Fearless Maverick

 
          
One
Christmas long ago,
ROBYN GRADY
received a book from her big sister and immediately fell in love with
Cinderella. Sprinklings of magic, deepest wishes come true—she was hooked!
Picture books with glass slippers later gave way to romance novels and, more
recently, the real-life dream of writing for Mills & Boon.

 
          
After
a fifteen-year career in television, Robyn met her own modern-day hero. They
live on Australia’s Sunshine Coast with their three little princesses, two
poodles, and a cat called Tinkie. Robyn loves new shoes, worn jeans, lunches at
Moffat Beach and hanging out with her friends on eHarlequin. Learn about her
latest releases at www.robyngrady. com, and don’t forget to say hi. She’d love
to hear from you!

 
          
THE
moment Alex Wolfe’s car went airborne, he knew the situation was bad. That’s ‘serious
injury’ or possibly even ‘get ready to meet your maker’ bad.

 
          
He’d
been approaching the chicane at the end of a straight at Melbourne’s premier
motor racing circuit and, misjudging his breaking point, he’d gone into the
first turn too deep. He’d tried to drive through the corner but when the wheels
had aquaplaned on standing water, he’d slid out and slammed into a tyre stack
wall, which provided protection not only for runaway cars and their drivers but
also for crowds congregated behind the guard rail.

 
          
Like
a stone spat from a slingshot, he’d ricocheted off the rubber and back into the
path of the oncoming field. He didn’t see what happened next but, from the almighty
whack
that had spun him out of
control, Alex surmised another car had T-boned his.

 
          
Now,
as he sliced through space a metre above the ground, time seemed to slow to a
cool molasses crawl as snapshots from the past flickered and flashed through
his mind. Anticipating the colossal
slam
of impact, Alex cursed himself for being a fool. World Number One three seasons
running—some said the best there’d ever been—and he’d broken racing’s cardinal
rule. He’d let his concentration slip. Allowed personal angst to impair his
judgement and screw with his performance. The news he’d received an hour before
climbing into the cockpit had hit him that hard.

 
          
After nearly twenty years, Jacob was back?

 
          
Now
Alex understood why his twin sister had persisted in trying to contact him
these past weeks. He’d been thrown when he’d received her first email and had
held off returning Annabelle’s messages for precisely this reason. He couldn’t
afford to get wound up and distracted by—

 
          
Driving
down a breath, Alex thrust those thoughts aside.

 
          
He
simply couldn’t get distracted, is all.

 
          
With
blood thumping like a swelling ocean in his ears, Alex gritted his teeth and
strangled the wheel as the 420-kilo missile pierced that tyre wall. An instant
later, he thudded to a jarring halt and darkness, black as the apocalypse,
enveloped him. Momentum demanded he catapult forward but body and helmet
harnesses kept him strapped—or was that
trapped?
—inside.
Wrenched forward, Alex felt his right shoulder click and bleed with pain that
he knew would only get worse. He also knew he should get out fast. Their fuel
tanks rarely ruptured and fire retardant suits were a wonderful thing; however,
nothing stopped a man from roasting alive should his car happen to go up in
flames.

 
          
Entombed
beneath the weight of the tyres, Alex fought the overwhelming urge to try to
punch through rubber and drag himself free, but disorientated men were known to
stagger into the path of oncoming cars. Even if he
could
claw his way out, procedure stated rescue teams assist or, at
the least, supervise occupants from any wreck.

 
          
Holding
his injured arm, Alex cursed like he’d never cursed before. Then he squinted
through the darkness and, in a fit of frustration, roared out in self-disgust.

 
          
‘Can
we try that again? I know I can cock up more if I really set my mind to it!’

 
          
Claustrophobic
seconds crept by. Gritting his teeth, Alex concentrated on the growl of V8s
whizzing past, rather than the growing throb in his shoulder. Then a different
group of engines sped up—medical response units. Surrounded by the smell of
fumes and rubber and his own sweat, Alex exhaled a shuddery breath. Motor
racing was a dangerous sport. One of the
most
dangerous. But the monumental risks associated with harrowing speeds were also
the ultimate thrill and the only life to which Alex had ever wanted to ascribe.
Racing not only gave him immense pleasure, it also provided the supreme means
of escape. God knows there’d been plenty to run from growing up at Wolfe Manor.

 
          
The
muffled cries of track marshals filtered through and Alex came back to the
present as a crane went to work. Bound stacks of tyres were removed and soon
shafts of light broke through.

 
          
A
marshal, in his bright orange suit, poked his head in. ‘You all right?’

 
          
‘I’ll
live.’

 
          
The
marshal had already removed the steering wheel and was assessing what he could
of the car’s warped safety cell. ‘We’ll have you out in a minute.’

 
          
To
face a barrage of questions? The humiliation? And at some stage he’d have to
tackle that other problem, which had set off this whole shambles.

 
          
‘No
chance of leaving me here, I suppose.’

 
          
The
marshal took in Alex’s sardonic smile and sent a consoling look. ‘There’ll be
more races, son.’

 
          
Alex
set his jaw.
Damn right there will be
.

 
          
The
Jaws of Life arrived. Soon, sure hands were assisting him out and a world of
fire-tipped arrows shot through that injured joint. Biting down, Alex edged out
of the debris aware of fans’ applause resonating around the park. He let go
supporting his right arm long enough to salute to the cheering crowd before
sliding into a response unit.

 
          
Minutes
later, inside the medical tent and out of his helmet and suit, Alex rested back
on a gurney. Morrissey, the team doctor, checked out his shoulder, applied a
cold press, then searched for signs of concussion and other injuries. Morrissey
was serving up something for the pain and inflammation when team owner, Jerry
Squires, strode in.

 
          
The
son of a British shipping tycoon, Jerry had lost an eye as a child and was well
known for the black patch he wore. He was better known, however, for his
staggering wealth and no-nonsense attitude. Today, with his usually neat
steel-grey hair mussed, Jerry spoke in gravelled tones to the doctor.

 
          
‘What’s
the worst?’

 
          
‘He’ll
need a complete physical evaluation … X-rays and MRI,’ Morrissey replied, his
glasses slipping to the tip of his nose as he scribbled notes on a clipboard. ‘He’s
sustained a subluxation to his right shoulder.’

 
          
Jerry
sucked air in between his teeth. ‘Second race of the season. At least we still
have Anthony.’

 
          
At
the mention of his team’s second driver, Alex pushed to sit up. Everyone was
jumping the gun! He wasn’t out of the game yet.

 
          
But
then the pain in that joint flared and burned like Hades. Breaking into a fresh
sweat, he rested back on the elevated pillows and managed to put on his
no-problem smile, the one that worked a charm on beautiful women and bristling
billionaires.

 
          
‘Hey,
settle down, Jer. You heard the man. It’s not serious. Nothing’s broken.’

 
          
The
doctor lowered his clipboard enough for Alex to catch the disapproving angle of
his brows. ‘That’s still to be determined.’

 
          
A
pulse beat in Jerry’s clean-shaven jaw. ‘I appreciate your glass-half-full
attitude, champ, but this is no time for a stiff upper lip.’ Jerry glanced out
the window and scowled at the churning weather. ‘We should’ve gone with wets.’

 
          
Alex
flinched, and not from physical pain. In hindsight, granted, he should have
opted for wet-weather tyres. He’d explained his rationale to the team earlier
when other pit crews were changing over. Now he’d reiterate for the man who
forked over multiple millions to have him race as lead driver.

 
          
‘The
rain had stopped ten minutes before the race began,’ Alex said, feeling
Morrissey’s eagle eye pressing him to button up and rest. ‘The track was drying
off. If I could make it through the first few laps—get a dry line happening—I’d
be eating up the k’s while everyone else would be stuck in the pits changing
back to slicks.’

 
          
Jerry
grunted again, unconvinced. ‘You needed extra traction going into that chicane.
Simple fact is, you called it wrong.’

 
          
Alex
ground his back teeth against a natural urge to argue. He hadn’t called it
wrong … but he had made a fatal error. His mind hadn’t been one hundred percent
on the job. If it
had
been, he’d have
aced that chicane
and
the race. Hell,
anyone could drive in the dry; handling wet conditions was where a driver’s
ability, experience and instinct shone through. And usually where Alex Wolfe
excelled. He’d worked bloody hard to get where he was today—at the top—which
was a far cry from the position he’d once filled: a delinquent who’d longed to
flee that grotesquely elaborate, freakishly unhappy English manor that still
sat on the outskirts of Oxfordshire.

 
          
But
he’d left those memories behind.

 
          
Or
he had until receiving those emails.

 
          
While
Jerry, Morrissey and a handful of others conversed out of earshot, Alex mulled
over his sister’s message. Annabelle had said Wolfe Manor had been declared a
dangerous structure by the council and Jacob had returned to reinstate the
house and grounds to their former infamous glory. Images of those centuries-old
corridors and chunky dusty furniture came to mind, and Alex swore he could
smell the dank and sour bouquet of his father’s favourite drop. The veil
between then and now thinned more and he heard his father’s drunken ravings.
Felt the slap of that belt on his skin.

 
          
Clamping
his eyes shut, Alex shook off the revulsion. As the eldest, Jacob had inherited
that mausoleum but, if it’d been left to him, Alex would gladly have bulldozed
the lot.