“I feel like there should be a brass band waiting for us, but here it is almost two in the morning and everyone is asleep. Golly, Dixon. We’ve driven around the world!”
“It certainly seems like it, doesn’t it?”
“OK, we flew across the ocean, but still, we drove from New York City and here we are in Paris.” Excited ripples of goose bumps prickled on my arms at the lights of Paris, shining brightly even at the ungodly hour. “Left at rue Béarnaise, then get in the right lane and make a right at the next intersection. It should be on the right side of the street. Oh man. I think I’m going to be sick.”
He shot me a startled look. “Should I pull over?”
“You do and I’ll strangle you where you sit,” I said, gritting my teeth and ignoring the fact that Tabby had pulled alongside us again with Sam hanging precariously out of the window. I refused to turn to face him, instead nervously watching the road ahead as Dixon made each turn. “There it is!” I shouted, pointing.
Two blocks away a sign indicated the automobile museum. Dixon, with more presence of mind than I had, calmly pulled into the parking lot and proceeded around to the back of the building, where a couple of bright arc lights had been set up along with an awning and a cluster of people. There was a handful of cars there, but as I worriedly ran my eyes over them, wave after wave of goose bumps rippled down my back. “They aren’t here! We did it! Holy hellballs, we did it! Dixon!”
“We did it—I know, I heard you!” he said, laughing as he came to a stop. Behind us, Sam burst from his car and circled around to catch our faces on camera. Roger, all smiles and with a big bouquet of flowers, broke free from the group of production assistants and network officials who had evidently stayed up all night to meet us.
“Congratulations, Sufferin’ Suffragettes, our New York City to Paris race winners!” Roger said loudly, and paused while everyone applauded. Tabby did a little congratulatory dance behind Sam as I stood up in the car and whooped, then allowed Dixon to help me out of the car.
“We won, we won. We beat those”—I caught Dixon’s eye and changed what I was going to say—“worthy opponent Esses. We won! I can’t believe it! We won!”
And then I threw up all over the ground, only narrowly missing Dixon’s feet.
Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures
AUGUST 14
11:22 a.m.
Paris, City of Love
Had to stop writing in midexplanation of what happened when my father suddenly appeared in my hotel room. Which is also Dixon’s hotel room, and since he was having a long shower to try to . . . Wait. Let me do this in the correct order. Man, that foreshadowing stuff is insidious.
“That’s going to make the gag reel,” I heard Tabby say when I clutched my pink skirt and tried to ralph up my guts.
“Literally,” Sam agreed.
“Good god! Are you drunk or ill?” Roger said, doing a fast sidestep to get out of the way.
Dixon, a man of fast reflexes, not only moved out of the danger zone but also had the presence of mind to gather up my veil and hold it back so it didn’t fall into the mess.
“Sorry,” I said when my stomach stopped dry heaving. “I think it was nerves. It’s been so stressful these last few hours, and we didn’t have food or water, and I feel a bit woozy to be honest . . .”
Dixon flung my veil over his shoulder and caught me when I weaved forward, pulling me well back from the puddle of bile and saliva. To my utter surprise, he slid an arm under my legs and lifted me up in the very best He-Man move. “Paulie is a bit overcome by all of this. Is there somewhere she can sit and have some water?”
Roger turned around in a full circle, but there weren’t a lot of seating options in the parking lot behind a car museum. In the end, I sat on the running board of the Flyer and sipped a little champagne that Roger opened. I felt somewhat isolated, in a little cocoon of happiness, the bubbles from the champagne tickling my nose in a delightful way. In front of me, shielding me from the camera, Dixon stood chatting with Roger and the network people, telling them all about our adventures driving from Prague.
He was giving me time to recover, bless his heart. I suddenly had to know whether or not he loved me, and decided that there was no time like the present to figure out if I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. I tugged on the back of his suit coat. When he turned to look down at me, I repressed a hiccup and asked, “Who is the woman, Dixon?”
He looked confused. “Who is what woman?”
“The woman you intend on wooing properly, not sleeping with in a ramshackle mode as we are doing.”
“Ramshackle . . . Paulie, what are you talking about?”
I stood up carefully, holding on to him for balance. “What I mean, sir, is whether or not you intend on honoring the marriage that we pretended to have? Because my dad is not going to let me just shack up with you, not that I even know if you want me to, because you haven’t said so, you annoying man.”
“Ow.” He rubbed the spot on his chest that I’d punched when I spoke the last words. “I did tell you. I said that, this time, I wanted to do things properly. It’s important.”
I gawked at him for a minute, then said, “It’s important to properly ask me to stay with you? That’s what you’re talking about, right? Me? Not someone else who you don’t know, because you’re not the kind of guy who’d sleep with one woman while planning on being proper with another woman?”
He took the glass of champagne from my hand. “I think you’re a little tiddly.”
“Probably. But I’m also madly in love with you, and tired of the mean part of my brain telling me that because you haven’t said you love me, too, that means you are going to dump me, at which point I may well consider talking to my dad’s bodyguards about ways to geld an Englishman.”
He laughed and pulled me into an embrace, saying into my ear, “I would kiss you, but I suspect it wouldn’t be the enjoyable experience either of us would hope for.”
“Ew. No. No kissing until I sterilize my mouth.” I pinched his side. “Say it, dammit!”
He sighed and backed up a few steps, pulling me with him, then got down on one knee, and, with a dramatic flourish at me, said, “Paulie Rostakova, light of my life, ache in my loins, and most incredibly wonderful woman in the whole wide world, would you make me a happy, happy man and marry me? Again. This time for real.”
Roger started talking loudly, demanding that Sam be sure to film us, which of course he was doing, because Sam was not slow on the uptake.
I looked down at Dixon and blinked back a few tears of happiness.
“Please answer quickly,” Dixon said, the arm held out toward me starting to waver. “There’s a rock under my knee and my muscles are starting to spasm.”
I grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet, throwing myself in his arms and hugging him as tight as I could. “Yes, I will marry you. Yes, yes, yes. I hope to god there’s a hotel around here, because I badly need to brush my mouth so I can kiss the living hell out of you.”
Roger applauded and announced that, once again, his production had brought a real-life romance to fruition. More champagne was opened. I released Dixon, who looked absolutely exhausted, but extremely happy.
“He still hasn’t said it,” Tabby pointed out.
“Shut it,” I said with a grin to take the sting out of it.
We spent another fifteen minutes being grilled in front of the camera about the last few days, and how we had fallen in love with each other, and anything and everything Roger could think of. And then the Zust arrived, speeding around the corner of the building and only just missing mowing us down. Stephen was driving and slammed on the brakes, then stood in the car to glare at us before turning to Sanders and starting to berate him with the most waspish, acid comments I’d heard in a long time.
“—had done what I told you to do, that would be
us standing there guzzling the Bolly. But no, you knew best—you always know best. And just look what it’s got us? Second! Second to them!”
There was more of that sort of tirade, all of which Sam got on film. (I found out later that the Esses had driven so hard they’d lost their film crew.) I stood next to Dixon, too tired to deal with their drama, and desperately wished I had a toothbrush.
It took another hour or so before we made it to a hotel and I could bathe and brush my teeth three times. After which I went out to molest Dixon in the manner he was due, but he was sound asleep on the bed, buck naked and holding a rose.
I smiled down at him, took the rose, and promptly fell asleep next to him. We slept for almost ten hours.
August 14
To: Angela
We won!
August 14
From: Angela
I know. The producer told us.
August 14
To: Angela
It made the news back home? Wow.
August 14
From: Angela
No, dear. We’re in Paris. Your father insisted. I’m afraid he knows about your boyfriend. Rather, he knows that he really is your boyfriend.
August 14
To: Angela
Wait. What?
August 14
From: Angela
He knows that you and Mr. Ainsley have been sharing hotel rooms.
August 14
To: Angela
Dammit! I knew Anton was spying on us!
August 14
From: Angela
Who is Anton?
August 14
To: Angela
The guy who tattled to Dad.
August 14
From: Angela
I don’t think that was the name.
“I just got the weirdest text from Angela,” I said to Dixon when he entered our hotel room. He had an odd expression on his face, and his body language, when he closed the door, standing with his back to it, screamed warnings in my head. “Oh my god, what’s wrong? Is it your brother? I thought he was recovering nicely at your lord brother’s house.”
“Rupert is just fine.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. “Paulie, I . . . erm . . .”
“What?” I padded over to him, clad in a pair of jeans and a tee. We didn’t have to meet with Roger until dinnertime, when we would have the official presentation of the winners’ purse. “You’re scaring me! What is it?”
He closed his eyes for a second, and then said, all in a rush, “I just ran into Roger. The Essex team has lodged a protest, saying we broke the rules when we gave that Frenchman a ride. Roger says they have a valid point, and has stripped the win from us.”
“What?” I shrieked the word, the echo of it harsh on my ears. “Those . . . those . . . argh! I can’t even think of something obscene enough to call them! Goddammit, Dixon! Goddammit!”
“I know, love, I know. But you have to admit, it was against the rules, and we did know that when we invited Vitale to go with us.”
“But he needed us! His dog needed us! And what about Anton? We gave Anton a ride, and no one said a word about that. Or about the fact that they left him behind. What about that?”
Dixon kissed the tip of my nose. “It isn’t against the rules to give a fellow racer a ride. It was only nonrace personnel that were forbidden.”
“Well, then, what about all the shit they pulled the whole race? Poisoning Melody—”
“We don’t know for certain they did that.”
“And breaking Rupert’s leg—”
“That very well might have been an accident.”
“And all the other racers who were done in some way or another.”
“Which also may have been accidents and cases of very bad luck.”
I took a deep breath. “If they get to file a complaint about Vitale, then we are going to file a countercomplaint about the damage they did to our motor. We have Anton as proof that they hurt the Flyer’s engine.”
Dixon smiled. “I’ve already done so.”
“We don’t get the money? Any of it?” I asked, blinking back my tears.
“I’m afraid not.”
“We don’t get to lord it over the bastard cheaters that we beat them without once doing anything wrong?”
“No, but we will know that. As will others. The TV audience will see that.”
A lone tear spilled out over my lashes. Dixon brushed it away. “It was all for nothing?”
“Hardly that.” He pulled me against his body and I let myself relax against him, wonderfully filled with joy despite the devastation of this news. “I found you. I will have you to wake up to every morning, and every night you will have your wanton way with me. I can’t think of anything in the world I want more than you.”
“Oh, Dixon,” I said, sniffling and laughing at the same time. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. Where are we going to live? In England or California?”
His expression shifted. “I work for my brother. We can live in England if you want.”
I watched him closely for a few seconds, discovering something that astounded me. “You really don’t like your job, do you?”
He shrugged. “I used to. Lately, it’s just . . . routine. All the machinery has been put in place. Alice—my brother Elliott’s wife; you’ll like her—she does a fine job running the tourist side of the estate, and I know she’d jump at the chance of managing the whole thing.”
“Which means you can do anything you want, right?” I asked, not understanding why he looked so uncomfortable. Was there something he wasn’t telling me? “What is your dream job?”
He was silent for a few minutes, then said slowly, “If you really want to know . . . what we just did.”
“A round-the-world car race?”
“Not the race itself—the traveling from country to country. Only I’d like to be able to stop and see places, rather than racing through them. I’d like to go back to Russia. And Kazakhstan. And Poland, and Arizona, and all sorts of places. I liked writing about our trip, too. I thought . . . I wondered . . . I don’t know if I can make a living at it, but there’s a thing called travel journalism, and I thought it might be interesting.”
I stared at him in openmouthed wonder for a moment. “Holy hellbells, Dixon! You want to be Nellie Bly, too!”
“Do I take it you approve of the plan?”
“Yes, yes, a hundred times yes.” I let go of him to do a little jig. “We can get a blog! Travel blogs are huge. We can go to exotic places, and take pictures, and blog about it, and then write reviews of places. Oh my god, this is perfect! We can write a book about our trip and combine our journals into it! Oh! Oh! I can write stories about the people we see when we travel, and you can write about the places, and put those into books, too! This’ll be so awesome! We’ll travel around and have sex in all sorts of fabulous places, and there’s nothing my dad can do to stop me, because I’ll be with you, and you won’t let me be kidnapped!”
He lifted me and spun me around, saying, “No one gets to kidnap you except me.”
There was a tap at the door, and his face sobered. “Sam is waiting for us. He kindly gave me a few minutes to tell you what was happening, but they’ll want our reactions.”
“Pfft,” I said, kissing him with all the love I had. I was breathless by the time I finished the sentence. “The race doesn’t matter. You do.”
We were out in the parking lot, standing next to the Thomas Flyer, while Roger prompted us to talk about the race, and losing it even though we technically won, when my father was suddenly in our midst, pulling me into a massive bear hug.
“You are safe! I knew you would be. You see, you listen to your papa. I know these things.” He beamed at me and kissed me on either cheek. “You look tired. Angel
a, she looks tired. You are tired?”
“A little, but we’re mostly recovered. I’m glad to see you both.” I hugged him, then Angela. “And you in no way knew I would be safe. Because if you did, you wouldn’t have stashed a gun in the car—which almost got us arrested in Russia—or sent your little spy on my tail. I have to admit, he had me fooled.”
“He did?” Dad looked over to where Sam and Tabby were still filming us, although Tabby suddenly looked away. “You told her?”
I gawked at Sam when he lowered the camera. He gave me a sheepish smile. “Actually, no, we didn’t tell her.”
“You were the one spying on me? Sam!” I thought of throwing a hissy fit, but the other film crew had finally showed up, and they were filming the smug Essex rat finks standing next to their Zust. “I trusted you. We trusted you. How could you?”
“It was for the best—really it was,” Tabby said, and I turned outraged eyes on her. “We just promised to keep an eye on you, and I thought it would be better to have us do that than someone you didn’t like. And it’s not like we were telling your parents what you were doing. Well . . .” She shot Sam a pointed look. “We weren’t until the night in Kazakhstan when Sam got drunk and told your dad about Dixon being naked in your hotel room. But other than that, we just reported that you were fine and no one was trying to cut off your ears, or whatever kidnappers do these days.”
“Fingers,” Dixon said dryly, giving Dad a long look. “They go for fingers.”
Dad pursed his lips and looked away for a moment.
“Forgive us?” Tabby said, giving us a winsome smile.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly, looking at Dixon. “What do you think?”
“I think they were good companions, stalwart cohorts, and good friends, and if they happened to keep a protective eye on you along the way, then so much the better.”
“You!” Dad said dramatically, pretending he’d just noticed Dixon. “You are man who subtled my daughter!”
“Subtled?” Dixon asked.
“‘Sullied,’ dear, is the word,” Angela said softly, smiling at me and Dixon.