Courting Disaster

Dear Reader,

Y’all should know that I was born and raised in Texas, but have spent the last six years living in New York, writing books about New York City, with nary a “y’all” or “fixing to” in sight. When the editors in New York talked to me about this book, and it dawned on me that I could write a character who actually talks the way I do, I was happier than a pig in molasses.

I adored writing the character of Elizabeth, and she’s a conglomeration of several of my best friends who I grew up with, all smashed together into one (although none of them sing country and western, bless their little hearts, and all have been known to drive fast on occasion). I didn’t want to stop writing Elizabeth, and I hope to high heaven that I get to write another Southern character someday.

I love hearing from readers, so please write to me at Kathleen O’Reilly, P.O. Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, or e-mail me at [email protected].

Best,

Kathleen

has done nothing extraordinary in comparison to other authors whose bios she has read. She is not a former CIA agent, nor has she ever been president of the United States (nor slept with him, either). She graduated from Texas A&M in 1987, which her parents do consider extraordinary, and she has been married for sixteen years, but not to Mick Jagger or Justin Timberlake. No, she merely lives with her husband and two kids in New York, and not even Manhattan, just your typical suburb. Due to the mundaneness in her life, she has chosen to write fiction, which seems best, all things considered.

With great appreciation to Julie and Dee,

who continually amaze me with their writing genius.

Special thanks to Stacy for the spot-on editorial advice, and to Marsha for giving me the shot.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

The long driveway leading up to Quest Stables was nearly a mile and a quarter straightaway, a first-class temptation for a man who did his most memorable work in the fast lane. On some other day, Demetri Lucas would have shifted into sixth, pealed out and torn up the road with the eighteen-inch sport tires. All in the name of testing the drag coefficient his engineers swore was nearly zero, of course.

Today, however, wasn’t the time for testing drag coefficients. For one thing, his host’s guests were beginning to arrive for this weekend’s wedding—not for an exhibition in speed and mechanical prowess. Although Hugh Preston might have done the same when he was younger, the years had mellowed him, and he probably wouldn’t appreciate Demetri offering them a glimpse of such unique entertainment…at least not in the Preston backyard.

More than that, as difficult as it was for Demetri to believe, there were actually things on his mind that weighed heavier than drag coefficients, Formula Gold racing or even his upcoming race in Louisville. Things like Hugh’s financial straits. Not to mention Demetri’s own “Married Princess Incident”—otherwise known as the three weeks in Monte Carlo that the Sterling PR team had labeled “boneheaded and reckless.”

Reckless was a label that seemed to follow him around like a black cloud. When he was seventeen, it had been fun and daring. Now that he was thirty-five, it seemed…sad.

Invariably, Demetri could feel his collar tighten, feel the high-velocity impulses kick up a notch, and in response, his foot floored the gas, gravel flying. The six-hundred-horsepower engine was street-legal—on the autobahn, not the horse country of Kentucky—and the answering roar was sweeter than music, better than sex.

Almost.

Within seconds the main house tore into view, a sprawling redbrick that was home to the Preston family and Demetri’s current destination. As his foot moved over the clutch, he smoothly downshifted, the engine quieting to a more respectable purr. Someday he’d learn how to live a little slower, how to live a little safer, but today wasn’t it.

Parked cars lined the drive, including one sturdy tan Volvo that was trying to park—and doing a piss-poor job of it. Demetri didn’t have a lot of respect for cautious drivers as a matter of principle. They tended toward cars that were heavy tanks, built to withstand a nuclear blast, and all those safety features added weight. Pounds were a liability to a race-car driver who valued things like acceleration and whip-quick handling.

Demetri downshifted again, suspicious that this was the Fates’ way of making him pay for speeding down the drive. Maybe the Fates were expecting him to be grateful to the sensible tan Volvo standing between him and sixth gear. Maybe the Fates were wrong.

He watched—it was actually more of a penetrating glare— as the sedan slowly reversed, inching to the right, braking, inching, braking, inching, ad infinitum. With the Volvo steering system and the driver’s conservative refusal to cut the wheel properly, they were going to be here for a long, long time.