Never, unless she was slow getting out of her knickers.”
“It had more to do with nipples,” and then she retold Catherine’s story.
“I said that?”
“In substance. She couldn’t remember the exact words.”
“Then it wasn’t me. Everyone remembers my exact words.”
He turned abruptly onto a side road, downshifted without a clank or a shudder, and aimed the car up a narrow road where no one had bothered to paint a dividing line. A minute later and they were into switchbacks, using just the bottom of the gearbox as they climbed into the mountains. The hint of a smile grew into a wide boyish grin. Each time the back wheels skidded out toward the edge, caught a bit of traction, and fired the car up toward the next turn, O’Connell burst into laughter. “They should break the knuckles of anyone who tunes a car without being Italian,” he said. Jennifer could only peer down over the edges and wonder how far the car would fall before it hit the wall of the cliff and began tumbling.
They crested the top and came to a long road that wandered along the seam of the mountain. They could see ahead for at least a mile, where another series of switchbacks would take them up to the next peak. O’Connell downshifted, slowing the convertible until it seemed to be standing still at forty. Then he touched the brake and pulled to the side, a few feet from the edge of the steep slope. “Here, you try it. It will drive you mad with pleasure.”
“Me? No way.”
“Well, then, we’ll have to walk back, won’t we? Because my heart can’t take another minute. The thrill is killing me.”
He bounded over his door into the road and around to Jennifer’s door. “Nothing to it, really,” he said, helping her out, “once you get used to the clutch.”
She opened the door to get in, then adjusted the seat. “How long does it take to get used to the clutch?”
“Maybe an hour. You’ve probably noticed that Italians have one leg bigger than the other. That’s why they walk around in
circles.” He slouched down in the seat and closed his eyes as if planning a nap.
Jennifer tried the clutch. It didn’t go down easily. Then she went through the gears. They were as precise as clockwork, and the lever had to be fitted carefully. She turned the key and tried to settle herself into the sensuous hum of the engine. “Don’t doze off, Padraig. If I don’t have this down by the time we reach the next switchback, I’m going to start walking.”
“Not to fear. By then I won’t be able to tear your fingers off the wheel.”
She started slowly, shifting carefully up to third, which gave her all the speed she could handle. She eased into the road and steered like she was trying to keep the car on rails. O’Connell’s eyes remained serenely closed. If he was anxious, he was a better actor than he let on. She dared a bit more throttle, and when the engine played back a sharp note, she forced the clutch and dropped the gear shift into fourth. Eighty kilometers. Hardly moving for the Ferrari, but breakneck for the road. And the next round of switchbacks was approaching fast.
“Padraig?”
He opened one eye.
“I don’t think I can handle these turns.”
He closed it. “God,” he mumbled, “but you’re exciting when you’re frightened.”
She let the engine run down and tried a downshift. The gearbox growled but obeyed. She steered into the turn and added power to straighten out of it. And then she was gone, through the first gate and on to the next switchback.
“Whee!” She laughed.
“It only gets better,” Padraig said. He sat up suddenly and looked straight at her. “Nothing is as satisfying as the face of a woman who feels the excitement building.”
“It’s terror, Padraig,” she answered.
“No, it’s not. Not for one moment. It’s excitement, and if you give in to it, then you’re headed for the ride of your life.”
“I’m not sure,” she said as she headed into the next turn.
“No
“It had more to do with nipples,” and then she retold Catherine’s story.
“I said that?”
“In substance. She couldn’t remember the exact words.”
“Then it wasn’t me. Everyone remembers my exact words.”
He turned abruptly onto a side road, downshifted without a clank or a shudder, and aimed the car up a narrow road where no one had bothered to paint a dividing line. A minute later and they were into switchbacks, using just the bottom of the gearbox as they climbed into the mountains. The hint of a smile grew into a wide boyish grin. Each time the back wheels skidded out toward the edge, caught a bit of traction, and fired the car up toward the next turn, O’Connell burst into laughter. “They should break the knuckles of anyone who tunes a car without being Italian,” he said. Jennifer could only peer down over the edges and wonder how far the car would fall before it hit the wall of the cliff and began tumbling.
They crested the top and came to a long road that wandered along the seam of the mountain. They could see ahead for at least a mile, where another series of switchbacks would take them up to the next peak. O’Connell downshifted, slowing the convertible until it seemed to be standing still at forty. Then he touched the brake and pulled to the side, a few feet from the edge of the steep slope. “Here, you try it. It will drive you mad with pleasure.”
“Me? No way.”
“Well, then, we’ll have to walk back, won’t we? Because my heart can’t take another minute. The thrill is killing me.”
He bounded over his door into the road and around to Jennifer’s door. “Nothing to it, really,” he said, helping her out, “once you get used to the clutch.”
She opened the door to get in, then adjusted the seat. “How long does it take to get used to the clutch?”
“Maybe an hour. You’ve probably noticed that Italians have one leg bigger than the other. That’s why they walk around in
circles.” He slouched down in the seat and closed his eyes as if planning a nap.
Jennifer tried the clutch. It didn’t go down easily. Then she went through the gears. They were as precise as clockwork, and the lever had to be fitted carefully. She turned the key and tried to settle herself into the sensuous hum of the engine. “Don’t doze off, Padraig. If I don’t have this down by the time we reach the next switchback, I’m going to start walking.”
“Not to fear. By then I won’t be able to tear your fingers off the wheel.”
She started slowly, shifting carefully up to third, which gave her all the speed she could handle. She eased into the road and steered like she was trying to keep the car on rails. O’Connell’s eyes remained serenely closed. If he was anxious, he was a better actor than he let on. She dared a bit more throttle, and when the engine played back a sharp note, she forced the clutch and dropped the gear shift into fourth. Eighty kilometers. Hardly moving for the Ferrari, but breakneck for the road. And the next round of switchbacks was approaching fast.
“Padraig?”
He opened one eye.
“I don’t think I can handle these turns.”
He closed it. “God,” he mumbled, “but you’re exciting when you’re frightened.”
She let the engine run down and tried a downshift. The gearbox growled but obeyed. She steered into the turn and added power to straighten out of it. And then she was gone, through the first gate and on to the next switchback.
“Whee!” She laughed.
“It only gets better,” Padraig said. He sat up suddenly and looked straight at her. “Nothing is as satisfying as the face of a woman who feels the excitement building.”
“It’s terror, Padraig,” she answered.
“No, it’s not. Not for one moment. It’s excitement, and if you give in to it, then you’re headed for the ride of your life.”
“I’m not sure,” she said as she headed into the next turn.
“No
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