Chapter 21

 

Their hotel was a beautiful old Victorian resort perched on a rocky promontory. In some ways, the landscape reminded Ry of the area where he’d grown up in Minnesota—one of pristine lakes, clear skies, and mysterious forests. Surrounded by woods in full summer canopy, the shimmering lake in front of him now was encircled by a shoreline dotted with expensive-looking cottages.

Aside from the lake, the view he had at the moment was particularly awesome—a knockout body dressed in a skimpy summer outfit. Like him, Claire was lounging in an Adirondack chair. But while his feet were planted firmly on their private deck, hers were propped on the wooden railing. What a sight her legs were—long and shapely, ending in pretty bare feet with bright pink toenails.

Man, he loved her legs, especially when they were draped over his shoulders.

They’d already had sex four times since they reached the inn late yesterday afternoon, and he was sorely tempted to squeeze in another round. Claire had been just as eager for it as he was. Despite some initial nerves when they first started sleeping together, she was confident and joyful under the covers. Or on top of them.

Ry was well aware that he was one lucky bastard.

She put down the glass of orange juice left over from their room service breakfast. “I totally adore this view,”

He trailed his fingers from her knee all the way up to the hem of her tiny white shorts. “Yeah, it’s amazing.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are such a horn-dog, Griffin. I thought you had to go practice tearing around the track? Not that I’d mind if you’d rather…uh, stay with me for a while longer.”

Ry heaved a dramatic sigh. “Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to get you out of those little shorts. But, it’s true, I do need to go now. I’m not that familiar with this track, so I really have to get in some practice laps before the race.”

Her smile faded a bit. “Okay. You’ll come back for me when, exactly?”

“About twelve-thirty. Maybe a bit earlier.”

“Then again, you could just let me sit here all afternoon instead, reading my book and enjoying this very expensive view you’re paying for.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “If you wanted to be a truly considerate gentleman, that is.”

He gave her a mock-stern look. “No way, Maddox. You’re not getting out of watching at least some of the race. That was our deal, remember? And I need at least one person cheering me on.”

“Oh, as if you don’t have tons of fans. All young and female and well-endowed, no doubt.”

“Oh, right. I went straight from hockey groupies to sportbike groupies. Uh, not.”

She gave him a reluctant grin. “Okay, Mr. Modest, I’ll be ready. On another note, I wanted to tell you before you go that I’ve been thinking about a better place to hang my painting.”

The night of the bridge blockade, she’d decided to hang it beside the big stone fireplace. He’d thought it looked great there, but when Claire took another look at it in the morning light streaming in, she’d hauled it down.

“Put it anywhere you want.” He was happy to turn the decision over to her. It was her artwork, after all.

“Oh, perfect. I was hoping you’d say that,” she said with a mischievous smile.

“Uh, oh. What are you getting up to now?”

“Well, you have absolutely nothing on the walls of your bedroom. I think you should hang it there, preferably in the most prominent location.”

“Huh? Where nobody will see it?”

“Well, nobody but you…and me, hopefully. For starters, the light is absolutely perfect in that room, especially on sunny days, and that empty wall opposite the bed really needs something.” Then she flashed him a lopsided grin. “Besides, if you ever bring another woman up there, it’ll remind you of me and make you feel horribly guilty.”

While her tone was light-hearted, he wondered if she might mean exactly what she’d just said. He slipped his hand out from under hers and stood up. “That’s kind of a weird thing to say, especially after what we’ve been doing here for the past sixteen hours or so.”

Claire’s smile disappeared like someone had shut off a light. “I wasn’t being serious.”

Really?

What did he expect? He’d known from the beginning that there was a risk she’d come to expect more from him. Obviously, she was beginning to think about their future as a couple. And he couldn’t blame her. Not when he’d been so eager to spend time with her, even inviting her along on this race weekend.

But, damn, he didn’t need any complications right now. And sure not before he was about to race. “We can talk more about it later, if you want.”

“Oh, no worries. Really.” Her voice was carefully neutral.

He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Just enjoy your lazy morning. You deserve one.”

She grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and yanked him back down, kissing him long and hard. “Just be careful, okay?” she whispered. “I mean it.”

He was about to say he was always careful, but that wasn’t exactly accurate. He did take risks, like the one he’d taken with her.

Anyway, Claire’s definition of careful was obviously not the same as his, and he wasn’t going to lie to her. She’d see what it was all about this afternoon and, for better or for worse, she’d have to decide if she could deal with it.

Because taking risks, at least the physical kind, was what he did best.

* * *

Claire had no idea the race would be so short. She’d envisioned it as something like those NASCAR races, or the Indianapolis 500. In other words, kind of long and boring, punctuated by stretches of sheer terror as men careened around the track at breakneck speed. She’d fully expected to have to sit through an agonizing hour or more of screaming machines, her nerves stretched as tight as guitar strings.

Jenna and Jolene, seated beside her in the stands, had quickly set her straight. Jenna, whose husband was competing in the same race as Ry, had clued her in about the race consisting of eight short laps. She’d said the whole thing would be over in about ten minutes, though admitting that it could be a really batshit crazy ten minutes. Claire had managed to dredge up only a weak smile in response.

“So, are you guys staying around here?” Jenna asked. “Or are you driving back to Maine tonight?”

The freckled redhead’s husband, Clay, had driven them up from eastern Kentucky in their RV. The rig was parked along with hundreds of others in a campground just north of the track.

“We’re staying at the Apple Blossom Inn for a couple of days,” Claire said. “It’s great, but not that handy to the track.” She was slightly embarrassed to admit she was staying at a posh inn, since Jenna and her sister seemed to be on a tight budget.

“We’d have to win the Powerball to afford to stay at that fancy place,” Jolene said. “But I guess Ry Griffin could buy that place and a dozen more like it. He must have made a fortune playing hockey.”

“We don’t talk about that sort of stuff,” Claire said truthfully.

The sisters both grinned, as if to say there was no way they were buying Claire’s disinterest in her boyfriend’s bank account.

The dull rumble of twenty idling sportbikes suddenly spiked to an almost deafening roar.

“Here we go!” Jolene shouted.

“Go, Clay!” Jenna screamed, as if her husband had some hope of hearing her in the unbelievable din.

Claire froze, her gaze locked on Ry, who was near the front of the pack. His black racing suit and helmet made him look practically sinister among the other more colorfully kitted-out racers.

Darth Vader Griffin.

The roar from the track kept rising until it reached an ear shattering pitch. Then Ry’s bike leaped forward, his front wheel almost touching the rear wheel of the bike ahead of him. The pack roared ahead, and within a few seconds the lead group had opened up a slight gap through the straightaway. When the leading rider leaned into the first turn, his bike tilted so far over that his kneepad virtually scraped the track surface.

After the first lap, Ry was close behind the lead riders. Claire found herself perching on the edge of her seat, her hands bunched into fists as she resisted the impulse to start praying. She wished he would somehow manage to get out in front of the pack or, if that wasn’t possible, then drop back to what looked like a safer position at the rear of the racers.

“That’s my honey out front,” Jenna crowed. “Number four on the green Kawasaki.”

Claire had already noted Ry’s number with a shiver of superstitious alarm. Thirteen. She hated that number. Ry didn’t care, since he wasn’t superstitious, but to her it felt like a bad omen. Julie had died on the 13^th.

After six laps, Ry was still tightly bunched in a group of half a dozen riders but was only a couple of bike lengths behind Clay and the other leaders. She had to admit he looked pretty awesome and in full control of his bike, flying around the turns as he leaned way out to his left for balance and then straightened back up to gun it down the long, straight stretches.

When Jenna yelled another round of encouragement to her husband, Claire finally found her voice. “Go, Ry, go! You can do it!”

The sisters turned and stared at her for a moment before breaking into grins. “About time you got your head in the game,” Jolene said. “You gotta support your man, girl, even though there’s no way he’s gonna beat our Clay.”

Claire felt a flush of embarrassment. She’d never thought of Ry as her man. Not consciously. It seemed incredible that anyone would think of Ry Griffin as hers.

Especially after that stupid conversation in the hotel this morning.

She shoved the whispers of doubt from her mind and focused on the race.

As Jenna had said it would, the race flew by. Only one lap remained. Ry had managed to close more ground, but so had four or five other racers. To Claire, the bikes were just a tight blur of speed and color rather than distinct competitors as they went into the north turn—the one farthest from where she was sitting.

Suddenly, the crowd took a collective gasp. The lead bike on the inside of Ry’s group had gone into a skid.

And then all hell broke loose.

Bikes were flying everywhere, propelled like cannonballs. Along with the rest of the crowd, Claire leaped to her feet, her heart in her throat.

“Oh, shit!” Jenna blurted.

After a moment, Jolene grabbed her sister’s arm. “I can see Clay. He looks fine, Jenna!”

Clay might be fine, but the pileup behind him was epic. Though Claire couldn’t see Ry, he’d clearly gone down in the crash, a casualty of the first collision. Bikes and bodies had been tossed all over the track and onto the dirt strip next to it. It looked like at least seven riders had been unable to avoid the mess. The unscathed leaders, including Clay, were carrying on, possibly not yet fully aware of the mess behind them.

A race official started madly waving a red flag. The lead racers saw it and slowed down immediately.

“Jesus, that’s a bad spill. They’re stopping the race,” Jenna said in a tight voice.

One thought pounded through the haze in Claire’s brain—she had to get down to the track. To be with Ry, no matter what had happened.

All kinds of people were rushing to help the riders, including paramedics. From up in the stands, she couldn’t see Ry but was sure his red Yamaha was one of two bikes lying on the dirt strip beside the oval.

She elbowed her way down the grandstand steps and raced to the fence that separated the stands and the track. But she soon realized that it was hopeless to get anywhere close to the crash scene. There were gates in the fence, but marshals and security guards were keeping spectators out. She pushed her way through the gawking crowd, trying to get as close as she possibly could. While a few downed riders had managed to get to their feet, none were wearing an all-black suit.

He’s not dead. He can’t be.

Claire kept telling herself that, repeating it like a mantra, trying not to hyperventilate.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. It couldn’t be happening again, not to another person she loved.

I love him.

She sagged against the chain link fence, her fingers digging into the metal. Yes, she did love Ry. She’d been in denial, but there was no longer a shred of doubt. It was only her fear that Ry couldn’t possibly ever love her back that had stopped her from admitting the awful, wonderful truth.

Choking back a sob as she watched the officials slowly bring order to the chaos, she tried to convince herself that everything would turn out okay. He’d said his race suit and helmet were state of the art, the best money could buy. And it was a good sign that several drivers had already hauled themselves to their feet and were walking away from the wreckage, most of them with help. Because two ambulances had been standing by during the race, several EMTs were already on their knees tending to the injured.

Claire could hardly breathe in the crush of hot, perspiring bodies around her. Somehow, she managed to keep elbowing her way along the fence until she reached a vantage point much closer to the crash site.

Finally, she was able to spot Ry. Though he was still on the ground, he was sitting more or less upright with his helmet off. He was supporting himself with his right arm while his left hung limply at his side. A young paramedic with blond hair in a ponytail had just knelt down beside him and was reaching into her huge bag.

And the world started up again.

Not dead. Very much alive.

As Claire anxiously watched, the paramedic took her time checking him out. Since she wasn’t looking at Ry’s legs, it didn’t appear that he’d hurt his bad knee again.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would be fine after all.

But what if he’s suffered another concussion?

That sudden horrible thought turned her body to ice. She knew Ry’s history, and she knew how hard he tried to downplay the risks.

But a concussion was a risk—a big one that could have disastrous consequences.