Робин Грейди – The Fearless Maverick (страница 1)

With his good arm, Alex reached and drew her near. He saw her eyes flare and knew a moment when she might have told him to back off and let her be.

But then the breath seemed to leave her body, her lids grew heavy, then he saw her heart glistening there in her eyes. He was right. This situation—this maddening push and pull—couldn’t go on. Now was the time to end it. And end it his way.

Even as Alex’s head slanted over hers and Libby drifted off into the caress, some weak desperate part of her cried out that this should not, could not, happen. But as the kiss deepened she forgot the reasons why. The slow velvet slide of his tongue over hers, the way his hands pressed her gloriously near …

This might be dangerous, but it felt so infinitely right.

Her palms ironed up over his bare hot chest at the same time his hands pressed down over her back. His head angled as he curled over her, his touch sculpting her behind, hooking around her thigh and urging it to curl around his hip as his pelvis locked with hers. She felt the glide of his hand scooping around her thigh, sliding lower toward her knee—

Breathless—terrified—she yanked away.

Oh God, she’d vowed this wouldn’t happen again.

She didn’t want him to know.

BAD BLOOD

A powerful dynasty, where secrets and scandal never sleep!

THE DYNASTY

Eight siblings, blessed with wealth, but denied the one thing they wanted—a father’s love.

A family destroyed by one man’s thirst for power.

THE SECRETS

Haunted by their past and driven to succeed, the Wolfes scattered to the far corners of the globe.

But secrets never sleep and scandal is starting to stir …

THE POWER

Now the Wolfe brothers are back, stronger than ever, but hiding hearts as hard as granite.

It’s said that even the blackest of souls can be healed by the purest of love. But can the dynasty rise again?

About the Author

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!

BAD BLOOD

FEARLESS MAVERICK

ROBYN GRADY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

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.’