Taken by the Highest Bidder

So much worth fighting for.

He hadn’t fought for it—them—their relationship. But then, neither had she.

It was the strangest thing—her head snapped back, eyes opening, jaw dropping slightly before she snapped her mouth closed and sat up and threw her legs on the side of the bed.

She hadn’t fought for them at all.

Why not?

Sam left the bed, paced her room and going to the balcony pushed the doors open to step out into the night.

She hadn’t fought. It made no sense. Sam adored Gabby because she was feisty, spirited, courageous. Sam had admired Cristiano for his strength, not just the physical strength, but the mental strength necessary to come back from his devastating accident. Both Gabby and Cristiano were tough. Brave. Fighters. And Sam wanted that. She wanted their courage. Their strength. Their fight.

If Charles could teach her kindness and compassion, then Cristiano and Gabriela could teach her to stand fast. To be brave. To charge the battle.

Charge the battle.

Sam leaned on the balcony railing, and staring out at the dark sea and night Sam thought of all the challenges she’d faced in her own life, and maybe she hadn’t dealt with them easily, or gracefully, but she’d moved forward. She’d learned. Changed. Adapted.

She could do it again.

She could learn to be strong. To face her fears. To acknowledge risk.

She closed her eyes, pictured herself a warrior, sword in hand, armor on, standing fast before dragons and men.

Maybe not before dragons, but certainly before men.

She could be brave. She could be strong. She could face danger head on.

Now if she could only find some really good armor because she was going to need it. Bad.

Four days later, Sam sat in Marcelle’s car outside the Automobile Monegasque, the track Bartolo Driving School used for its European school.

“Marcelle, you can’t tell anyone,” Sam said, knotting and un-knotting her hands. “No one can know in case I fail miserably.”

“You won’t fail, and I won’t tell.” Marcelle leaned on the steering wheel and smiled encouragingly. Marcelle was dropping her off for the first day of a weeklong course with the objective of preparing drivers for road racing. “Just have fun, Madame.”

Sam shot Marcelle a dubious glance before climbing out of the car. Marcelle tooted her horn and drove away leaving Sam alone in the parking lot.

This was it, Sam thought, facing the low building fronting the racetrack. She was going to school. Today was a refresher course called High Performance Driving, tomorrow was Intro to Racing, and by week’s end she’d be clocking it on the track in the open-wheel Formula 1 cars.

This was going to be the worst week of her life.

She was nervous that first day, so nervous she threw up twice in the morning and once in the afternoon, but she made it through the day.

Tuesday was as rough.

Wednesday not quite so bad. She almost liked the Corvette C5 they had her driving.

Thursday she was introduced to the pit. She didn’t like the pit—it was noisy, frenetic, but she got a lesson in spark plugs, engines, and changing tires anyway.

Friday was race day and Sam was throwing up again. As she approached the low sleek F1 car, Sam tugged the zipper on her jumpsuit down instead of up. She was going to throw up again. And making a mad dash to the bathroom, she got sick, washed her face, and stared at herself in the mirror.

All you have to do is drive, she told herself. You don’t have to drive fast. You don’t have to be brilliant. All you have to do is drive around the track. You’ll be safe.

Coming out of the bathroom she tugged the zipper on her protective jumpsuit up, slicked her hair into a ponytail and met Rodney, her instructor, at her car.

Rodney, a young Scottish driver with an impressive track record, grinned at her as he saw her approach. “You’re looking like a right happy lass.”

“Don’t try to humor me today, Rodney.”

He clapped her on the back. “I’m going to be in a car out there with you. Follow me on the track, stay close, hug the turns and, girl, have some fun.”

This would not be fun but she was going to do it anyway. She was going to look fear in the face and prove once and for all that fear didn’t master her—she was going to master it.