Highlander's Need: Winter Solestice (Against All Odds Series 4) Read online

  What the hell is going on? Merry only had time to think as Shannon, with fistfuls of hair, banged her head on the garage floor. Troy quickly gathered Shannon up with the blanket, almost like you would a wild cat, while the technicians and mechanics groaned their protests. Troy shot a fierce look around the garage, and everyone quickly found something important to do.

  So I’ll just lay here then, thought Merry, her rage still very close to the surface, when a well-tanned and handsome face loomed into view. His hair was dark, thick and curly, and his smile flashed bright white teeth as he offered his hand to help her up.

  “Are you okay?” His voice had a soft, southern accent. “I’m Michael. Did you get hurt?” he asked as he helped her to her feet. The shrieking Shannon was being escorted away by Troy, who was still shooting everyone death-stares.

  “I think I’m okay, thank you,” murmured Merry, her anger melting in the face of Michael’s warm smile. He was tall, broad-shouldered and wearing similar overalls to everyone else.

  “Are you sure? She sure was banging your head off the floor pretty good.” Unlike the rest of the garage, his concern for her seemed deep and genuine.

  “I’ll live, I’m sure,” she assured him. Donald and her mother made their way over.

  “Darling, are you alright?” asked Blair. Merry was about to answer when an older man in overalls called out to Michael and Troy that it was five minutes to practice.

  “Oops! Better get out the road,” warned Donald, as the whole garage bustled into life. Mechanics stated whipping the covers off the tires and lowering the car to the ground. Someone was instructed to go get Troy, while next door a high powered engine burst into ear-splitting life.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” apologised Michael, and wandered over to a table lined with brightly colored crash helmets. He picked up a white balaclava and pulled it on.

  “That’s Michael Raymond, the number one driver,” called Donald over the racket. Merry took some offered ear defenders gratefully and put them on. Michael saw her checking him out and winked from under the balaclava before dragging a crash helmet down over his head. They were ushered out of the garage to the pit wall, mere meters from the track. Within minutes, cars were roaring out of the garages and beginning their first laps of the weekend. Michael and Troy went out almost together, their cars bellowing in angry harmony as they accelerated onto the track.

  Merry found she was totally unprepared for the visceral sensation of the racers flying past her down the straightaway. The noise of the engines spinning at 15,000 rpms as they rocketed past, the shockwaves from the cars travelling more than 200 mph and nearly knocking her off her feet was like nothing she had ever felt before. And, as the drivers circled, she began to find herself getting caught up in the excitement. She learned to watch the timing boards, feeling a small flutter of excitement as Michael’s time came out as a fastest lap, then disappointment as Troy’s time beat it, then the same sensation in reverse.

  Looking down the straightaway as far as she could to see Michael round the final turn, her heart leapt into her throat as she saw the silhouette of a car exit the turn sideways and start spinning, before another car slammed hard into it, sending them both careening across the track.

  Oh my God, oh my God! Let him be okay, she thought frantically as a third car swerved right, then left, cleared the wreckage and screamed past her. She smiled with relief to see it was Michael driving past, and was sure she saw him turn and wave discreetly at her as he flew by. Get a grip, Merry, you’ve said literally ten words to him! What’s wrong with you?

  “Well, may as well pop back,” announced Donald.

  “Why?” asked Merry. In spite of her fear of speed, she, along with the hundreds in the main grandstands opposite, had been enjoying the spectacle even though it was only a practice session.

  “See that fellow?” asked Donald, indicating the marshal on the start line vigorously waving a red flag. “He and his chums around the circuit are all waving that flag to halt the session while they clean all the bits of broken Ferrari and Mercedes up from the track. It’ll be at least twenty minutes before they restart.”

  Merry allowed herself to be led off. She never had the opportunity to return to the garage and talk to Michael. Instead, she met the team bosses and the hospitality unit and spent the afternoon learning how to wine and dine sponsors and F1 bigwigs.

  Back at the hotel, the team had hired out one of the banqueting halls for a dinner, which everyone was obliged to attend. The good news was that this was considered a private event as far as the hotel and local authorities were concerned. As far as Merry could tell, this meant booze and boobs. There would be alcohol available, and the ladies of the team, plus wives and girlfriends attending, could ditch the long pants and high necklines. Merry predicted anarchy.

  Her room at the Rosewood was spacious and typical of most hotels, with the usual bed, chair, and TV over a chest of drawers, all decked out in a tasteful color scheme of light and dark browns. What marked it out as a high-end establishment was the bathroom, which featured twin designer vanities, a huge mirrored wall behind the sinks, and a large free-standing tub just in front of a movable partition wall that effectively put it about four feet from the bed.

  Of course, her mother brought a totally unsuitable cocktail dress down to her room. It was much too short and plunged far past the point of professionalism. She told her mom that there were two reasons she could never wear that tonight: first, it was her first night, first function in a new job; second, she had just started a fight with a driver’s girlfriend for wearing revealing clothing. It was bad enough being labeled as a psycho, without adding hypocrite to the mix.

  In the end, she opted for professional chic. She chose her short dark skirt, tight white silk blouse with the top two buttons undone, and dark suit jacket to match the skirt. She even eschewed contacts in favor of glasses and put her hair up, to try and nail the ‘young hot career woman’ look.

  As she touched up her makeup in the huge bathroom mirror her mind wandered to Michael, and she felt an unfamiliar tingle between her legs, a feeling she had not experienced for a very long time. Maybe she was finally recovering from her past and loosening up. She thought about him some more—his lips, his hands, kissing her, touching her. Her heart sped up and she struggled for breath. She felt hot for no reason and the tingle between her thighs became a throb. She gently ran a hand over her silk covered breast and closed her eyes. Imagining Michael caressing her, she felt giddy, and as her finger brushed across her hardening nipple an unexpected moan escaped her lips. Coming back to her senses suddenly, she berated herself once again for being stupid.

  He’s a rich, gorgeous, top-level racing driver. A thousand hot girls must throw themselves at him every day. What would he want with an ex-nerd like me? She gave herself a stern look in the mirror, then, just in case, popped open the third button on her blouse. Just enough for a glimpse of white bra and the top swell of her breasts to occasionally come into view.

  By the time she made it down to the Rosewood’s banquet room the party was in full swing. She had been right about the booze. There were doormen at the coat check being very strict about who they let in, asking to see card keys and only admitting those with the right room numbers. But once inside there were two full bars, one at either end of the hall, and waitstaff bustling between the tables with trays of champagne. The hall itself could have handled a party five times this size. The ceiling was two stories tall, with marble pillars reaching up to it at measured intervals along the deep brown-curtained walls. There were tables for about two hundred—round with eight-to-ten chairs each, that put Merry in mind of the Oscars—and a long straight-top table, which was obviously for the team owners, bosses and drivers. There was room for a large dance floor that currently held a reasonable number of swinging couples and a lounge-music band that played away at a discreet volume.

  Among the team members whom she recognized, she also saw Arab men dressed in their flowing white robes
milling about and laughing with the westerners in tuxedos, obviously special guests and therefore unimaginably rich. There were also a few drivers and higher-ups from a couple of the other Grand Prix teams, which was surprising. She guessed that, even though they were on separate teams, they were all still colleagues of sorts.

  She gave herself an imaginary pat on the back for being right about the boobs too. The sponsors’, owners’, and bosses’ wives, naturally in the more mature age range, were all decked out in Versace, Yves Saint Laurent and Vivien Westwood evening wear, enjoying the freedom to bare shoulders and drop necklines.

  Then came the driver’s wives and girlfriends and the younger partners of the sponsors and managers going through mid-life crises. Their attire was clearly expensive and enhanced with plenty of bling, but they looked like they were going clubbing. Each one wore a dress that barely covered the butt and the highest of heels, and seemed determined to show as much cleavage and side boob as possible. Currently, they occupied a table near the dance floor, unintentionally covering it in body glitter and knocking back champagne as fast as the waiters could bring it.

  Then there were the grid girls, the models who kept the sun off the drivers as they waited for the start of the race with umbrellas, normally while wearing skimpy outfits. The local laws ensured that even they, in their professional capacity, had to be covered on the track, but here about a dozen milled about all dressed in short-shorts and bikini tops in the team colors. Merry observed that if this were the seventies, they would all be on roller-skates. Plus, the looks they were getting from the traditionally-dressed sheiks told her they were one of the primary incentives for attending this party.

  She noticed the PR table just down and to the left of the top table because a couple of co-workers were occupying it. She made her way there and sat down. She smiled at Alex, a gorgeous, down-to-earth and very bubbly red-head qho was doing the same job as her, only permanently. They had hit it off immediately and she had squealed and hugged Merry in genuine delight when Merry had recounted the tale of her altercation with Shannon that afternoon. No, Alex was not a Shannon fan either. Sat next to her, with an empty chair between them, was Geoff the catering manager. He was a bit overweight, balding, and sullen, but seemed to be a good guy. Merry had resolved to reserve judgment on him, but he did smile warmly at her when she sat down. A waiter brought her a tall flute of champagne and she and Alex began talking about nothing much. She tried to involve Geoff in the conversation but he would not commit, preferring to sit apart looking like he was developing an ulcer.

  The night wore on. She saw her mother having a great time with the older wives and occasionally being whisked away by Donald, who seemed quite an accomplished dancer. He asked Merry to join him, obviously at her mother’s behest, several times, but she politely declined. She could not help wondering where Michael was. Troy sat at the top table brooding, drinking sparkling water while Shannon got drunker and more outrageous with her gal-pals. He waved her away every time she tried to pull him off his chair, and the one time he caught Merry looking at him, he gave her an embarrassed, almost apologetic smile. Maybe I misjudged him? it made her think. He didn’t know who I was. To him I could have been another F1 groupie that he’s tired of having to deal with. She cursed inwardly. His beauty made it hard enough to hate him, no matter how obnoxious his girlfriend, but now he had to go and show a different side.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by another waiter, who quietly passed her a note. Her heart back flipped as she read it: I can’t stop thinking about you. Michael. Room 3215. Her head spun. Alex was talking to her, but suddenly she could hear nothing but the thud of her own heart. It was bold, she would give him that. He was basically booty calling her. Still, she found it hard to resist. She looked around. Her mother and Donald were dancing, Mommy clearly having enjoyed a few too many. One Arab-Prince-looking guy had a bikini-clad blonde more than half his age sat in his lap with three or four more around him as he talked loudly. Shannon and another sexy young thing were slowdancing together, trying to attract Troy’s attention but being more successful in provoking whistles and cheers from the drunk and baying mechanics. The noise was becoming deafening. She decided she would rather be anywhere but here, and luckily Michael had provided just the place. She downed her glass—only her second—told Alex she was still tired from the flight, and left.

  In the express elevator,heading to the 32nd floor, she stared at herself in the mirror. It’s time, she told her reflection. You need to move on. Get over yourself and enjoy your youth before it’s all gone. You’re not a freak anymore, you’re an attractive, sexy woman, and a millionaire racing driver wants to sleep with you. Just do it already!

  Considering herself told, she stripped off her suit jacket. She felt hot, so she let the air conditioning cool her off, and she felt a little dizzy, which may have been the champagne, or may have been the promise of things to come.

  Before she knew it, she was outside his door. She knocked and he answered almost immediately. He had only a towel around his waste. His wet hair was dripping onto his tanned, sculpted chest, and he flashed her a dazzling white smile. Oh, you have got to be kidding me, she thought to herself. You won’t even give a girl a chance!

  He invited her in. “I’m so glad you came,” he almost whispered as she squeezed past him in the entryway. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Merry shook her head as she looked around his suite. It had twice as many floor-to-ceiling windows as her room, plus an elegant white couch and chairs aimed at the wall-mounted flat screen and a small dining table with six chairs behind that. “Where do you sleep?” she asked, and immediately regretted it.

  “My, you’re forward aren’t you?” he mocked her. She turned back to him, shaking her head again. He stood not two paces away. He was the most delicious thing she had ever seen and, fuck, she was starving. She could think of nothing to say that would not sound cheesy, so she reached up and pulled the clips from her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. She kept her eyes on his and slowly closed the gap between them, pulling her blouse out of her skirt and undoing the buttons. I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought, over and over, as she reached him and let her shirt drop to the floor. His large brown eyes swept over her flat stomach, her breasts pushing against the confining material of her white lace bra, her slim and elegant neck, until he reached up and gently pulled the glasses off her face. She blinked at him as he gently laid them on the sideboard, then cupped her face in his big hands, bent down and pulled her mouth onto his.

  She almost went limp as he kissed her, but as he pushed his tongue into her mouth, the surprising taste of whiskey brought her back to her senses. She did not care for whiskey, but she would be damned if she was going to let that spoil things. She put a hand on the back of his head and forced their lips together harder. His hands travelled down to her shoulders, down her arms and across her breasts. She shivered, the urgent probing of his tongue forcing muscles low in her body to tighten. His hands slipped down to her waist, found and effortlessly released the catch holding her skirt up. The material dropped silently, pooling at her feet. Thank God she had worn matching underwear. His knuckles brushed her sides ever so softly, causing a murmur to escape her still-kissing mouth, and caressed gently over her hips until his hands firmly grasped her buttocks. Another groan came from her throat as he lifted her off the floor and pulled her crotch to his. She wrapped her legs around his waist and could feel him hard against her despite the towel, despite her panties. He carried her effortlessly to the back of the couch and parked her butt on it. They finally broke apart the kiss. Their faces separated by a few inches, she opened her eyes and gasped sharply as she saw Troy’s face looking at her for a heartbeat. She blinked and it returned to Michael looking at her.

  “Are you okay, baby?” he breathed, sensing her discomfort. She answered with a nod. Am I? she wondered. Why am I thinking of Troy? Do I want him instead? She pushed her uncertainty to the back of her mind. Her whole outlook on l
ife had to change, and it needed to start with this first step. She reached back and undid her bra, pulling the garment away in one smooth move. She tried a coy look, biting her lip playfully as she pushed her firm breasts together with her upper arms.

  “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, his eyes filling with lust. He stepped back and pulled off his towel. He stood there, long, hard and proud before her. His thick shaft definitely looked like exactly what she needed, and she could feel the juices flowing to her loins in preparation to receive it, but there was an arrogance on his face, something she had never seen before. Like he expected her to get on her knees and worship him in his glory.

  In an instant, he was back against her, kissing her hard. He moved his mouth to her neck, urgently nuzzling and licking her, while at the same time he took her hand and dragged it onto his staff, enclosing her fist around it and pumping her hand up and down. Merry was steadily being turned off. His free hand groped at her breasts, pinching and flicking her nipples uncomfortably. He left her hand on him and started to force his fingers under her panties. Merry was enjoying herself less and less. Stop being a prude! she shouted inside her head. Just go with it. Sure it doesn’t feel great right now, but it should in a second. Loosen up, for fuck’s sake!

  “What’s wrong?” he asked more urgently, as Merry’s legs closed a little, impeding his progress beneath her underwear. “Just loosen up, for fuck’s sake!” he growled. Merry stiffened. He bodily yanked her off the couch and spun her to face away from him. Before she knew what was happening he had whipped down her panties and was bending her forward. She flashed back to Eric and how she had felt that time with him. Suddenly, she had never been more scared.