his lighter. Not having the energy to open her eyes, Foxy kept them closed and took the rest of the brief journey in silence. When they arrived at the motel, they found Scott Newman pacing the corridor in front of Foxy's room. He wore the disheveled look of an executive who has just left a hassle-filled board meeting.

“Cynthia.” Giving Lance a quick nod, he held out both hands to her. “The hospital said you were on your way back. How's Kirk? They tell you next to nothing over the phone.”

“He's going to be fine,” Foxy told him, letting him squeeze her hands. She gave him a shortened version of the doctor's report.

“Everybody's been worried; they'll be glad to hear he's going to be all right. How about you?” He gave her an encouraging smile. “I thought you might need me.”

“What she needs is some rest,” Lance said shortly.

“It was very considerate of you to wait.” Foxy smoothed over Lance's rudeness and added a smile that cost her some concentrated effort. “I'm fine, really, just a bit tired. Pam stayed behind to keep Kirk company for a while.”

“The press is itching for the full story,” Scott commented as he released her hands and straightened the knot in his tie. “We took a look at the replay. There's no doubt that Kirk had to swerve to avoid a crash with Martell, and that's when he lost it. Defective steering in Martell's racer is the verdict. A bad break for Kirk. Perhaps you'd like to give them a statement or pass one on through me.”

“No,” Lance answered before Foxy could respond. “Leave it. If you want to be useful, tell the switchboard not to pass any calls through to this room unless it's the hospital.” His voice was curt and annoyed. “Give me the key, Foxy,” he ordered.

“Of course.” Scott nodded as he watched Foxy dig in her bag. “I'm sure I can hold them off at least until morning, but—”

“Come to my room in a couple hours.” Lance cut him off and snatched the key from Foxy's hand. “I'll give you enough for a press release. Just see that you keep her out of it. Understand?” Lance jerked open the door.

The fury registered. Scott agreed with another nod before turning to Foxy. “Let me know if there's anything I can do, Cynthia.”

“Thank you, Scott. Good night,” she managed before Lance shut the door in his face. Bone weary, she moved to a chair and sank into it. “You were very rude,” she commented absently as she rubbed at a headache near her temple. “I don't recall that I've ever seen you be quite that rude before.”

“Maybe if you took a look in the mirror, you'd understand why.” The fury was still in his voice. Foxy watched him calmly from behind the numbing shield of shock and fatigue. “You're standing there getting paler by the minute. I swear the only color in your face right now is in your eyes. And he rambles on like an idiot about press releases.” Lance made a gesture of disgust with his hand. “He's got the brains of a soft-boiled egg.”

“He's a good manager,” Foxy murmured, fighting against the building ache in her head.

“And a great human being,” Lance added sarcastically.

“Lance,” Foxy began with the first stirrings of curiosity, “were you protecting me?”

When he turned on her, she watched his temper boil in his eyes. Her curiosity increased as she watched him control it. “Maybe,” he muttered, then turned to the phone. Foxy heard him mumble a series of instructions but paid no attention to the words.

Odd,
she thought,
he seems to be making a habit of protecting me. First in Italy, and now here. It certainly doesn't seem to make him very comfortable, though.
She continued to study him after he had hung up the phone. Instantly he began to pace the room just as he had paced the waiting area in the hospital.

“Lance.” He stopped when she quietly said his name. Foxy held out her hand, realizing suddenly how grateful she was that he was there. She wasn't ready to be alone yet. She wasn't feeling strong and capable and indestructible, but tired and vulnerable and afraid. Lance stared at her a moment without moving, then crossed to her to take the offered hand. “Thank you.” Her eyes were dark and grave as they clung to his. “It's just occurred to me that I wouldn't have made it through all this without knowing you were there. I didn't even realize that I needed you, but you did. I want you to know how much it means to me.”

Something flickered over his face before he raked his free hand through his hair. It was an uncharacteristic gesture of frustration, which reminded Foxy that he was as weary as she. “Fox,” he began, but she continued quickly.

“You won't go away tomorrow, will you?” Knowing she was being weak did not prevent her from asking. She needed him, and her hand tightened on his. “If you could just stay for a couple of extra days, just until things settle. I can lie,” she continued in a voice that was growing desperate. “I can walk right in that hospital room tomorrow and look at Kirk, look right in his eyes and lie. It's a trick I've learned over the years; and I'm good at it. He'll never have to know how much I hate him being in there. But if you could stay, if I could just know you were there. I know it's a lot to ask, but I . . . ” She stopped, then pressed both hands to her eyes. “Oh, Lord, I think the numbness is wearing off.” She heard the knock at the door, but took deep steadying breaths, leaving Lance to answer it. In a moment, she heard him move back to her.

“Foxy.” He spoke her name gently and took her wrist until she had lowered her hands. Her eyes were young and devastated. “Drink this.” He held out a glass filled with the brandy room service had delivered. Though she took it obediently, she only stared down into the amber liquid. Lance watched her for a moment, then crouched down until their eyes were level. “Fox.” He waited until she had shifted her gaze from the brandy to him. “Marry me.”

“What?” Foxy stared at him, saw the familiar intentness in his eyes, then squeezed her own shut. “What?” she said again, opening them.

Lance urged the brandy toward her lips. “I said, marry me.”

Foxy drank the entire contents of the glass in one swallow. Her breath caught on the burn of the brandy, and the small sound thundered in the absolute silence of the room. For several long seconds, she stared into his eyes trying to penetrate the impenetrable. She sensed that under the calm lay a whirlpool of energy, a power that would escape at any instant. He held something, she was unsure what, on a very tight leash. Tension gripped tight in her throat. She tried to swallow it and failed. Her eyes remained steady on his, but her voice was only a whisper. She was afraid. “Why?”

“Why not?” he countered, then took the empty glass from her nerveless fingers.