All the Mustangs in Montana

By Red L. Jameson

Formula One champion Luc Gauthier has had a huge crush on Charlize Davenport since the moment he congratulated her on her first win a year ago. Every time he looks at her, he hears ’80s pop love songs in his head, violins and electric guitars blocking any coherent word from his mouth. Only problem, besides being enemies on the track, Charli seems to hate him personally.

Charli Davenport is slated to be the first woman to win a Formula One championship. The only thing in her way is Luc. He gets in her head with his silent treatment. When she has an accidental run in—it’s a goat-filled fiasco—with Luc, she lets him have it for his cold shoulder, but she discovers there’s nothing cold about him. In fact, he’s quite hot.

Just as Charli and Luc realize they aren’t enemies at all, Charli’s team’s owner attempts to push her out of the sport, saying that a winning woman has no place in the Formula world. Luc will do anything to protect Charli, including a marriage of convenience. What started as a merger to help them both could doom promising careers, one utterly historic too. Or it could bring back ’80s pop love songs to the charts (Hello, Kate Bush!). Either way, the last thing they need to do is fall in love. But the goats have other plans for these two.

Montana mustangs are known for their resilience and spirit, and Charli and Luc will need to summon the strength of mustangs to fight for fairness and for each other. All the Mustangs in Montana is a world tour of mutual pining, marriage of convenience, demisexuality joy, a bit more depth and sadness than expected, and a lotta mushiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red L. Jameson
• Release date: Oct 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005795689

Red L. Jameson

Red L. Jameson lives in the wilds of Montana with her family. While working on a military history master’s degree, she doodled a story that became her bestselling, award-winning romance, Enemy of Mine, part of the Glimpse Time Travel Series. After earning her gigantic master’s—the diploma is just huge, she couldn’t stop doodling stories, more Glimpse stories—because she couldn’t get enough of hunky Highlanders and buttoned-down Brits—and other stories, a paranormal romance series and a contemporary series, which grew into the pen name R. L. Jameson, under which she writes cerebral and spicy erotic romance. While working on yet another master’s degree—nowhere near as giant as the first, she wrote her first women’s fiction novels. But no matter which genre she writes, her novels always end with a happily ever after.She loves her readers, so please feel free to contact her at http://www.redljameson.com

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Chapter One

A drawing of a mustang running

A YEAR AGO IN MONACO…

Downward spiral, meet rock bottom.

Luc, Sebastián Rodriguez, the principal for Luc’s Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team, said, sounding quieter than usual, The judges have made a decision about that little collision, er, bump you had a few laps ago.

Luc Guthier had a hard time hearing Rodriguez over the roar of his car’s engine he was being so quiet, which made Luc’s stomach clench all the more while awaiting the verdict. He’d caused a teeny, tiny crash during the Circuit de Monaco race. The other driver was fine. Hell, he was fine. The other driver’s car…that was another matter. Luc had been in the fight of his life defending his first-place status in one of the more loopy, literally, races. His own teammate, an annoying American at that, Shawn Richardson, was challenging him at every turn, and some idiot in an Alfa Romeo kept pestering Richardson for second place.

Oui, this was the sport, to race toward a spot on the podium, to race toward a win. As a Formula One Champion—actually, Luc had won six championships, he knew this, of course. But today was not his day, despite his current first-place position. This…foutu day was very much not his, the day he’d discovered he came from hate and apathy, a kind of disgusting violence he couldn’t wrap his head around.

Go ahead, Luc said into his mic inside his helmet as he kept driving. What wisdom do the judges bestow? The sarcasm wasn’t needed, but he couldn’t seem to help himself on this day, this foutu day.

The teeny, tiny crash happened when Luc had pulled out of a pitstop and had scarcely tapped into the fourth place AlphaTauri. The driver was a fellow Frenchman, which Luc usually gave a little more leniency to, but Henri Pottings obviously hadn’t anticipated the tap, overcorrected, and in the process had blown a tire, then skid off course into the water barrels, his car totaled and him shaking a fist at Luc’s backside.

It had felt good, the teeny tiny crash, though it had been an accident. Of course. Luc was always more careful than that, known as The Gentleman in the racing world, a nickname the media had given him for being quiet and usually never knocking another racer into the skids. The impact had jarred his hands, wrists, elbows and shoulders. The painful electricity from the blow had felt like what was going on in his mind, in his heart. He had come from hate was all he could think about on this foutu day.

Luc could tell that Rodriguez was having a hard time telling him what the judges had decided about the crash. That wasn’t good. Richardson had somehow sped up and was looking dangerously close to overcoming Luc, but luckily curve One9 held him back, as well as that Alfa Romeo. Luc charged around One9, faster than he should have, losing a little traction. One of his back tires was holding on by a wing and prayer, so the skid around the curve wasn’t good for the car. It would mean a pitstop soon.

Rodriguez brought that up. Luc, your left back tire is really bad. You’re going to have to come in right now.

It can last, Luc said, gritting his teeth on the straightway as he sped faster than he ever had before. Someone else from the team came on the headset to tell him he had shaved off three seconds from his personal best on this stretch. That was good. Richardson was being so…American today, too aggressive and hostile for no reason. Gaining more distance from him was very good on this foutu day.

No, Rodriguez said. It can’t. Listen, the judges gave you a ten second penalty.

Fuck, Luc yelled in English, the swear cruder sounding than in French in his opinion. He knew he was being recorded but he still screamed, Fuck, fuck, fuck!

He wanted to hit something, just slam into the water barrels, or knock his fists into a wall until he bled.

It was a small bump. Luc’s voice warbled, sounding far too emotional, like a petulant boy who wanted to negotiate his punishment. As he said the words, he knew they weren’t true. Henri Pottings was out of the race because of him.

You have to come in, Luc, Rodriguez said, his own voice warbling and emotional too.

The team knew what this meant. He failed in Monaco. The team would lose today because Luc’s head hadn’t been in the race. It was lost on this foutu day, this foutu, fucking day.

He inhaled, realizing his mother could probably hear him. She’d come as a surprise, the nearly seventy-year-old spritely soul who had supported him every step of the way. But she’d been needed when the PR team had come to him earlier in the day to inform him that for the documentary they were making about his life, how, when trying to find his biological mother, they had found her. She lived in a small, mainland Chinese village. For whatever reason, Luc had gotten it in his head that his mother would be Taiwanese and would be tall like him and pretty and maybe a lawyer or a politician. But his biological mother was a farmer and short, though she was beautiful—his PR team had given him pictures before being told she wanted nothing to do with him, making him wonder if his PR team had taken the pictures without her consent. She wanted nothing to do with Luc because seeing him would remind her of being raped. He had been conceived out of a kind of apathetic violence he couldn’t wrap his head around.

Now though, his adopted mother, his rock, his everything, could hear him having a tantrum, and she had raised her son better than that.

I’m so sorry, Luc said, making sure to speak slowly and in English, the one language everyone on his team understood, even if some couldn’t speak it themselves. I’m sorry.

He cleared his throat, the rock in there making speech nearly impossible. I’m coming in.

He would sit in the pits for ten seconds and let Richardson win the race. He would be a gentleman, like the media always made him out to be. But really they just didn’t understand introverted people who didn’t like to talk about themselves during interviews.

Luc glanced at one of his rearview mirrors and saw Richardson in the fight of his life with that damned Alfa Romeo. Well, Richardson deserved a win, especially with putting up with the Alfa Romeo that kept nipping at his heels. Richardson deserved to be first on the podium, instead of a solid second.

Luc was gearing down to go into the pits when something caught his attention. He glanced in the rearview mirror again and saw both Richardson’s Mercedes and the damned Alfa Romeo spin out of control. The Alfa Romeo caught on the side of Richardson’s Mercedes and flipped. It was a carnage of bright colors in the air, the smell of burnt rubber filling Luc’s nostrils. Then he couldn’t see anything anymore as he turned into the pits.

What happened? he asked Rodriguez.

We’re going to watch the tapes to see. I’m not sure.

Is Richardson okay? Luc asked.

I’m not sure, buddy, Rodriguez said. Hang on.

Luc pulled into his spot, the crew already changing his tires before he had time to process what they were doing, and waited.

Tell me if Richardson is okay! Luc yelled. Richardson was a prick, oui, but he was a teammate and as much of a friend as a prick can be.

Yes, Rodriguez’s voice sounded breathy. Yeah, but the car’s totaled. Richardson’s out. So is Iverns.

Iverns was the driver of the damned Alfa Romeo. Luc used to know who his fellow drivers were, but this year, he’d been so foolishly distracted by that documentary, the hunt for his biological mother, he hadn’t done enough research of the other drivers.

Oh my fucking god, Rodriguez said.

What? What is it? Is Richardson hurt after all? Luc yelled, waiting for the seconds to tick away because, although he hated it, he still had a chance at winning with Richardson and Iverns out.

Sorry, Rodriguez said, I didn’t mean to…

What the hell is going on?

It’s Davenport.

Luc might not have done this year’s research, but he knew who Davenport was, the only woman to drive in Formula One. There had been another woman who had begun this year’s races in Bahrain but had been dead last and hadn’t qualified for the following races. The media was all over the fact that there had been an unprecedented two women in Formula One this year. But now it was down to one. It didn’t hurt that Charlize Davenport was one of the most beautiful women in the world, which the media ate up too, with her glowing gray eyes and her long dark hair in intricate braids under her helmet.

Is she okay? Luc asked on a whisper.

If she had gotten tangled in the crash, Luc would feel horrible. He had been watching her progression this season with a little too much interest. Her racing had been the only thing that kept his attention besides the documentary which wasn’t going to happen now.

She’s…holy fuck, Rodriguez said.

The pit team ran back into the garage. The light was green for Luc to finally resume the race, which he did at lightning speed.

What? What? Luc yelled as he blew past the pits and onto the straight stretch before the Sainte Devote turn.

He was in the middle of the pack now, rubber against rubber in what usually would be a crazed dog fight but was restrained because of the double yellow flag. There was no passing while they were picking up the pieces of Richardson and Ivern’s crash.

Luc, um…

Just spit it out, Rodriguez. Is she okay?

Richardson’s crash had happened at curve One9, over Anthony Noghes’ pond. That was a long way ahead, since he was by Sainte Devote, curve 1, and moving onto Beau Rivage, curve 2. Because of the crash, the cars were stuck behind a safety car—a Mercedes, of course—far ahead. Luc couldn’t see if the crash had absorbed Davenport too. He wouldn’t know until Rodriguez told him, which the man was taking forever to do.

Yes, Rodriguez finally answered. She flew past the crash. She’s in first position, Luc. Rodriguez sounded astounded.

Luc drove with the pack to Beau Rivage, then the surprisingly steep curve 3, Massenet, named so because it looked like a gentle lamb but was a beast to get through. Finally, he and the other cars caught up to the leaders and the safety Mercedes. And there she was in her white and blue Ferrari, the new paint on her car was a cleverly disguised herd of Montana mustangs. Also new to the paint were a few curls of pink, which was to represent her close friendship with a woman who was fighting breast cancer.

Davenport was directly behind the safety car, swerving like the best of them. The safety car detoured away from the course, and before Luc knew it, she was gone like a ghost. She was impossibly fast.

Something odd bubbled up from his chest. Maybe a laugh.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

I’ll catch Davenport, Luc said, feeling that bubble grow and warm him from the inside as he drove faster.

Racing had been his life for several years, his obsession, his everything. But since he’d become a champion, Richardson his only rival, the obsession had drained into a career. Which wasn’t a bad thing. Many champion drivers talked about losing their passion. Everything was rote—the training, training, training, then the racing. Nothing was as much fun as it had been when he’d been a boy, on the slopes of Vanoise in a go-cart racing fast enough to crack a tooth from gritting.

There was only seven laps left of the race, and Luc hadn’t had this big of a disadvantage in…well, never. His heart sped, rocking almost painfully against his sternum, his breathing hitched. Of course, he sweated. It was Monaco in May in a car that had enough horsepower to tug a freighter to harbor, and he was in layers and layers of protective gear. But his body slicked with more sweat. It felt fucking fantastic.

This was a fight, which was what he lived for behind the wheel.

Rodriguez talked, other crew members chimed in here or there, trying to figure out how to take Davenport down. She had defended herself against the other Alfa Romeo to such a degree that she was nearly a full minute ahead. And Luc was in fourth, fighting against an Aston Martin. Whoever was in the Aston Martin was no challenger though, as Luc took him at turn 6, the Grand Hotel Hairpin, laughing all the while.

Are you okay? Rodriguez asked at one point.

Luc never answered but just drove, what he’d wanted to do since he was a little boy and his mother, Marie, had built him his first go-cart. It was hell to get to second place, but finally he overtook the Alfa Romeo, who was visibly upset to be passed and nearly clipped Luc’s Mercedes. But Luc was faster, chasing after Davenport. Damn, she was good, something the media hadn’t mentioned. They talked about her gender, about the fact that she was Indigenous, Crow, Apsaalooke, growing up on a reservation, and that she employed all her cousins as part of her crew. They talked about how she had been an electric Formula E racer before joining Formula Two and now One, but they not once said that she was possibly the best racer Luc had ever come up against.

She never made any good qualifications, always placing in the teens in the lineup. But she would fight during the race and end in the sixth or fifth place. That should have tipped Luc off to her talent, but he hadn’t been paying enough attention this year.

He would now.

He challenged her around curve One9, notorious now for the crash, but she fought with a fierceness he’d yet to see in any of his contenders. He laughed and kept trying, veering this way or that, getting close enough his Mercedes just kissed her Ferrari. But she fought him at every turn, in complete control of her car, and fought at every straightway, never giving him the space he needed.

The checkered flag waved and he sat shocked as he flew by it, second, right behind Davenport who had defended her place with a kind of tenacity he could only respect. Hell, admire.

He laughed again as he drove past her now parked Ferrari and she popped out, her crew and team surrounding the car. She was tall and thin and jumped into the arms of, presumably, her cousins, helmet still on, but there was no mistaking her feminine form.

Luc parked himself at his garage. He climbed out of his beloved Mercedes, taking his wet helmet off, peeling the cowl protective gear off too, smiling. His crew put the car on the jack and moved it away like it weighed fifteen pounds instead of the near ton it was.

He couldn’t help but ignore his crew and their consolatory slaps to the back, Rodriguez apologizing. Even his lovely and always supportive mother Luc ignored and marched back to Davenport to congratulate her. That was a hell of a race, and he had to thank her for it. He hadn’t had to fight like that in…maybe ever. He couldn’t stop smiling, the bubble in his chest growing, enveloping him whole, making him feel sunshine happy. Damn the news about his conception. Damn the whole world, for all he cared. He just wanted to meet the racer who had made him work harder than he had in years, the racer who got his blood boiling, the racer who made him laugh.

He neared the crowd, everyone talking at once, a few camera people trying to get a good shot of the winner. Davenport was down on the ground now and had taken off her helmet and protective gear too, and was unfastening one of her dark braids, listening to someone talk over the din of the crowd, concentrating on a short balding man, nodding every once in a while. As Luc got closer and she unfastened more of her braids, stroking through her long, straight hair that looked like a lucid waterfall, something about the bubble within him changed. He was hotter now. A liquid heat rolled low in his belly, swiveling down his thighs.

He nearly stumbled, feeling a wave of attraction pulse through him. She was beautiful, yes. But that didn’t usually mean anything to him. Granted, when he’d been younger, he’d been fascinated by pretty girls. But he’d learned that some women only wanted him for what he could do with a car rather than him, the real him. Attraction now was based on how much a woman actually liked him, and he’d yet to meet one, even if he was the media’s Gentleman. The women he met were on the racing circuit, groupies, and they only thought of that. He didn’t have the time to meet a woman who could have cared less about Formula One and how fast he was, though he’d wanted to.

He hadn’t been attracted to a woman in so long it felt foreign, almost wrong. It most definitely was wrong because he was here to congratulate a strong contender. That was all. Of course.

By nearly stumbling, he’d accidentally gotten the attention of one of the cameramen who glued his focus on Luc. A reporter yelled his name and asked, Here to congratulate the winner?

Bien sûr. He hadn’t caught his native French until after he’d said it. He nodded and glanced at Davenport.

Eighties romantic rock music with violins played incredibly loudly, a rugged sounding man singing how he had died in the arms of his lover—music Luc’s parents had tortured him with while growing up and would dance to and tell him to run to his room once they played it. Sure, the music was only in Luc’s head. But the sun bouncing off her dark hair, casting silver rainbows in his eyes, was not an illusion. Her golden skin glowed, her eyes icy, her hair now slowly flowing around her. Merde, he was in trouble, what with Cutting Crew blaring and his knees so weak he was sure he’d fall over at any second.

Somehow, he marched closer to her and stuck out his hand. Félicitations. Again, he spoke in French without meaning to. He meant to smile, to tell her what an amazing race that had been because of her, to tell her how he admired her skill. That kind of raw talent was rare and he wanted to convey all of it. But nothing else came out of his mouth. He knew he wasn’t grinning. His damned face wasn’t working at all.

Mon dieu, she was even more beautiful up close, even with the wrinkle from her protective gear around her forehead and cheeks.

She extended her hand, though also not smiling, and shook his. Thank you. Her voice was softer than he anticipated, also rougher. The combination made his stomach clench.

Everything felt right and good and perfect. A trickle of ambrosia ran down Luc’s spine, making him want to shudder, making him want to get even closer to her. Her lips were brown pink and so full that for a second he thought about what it would be like to press his own against hers.

He took his hand away from her, shocked by this powerful…whatever it was. Shocked that he could feel anything like this at all. And for a fellow racer. That he admired, no less.

Foute, this foute day!

And with that, he walked away, utterly shocked that he’d had kissing thoughts right after losing, that he’d ached to run his fingers through that nearly black silk, that he’d lost to someone who he knew after seeing up close, he’d never stop thinking of.

He wasn’t the type to believe in love at first sight. But this foute day had other things in store for him.

Chapter Two

A drawing of a mustang running

MORE THAN A YEAR LATER…

C ancel the appointment? The beautiful esthetician asked, her French accent so thick Charlize Davenport wasn’t too sure if she said cancel or canceel, whatever that was.

Oui, yes, Charli said. I’m canceling this appointment, but could you show me the closest trail to hike up that hill? She pointed out the window of the exquisite spa/ski resort to the nearby—she guessed it could be a mountain but growing up in Montana it wasn’t all that big—hill, lush with greenery and sparkling with brightly colored wildflowers. She wished she knew more French besides Where is the bathroom? and More wine! because this conversation was beyond frustrating.

She’d been dropped off by her Ferrari team’s personal driver, instructed to text when she needed to return to Marseille, where the track was. The day spa facial and massage was far enough away from the track and the Formula One world where no one could recognize her, hopefully, and had been a reward from Martin, her performance coach, for—get this—taking better care of herself. She and Martin had had a rocky start. She was used to people just accepting her overly determined work drive. She was used to her cousins complaining that she should eat more or sleep more instead of continually thinking of how to race faster—advice she never heeded. But she was not used to short, round Martin, who would yell at her in a way that reminded her of her nana, who had raised her and her cousins too. Martin, though yelling to the point of utter ruddiness which probably wasn’t good for him, was a balm she had needed since losing Nana a few years ago. And she swore, she would do better at sleeping, eating, and relaxing. For him, her beloved New Zealand coach who acted more like a grumpy grandma, she took better care of herself.

But there was no way she was going to get a facial and massage alone. Laney Jones, one of Charli’s best friends, was to come to the Vanoise ski resort and spend the day with her. But Laney had a compromised immune system, one of the side effects of the treatments of breast cancer though she was in remission, and caught a cold a couple weeks ago. Though she was no longer contagious, the cold meant her weak immune system was that much worse, and being stuck in a flying tube wouldn’t be great. She and her boyfriend, Joe Perez, were supposed to come to this tiny Alpine village to sightsee and get facials with Charli. Roselyn Standing Deer, the other of Charli’s best friends, couldn’t make it either because her mom was getting a stent in her heart. Rose’s mother had sworn it wasn’t a big deal. But both Rose and Charli had wondered if, like almost everything else in her life, Lily wasn’t quite telling the truth. When Rose came into her own money and looked at the family farm’s expenses, she’d sworn loudly to Charli, saying it was no wonder Lily was so thin. She’d nearly starved herself trying to make ends meet, farming alone. And for years Lily had simply said, Oh, I’ll get by.

Charli had offered to be with Rose in the hospital, but Rose had insisted Charli get the stupid facial. And the stupid massage. Can’t forget that part.

The esthetician looked wildly confused as she glanced at the mountain that Charli was pointing to. You—you was pronounced like ew—want to—she mimed hiking with two fingers—hike—pronounced like ike—that?

Yes! Charli said, probably much too loudly, especially considering she also slapped her hand on the counter that featured brochures of all the seaweed wraps a body could ever want in a lifetime.

No massage. The esthetician wore pristine white scrubs and had a crisp bob. The style so perfect, so sharp, her brunette hair looked like it could cut paper. But hike?

Yes, Charli nodded again, trying hard to hold her hand from slapping the counter once more.

The esthetician looked Charli up and down with a visible frown, a hand on her hip. Obviously, giving up a day to be fawned over was something new here. But Charli didn’t want to do this without her friends. It wouldn’t be a treat, no matter how much Martin wanted it to be. What would be a treat, however, would be a moment alone, in mountains that dazzled the eye with every color of wildflower. She knew Martin would get over it once she explained her feelings, especially when describing the rare peachy pink flowers she saw waving, beckoning her closer.

The esthetician obviously did not understand though. The pretty lady with the sharp bob shook her head, looking like she was judging Charlie six ways till Sunday but rummaged through a drawer behind the counter.

Here. The esthetician slammed an older brochure on the counter. She opened it, revealing an easy-to-follow map of the mountain with roads and trails. It’s all—how you say?—dairy, yes? You understand?

The mountain was dairy? Charli took a closer inspection of the map and noticed that the road indicated where small dairy farms were. Interesting. Although Montana did not have dairy farms on mountain sides, it reminded her of home. Something inside her ribs bent a little from homesickness.

She smiled at the esthetician. Okay. Thanks. She took the brochure but stopped, miming if it was all right if she took it. The esthetician nodded and turned her back, already seemingly very upset about not putting clay on Charli’s face.

Charli took the hint and left the luxury ski resort/hotel, standing outside and taking in the clean, early summer air. It was, obviously, off-season for the ski resort, and as such, the hotel and surrounding tiny village were quiet except for the occasional dog running through the main street, which was cobbled and adorable. Charli also noticed an older woman, hunched over a sturdy walking cane that was just a long stick, shuffling along with a baguette in hand. Ah, France!

No one had recognized her so far which was a dream come true. Charli smiled at that, glancing around the village then at her new, folded-twice map. She was at the base of a concrete road that led uphill to two dairy farms. Deciding to keep to the road so she wouldn’t get lost, Charli was glad she’d thought of wearing athletic shoes, though not exactly hiking boots. She wasn’t sure if she had to worry about venomous snakes here, like she would if she were hiking through the Pryor Mountains at home. God, she even missed having to worry about rattlesnakes. But with this racing season upon her, there was no time to go home until much later.

Hiking for about fifteen minutes up the steep climb, she saw her worst nightmare. She nearly gasped when she made out the paparazzi, huddled in the middle of a road and in the driveway of one of the dairy farms. Oh god. Martin had chosen this place because it was hours away from the Marseille racetrack, where most of the racers and their teams were staying. Martin had been very sneaky about this trip, only a handful of people knew. But still, there they were, the vultures.

But Charli had stumbled on them, and they weren’t aware of her yet. She jogged off the road to a ditch and much beyond it to the thickest part of evergreens and a few deciduous trees. It was far cooler here, off trail, because of the canopy the trees provided. Charli stood still for a half second to make sure she couldn’t hear any movement from people. She did, though, hear a tinkling far off to her right. It didn’t sound like cameras shuttering or anything mechanical. It sounded like…bells. She decided to jog towards it. If the paparazzi got a sniff of her—alone, without one person to guard her—she’d be toast. Always introverted, interviews did not come naturally to her. Talking didn’t exactly come naturally for that matter, unless she knew and liked a person.

Yet…whenever she’d raced fast enough to be on the podium, she’d found herself face to face with Luc Gauthier, her biggest competitor, and usually the winner which made her second. There was something about his far too handsome, East Asian face—that never, ever, smiled—that made her blood boil, made her so…maybe angry?…that she found words. And a lot of them. She hadn’t meant to talk trash on the podium. Formula One was considered a gentleman’s sport, which simply meant extremely wealthy people were the teams’ owners and didn’t like it when their employees used not-socially-approved language. But the second time she’d landed on the podium, after the race where he’d walked up to her and—without a smile, mind you—spoke only in French and looked at her like she was a speck of dirt to be removed from the planet, when a reporter had asked what it was like placing second when she’d previously beat Luc, Charli had said, Some dogs never learn to heel, do they?

Yep, she’d compared a fellow racer, and someone she actually admired, to a dog. She’d said that without thinking and was so…was it hurt?…that he kept looking at her like he was mildly disgusted she existed. Martin had said, It’s a French thing, love. The French look at all people who are not French as a little disgusting. Don’t take it personally. But she had. Out of all the racers, he was the best, the one to beat. Also, the one to learn from, to buddy up, and glean as much as she could from him. She’d wanted that before she’d met him. But that look he gave her had…what was the emotion she felt?...so frustrated her that she thought of slapping that expression off his face. And then she’d kiss him.

God! The kissing part was so not like her. Who thought of kissing their nemesis?

She wasn’t a violent or impertinent person, so of course she wouldn’t actually slap or kiss him. Yet she had to remind herself of exactly that at every race so far this season.

The tinkling was getting louder and louder. It was also getting harder to jog because the undergrowth was considerable with low-laying shrubs and bushes that liked to snag her ankles and trip her. Already she had a billion little scratches on her bare legs. Wearing the cut-off jean shorts hadn’t been smart for hiking, but then again, she’d been thinking she’d be having mimosas with Laney, Joe probably reading a book if they couldn’t talk him into hanging out and getting a facial too.

She had to slow down because one bush slashed into her. Crimson oozed out of a long scratch that started at the top of her shin and ended at her sock. That stung. But she trudged on, wondering if it would be better to go back to the village and call the driver for a ride back to Marseille. That said, she was far too curious about the tinkling noise. Once she figured that out, she’d return to the village, make the call.

Curiosity killed the cat, her brain reminded her, but she persisted.

Finally, she cleared the evergreen jungle with the bloodthirsty bushes to a lush green clearing, a meadow, fenced off with a weak and wobbly wire holding dozens and dozens of brown goats. The adorable things caught sight of her and bleated in their weird screaming-baaing way and raced toward her, their tiny tails wagging. The herd was definitely not afraid of her. And she loved goats. They bleated and wagged and luckily stopped short of the wire.

A tad timidly, she waved. Hi there, buddies, she cooed at the friendly brown creatures who were all bleating for her. She relented and