The Heart's Victory by Nora Roberts Page A

throat. The breeze blew from the harbor, cooling her skin under her white gauze blouse. She set her teeth and lifted her camera as the parade lap began. I wonder if it’s possible to avoid him for the rest of the season? Better, she added as she worked systematically, for the rest of my life.
    As the drivers lined up for the green flag Foxy scurried for a new angle. In a moment, the air thundered with engines, and utilizing the motor drive, she shot each row of cars as the flag set the start. Crouched on one knee, she caught the low, fragile sleekness so unique to the Formula One racer. Her movements were calm and professional, absorbing her concentration, lending her an air of efficiency at odds with the sassy straw hat and thin, faded jeans. The lead car was already rounding the first curve before she rose. As she turned back toward the pits she collided with Lance. His hands came out to steady her, bringing her an uncomfortable sensation of déjà vu. Hastily Foxy disentangled herself from his hold, then made a business of adjusting her camera.
    â€œI’m sorry, I didn’t know you were behind me.” Realizing she would have to meet his eyes sooner or later, she tossed her hair behind her shoulder and boldly lifted her chin. The amusement she had expected to see on his face was absent. There was no mockery in the dark gray depths of his eyes. She recognized the long, thorough study he was making and backed away from it. “You’re looking at me as though I were an engine that wasn’t responding properly.” Frowning, Foxy busied herself by dragging sunglasses out of her camera case. She felt more at ease once they were in place. A shield was a shield, however slight.
    â€œYou might say I found a few surprises when I opened the hood.”
    Foxy was not certain how to take the quiet quality of his voice. His continued unblinking study was unnerving. She knew he was capable of watching her endlessly without speaking. He could be incredibly, almost unnaturally patient when he chose to be. Knowing she would be outmatched in this sort of contest, Foxy took the initiative. “Lance, I’d like to speak with you about last night.” Her sophisticated demeanor was hampered by rising color. The roar of engines cut her off, and she turned away to watch the cars hurtle by. The pack was still thick after the first lap. Cheeks cool, Foxy took a deep breath and turned back to Lance. His eyes left the track to meet hers, but he said nothing. He was waiting, composed and contained. Foxy could have cheerfully strangled him. “I wasn’t really myself last night, you see,” she began again. “Wine...liquor has a tendency to go straight to my head, that’s why I usually avoid it altogether. I don’t want you to think, that is, I wouldn’t want you to feel...I didn’t mean to be so...” Frustrated, she jammed her hands into her pockets and shut her eyes. “Oh, help,” she muttered and turned away again. Lance remained silent as she squirmed and struggled. She wondered how it was possible to cast the line and be the fish at the same time.
    That was brilliant, Foxy, she berated herself. Why don’t you try again, maybe you can top your own incoherency record. Get it out quick and stop stammering like an idiot. Setting her chin, she turned to face him again, meeting his eyes straight on. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression I would sleep with you.” Once it was said, Foxy let out a hasty breath and plunged ahead. “I realize I might have given that impression last night, and I don’t want you to misunderstand.”
    Lance waited nearly a full minute before he spoke, all the while watching Foxy steadily. “I don’t believe I misunderstood anything.” His comment was ambiguous and left her floundering.
    â€œYes, well...I know when you took me back to my room you didn’t, well, you didn’t...”
    â€œMake