The Ring on Her Finger (26 page)

“Speed Demon,” he said. That was what the press had labeled him. Because he always drove faster than the other guys dared, and he had a hellish personal disposition. Or maybe Lucy was talking about one of his other nicknames. Motor Mouth, because of his arrogant self-aggrandizing. Or maybe even Lady Killer. Yeah, that one had been fitting, too. Too fitting, in fact.

“That’s it,” she said. “Speed Demon. They said you broke all kinds of speed records during your career, and that everyone else was afraid to go as fast as you did.”

“Look, Lucy, I really don’t want to—”

“Why, Max?” she interrupted. “Why are you here? What happened to change everything? According to this article, you used to have cars and houses and a lifestyle to rival the Coves’. But now you live in a tiny apartment in a carriage house and work on someone else’s cars for a living. What happened between Europe and Glenview?”

There was no way Lucy would be satisfied until he explained why he lived the way he did. As much as he didn’t want to revisit any of that, he tried to look on the bright side. Maybe in telling Lucy everything that happened, she’d realize what a nasty, terrible guy he was and run screaming in horror in the opposite direction.

Yeah, that was a bright side, all right.

“You want to know what happened?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Fine,” he bit off crisply. “I’ll tell you. Long story short.”

“No, I want the whole thing.”

“Well, you’re not getting it,” he told her decisively. “Not today.” Not ever, if he had his way. And, hell, once she heard the short version, there was no way she’d want to hang around long enough to hear the rest of it.

“I started racing when I was a teenager,” he said. “My boss at the garage sponsored me. I was successful because I was fast, and I was wild, and I didn’t give a damn about anything. I thought I was immortal. And hell, if I wasn’t, what did I have to lose, you know? Because of all that, I won. A lot. By my mid-twenties, I was racing Formula One Grand Prix in Europe, and I had some of the biggest sponsors around. Because I was still winning. A lot. Because I was even faster by then, and I was even wilder, and I still didn’t give a damn about anything. I still thought I was immortal, too. But I really, honestly thought that. Hell, I had plenty to lose by then, but I never thought I would lose any of it. Nobody and nothing could touch me. I was absolutely convinced of that.”

“But something did touch you,” Lucy guessed.

Max lifted a hand to his forehead and rubbed hard at a headache that erupted out of nowhere. “Someone, actually. I met a woman.”

“Sylvie Balisteri.”

Having read the article, Lucy would know about Sylvie. So he didn’t have to say anything more about the beautiful, gifted Italian ballerina with whom he’d been linked romantically. Except for what wasn’t in the article. “Sylvie and I weren’t sexually involved the way everyone thought. We were just friends.”

He could tell by Lucy’s expression that she didn’t buy it.

“It’s true,” he said. “I mean, yeah, she was beautiful and glamorous and everything, but I respected her too much to get sexually involved with her. We were good friends. Best friends. We had the same kind of upbringing, so we had a lot in common. But we never had anything sexual going on. She was too decent a person for me to subject her to something like that.”

Too late, Max realized how Lucy would interpret what he said. He and Lucy shared the same kind of upbringing, and they had a lot in common. Yet he had gotten sexually involved—boy howdy, had he—with her, however briefly, Friday night. She might misconstrue that to mean he didn’t respect her or consider her to be a decent person. Judging by the way her expression changed, he knew that was exactly what she thought.

“Lucy, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that back then, I was no prize.” Not that he was any prize now. “Like you said, I was arrogant and selfish, and I went through women like most men go through breath mints, and showed them about as much consideration. That’s not the case anymore. I’m not like that.”

Her expression cleared immediately. “That’s what I mean, Max. You’re not like that. Forget the social security number. You’re a different person. You just said so yourself.”

“But...but...” He expelled an impatient breath. “That’s beside the point,” he finally said. She opened her mouth to object again, but he forged ahead before she had a chance. “Like I said, Sylvie and I were good friends. We had similar lifestyles. She was something of a celebrity, too, because she was a rising star in the ballet. And she would have gone straight to the top, too, if hadn’t been for... If it hadn’t been for one night when—”

He halted abruptly. He really didn’t want to talk about this. He hadn’t talked about it since it happened, even though he thought about it every day. Even Justin Cove, who knew the details, had never asked Max about it. For that, if nothing else, Max had to respect the guy.

“One night when what?” Lucy asked softly.

Max inhaled another deep breath and released it. “There was an accident,” he said with profound understatement. “Sylvie and I were out driving... Well, I was driving. Neither of us was wearing a seat belt, even though I should have insisted. If I had...”

Hell, he couldn’t say if it would have made a difference. But it might have. Not that dwelling on it now did any good.

“It was one of the things we loved to do,” he continued, “driving through the Italian countryside. Fast,” he added. “Really fast. Because Sylvie liked going fast. She was always telling me to go faster.”

And she had, too. She’d gotten off on speed even more than he had. Nearly every weekend, if he wasn’t racing, they’d climb into his Ferrari—his Berlinetta, not the Ferrari F he drove for racing—and they’d leave Rome behind and head for the country, and drive and drive and drive. “Guidi velocemente, Max!” Sylvie would shout over the roar of the engine. Drive fast, Max! Then, once they were out of town, “Vada piu velocemente, Max! Piu velocemente!” Go faster, Max! Faster! No matter how far he pushed the accelerator to the floor, it was never fast enough for Sylvie.

Until that one night.

“It was a bad accident,” he said. “I was in the hospital for almost a month afterward. And Sylvie...” He hesitated, as he always did when he thought about her. Then, as always, he remembered too well. “Sylvie was in the hospital even longer than I was. And where I eventually left with everything pretty much intact, Sylvie...” He squeezed his eyes shut tight. “Sylvie lost a leg.” He was surprised at how clearly the words came out when the thought was never clear at all. He opened his eyes again. “Before that night, she was a beautiful, vivacious, incredibly talented dancer, headed straight to the top. But that night I changed all that. That night I—” He couldn’t finish. He’d already said more than he wanted to. So now he said nothing at all.

“Until that night when she told you to drive faster, and you did,” Lucy finished for him, her voice soft, gentle. “Until that night when there was an accident. And that’s what it was, Max. An accident. A terrible, terrible accident, but an accident all the same. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

He shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. I should have—”

“You both should have been more careful,” she interrupted him. “But neither of you were. And you can’t dwell on the should haves and shouldn’t haves. You’ll make yourself crazy if you do that. Everybody has should haves and shouldn’t haves in their past, Max. But we have to leave them in the past. Because we can’t change any of them.”

Hell, she didn’t have to tell him that. But she didn’t understand. How could he expect her to, when he didn’t even understand it himself?

“That still doesn’t explain why you live the way you do,” Lucy said when he remained silent. “Why you’re living here, working the job you are. I mean, if you left the hospital intact, then why aren’t you still racing?”

He expelled an impatient sound. “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?”

She looked confused. “No.”

He gazed at her, incredulous. “There was no way I could go back to my career. Not after I ended Sylvie’s the way I did.”

“Max, you didn’t—”

“And there was no way I could just keep enjoying all of the things I had, not while Sylvie couldn’t enjoy anything. I didn’t deserve a good life after what I did, not when hers would be so miserable.”

“Max, you don’t know for sure that she—”

“So I gave everything away and left.”

That, finally, stop Lucy’s objections. “You what?”

He met her gaze levelly. “I gave everything away. And left.”

She said nothing for a moment, then, quietly, “By ‘everything,’ you mean...”

He shrugged. “Everything. The houses, the cars, the money...all of it.”

“To whom?”

“I deeded the houses to whoever had a use for them, then sold everything else and donated the money to places that needed it.”

She shook her head in disbelief, then smiled her soft, sweet smile. “Max, that’s so... That’s such a... I mean...” But she said nothing more, just kept smiling sweetly at him.

Until he said, “It didn’t help Sylvie.”

Lucy sobered at that. “But I bet it helped a lot of other people.”

“Not Sylvie,” he repeated. “Nothing could help her.”

Lucy studied him in silence for a moment longer, then asked, “How long has it been since you spoke to her?”

Max’s eyes widened in panic, acid burning his belly. “I haven’t spoken to her since it happened. I couldn’t.”

“You never talked to her afterward?” Lucy asked incredulously.

“I went to see her at her hospital a couple of days after I got out,” he admitted. “I got as far as the door to her room. She was sleeping. And then I saw the tent over her leg, and I...I couldn’t go any farther. I just couldn’t stand to see her that way, knowing I was responsible. I left Rome that same week, and I didn’t go back. I never saw or spoke to her again.”

“Oh, Max...”

He lifted the warm, bad beer to his mouth and drained it, relishing the bitter, nasty taste and the burning sensation as it traveled down his throat into his stomach. “So now you know why I drink exceptionally bad beer,” he finished lamely.

“And why you’re not allowed in the Coves’ house,” she added. “And why you’re not allowed to own a car, or allowed to drink good wine, or allowed to make love to me.”

Oh, damn, he wished she hadn’t said that. He closed his eyes, hoping that might take away some of the pain. But that only made it worse, because it made it too easy to remember what happened Friday night and what he could be having now. What he would never have again.

“Because you’re punishing yourself,” Lucy said. “Punishing yourself for something that happened five years ago, something that wasn’t even your fault.”

“Lucy...” he began, his voice laced with warning.

But she kept talking. “How much longer are you going to do this, Max? How much longer will you deny yourself the things that would make your life enjoyable? The things that would make you happy?”

He opened his eyes and met her gaze steadily. “As long as Sylvie is living a life that’s missing what she wanted most, that’s how long I’m going to live a life that’s missing what I want most. So it’s going to be forever, Lucy. Forever.”

It was after eleven when Lucy, clad in her pajamas, dialed Rosemary’s number. She figured she’d be waking her, but Lucy—what a surprise—couldn’t sleep. She kept replaying her conversation with Max. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to sleep again unless she got something straightened out.

Abby had a computer in her play room—not that the girl probably used it for anything other than games, but Lucy bet Rosemary had access to it whenever she wanted. Phoebe swore you could find out anything you wanted on the Internet—anything. Lucy was about to put that to the test.

Rosemary picked up on the third ring, answering with a very sleepy, “’Lo?”

“It’s Lucy. I’m sorry to wake you, but I need some help. Right away,” she added urgently.

“Lucy?” Rosemary asked, more alert now. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Long story. Look, do you use Abby’s computer?”

There was a moment of silence, followed by, “Sometimes.”

“Then I need your help.”

“With what?”

Lucy hesitated only a moment before asking, “Do you know what the time difference is between here and Italy?”

The sun was rising by the time Lucy and Rosemary finished their hunting and fishing expedition on the Internet, but, wow, what a haul they made. Once Lucy got past Rosemary’s objections that they shouldn’t pry into Max’s private life by convincing the her that it wouldn’t be prying if what they found out was already public knowledge—thank goodness Rosemary was addled by sleep—Lucy found out more about Max than she knew about herself.

Some of what she discovered she already knew—the meager beginnings in a depressed Detroit neighborhood, the stints in juvenile detention for stealing cars and joyriding, the fast rise in the racing circuit. Other things Rosemary read to her confirmed what she’d assumed about his lifestyle after that: the women, the money, the women, the cars, the women, the parties... All the excess that came with success. More of what Rosemary read to her, however, came as a surprise.

Many of the news and magazine articles they found were in languages Rosemary couldn’t read, but many were carried by American, Canadian and British sites. Once the articles about Max’s career, his crash, and his convalescence dried up, though, it was hard to find out anything else. There were a few stories about his puzzling retreat from the racing circuit, but even those eventually dwindled off. One reporter for an American racing magazine, however, wrote as recently as a year ago a follow-up to Max’s amazing professional history and his mysterious disappearance. But she wasn’t able to find out where Max was now, or what he was doing.

There was, however, other valuable information in the article.

Max told Lucy he gave away everything he owned, but he didn’t say specifically who benefited from his generosity. The reporter for the story did, though. She found the distribution of his real estate holdings in particular to be interesting. He deeded his palatial main residence outside Rome to some local nuns who were about to lose their convent. His condo in Paris went to a woman who had been struggling for years to find funding for an art school for underprivileged children. He gave his New York condo to a single mother who left her abusive husband and was trying to get back on her feet. His house in England had went to a veterinarian who wanted to open a much-needed animal hospital for the area. He broke up his car collection to donate them to a number of fundraising auctions, for everything from struggling schools to homeless shelters.