A sleek black sports car drew to a stop at the curb in front of her. The passenger window slid down.
“Need a lift?”
She leaned over a bit to peer in. Rafael Sandoval looked back at her.
“Get in, I’ll drive you home,” he ordered.
Normally Amalia would object to his imperious tone, but she was pragmatic enough to appreciate a ride in the storm. She quickly got into the car as the window slid up.
“Why?” she asked as she fastened her seat belt.
“To get to know you, of course.”
As the car pulled back into traffic, Amalia sighed softly. The luxurious leather interior even smelled like wealth. The seat cushioned her lovingly, and she surreptitiously rubbed her fingers against its softness. “There’s no need. Stefano got Teresa Valesquez to agree to accompany you on the balloon race. I won’t be going.”
Would he let her off at the next corner now that there was no need to become better acquainted?
“Damn, I don’t know which is worse, you or Teresa,” he said, moving to another lane as traffic began to get heavy.
“Thanks a lot,” she murmured, not feeling kindly toward the man. She fervently hoped he lost the race to her boss just to take him down a peg or two!
“They say ‘better the devil you know,’ but I’m not so sure. I do know Teresa and the spin she’s sure to put on this. You’re an unknown, but at least I know you have no ulterior motive.”
“I’m not going, so there’s no more to say,” Amalia said firmly.
“Still, I’m not dumping you in the rain. Where to?”
She lived in an older section of town, with lots of flats and small markets, winding streets and little parking. Nothing like the palatial home he must live in surrounded by gardens and giving a stupendous view of the city and the Med.
“It’s off Via Estrada,” she said.
“So what’s Vicente’s game plan?” he asked a moment later, easily driving in the rainy evening twilight.
“He wants to win,” Amalia pointed out dryly.
“So do I,” Rafael said.
“He thinks you’ll be distracted by Ms. Valesquez and that will give him the edge,” she said, hoping to startle him.
Rafael glanced at her a second. “Honest. Hmm…unusual.”
“Then you must hang out with the wrong people,” she snapped. First he considered she would sabotage his race, now he seemed surprised to find her an honest person. The nerve of the man! She clutched her purse tighter, hoping she could hold on to her temper until she reached home.
“Touchy, too. I bet there’s temper in there somewhere,” he mocked. “But being the perfect little personal assistant to Vicente, I’m sure you’ve damped that down a lot.”
She wanted to say something pithy to knock him off his high horse, but nothing came to mind. She hated that!
“Do you think Teresa would distract me?” he asked, turning onto Via Estrada.
“I have no idea,” she replied stiffly. His affair with the beautiful woman was none of her business. She refused to speculate based on the innuendos of the press. “If you and my boss have to have a stupid race, I suspect one distraction would be equal to another.”
“So maybe I should find a beautiful woman to ride with him.”
Amalia said nothing. Rafael had to know Stefano was married. Did he think Stefano would be unfaithful to his wife for a balloon race?
“No thoughts?” he pressed.
“None you want to hear,” she murmured. “Turn at the second traffic signal, right. Then three blocks to Via Escondito.”
“Maybe I do want to hear,” he said.
She hesitated a moment, but knowing she was almost home, she felt reckless. “It’s that stupid bet. Don’t you think the two of you could find better use for that much money than betting it against each other? There are hungry children, sick people, homeless in the world who could benefit.”
“I give to charity,” he protested.
He couldn’t see it; his type never would. She shook her head. He lived so differently from the masses.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll turn over my winnings to your favorite charity. You just name it and I’ll sign the check right over.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Why not? The money isn’t the important part of the wager, the winning is.”
Amalia turned to look out at the street. She couldn’t imagine carelessly dismissing fifty thousand Euros.
When he reached her apartment building a few minutes later, he stopped in front and looked up through the windshield. The building was old, but still interesting, with stonework embellishments and tall windows.
“Is the inside also old, or has it been renovated?”
“The building is almost a hundred years old, so of course the inside has been renovated.” About fifty years ago, but Amalia saw no need to tell him that.
He looked at her. “I’m sorry you won’t be going with me. I love a challenge.”
Amalia frowned. “I’d be no challenge.”
“Getting you on my side would be the challenge. Teammates should share the goal. Would you throw your heart into my race, or hamper it at every turn?”
“We’ll never know, will we?” she asked. He was so close she could see the faint lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. See the deepbrown irises that almost melded into the black pupils.
He rubbed a finger lightly down her cheek. “Seems a shame.”
She jerked back. “Thank you for the ride,” she said hastily, throwing open the door and scrambling from the car. She made a quick dash to the front door and hardly felt the rain. She was churning with the emotional onslaught of his touch that had her insides turning to mush. He was wrong—she’d be no challenge to him at all if he ever turned his attentions on her!
She turned and watched as he tooted the horn and drove away, puddles splashing from the wheels. Long after the taillights had merged into traffic, she gazed after the sleek black dream machine. She didn’t even own a car. Not that she needed the expense as the bus served her perfectly well. She and Jose had a nice flat, nothing like the home she’d grown up in, but the best she could afford. Her job was good, and in only a few years she’d be able to return to her own education.
Opening the door to the flat, she saw she’d beaten Jose home, probably because of the ride Rafael had given her. She’d start dinner then change. Afterward, she would read up on what she could find on the Internet about hot air balloons. She knew only the rudimentary facts about the sport, which she’d gleaned from Stefano’s enthusiastic discussion when he returned from some ballooning event.
She did know long jumps meant trips beyond the one—to three-hour ones near a festival site. They were rarer than the gathering of balloonists in favorite spots like Barcelona or London or Albuquerque, New Mexico, in America. Those races followed some prescribed activities, like waves of balloons in the morning flights or just before sunset. They also required a chase crew to pick them up when they came down. If there were competitions, it was usually dropping beanbags in target sites. Points went to those who dropped the closest to the center or who dropped earlier rather than later.
Once in comfortable and warm sweats, Amalia turned on her computer. She told herself she was learning about the sport to talk more knowledgeably with her