The Heart's Victory

  Slowly he lowered her back to the ground and released her. She neither turned to him nor spoke, but watched in silence as they pulled Kirk from the wreckage. She gave no sign that she knew Pam stood beside her. Behind them, the pits were like a tomb. The white flag fluttered in the autumn breeze.

  Chapter 7

  The walls in the hospital waiting room were pale green. The floor was uncarpeted; an inconspicuous beige tile with tiny brown flecks disguised a day’s collection of dust and dirt. On the wall opposite Foxy was a print of a Van Gogh still life. It was the sole spot of color in the drab little room. Foxy knew she would never see the print again without remembering the hours of torment and ignorance. Pam sat near the window, framed by drapes just darker than the walls. Occasionally she took sips of cold coffee. Charlie sat on a vinyl sofa and gnawed at the stub of a long-dead cigar. Lance paced. Unceasingly he prowled the small room, sometimes with his hands in his pockets, sometimes smoking. Once or twice, Foxy heard Pam murmur something to him, then caught the low rumble of his response. She did not hear the words, nor did she attempt to. They did not interest her. She felt the same nameless, unspeakable fear she had known in the first moments of consciousness after her own accident. She had been helpless then, and she knew she was helpless now. Lance had been right when he told her there was nothing she could do. Now Foxy accepted it. Anger and panic were buried under the numbing terror of the unthinkable. Her mind drifted and emptied as she stared at the Van Gogh print. Kirk’s skid had begun more than three hours before.

  “Miss Fox?”

  With a jolt, Foxy was pulled back to the present. For a moment, she merely stared at the green-gowned figure in the doorway. “Yes?” she managed in a surprisingly strong voice as she rose to meet him. It floated through her mind that the doctor was very young. His mustache was dark but reminded Foxy of Kirk’s. His surgical mask hung by its ties at his throat.

  “Your brother’s out of surgery.” There was a quietness to his voice, which, like his hands, he used for healing. “He’s in recovery.”

  Cautiously Foxy held off relief and kept her gaze steady on his face. “How extensive are his injuries?”

  The doctor heard and respected the control in her tone, but saw that her eyes were hurting and afraid. “He had five broken ribs. His lungs collapsed, but they’ve been reinflated and the concussion’s mild. The ribs will be painful, but since there was no puncture, the danger’s minimal. His leg . . . ” He hesitated a moment, and Foxy felt a fresh thrill of fear.

  “He didn’t . . . ” She swallowed, then forced herself to ask. “He didn’t lose it?”

  “No.” He took her hand for reassurance and found it ice cold but without a tremor. “But it’s a complicated injury, we’ve had to do some reconstructing. It’s an open, comminuted fracture, and there’s some artery damage. We’ve realigned the bones, and the outlook is good that he’ll have full use of the leg in a few months. Meanwhile, there’s a risk of infection.” After releasing her hand, the doctor allowed his gaze to sweep the people behind her before returning to Foxy. “He’s going to be here for some time.”

  “I see.” Foxy let out a shaky breath. “Is there anything else?”

  “Minor burns and abrasions. He’s a very lucky man.”

  “Yes.” Foxy’s agreement was solemn as she stared down at her hands. She joined them together, not knowing what else to do with them. “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes.” The doctor grinned and looked younger yet. “He wanted to know who won the race.” Foxy bit her bottom lip hard and continued to look straight ahead as he went on. “He’ll be in a room in about an hour; you can see him then. Only one visitor tonight,” he added firmly, again letting his eyes trail over the people behind Foxy. “The others can see him tomorrow. We’re not giving him a phone for twenty-four hours.”

  Foxy nodded and spoke quickly. “Miss Anderson will stay to see him tonight then.”

  “Foxy,” Pam began, shaking her head as she stepped forward.

  “He’ll want you,” Foxy told her as their eyes met. “He’ll be satisfied knowing I was here. You will stay, won’t you?”

  Feeling tears well up behind her eyes, Pam nodded quickly, then turned away. She had managed with a great deal of willpower to remain composed during the wait. Now, Foxy’s simple generosity did what the hours of torture had not. Moving to the window, she stared out and let the tears have their freedom.

  “The desk has my number,” Foxy told the doctor. “Will you see that I’m called if there’s any change before morning?”

  “Certainly. Miss Fox,” he added, recognizing the signs of shock and fatigue in her eyes. “He’s going to be fine.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Charlie, wait around and take Pam back after she’s seen Kirk,” Lance ordered as he took Foxy’s arm. “I’ll take Foxy now.” He turned to the doctor and spoke briskly. “There’ll be reporters downstairs in the lobby. I don’t want her to have to deal with them tonight.”

  “Take the service elevator down to the garage level. There’s a cabstand near the entrance.”

  “Thanks.” Without waiting for her assent, Lance began to lead Foxy down the corridor.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said. Her voice held no inflection at all as she allowed herself to be piloted.

  “I know what I have to do,” he tossed back and jammed the button on the service elevator. Behind them, the crepe soles of nurses’ shoes made soft sounds against the tile.

  “I didn’t thank you before for stopping me from running out on the track.” There was a quick ding of a bell before the doors slid open. Foxy made no protest as he pulled her into the empty car. “It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “Stop it, damn it! Just stop it.” He whirled and took her by the shoulders. His fingers pressed tightly into her flesh. “Scream, cry, take a punch at me, but stop acting like this.”

  Foxy stared up into the furious heat of his eyes. Her emotions refused to surface. Her defenses remained sealed, as if they knew it was still too soon to allow anything to escape. She spoke quietly and her eyes were dry. “I already did all the screaming I’m going to do. I can’t cry yet because I’m still numb, and I don’t have any reason to take a punch at you.”

  “It was my car, isn’t that enough?” he demanded. The doors opened, and he took her hand before he stalked out. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the garage as he pulled her toward the entrance.

  “Nobody forced Kirk into that car. I’m not blaming you, Lance. I’m not blaming anyone.”

  “I saw the way you looked at me when they pulled him out.”

  Fatigue was pouring over Foxy as Lance nudged her into a cab. Turning her head to face him, she made herself speak clearly. “I’m sorry. Maybe I did blame you for a minute. Maybe I wanted to blame you or anyone else who was handy. I thought he was dead.” Because her voice trembled slightly, she paused until she was certain she could continue. “I’ve tried to be prepared for something like this every day of my life. But I wasn’t prepared at all. It doesn’t seem to make any difference that I’ve seen him crash before.” Foxy sighed and leaned back against the seat. The streetlights came through the cab window to dance on her closed lids. “I don’t blame you for what happened, Lance, any more than I blame Kirk for being who he is. Maybe this time he’ll have had enough.”

  No answer came from Lance but the click and hiss of his lighter. Not having the energy to open her eyes, Foxy kept them closed and took the rest of the brief journey in silence. When they arrived at the motel, they found Scott Newman pacing the corridor in front of Foxy’s room. He wore the disheveled look of an executive who has just left a hassle-filled board meeting.

  “Cynthia.” Giving Lance a quick nod, he held out both hands to her. “The hospital said you were on your way back. How’s Kirk? They tell you next to nothing over the phone.”

  “He’s going to be fine,” Foxy told him, letting him squeeze her hands. She gave him a shortened version of the doctor’s report
.

  “Everybody’s been worried; they’ll be glad to hear he’s going to be all right. How about you?” He gave her an encouraging smile. “I thought you might need me.”

  “What she needs is some rest,” Lance said shortly.

  “It was very considerate of you to wait.” Foxy smoothed over Lance’s rudeness and added a smile that cost her some concentrated effort. “I’m fine, really, just a bit tired. Pam stayed behind to keep Kirk company for a while.”

  “The press is itching for the full story,” Scott commented as he released her hands and straightened the knot in his tie. “We took a look at the replay. There’s no doubt that Kirk had to swerve to avoid a crash with Martell, and that’s when he lost it. Defective steering in Martell’s racer is the verdict. A bad break for Kirk. Perhaps you’d like to give them a statement or pass one on through me.”

  “No,” Lance answered before Foxy could respond. “Leave it. If you want to be useful, tell the switchboard not to pass any calls through to this room unless it’s the hospital.” His voice was curt and annoyed. “Give me the key, Foxy,” he ordered.

  “Of course.” Scott nodded as he watched Foxy dig in her bag. “I’m sure I can hold them off at least until morning, but—”

  “Come to my room in a couple hours.” Lance cut him off and snatched the key from Foxy’s hand. “I’ll give you enough for a press release. Just see that you keep her out of it. Understand?” Lance jerked open the door.

  The fury registered. Scott agreed with another nod before turning to Foxy. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, Cynthia.”

  “Thank you, Scott. Good night,” she managed before Lance shut the door in his face. Bone weary, she moved to a chair and sank into it. “You were very rude,” she commented absently as she rubbed at a headache near her temple. “I don’t recall that I’ve ever seen you be quite that rude before.”

  “Maybe if you took a look in the mirror, you’d understand why.” The fury was still in his voice. Foxy watched him calmly from behind the numbing shield of shock and fatigue. “You’re standing there getting paler by the minute. I swear the only color in your face right now is in your eyes. And he rambles on like an idiot about press releases.” Lance made a gesture of disgust with his hand. “He’s got the brains of a soft-boiled egg.”

  “He’s a good manager,” Foxy murmured, fighting against the building ache in her head.

  “And a great human being,” Lance added sarcastically.

  “Lance,” Foxy began with the first stirrings of curiosity, “were you protecting me?”

  When he turned on her, she watched his temper boil in his eyes. Her curiosity increased as she watched him control it. “Maybe,” he muttered, then turned to the phone. Foxy heard him mumble a series of instructions but paid no attention to the words.

  Odd, she thought, he seems to be making a habit of protecting me. First in Italy, and now here. It certainly doesn’t seem to make him very comfortable, though. She continued to study him after he had hung up the phone. Instantly he began to pace the room just as he had paced the waiting area in the hospital.

  “Lance.” He stopped when she quietly said his name. Foxy held out her hand, realizing suddenly how grateful she was that he was there. She wasn’t ready to be alone yet. She wasn’t feeling strong and capable and indestructible, but tired and vulnerable and afraid. Lance stared at her a moment without moving, then crossed to her to take the offered hand. “Thank you.” Her eyes were dark and grave as they clung to his. “It’s just occurred to me that I wouldn’t have made it through all this without knowing you were there. I didn’t even realize that I needed you, but you did. I want you to know how much it means to me.”

  Something flickered over his face before he raked his free hand through his hair. It was an uncharacteristic gesture of frustration, which reminded Foxy that he was as weary as she. “Fox,” he began, but she continued quickly.

  “You won’t go away tomorrow, will you?” Knowing she was being weak did not prevent her from asking. She needed him, and her hand tightened on his. “If you could just stay for a couple of extra days, just until things settle. I can lie,” she continued in a voice that was growing desperate. “I can walk right in that hospital room tomorrow and look at Kirk, look right in his eyes and lie. It’s a trick I’ve learned over the years; and I’m good at it. He’ll never have to know how much I hate him being in there. But if you could stay, if I could just know you were there. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I . . . ” She stopped, then pressed both hands to her eyes. “Oh, Lord, I think the numbness is wearing off.” She heard the knock at the door, but took deep steadying breaths, leaving Lance to answer it. In a moment, she heard him move back to her.

  “Foxy.” He spoke her name gently and took her wrist until she had lowered her hands. Her eyes were young and devastated. “Drink this.” He held out a glass filled with the brandy room service had delivered. Though she took it obediently, she only stared down into the amber liquid. Lance watched her for a moment, then crouched down until their eyes were level. “Fox.” He waited until she had shifted her gaze from the brandy to him. “Marry me.”

  “What?” Foxy stared at him, saw the familiar intentness in his eyes, then squeezed her own shut. “What?” she said again, opening them.

  Lance urged the brandy toward her lips. “I said, marry me.”

  Foxy drank the entire contents of the glass in one swallow. Her breath caught on the burn of the brandy, and the small sound thundered in the absolute silence of the room. For several long seconds, she stared into his eyes trying to penetrate the impenetrable. She sensed that under the calm lay a whirlpool of energy, a power that would escape at any instant. He held something, she was unsure what, on a very tight leash. Tension gripped tight in her throat. She tried to swallow it and failed. Her eyes remained steady on his, but her voice was only a whisper. She was afraid. “Why?”

  “Why not?” he countered, then took the empty glass from her nerveless fingers.

  “Why not?” Foxy repeated. She lifted her hand to make some helpless gesture, but he caught it in his own. Her fingers trembled as he brought them to his lips. Steadily he watched her.

  “Yes, why not?”

  “I don’t know, I . . . ” He had succeeded in distracting her with the unconventional proposal. She ran her free hand through her hair and tried to think properly. “There must be a reason, I just can’t think.”

  “Well, if you can’t think of any substantial reason against it, marry me and come to Boston.”

  “Boston?” Foxy echoed him blankly.

  “Boston,” Lance agreed, and for the first time, a faint smile touched his lips. “I live there, remember?”

  “Yes, of course.” Foxy rubbed a line between her brows and struggled to concentrate. “Of course I remember.”

  “We could leave when you were confident that Kirk was settled. More than likely, he’ll be staying here for the next couple of months, but there’s no need for you to be here.” Lance’s voice was practical, his face absolutely calm. Frustrated and unsure, Foxy shook her head. I’m hallucinating. Hallucinations don’t hurt, she reminded herself, then quickly shook off the argument. It was easier to believe it was an illusion than to believe Lance was asking her to marry him in the same tone he might ask her to fetch him a cup of coffee.

  “Lance, I . . . ” Foxy hesitated, then decided to evade the issue rather than face it head-on. “I don’t think I’m taking all this in properly. I’m still a little fuzzy.” She swallowed and tried to match his casual tone. “Let me think about it. Give me a day or two.”

  Lance inclined his head. “That sounds reasonable,” he agreed as she rose to move away from him. “No,” he said, causing her to turn and gape at him.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no, you can’t think about it for a day or two.” In one quick gesture, he had her firmly by the shoulders and had abolished the distance between them. Foxy saw that his eyes were no longer calm but turb
ulent. He had held her like this before, she remembered, and had looked at her in precisely the same way. Years ago, she reflected, confused and foolishly disoriented, in the empty garage at Le Mans. Was he going to shout at her again? she wondered. Her brows drew together as she tried to keep the past and present separate.

  “What do you want?” she asked, struggling with her feelings for him.

  “You.” He pulled her yet closer as his eyes burned into hers. “I’m not about to let you walk out of my life, Fox, and I’ve waited for you long enough.” His mouth lowered swiftly but was gentle on hers. Even so, she could feel the imprisoned passion in the grip of his hands. The kiss was thorough, possessive. “Did you really think I’d calmly walk out that door and give you a couple of days to think it over?” His mouth closed over hers again, preventing any response she might have made. Once again, he drew her away, this time to stare down into her bemused eyes. “Do you think I could want you the way that I do, then walk away after you’ve told me you need me?”

  “Lance, I didn’t mean to . . . ” Foxy shook her head as she searched for some scraps of common sense. “You shouldn’t feel obligated, I was grateful . . . ”

  “The hell with grateful,” he declared, then grabbed her hair with both hands. “I’m not interested in some nice, patient emotion like gratitude. That’s not what I want from you.” Foxy saw the determination in his face, heard the fire in his voice. Her blood began to heat in response. “I don’t give a damn if the timing’s wrong, or that I’m pressing you when your defenses are down. I’m a selfish man, Foxy, and I’ve wanted you for longer than I care to think about. I’m going to have you.”

  Her pulse was beating so quickly, she was giddy. She steadied herself, placing her hands on his arms. “Lance . . . ” Her voice would not behave but insisted on coming out in breathless whispers. “What you’re talking about isn’t what’s necessary for marriage. That’s a big step, a lifetime commitment, I don’t know . . . ”

  “I love you,” he said and stopped her speech cold. Her lips trembled open to form words that would not come. “I want to spend my life with you, and I’m not going back to Boston without you. I can’t give you the candlelight and soft words that might smooth the road because I haven’t the time or patience for them right now. I’ll have to make it up to you later.” His hands moved from her hair to her shoulders to her waist, but he brought her no closer. “Foxy, you drive me out of my mind.” As she watched, she saw both demand and doubt flicker in his eyes. “You love me, too, I know you do.”

  “Yes.” She rested her cheek against his chest and sighed. “Yes,