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Authors: Diana Diamond
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one’s ever sure,” Padraig answered.
She downshifted, tore into the curve, and felt the rear end beginning to drift. Her instinct was to brake, which might have been fatal, so she forced herself to add power. The rear tires chirped as the car fired out of the turn and raced on up the hill. Jennifer broke into a broad smile.
“Okay,” Padraig said. “Pull off whenever you’re ready. I’ll take over.”
“No way,” she answered. “There’s a dozen more turns ahead.”
“I knew you’d never give it back.”
“It’s your fault. You told me to do it.”
He slumped back into the seat. “Women are always blaming me, when all I ever do is show them their potential.”
“Hang on!” There was another turn coming up.
She drove for nearly an hour, climbing higher and higher, until she reached the turn at the top of a mountain.
“Oh my God!” She braked to a skidding stop, the nose of the car pointing out over the edge. “Will you look at that.”
O’Connell was already looking at the Mediterranean coast spread out before them. Below was Monaco, a tiny smudge of activity with the royal palace visible on the edge of a cliff. To the left was the Italian Riviera, behind the industrial waterfront of Genoa. To the right, the red rooftops of Nice. Straight ahead, the cool blue of the Mediterranean, reaching all the way out to a pale blue sky.
“First prize,” Jennifer said. “The most beautiful world I’ve ever seen.”
He had turned away from the seacoast and was looking back at her. “First prize,” he told her. “You stir feelings of wonder that I wouldn’t share even with my psychiatrist.”
Jennifer shook her head playfully. “Padraig, you could score in a convent.”
“I have,” he answered, “but this has nothing to do with scoring.” He leaned across the console, took her face between his
palms, and kissed her gently, first on the tip of her nose and then on the edge of her lips. He stared at her for seconds that passed like hours and then smiled. Not his signature flash of white, but a soft smile that was almost sad. “Take me home,” he said, “before I lose my devilish image.”
FIVE
JENNIFER WAS back at the hotel in time to tell Catherine and Peter about her tour of the Maritime Alps with Padraig O’Connell.
“A Ferrari Three Eighty.” Peter whistled. “You’re in the big leagues of motoring.”
“When’s your next date with the great Irish bard?” Catherine asked.
“Nothing definite. Not till ‘our paths cross again,’ as he put it.”
“Which will probably be this afternoon.”
Jennifer smiled. “I hope so. He’s fun.”
“That’s what all the ladies say,” Peter told her.
“Oh, I know I’m just this week’s game,” Jennifer admitted. “But I’d like to get a full week.”
Catherine smiled. “Well, I’ll give the devil his due. I’ve never seen you happier, and it looks as if Padraig O’Connell gets most of the credit.”
In the morning, Jennifer went back to the basic black dress that Padraig had said showed off her best asset. She was sure he’d find a reason to stop by the hall, and she had already decided to leave with him when he did. The festival was winding down, and the traffic through the displays was light. Let someone else answer the questions while she enjoyed whatever Padraig had planned for the day.
She stopped short as she exited the hotel’s glass doors. Parked at the curb directly in front of her was a bright red Ferrari convertible in showroom condition. Either Padraig had had yesterday’s
car washed and detailed, or he was starting the day with a fresh model. She looked around anxiously to see where he was lurking.
“Miss Pegan?” The English was accented, carefully pronounced by a middle-aged man in a dark suit. She nodded.
“I’m Giovanni, from Ferrari. The dealership here in Cannes.”
“Hi!” She looked over his shoulder, still searching for O’Connell. Then she noticed the key ring that Giovanni was
She downshifted, tore into the curve, and felt the rear end beginning to drift. Her instinct was to brake, which might have been fatal, so she forced herself to add power. The rear tires chirped as the car fired out of the turn and raced on up the hill. Jennifer broke into a broad smile.
“Okay,” Padraig said. “Pull off whenever you’re ready. I’ll take over.”
“No way,” she answered. “There’s a dozen more turns ahead.”
“I knew you’d never give it back.”
“It’s your fault. You told me to do it.”
He slumped back into the seat. “Women are always blaming me, when all I ever do is show them their potential.”
“Hang on!” There was another turn coming up.
She drove for nearly an hour, climbing higher and higher, until she reached the turn at the top of a mountain.
“Oh my God!” She braked to a skidding stop, the nose of the car pointing out over the edge. “Will you look at that.”
O’Connell was already looking at the Mediterranean coast spread out before them. Below was Monaco, a tiny smudge of activity with the royal palace visible on the edge of a cliff. To the left was the Italian Riviera, behind the industrial waterfront of Genoa. To the right, the red rooftops of Nice. Straight ahead, the cool blue of the Mediterranean, reaching all the way out to a pale blue sky.
“First prize,” Jennifer said. “The most beautiful world I’ve ever seen.”
He had turned away from the seacoast and was looking back at her. “First prize,” he told her. “You stir feelings of wonder that I wouldn’t share even with my psychiatrist.”
Jennifer shook her head playfully. “Padraig, you could score in a convent.”
“I have,” he answered, “but this has nothing to do with scoring.” He leaned across the console, took her face between his
palms, and kissed her gently, first on the tip of her nose and then on the edge of her lips. He stared at her for seconds that passed like hours and then smiled. Not his signature flash of white, but a soft smile that was almost sad. “Take me home,” he said, “before I lose my devilish image.”
FIVE
JENNIFER WAS back at the hotel in time to tell Catherine and Peter about her tour of the Maritime Alps with Padraig O’Connell.
“A Ferrari Three Eighty.” Peter whistled. “You’re in the big leagues of motoring.”
“When’s your next date with the great Irish bard?” Catherine asked.
“Nothing definite. Not till ‘our paths cross again,’ as he put it.”
“Which will probably be this afternoon.”
Jennifer smiled. “I hope so. He’s fun.”
“That’s what all the ladies say,” Peter told her.
“Oh, I know I’m just this week’s game,” Jennifer admitted. “But I’d like to get a full week.”
Catherine smiled. “Well, I’ll give the devil his due. I’ve never seen you happier, and it looks as if Padraig O’Connell gets most of the credit.”
In the morning, Jennifer went back to the basic black dress that Padraig had said showed off her best asset. She was sure he’d find a reason to stop by the hall, and she had already decided to leave with him when he did. The festival was winding down, and the traffic through the displays was light. Let someone else answer the questions while she enjoyed whatever Padraig had planned for the day.
She stopped short as she exited the hotel’s glass doors. Parked at the curb directly in front of her was a bright red Ferrari convertible in showroom condition. Either Padraig had had yesterday’s
car washed and detailed, or he was starting the day with a fresh model. She looked around anxiously to see where he was lurking.
“Miss Pegan?” The English was accented, carefully pronounced by a middle-aged man in a dark suit. She nodded.
“I’m Giovanni, from Ferrari. The dealership here in Cannes.”
“Hi!” She looked over his shoulder, still searching for O’Connell. Then she noticed the key ring that Giovanni was
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