Queen Of Speed

Part 1: Who is the skilful driver at the centre of a dangerous motor-racing rivalry?

Opening chapters of our new white-knuckle serial

The cars buzzed like a swarm of wasps down the concrete track towards the stands. Three were ahead of the pack: the red flash of the American car was in the lead, the sleek green British roadster hot on its tail and the sky-blue French machine just a little way behind.

“I hope you’ve got your cheque book on you!” Drew Falcon, the handsome, chestnut-haired, thirty-year-old owner and designer of the American car, raised his cigar in one hand. “You Brits make some fine automobiles, but my new supercharger…”

“It’s not only what’s under the bonnet, old bean.” Algie Thistleglove’s uppercrust British accent was edged with steel, his eyes never leaving the track. “It’s also who’s behind the wheel.”

Drew glanced sideways at his rival, then back at the cars.

“Your fellow’s gone too wide!” Algie raised his voice above the engines’ roar. “It’s the mistake Bill was waiting for!”

“You really think your guy can get through that gap?” “I’m not thinking, Drew, I’m watching!” Drew’s mouth dropped open and his brown eyes nearly popped out of his head.

As the cars slid sideways around the bend in a cloud of tyre smoke, the supercharged Falcon had drifted barely a car’s width from the infield and the British car was overtaking on the inside!

Drew stood up in disbelief. “That crazy Limey’s gonna kill ’em both!”

The blurred waist-high wheels of the two cars were barely a hair’s width apart. The British car’s tyres were churning dirt at the edge of the infield as its driver pushed the car to its limits.

Pete Rawlings, the American driver, glanced sideways as the 100mph gale pressed his chequered scarf against his face. His eyes widened behind his fly-splattered goggles. Fearing a collision, he wobbled away from the bend.

Like a cigar-shaped plane fuselage on wheels, the British car nosed ahead.

“That guy must have nerves of steel!” Drew yelled.

“I hope you have your cheque book on you!” Algie said smugly, as his driver flashed across the finish line, a car’s length ahead of the American.

“Later, pal! I want to meet the guy driving that car!”

The drivers’ paddock stank of exhaust fumes as Drew ran across the black cinders in his Brooks Brothers suit and two-tone Italian shoes to where the winning car stood in its own heat haze.

Drew knew he’d built the fastest car in the world, but Algie’s driver had outdriven Pete Rawlings every lap of the race.

Well, Rawlings was history! That Bill guy was going to be driving a Falcon from now on. Drew didn’t care if he had to offer him ten times what Algie was paying!

As a crowd converged on the winning car, its driver rose in dirt-splattered overalls and sat on the side of the body, high above the gathering well-wishers.

Drew reached the car as the driver tugged off goggles and face scarf, then pulled off her leather flying helmet and shook loose a head full of blonde curls that shone in the sun like an angel’s halo.

DREW stood up. “That crazy LIMEY’S gonna KILL THEM both!”

Drew gripped the side of the car and stared up into the face of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “You’re Bill?” he spluttered. “Belinda Constantine,” she said in a cut class British accent. “And you’re Drew Falcon. My fiancé told me all about you.” “Fiancé…?” “Algie Thistleglove.” Drew followed her gaze to his carmaker rival.

“Commiserations, Drew,” the Englishman said smugly. “You were quick, but not quick enough.”

So what made a gal like you want to race motor cars?” They were at the top table in the opulent Grand Hall of Deerwood Manor – Algie’s family pile, which stood on a hill overlooking the race track that filled only a small corner of his sprawling estate.

Amid the sparkling mirrors, chandeliers and gilded columns, where waiters wove between the tables and jazz filled the air, Belinda gazed across the gleaming glasses and silverware to where Drew sat in his plush tuxedo and bow tie.

With his cigar flamboyantly held, his neatly parted and slickly oiled chestnut hair shone like the coachwork of a luxury sedan. His cheeks, blushed like apples from the brandy, were baby-smooth. Only the determined set of his brows and the fine trace of lines around his shiny brown eyes betrayed the hours he spent frowning in concentration over his drawing board.

Rumour had it he possessed the finest engineering brain in the world. Belinda knew even Algie had grudgingly looked forward to Drew’s first trip to Britain.

“Daddy took me to the opening of Brooklands when I was five years old,” she told him. “All that noise and speed! Kitty Delray, one of the first women drivers, let me sit on her lap for a spin and from then on I was hooked.”

“Now she’s Queen of Speed!” Algie put a possessive hand on her thigh under the tablecloth. “The fastest woman on Earth – and not just on four wheels, eh, Bill?”

His thumb stroked the line of her stocking top through the thin silk of her loose cheetah-print dress. It was Drew’s brown eyes that had her attention, though. There was a boyish warmth and inviting openness in them intriguingly at odds with his competitive swagger.

“So as you’re a betting man, Drew,” Algie went on, “what say we put what you owe me for this afternoon on another wager? Double or nothing says Bill can beat your man Rawlings in any

contest you name. Speedboats, motorbikes, horseback…”

“Come now, Algie, you’re embarrassing me.” Belinda blushed.

“…billiards,” Algie continued, steely blue eyes gleaming, “shooting, boxing…”

“Boxing?” Drew laughed. “Now I know you’re kidding me!”

“You may laugh, but this little girl will beat any man or woman at anything. I’ve seen her knock a man out.”

“Oh, stop, Algie!” Belinda threw back her head with a laugh. But though her cheeks were burning, she couldn’t deny the truth. Even at school, there hadn’t been a sport from tennis to swimming that she hadn’t wanted to win. And yes, she had once put on a pair of boxing gloves and laid a male gym instructor out cold with the only blow in the fight.

She hadn’t meant to, really – but a challenge was a challenge.

Raising a playful little fist at Drew, she said with a giggle, “Driving racing cars takes muscles.”

“Well, I sure don’t know where you’re hiding them.” He cast an appreciative look over her bare arms and shoulders.

“So, Pete?” Algie turned to Drew’s driver, uncomfortable in an ill-fitting tux. “Fancy getting your own back on Bill?”

“Well, I’m not boxing no lady! But I’m pretty fast on a horse.” “Do we have a bet, Drew?” “Heck, the only horses I’m interested in are the ones under the hood of a car. But here’s a better idea. Let’s take it back to the track, but swap cars. See what Bill can do with my new supercharger.”

“That sounds like the berries!” Belinda leaned forward excitedly. She’d won that afternoon through sheer determination, but she’d envied the poise of the American car every lap of the race.

“Double the money says my car with Bill at the wheel will beat whatever speed record you have on this track,” Drew proposed. “And you can see what Pete here, twice champion in the Indy 500, can get out of your iron.” “All right, you’re on.” As the carmakers shook hands, a pair of saxophonists hopped from the bandstand onto the dance floor and began honking like geese as the conductor struck up with Susie Roll Your Stockings Down.

“Hey, the Charleston!” Drew snapped his fingers to the crazy rhythm. “Care to take the first dance with me, Bill?”

“Now you’re on the trolley!” Belinda leapt up, then looked at Algie. “Go ahead.” Algie spread his hands. “Algie not a keen dancer?” Drew leaned close to her perfumed ear as he led her to the centre of the floor.

“He says he likes to stay in the background and let me to do the shining for him,” said Belinda. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a show-off, really.”

“So am I.” Drew winked. “So let’s give ’em a show!”

Drew and Belinda had all the room they needed as every other couple stood back to admire their wild spins and high kicks. Belinda had never known a man move so fluidly. Drew slid into the splits while she pirouetted and swung a shapely leg over his head.

“That’s quite a gal you’ve got there, Mr Thistle glove,” said Rawlings in awe. “Isn’t she just.” Algie stared coldly. So Drew has his eye on little Bill? Well, let him dream awhile, and his disappointment will be all the bigger.

It was Algie’s ring on Bill’s finger, and soon she’d be driving a car with a new supercharger – but it wouldn’t be a Falcon. While Drew was spinning around like a monkey, Algie’s chief mechanic, Chas Weasel, was down in the paddock learning the secrets of Drew’s machine.

Isee you got your beauty sleep!” Drew hailed Belinda as she strolled across the cinder paddock in a crisply fresh pair of white overalls, belted at her slender waist and pleated at the top of her long legs. Her flying helmet and goggles dangled from one gloved hand and her curls bounced freely in the Sunday morning sunshine. “I can’t believe you look so fresh,” Drew gushed. “After all that action on the dance floor last night I could hardly get out of bed this morning!”

“Bill has more energy than you’d believe.” Algie patted her hip with an air of casual possession.

Drew’s neck burned with jealousy, as it had when he’d watched Belinda and Algie leave the ball. It wasn’t the dancing that had left him drained. It was a sleepless night tortured by thoughts of Belinda.

A few minutes later, the British and American racing cars were side by side on the start line, their engines revving lustily as Belinda and Pete tested their throttles.

There were plenty of Algie’s house guests milling around: car makers, sponsors, drivers, mechanics and half the English aristocracy, Drew reckoned.

“Just remember this is a test run.” He leaned into the Falcon’s cockpit in shirt sleeves, waistcoat and scarlet cravat. “Don’t push her too hard until you’ve got a feel for her.”

“I know how to drive, Drew.” Belinda fastened her chinstrap.

“You certainly do.” Drew tapped the bonnet with affection. “But there’s more thrust under here than you’re used to.”

“I’m sure I can handle it.” She smiled up at him, and as Drew stared mesmerised at her teasing blue eyes and parted pink lips it was all he could do not to lean right in and kiss her.

Belinda held his brown eyes a little longer than necessary, then turned and shouted, “Ready, Pete?”

The American driver gave her the OK sign with his gloved fingers.

“Wish me luck!” Belinda flashed Drew a grin, then pulled her bandana up over her lovely mouth and nose and pulled her goggles down over her beautiful eyes.

“Good luck!” Drew kissed his fingers and tapped the top of her helmet.

Algie PATTED Belinda’s hip with an AIR of casual POSSESSION

He stepped back and covered his ears as the steward flapped the chequered flag and the racers screamed away.

On the far side of the track, the grease-splattered Chas Weasel sidled up to Algie, wearing his hunting tweeds.

“Your money’s safe, Mr Thistleglove,” the mechanic said quietly. “Thanks to a little, ahem, modification I made to the Yankee car last night.”

“You did what?” Algie was aghast. “Don’t you know it’s Bill driving?” Weasel went white. “Sorry, guv’nor, I didn’t realise…” Algie watched tensely as the red and green cars hurtled like hornets around a distant bend, with Belinda in the lead.

Drew danced excitedly across the track and punched Algie’s arm.

“I told her not to go too fast, but look at the way that car of mine is moving!”

He didn’t notice Weasel slinking away.

Her arms trembling against the centrifugal force pulling on the wheel, Belinda dug into the infield as she took the hairpin. From watching Pete’s tail yesterday she had every confidence in the car’s poise but could barely believe how responsively it handled.

In the mirror she saw Rawlings barely keeping up. Well, it was time to impress Drew Falcon. As she hit the straight before the final bend, Belinda floored it towards the empty stands. 105…110… 120…

“Let’s see how fast this crate can go!”

BANG! A piston flew through the side of the car and a yellow flame licked out of the hole. A stream of steam and black smoke followed, half-blinding her. With the engine a seized mass of metal, she took the last bend on two wheels, a plume of smoke stretching the length of the home straight.

Trundling to a halt, heart thumping like a drum, she hauled herself from the cockpit in her blackened overalls and tugged off her face-scarf and goggles, coughing. Drew and Algie ran up.

“You OK?” Drew grabbed her shoulders to steady her as she jumped down from the side of the car.

“I’m fine!” She gripped his arm, wiping tears from her smoke-stung eyes. “I’m sorry I broke your car.” She smiled apologetically. “I guess I pushed it a little too hard. I told you I was a show-off.”

“Well it doesn’t look like your supercharger is ready for any speed records!” Algie huffed, red-faced, fists on his hips. “You could have killed poor Bill!”

Still steadying the shaken Belinda, who seemed in no hurry to leave his semiembrace, Drew glanced guiltily from Algie to the smouldering car. The race crew were cooling it with fire extinguishers.

“I’m sorry, Bill,” he said weakly. “I don’t know what could have happened.”

“Come on, Bill!” Algie grabbed Belinda’s wrist and jerked her away from the American. “That’s the last time you drive one of this maniac’s cars!”

The band was playing in a marquee by the lake. Handsome men in stripy blazers and gazelle-like girls in lacy dresses spilled laughing and chatting across the waterside lawn. With the sun low in a clear sky, it was a perfect English evening, but Drew barely heard the clinking glasses or upper-crust accents.

As he sat apart, with an untouched champagne flute, on a seat that circled a mighty oak, his mind was still in the racing paddock where he’d been all day, sleeves rolled, fingers black with soot and grease.

Sabotage was hard to prove when the metal was so melted, and who would do such a thing anyway? Surely not Algie, when Bill was driving.

But the cream of European carmakers were at Deerwood, and they’d all like to see a flashy Yank like him fall on his face.

He should never have left the car unguarded. But since he’d seen Bill he hadn’t spent one minute thinking straight. “Drew, don’t sit brooding!” Belinda was running up, barefoot in a skirted floral swimsuit. Wet curls peeked from under a swimming hat. “Come for a spin on the lake!” She stretched out her hand for his, and his worries evaporated. Hand in hand they ran to a short jetty where an orange speedboat bobbed on the sparkling water. He handed her down into the vessel.

He doubted she needed his assistance, but she moved like such a lady and, gosh darn it, she made him feel like a gentleman. It was easy to forget she was engaged to Algie.

As Drew unlooped the mooring rope, another motorboat came whooshing to a halt. Algie was at the wheel in a damp open-necked shirt. Beside him was a swimsuited redhead. Belinda’s younger cousin or somebody – Drew hadn’t taken in the introductions earlier.

“Race you round the lake!” Algie yelled. “Show the ladies we can drive, too!”

“You’re on!” Drew squeezed into the pilot’s seat beside Belinda. “Guinea on it?” Algie shouted. “Make it two!” The boats’ prows leapt from the water as they roared off, kicking up foam.

“You’re a good loser, Algie,” Drew joked, as he collected his winnings on the jetty. “Shame I fly home tomorrow or I’d give you the chance to win this back.” “Next month – on your turf next time.” “Say what?” “We’re coming over for the Indy 500.” Belinda beamed, beads of water sparkling like diamonds on her collarbone in the sunset. “You’ll be able to show me around.”

HAND IN HAND they ran to a JETTY where a SPEEDBOAT bobbed