She found the garages without too much trouble, and after asking a couple more people for further directions, she finally located 19—otherwise known as Rafe Donovan. Who, despite the first man’s reluctance to divulge gossip, she now knew had a story, as well as no outside funding. It wouldn’t fill many column inches at the moment, but at least it gave her a jumping-off point.

Passing into the gloom of the garage-cum-workshop, which was indeed, in the arse end of nowhere—she’d long since passed the areas given over to the biggest teams—she gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the light before approaching the three men clustered around the Kawasaki. They were so engrossed in their work that they didn’t notice her.

After a moment, though, the man himself looked up from his task and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead—leaving an oily streak—and spotting her in the process. A slight frown on his face, he stood up and met her gaze, a glint of interest in his eyes. “Hello, can I help you?”

Gloria was stunned into silence as she took him in. He’d unzipped the top half of his leathers, leaving them hanging around his waist. It looked cumbersome, but not as much, she guessed, as trying to work whilst wearing the top half, too. Underneath he wore a white T-shirt, which she felt was an unwise choice, but one she appreciated, given the way it clung to his chest and torso and afforded a delightful view of his muscular arms. The blobs and smudges of oil and dirt only served to highlight the bright whiteness of the material, and the tanned skinned of the wearer.

As well as having luscious dirty-blond hair that she wanted to tangle her fingers in, Rafe was also incredibly handsome. He had cheekbones to die for, a smattering of pale stubble on his cheeks and chin, lips that should really have been too plump for a man, but somehow suited him, and the most soulful pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. She suspected that, had he not been wearing leathers and covered in dirt and grime, he would actually appear angelic. But, as it was, he came across as quite the opposite. An impression cemented by his next words. “Hey, you lost, sweetheart? You looking for somewhere to powder your nose?”

By the time the practice race had finished, Gloria’s mouth was dry and her heart pounding. She gulped down some of her water, swallowing hard as she shook her head incredulously. That had been incredibly exciting, and it wasn’t even a proper race! She’d had a great view of the straight from the box, and had watched much of the rest of the action on a nearby TV screen. And boy had there been some action; crazy speed, tight corners, skidding, breakdowns, near-misses… basically, these racers had some serious brass balls—and that included the sole woman, who’d already gained Gloria’s life-long admiration.

Gloria just couldn’t imagine how much courage it took to screech around tracks so fast. Pushing a car to eighty miles per hour on the motorway was about as speed demon-like as she ever got. And that was only if it was quiet. These people quite literally put their lives on the line for their sport. She shuddered, hoping nothing of the sort would happen this weekend. That was not something she ever wanted to see.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she returned her attention to what was going on. Now the race was over, she needed to go and find her potential interviewee.

Getting to her feet, she flashed a polite smile to the other spectators she’d shared the bank of seats with—only a handful, probably because the bulk of the spectators would only be at the track on the Sunday, for the main races—and returned her empty glass to the bar. She thanked the handsome barman, tipping him a wink when he said “Any time”, his tone a tad lascivious. She had no intention of doing any more than flirting with him, but it couldn’t hurt to keep him on side, given she’d probably be seeing more of him over the next couple of days. If it meant she got served more quickly when the place got busy, then that was just a bonus.

But it was imminent, so she scurried over to the barriers and slipped out to find the safe, out-of-the-way spot she’d been seeking when she’d been distracted by 19. Her exclusive access to all areas meant that didn’t take long, and moments later she was sequestered in an elevated viewing box, with a front row seat, and a handsome barman had scurried off to get her a glass of sparkling water.

The noise had deadened considerably now she wasn’t in the midst of the action, but the excitement hadn’t. It had invaded her veins and she perched on the edge of her seat—literally—her eyes glued to the scene before her, the bikes all lined up in their places on the grid, ready and raring to go.

And then, following the signal, they did—in an overwhelming flurry of activity and noise. They’d hardly gotten any speed up, but already Gloria could barely keep up, could barely work out what was going on. She was sure she’d get used to it, as time went on. And, she reminded herself, this was just one of the practice races—she didn’t have to pay massively close attention. For her human interest piece, though, she was already leaning towards following 19’s journey, and, fortunately for her, with his almost logo-free—for she’d now realised the logo he did have was that of the manufacturer of the gear—leathers and bike, he stood out. She kept her gaze fixed on him as best she could through the smoke left behind from the spinning tyres as he zoomed along the straight and eventually went out of sight.

Looking around to find a safe spot from which to watch the race, where she’d be out of the way but still get a good view, Gloria continued through the pits. It was then she saw him. Tucked away at the end of the row, his height and his dirty-blond hair caught her eye, and that was before she realised he was probably a good candidate for an interview. He had a tiny team of just two men, who on further inspection were likely family members—there was a definite resemblance.

The racer, clad in black and white leathers which had only one logo on them—compared to all the others, who had more logos than leather visible—was clearly happy to get his hands dirty as he performed what her untrained eye assumed were final checks on his bike. The lurid green and black Kawasaki was also noticeably devoid of sponsorship badges. So he didn’t have companies throwing their marketing budgets at him, and his team was… compact, to say the least. Was he the underdog she’d been looking for?

Casually moving closer, she pasted a neutral smile on her face as she hovered nearby, hoping to pick up a snippet of chatter that might come in useful later when she tried to engage the racer in conversation. Despite the small team, however, they were all business, and soon the racer—whom she’d internally dubbed as ‘19’, taken from the number emblazoned onto his motorbike—had thrown one long leg over the bike, pulled on his helmet and gloves, and was ready to go.

An unintelligible announcement rang out on the PA system, but understanding it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone that mattered knew what it meant. Engines revved and tyres squealed as the racers made their way out onto the track.

In spite of her previous disinterest, a frisson of excitement ran through Gloria’s body. Maybe the reason she’d never been interested in sport before was because she’d never attended a live event. Watching this sort of thing on the television just didn’t do anything for her—she never found herself rooting for anyone, or caring about results, so it all seemed pretty pointless. But maybe the remove of watching on screen was the reason for her dispassion.

Being here, in the thick of it all, seeing the preparation—albeit briefly—and taking in the sights, sounds and atmosphere, had already piqued her interest, and they hadn’t even started the race yet.

Graeme raised his eyebrows. “I’m an editor, not a dictator. But come on, Gloria, do me a favour here. Like I said, there’s no one else to take his place—you’re the only one with time in your schedule. If I’m not mistaken, the stuff you’re currently working on isn’t time-sensitive. Sunday’s race, however, is.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk, then flashed her a smile. “We’ll even put you up in a nice hotel, right near to the track. One little article, Gloria. You’ll be saving my life. Please.”

Gloria knew when she was beaten. Graeme wouldn’t force her, she knew that, but it was clearly very important to him. And he’d never asked her to do something like this before—he was generally very laid back, and let her get on with writing pretty much whatever she wanted to. So one article out of her comfort zone—albeit way out of her comfort zone—was the least she could do. “All right,” she said resignedly. “I’ll do it, for you. But you have to give me a full briefing on what exactly you’re looking for. The last thing I want is to end up writing something where I’ve taken completely the wrong angle.

“And,” she added, “where the hell is Donington Park, anyway?”

Graeme’s expression turned despairing. “In the Midlands, Gloria. Near Derby and Nottingham. North of Watford Gap.”

“Bloody hell, that’s miles away! Have I got to drive? I’ll need a pool car.”

“Drive, get the train, hell, you can even fly. The circuit’s next door to a bloody airport. I don’t care, as long as you go, all right?”

She folded her arms. “The train will be fine. Though a first class ticket wouldn’t go amiss.”

Graeme rolled his eyes. “Done.”

Gloria Heath gaped at her boss, Graeme, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. No, no, she couldn’t have heard him correctly, because she thought he’d said he wanted her to go and cover the first round of the British Superbikes at Donington Park. She shook her head and chuckled. He must have said The Great British Bake Off. That sounded similar, didn’t it?

Graeme frowned. “Something funny, Gloria?”

She snapped her focus back to her editor and smiled. “Sorry. I must be going deaf, or mad, because I thought you said you wanted me to cover some motorbike race.”

His expression was stony. “I did,” he replied coolly. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Blinking, she opened her mouth, then closed it again. Narrowing her eyes, she said, “But I’m a lifestyle reporter. I cover—”

“I’m well aware of what you cover, Gloria. I’ve been your boss for three years—don’t you think I’m familiar with what you write by now?” He sighed. “I know it’s not your usual thing, and is way out of your comfort zone, but don’t you think a change would be nice? A bit of a challenge for you?”

Gulping, she replied, “A ch-challenge? Graeme… did I do something wrong?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s an article, Gloria, not a bloody punishment. No, you didn’t do anything wrong. Your work is exemplary—always has been, and I’m sure it always will be. But I have one of the sports writers off sick, with no one else available to take his place, and not covering the first round of the British Superbikes is tantamount to blasphemy for our motorsport readers.”

A feeling of dread settled in her stomach, making her nauseous. “Do I… have a choice?”