JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
21 July
12:55 a.m.
New York City
I’m at a loss as to where to start about the evening’s events. I’d prefer never to remember some of them, but that’s cowardice speaking, so I will ignore my desire to heavily edit the happenings. I can do that when I publish the diary, after all.
Let us begin with a full retelling of the evening.
Paulie invited me to dinner with her after I explained about how I dislike people invading my personal space. At first, I was taken aback—how could she interpret a simple apology as an expressed desire to date her? I like her, despite the fact that she herself stated that she wants to get laid by one of the non-U.S. racers, but I’m determined not to let that color my opinion of her. After all, Rupert is already working his way through any and all American women who are willing, so why shouldn’t Paulie do the same? Perhaps Alice has more matchmaking skills than I previously thought.
I’m going to have to delete the above paragraph from a finished book. Not only do I sound self-righteously priggish, but it makes Paulie sound like a trollop of the worst color, and she’s anything but. I speak, of course, with the hindsight of the dinner behind me, which I understand isn’t at all allowable in narrative retelling.
Right. I shall have to delete that paragraph as well. Where was I?
I met Paulie in the lobby of the hotel. She looked quite nice in a red dress that was, perhaps, a shade too short, considering it showed off a lot of those long, long legs of hers, but I suppose she is free to wear what she likes. Come to think of it, it had a low neckline that more or less demanded that everyone admire her breasts. Surely she had to be aware of just how much breast she was exposing? Is that the way they dress in the States? I admit I didn’t have the opportunity to look at how other women were dressed, what with Paulie’s breasts sitting right there, gleaming at me in the subdued lighting of the restaurant, not to mention the occasional flashes of leg that were quite distracting.
But I’m jumping ahead of myself.
“Hi,” Paulie said by way of greeting in the lobby of the hotel. “You look nice.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t prepared for a black-tie event, so I hope a simple suit would suffice.”
“More than suffice,” she said, smiling broadly. The admiration in her eyes was more than a little warming. “You look like James Bond.”
“I assure you that I have no skills that would qualify me for that persona. I’m a simple estate manager. That dress is quite . . .”
“Fun? It is, isn’t it?” She did a little twirl that showed off even more leg. Heat pooled in my groin, an effect that I ignored. The last thing I needed was an untoward erection.
“You have the funniest look on your face,” she said, frowning a little. “Are you in pain?”
“Not yet, but I will be if you keep spinning around,” I muttered.
She stared at me in surprise a second, looked down at her dress, then back up to me with a slightly opened mouth. It took her a second before she reached out and whapped me on the arm. “You’re flirting with me again! Golly, Dixon! Is this a record for you?”
“I don’t know why you interpret having definite personal boundaries with disliking women or, rather, not being interested in women, but I can assure you that the truth is far from that. I like women just fine. I met and proposed to a woman twelve years ago. She died of brain cancer four months before our wedding.”
I hadn’t meant to blurt all of that out, especially not standing in the middle of a busy hotel lobby, but out it came, and I had the dissatisfaction of seeing her playful expression turn to one of embarrassment.
Dammit, I’d done it again. I was the world’s biggest ass.
“I’m sorry,” I said with a sigh at my inability to speak without making a fool of myself. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that when you were simply teasing me.”
“You didn’t really snap so much as put me in my place,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Can I put my hand on your arm?”
“What? Yes.”
“Good.” She put her hand on my lower arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry about your fiancée, Dixon. I didn’t know that you were grieving, or I wouldn’t have poked fun about you flirting. Wait. Was it a flirt? Oh god, it wasn’t, was it? I totally misinterpreted it? Argh! I could just die of embarrassment!”
“We seem to be quite adept at making each other feel uncomfortable,” I said, putting my hand over her fingers where they still sat on my arm. It was a pleasant sensation, and I wondered how long it had been since I had touched someone’s hand. “Let me at least relieve you of any guilt you might be feeling. My fiancée died a little more than nine years ago, so yes, perhaps that was a little flirting on my part. I will admit that I don’t have the easy manner that Rupert has with women, so I find things a bit difficult, socially speaking. Do you . . . er . . . want to be flirted with? By me, that is, since I know your goal is to have sex with one of the foreign contestants.”
She stared at me in growing disbelief, her fingers digging painfully into my arm before she released it. “I beg your pardon?”
“What have I said now?” I asked, feeling even more like a clod even though I’d just asked a simple question.
She hit me on the arm again. “You basically said I’m in the race just so I can hook up with one of you guys with plummy accents, and chests that could drive a virgin to drink, and butts that you just want to bounce quarters off of.”
“You yourself said—”
“I know what I said!” she snarled and, grabbing my wrist, hauled me through the doors to the sidewalk, where she must have noticed a limousine that had pulled up. “That was an aberration, and I’d appreciate it if you’d forget it. Dad, this is Dixon. He’s not my date, so stop puffing yourself up. He’s just one of the fellow racers who thinks women are trying like mad to get into his pants even when they aren’t. Dixon, this is Angela, my stepmom.”
She released my wrist and climbed into the back of the limo (exposing a lot of thigh in the process), leaving me on the sidewalk with a man slightly shorter than me but almost twice as broad. He wore a scowl that could probably darken the brightest summer day, and I was aware that another man emerged from the front of the car.
“Hello, Mr.—” I started to say, but at that moment the man behind me began frisking me, grabbing me under the arms, and roughly patting his way down to my legs, whereupon he proceeded to check out each leg before moving around to the front of me to pull open my suit jacket, pulling out first my wallet, then the small notebook in which I’m making these notes. He flipped open the wallet and studied it for a moment.
“Dixon Ainslie,” he said, and handed me back my things.
“What is country of birth?” Paulie’s father asked me.
“Might I inquire what—”
“COUNTRY OF BIRTH?” he repeated at a much louder volume.
“England, but I don’t see what that— Are you Googling me?” Outrage was, I’m sure, quite evident in my voice when I saw the henchman tapping away on his phone.
“Sure,” Paulie’s father said, eyeing me with profound suspicion. “You maybe don’t want to be Googled? You have something to hide?”
“I have nothing to hide—”
“Dad, come on! I’m starving, and I told you that Dixon wasn’t a boyfriend, so you don’t need to do a background check on him. He’s just one of the racers.”
“Is good to be careful. I have enemies,” he said darkly, his eyes narrowing on me. “You know what I do to enemies?”
“No, but I assume it’s something extremely violent and quite possibly illegal.”
“Right,” he said, giving me a push to the car. I thought about turning around and making my excuses, but the sight of Paulie’s legs had me climbing in. I was going to sit next to her, but her father gave me another shove, and he and I ended up on the seat facing the two women.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dixon,” the woman next to Paulie said. “I’m so glad Paulie’s made a friend already, and you’re more than welcome to join us for dinner despite what Peter may imply. You’re English? It’s been a long time since we visited that country, but I have fond memories of the Lake District. Do you live near there?”
“No, but I’ve been there, and agree it’s quite nice.”
Conversation to the restaurant consisted of Paulie’s stepmother chatting about her trip to England, and which BBC America shows she enjoys. Paulie was content to sit there and frown at her father, who spent his time grunting single-syllable replies to his wife, all the while watching me with so much suspicion, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had asked to see my passport and a copy of my fingerprints.
The restaurant was evidently a trendy place, filled with what Elliott would call the Beautiful People, most of them prancing about as if the paparazzi were watching their every move. Who knows? Perhaps they were, although I didn’t see anyone with a camera. We were escorted into an alcove set off the main dining area, providing privacy and yet still open to the rest of the restaurant, a fact I found comforting, given the reaction of Mr. Rostakova toward me.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” Angela said once we were seated.
“What are they doing here?” Paulie asked, staring pointedly at the two men who accompanied us. One was the driver, while the other was the man who’d patted me down. Neither was introduced.
Mr. Rostakova ignored her question. “Sit,” he told me, and pointed to a chair as far from Paulie as possible. I had a feeling he would have placed me in a nearby alcove, had he been given the chance.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Dad! I told you twice already: he’s not a boyfriend! Dixon, ignore my father, please. He’s deranged.”
“Am not deranged,” Mr. Rostakova said, clearly outraged. “Am protective. Is good thing to be protective.”
I sat next to Paulie, not wishing to give in to the sort of behavior performed by a man who has another man frisked. “I’m looking forward to dinner. My internal clock is still a bit confused, and somehow I seem to have missed lunch,” I said conversationally.
“Yeah, I’m super hungry, too,” Paulie said, looking over the menu. I had a bit of a moment when I saw the prices, but decided that my savings account would withstand the hit it would take when I insisted on paying for dinner.
“You want water? Here, you have water.”
“He has his own water glass, Dad,” Paulie said without looking away from the menu. Her father pursed his lips and reclaimed the glass he was trying to press on me. Behind him, his two men stood, hands crossed, their eyes on me. It reminded me of a scene out of The Godfather.
There was a discussion of what meals appealed to everyone, and both Angela and I settled on steaks while Paulie opted for a seafood pasta dish, and her father had tripe.
Yes, tripe. Actual tripe.
“So, you driver in race. You have job in real life, yes?” Peter Rostakova asked once our orders were given and a wine had been settled on.
“Yes, I do. I manage my brother’s estate. He’s a baron,” I said as casually as I could. Normally I dislike mentioning Elliott’s title in that manner, but Rostakova had irritated me to the point where I threw manners out the window.
“Oooh, a real baron? Did you hear that, Paulie?”
“No, of course I didn’t. I’m only sitting a foot away from him with perfectly normal hearing.”
“You like fine things in life?” Rostakova asked, pulling out a silver card case. “You like this, yes? Is pretty?”
He offered me the case, but before I could take it, Paulie snatched it out of his hand and rubbed her hands all over it.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself! No fingerprints! Not this time! I refuse to let you drive away another man with your paranoid imaginings. Not, as I have said about a hundred times now, that we are dating. Dixon is here because his brother is a horn dawg and he’s by himself. Got that?”
“Is my job to see you are protected,” her father said with a hurt look at her. “You are only daughter. You are heiress!”
“Oh, for the love of god! Dad!”
“I have to powder my nose, dear. Why don’t you come with me,” Angela said, getting to her feet.
Paulie looked like she wanted to continue ranting at her father, but she followed her stepmother readily enough. The second they were gone, Rostakova moved over to Paulie’s seat, his goons sliding in on the other side.
“You like my daughter, eh? Paulie is pretty girl, yes? You want to get close to her, to do things to her that a husband does?”
“Do you know, I don’t believe that’s any of your business?” I said calmly, which was a miracle, considering I was seething inside. How dared this man confront me as if I was the worst sort of pervert? Especially after Paulie had told him multiple times that we weren’t dating.
“I see you look at her breasts. I see you look at her legs. I know that look.” Rostakova leaned in close. “Is look that says man wants to take her to bed. She is good girl. She will not go to bed with you.”
“I’m sure she is old enough to make up her own mind who she desires to pursue an intimate relationship with,” I agreed, hanging on to the cool demeanor I’d seen Elliott use.
“She is young mentally,” he replied, tapping his head. “She is innocent, pure of knowledge of bad things.”
I had a feeling that Paulie wasn’t quite as innocent as her father thought, but kept that to myself.
“Dad,” Paulie said, reappearing with her stepmother. Her tone was sharp. “You’re in my chair.”
“Is good. English and me, we have talk. We understand.” Rostakova gave me a look that warned I’d better agree.
And it was that look that did it. I’m not proud of it, but at that moment I decided that, as long as Rostakova lit a fire under me, I might as well throw on a bit more fuel.
“Oh? About what?” Paulie asked. I had stood when the ladies returned to the table and pushed Paulie’s chair in after she reclaimed it.
The view of her cleavage from above was memorable, but it was for Rostakova’s benefit that I bent over her and kissed her on the cheek very near her ear, with my other hand on her almost bare shoulder. “Why, you, of course,” I said, enjoying both her quick intake of breath and her father’s red face and sputtered protestations. Luckily, they were in Russian, but the fury in his eyes gave me a great deal of satisfaction nonetheless.
“What the hell?” Paulie asked when I took my seat.
I was taken aback by the anger in her voice and eyes—so taken aback that I didn’t answer immediately.
“Do you think I talk just to hear myself?” she asked, and snapped her napkin open with violence. “I told my father we aren’t dating, and then you go and peer down my dress and kiss me? Is that the sort of shit you pull in England? Because if it is, I’m here to tell you that it’s not going to be tolerated here.”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I stammered, ashamed of my behavior. “I hadn’t thought—”
“No, that’s very clear that you haven’t!” She threw down her napkin and shoved back her chair, quickly getting to her feet. “I have to use the restroom.”
“But, dear—” Angela got only those two words out before Paulie stormed off.
I thought of going after her to apologize, but realized I couldn’t stand outside the ladies’ room and beg for her forgiveness.
“Igor,” Rostakova said, his gaze never wavering from my face, “you have the knife I wanted? The one to make stallions not stallions?”
Igor smirked.
“Dear,” Angela said, putting her hand on her husband’s, her voice filled with amused exasperation. “It’s not polite to threaten people with a gelding knife over dinner.”
“Gelding knife,” Rostakova said, rolling the words lovingly over his tongue. “Very much gelding knife. Yes.”
“Are you looking forward to driving the antique car?” Angela asked me, clearly feeling a change of subject was due.
I greeted it with much pleasure, for many reasons. “Very much so, yes. The De Dion is a lovely car. It ran in both the 1907 and 1908 races, you know, although it didn’t finish well.”
“I didn’t realize there was another race,” Angela said, smiling up at Paulie when she returned.
I half rose, but Paulie was seated before I could do more than cast an anxious glance her way.
“It ran from Peking to Paris and was the inspiration for the race we are duplicating. The De Dion company was one of the largest car manufacturers of the time, although primarily European in make. They were the first to have a V-8 engine.”
“I assume that’s good?” Angela asked.
“It was at the time, yes. Made for a very powerful car.”
“Not as powerful as the Thomas Flyer,” Paulie said quickly. “The car that actually won the New York to Paris race.”
“Very true,” I said, and when Angela turned her attention to her husband, I leaned closer to Paulie and said, “I’m truly sorry for my little show. I’m afraid it was in reaction to your father’s less-than-subtle threats.”
She turned her eyes, a beautiful rich brown, to me. “Oh! So you weren’t overcome by my charms into expressing your admiration.”
There was a twinkle in her eyes that caused me to smile in response. “No, although I will say your charms are very . . . erm . . . charming.”
She laughed aloud, garnering a huge scowl from her father, and relaxed back into her chair. We spent an enjoyable half hour talking about the original race and how much Paulie was looking forward to traveling across the country.
“You’ve never done so?” I asked quietly when Rostakova was on the phone with someone and Angela was at another table talking to an acquaintance. “Without sounding crass, it would appear you come from a family that has the means to travel when you desire.”
“Oh, Dad’s a bajillionaire—floors in California can be very lucrative, especially when you use your illicit background to get expensive hardwoods at a very cheap price—but he’s also the king of paranoia. He’s convinced that if I were to do anything on my own, I would immediately be kidnapped and held for ransom.”
“Good lord. That seems a rather insular view.”
“Oh, it’s beyond insular and smack-dab in the land of batshit crazy, but there’s not a lot I can do about it. I don’t have any money of my own, and due to a lack of oomph, my college degree—history—has just sat around doing squat. I volunteer a lot at Angela’s charities, but this race is really the first time I’ll be able to do what I want to do.”
“And that is?”
“I want to be an adventuring journalist. I plan on emulating Nellie Bly, who was a Victorian reporter.”
“That’s right. You mentioned her earlier. I have a vague memory of her exploits. Didn’t she attempt to duplicate Jules Verne’s fictional around-the-world journey?”
“She didn’t just attempt it. She beat Phileas Fogg by more than a week. And a gold star to you for knowing about Nellie. Not a lot of folks do.” Her smile was warm, and it touched me.
Our food came at that moment, halting conversation until everyone had their meals before them and the servers had left.
“But surely . . .” I hesitated, trying to find words that wouldn’t offend. “You’ll pardon me if this sounds like an insult, because it isn’t intended as one, but you don’t look like you’re straight out of college.”
She bristled up for a moment, then gave a short laugh—at herself, I suspected. “I’m not, much though I wish I looked like a dewy twenty-two. I’m twenty-nine, which, yes, means I’ve been living as an adult for a long time. I know what you’re going to say—why didn’t I just walk out and get a job and support myself like everyone else? The answer is the price I’d have to pay.”
“I’ve heard it was expensive to live here—”
“No, not that. Can I lean close?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, charmed that she acknowledged my oddities by asking permission. She leaned in, and I caught a brief whiff of a light perfume that seemed to coil around me. “I was kidnapped once, you see. By my maternal grandparents. They just wanted to see me, but Dad is convinced that his nefarious past in Russia means everyone is gunning for him and his family. And to be honest, I’m not absolutely sure he’s not right. Regardless, if I moved out, he would insist I had round-the-clock bodyguards, and I don’t know about you, but that’s not a living arrangement I could stomach for long. The pretense of freedom but reality of imprisonment . . .” She gave a little shudder. “It’s better to just stay at home and slip out when I can. Plus, Dad would worry himself to death if I left. He ended up in the hospital once when I tried, so I stay home rather than fight it.”
“I’m surprised if that’s your father’s attitude that you are doing this race around the world, especially when so much of it will be through Russia.”
Rostakova finished his conversation before I had ended the sentence, and roared an oath in response. “You see? Even English knows the danger of you going to Russia. You go home with us. Will be safe then.”
“Ignore him,” Paulie said, flashing an annoyed look at her father. “He’s on my list anyway.”
“List?” Rostakova’s expression changed quickly from antagonism to pure innocence, his lips pursed and his eyebrows raised. “What list is this?”
“My shit list for you sending Boris after me. Don’t even bother, Dad—I saw him on the plane. Although I will say that, thankfully, he took my threat seriously and hasn’t been pestering me here.”
Rostakova pursed his lips even harder.
Paulie must have noticed it because she set down her fork to slap the table. “Dammit, Dad! If you’ve hired someone else to tail me—someone I don’t know—I swear to heaven I won’t go back home. I’ll just wander the world indefinitely!”
“Is my job to protect—”
“Oh, for god’s sake!”
The rest of dinner was mostly a continued argument between Paulie and her father, although after a few minutes Paulie decided to ignore her father and spoke only to Angela or me. It was exhausting and uncomfortable, and I was relieved when the meal was over and we could leave.
“You and Dixon go back to the hotel,” Angela said after Rostakova had wrestled the check away from me. I made a legitimate attempt to get it back, but one of his bodyguards moved between us, effectively blocking me off. “I want to take a drive through the park before we turn in. Peter, dear, modulate your voice! The other diners are being disturbed.”
“Come on,” Paulie said, nodding to me, and I hurried after her when she bolted to the exit. She didn’t wait around to find a cab, simply glanced up and down the street and took off at a fast walk in the direction that I believed headed for Times Square, where we’d be starting our race in the morning. “Do you mind walking?”
“Not at all. Would you mind if I took your arm?”
“No, but you don’t have to ask,” she said with a smile. “I don’t have any personal space issues.”
I took her hand in mine, not quite sure why I felt it necessary to do so, but pleased that I had. Chivalry, I told myself as we turned the corner and Paulie slowed down to a reasonable walk. I was being chivalrous, nothing more.
“I felt it was only polite, since you ask before touching me. Although I should say that you really needn’t feel like you must do that. I’m only skittish around strangers, and I feel that, after going through the baptism of fire that was dinner with your father, I know you.”
She laughed and we spent an enjoyable hour seeing New York City at night, avoiding the street people, sidewalk touts, and inebriated partygoers, as we enjoyed the amazing mix of cultures that was Manhattan. By the time we returned to the hotel, I was definitely looking forward to the coming month. It wasn’t being unfaithful to Rose by simply enjoying a woman’s company, I told myself. I was, after all, a human being and, as such, needed the pleasure that another person’s company brought. I’d limited myself the last nine years to just the company of a few close male friends and family, but I felt that taking pleasure in sightseeing with Paulie wasn’t tantamount to a declaration of undying affection.
That could never happen. My heart had shriveled up long ago or, at least, the romantic part had.
I glanced at Paulie, noting the excitement in her face and voice as we entered the hotel lobby.
“—going to be so much fun, although I have to admit I’m a bit worried about the cameras filming us. I have a horrible feeling I’m going to pick my nose or scratch my crotch or something, and everyone in England will know that Americans are just as uncouth as they’d thought.”
“I don’t think you’re uncouth,” I said. “I think you’re rather splendid.”
She stopped and turned to me, surprise and delight giving her additional color, making her cheeks a lovely pale pink. “Why, Dixon Ainslie, you devil. First flirting, then a kiss on the cheek, and now an all-out compliment? If you keep on this way, you’re going to turn my head.”
“It was a heartfelt compliment, so I’m not going to apologize for it.”
She glanced around. The lobby was mostly empty. “You have only yourself to blame for this.”
Before I could react, she stepped forward and kissed me, very gently and quickly. The pressure of her lips on mine, fleeting as it was, seemed to release something deep in my belly. It was a yearning, a want that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
She was gone almost immediately after that, running up the stairs to her room two floors above. I walked slowly to the elevator, absently pushing the button for the eleventh floor while I considered the kiss.
Frankly, it scared me, because it meant my heart wasn’t quite as dead as I’d thought it was.
And I didn’t know what to do about that. I didn’t want to relive the memory of the time Rose and I had had together, and yet . . .
I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I can’t think anymore. I just want to go to sleep and forget everything.