Billionaire Romance: MAXIMILIAN (An Alpha Bad Boy Contemporary Mystery Romance) (Mysterious Billionaires Book 3, Anthologies & Collections) (34 page)

Suddenly a little less sure of himself, Troy turned to Shannon, “Erm, that’s beautiful, love, but cover yourself up, you’re embarrassing the crew.” There was a general rumbling from around the garage, including one clear call of “No, she’s not!” from somewhere near the back. “And this is Abu Dhabi, you can get in trouble for dressing like that in public.”

“But you said it was, like, okay inside the track,” complained Shannon.

“No, love, I said it was okay in the trailer,” replied Troy. Donald, a perfect gentleman and the only one not staring at Shannon’s full and barely covered breasts, handed Troy a blanket. Troy passed it on to Shannon. “Here, wrap this around you.”

Shannon did, but failed to cover her shoulders. She grinned around the room, enjoying the attention, and seemed to notice Merry for the first time. “Hi,” Shannon said, and turned to Troy. “Who’s this?” she asked him, a touch possessively.
Ha,
thought Merry,
I knew she’d never recognize me.

“This is Blair’s daughter, Merry. Be nice,” said Troy, his previous arrogance making a return. “She’s going to be my new little sister.”

“Wait,” Shannon held up a hand, indicating the importance of the discovery she had just made. “You’re Merry Bennett? Oh. My. God!” she squealed. “We were in high school together! Merry, how’ve you been, you look amaze! Love the new hair, oh my God!”

“It’s good to see you too, Shannon,” smiled Merry, surprised to find she meant it. School was a lifetime ago and people grew up, plus it was validating to hear Shannon compliment her.

Shannon, however, barely noticed Merry had spoken. The rest of the garage had lost interest and gone back to their tasks, but Shannon carried on regardless, “Oh my God, you should have seen Merry at school, Troy! She was the cutest thing, haircut like a boy, glasses, braces, we loved having her hang around…”

Amazing,
thought Merry,
almost everyone is carrying on like I’m not here.

“And look at that body, will you? Oh my God, Merry, where were you hiding those titties all those years? The things she used to wear, so frumpy! It was so funny…”

Merry’s temper flared again,
Nope, nothing’s actually changed since high school.
“Well, at least I actually wear clothes!” she suddenly screamed. The garage went silent again. “And I spent my time at school studying, not slutting my way through the whole football team.” Merry was surprised at the vitriol in her voice. Her mom stood open-mouthed. Donald held a nervous smile. Troy looked shocked and Shannon was incensed.

“You bitch!” she yelled and launched herself at Merry’s hair, leaving Troy holding nothing but the blanket. The two girls went down to the ground, Shannon managing to stay on top. The garage burst into cheers and applause, which intensified as the struggle forced Shannon’s breasts free of their meager confinement.

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.