In the Groove (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sarah didn't see him the rest of the week, although she listened to the race on the radio. But before the broadcast, she'd watched qualifying on TV, Sarah admitting to herself that for a woman who'd just broken up with a man, she was pretty obsessed with him.

He didn't do so well.

And her heart went out to him despite her unwillingness to get involved. She saw him on TV, his face tense as he climbed into his car and she knew just by looking at him that his times wouldn't be good.

Because of her?

As much as she'd like to take credit for Lance's recent spate of success, she had a feeling it had less to do with her and more to do with Lance sorting out his own mental game. Too bad he appeared to have lost concentration again.

Because of her?

Stop it, she warned herself. She shouldn't feel responsible for Lance's performance. So what if he didn't have her cookies to eat? Cookies did not a race-car driver make.

So why did she wince when he bobbled his warm-up lap? And why did she cover her face when his first lap wasn't the greatest? And why, oh why, did she feel the urge to call him when he ended up twenty-fifth?

This was bad. This was really, really bad.

And she didn't fax off her resignation. She told herself she didn't do it because she had no place to stay, no other job lined up, no nothing. In the past two weeks she'd earned just enough to pay off some bills, and she didn't even want to think about what she would do about her car which, she was told, should be all fixed by the end of the week. How would she pay for that? She was stuck working for Lance, no doubt about it.

Her mother didn't help matters. She and her boyfriend, Hank—a man Sarah despised instantly with his Fu Manchu mustache, leather vest and silver necklace—were so completely starstruck by Lance that Sarah had to endure daily phone calls (because she refused to go out to the track) detailing what a great guy Lance was, and how wonderful he was to Hank (probably because Lance was afraid of Hank), and most of all, how much Sarah had blown it by breaking up with him.

So, when she arrived at the track to pick up the motor coach late Sunday night, Sarah wasn't in the best of moods. She'd watched the race and it'd been almost painful to see Lance struggle the entire day.

Plus, she was almost certain Lance would be there. Wait, that wasn't quite right. She wasn't
certain
he'd be out there, she just secretly
hoped
he'd be out there. Yes, that's right, hoped, because no matter how much she told herself not to, she really missed talking to Lance.

He wasn't there. She stood outside his bus waiting for him to answer a knock and when he didn't appear she felt the urge to cry. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It was worse when she went inside. She smelled him. There were signs that he'd been there—tiny crumbs on the counter, indents on the couch, reverse patterns on the carpet in his bedroom. His bedroom. The place where they'd—

She shut the bedroom door, turning away and making sure all the other doors were closed, too— the cabinets, the overhead hatches, the drawers. And when she was finished she started the big bus and drove away.

She expected to feel better in a day or two, but she didn't. And the reason she felt worse was because despite being the one to break things off, she'd been hoping Lance would call her. He didn't, the man having the gall to respect her wishes and leave her alone.

Of course, that should make her happy, not mad, she admitted. But for some ridiculous reason she actually felt hurt that he was respecting her wishes.

She'd lost her mind.

Such were her thoughts as she pushed a cart of groceries toward Lance's bus that Tuesday. Part of her duties included keeping the bus supplied, although Sarah had a briefly malicious thought that she should leave the toilet paper behind. But as quickly as the thought had come, she dismissed it. It wasn't his fault that he hadn't called. She'd been the one to break it off. Frankly, the ball was in her court.

If he'd take her back.

"You a Lance Cooper fan?" a woman asked.

She'd parked the bus far away from other shoppers and so the words startled Sarah. "I beg your pardon?" Sarah asked, turning toward a woman with stringy black hair and a painful-looking hoop sticking out of her eyebrow.

"Are you a Lance Cooper fan?" she asked with a smile that exposed a few missing teeth.

"Uh, no," Sarah said. "The owner of the bus is— I'm just the driver."

"Really?" the woman said. "What an interesting job."

"Um, yeah," Sarah said, smiling before she started pushing the groceries again.

"Do you like driving his bus?"

That caught Sarah's attention. "Whose bus?" she asked after stopping again.

"Lance Cooper's."

Uh-oh. Sarah eyed the number of vacant parking spaces between her and the motor coach, wondering if she could make a dash for it.

"Actually, no. He doesn't own the bus," Sarah lied, pushing the groceries forward again, only faster this time, the wheels clink-clinking in such a way as to make steering difficult.

"Is he inside?" the woman asked, coming up alongside of her.

"What makes you think Lance Cooper owns this bus?" Sarah asked, stepping along even faster.

"It was on a TV show."

"Not this bus," Sarah said. She was almost to the door.

"Can I go inside?"

"Can you—" Sarah let the cart roll to a stop, ducking around the side of it to open up the door. "No, you cannot go inside. And Lance Cooper does not own this bus."

"Yes, he does. And you're his girlfriend. I recognized you inside." She thumbed toward the single-story supermarket behind them. "You stood next to him in the winner's circle at Daytona."

Okay, that did it. Sarah opened the door, darted up the steps, leaving the groceries outside.

"Wait," the woman called. "Don't go. I just want his autograph."

"I'm not his girlfriend," Sarah called, feeling better now that she'd locked the door. "And Lance Cooper does not own this bus."

"Yes, he does," the woman yelled back. "Those are his sunglasses on the dash."

Oh, jeez. This was unbelievable. Now what did she do? A peek outside the window revealed that the woman hadn't moved. She stared up at the door of the bus as if she expected Lance Cooper to emerge at any moment, the hopeful look on her face confirming that Sarah's out-and-out lies hadn't dissuaded her one bit.

"Okay, look," Sarah said through the door. "If I hand you some signed race cards, will you go away?"

"I knew this was his bus," the woman said. "I
knew
it. Is he in there?" she asked again.

"No, he is not in here. And I would really appreciate it if you would leave me alone."

"I don't believe you. I think he's in there."

Well, considering the fact that she'd lied about it being Lance's bus, she could hardly blame the woman for thinking that.

"I'm really going to have to insist you leave. If you don't, I'll have to call the police."

And when Sarah peeked out the window again, it was to find the woman digging into a twelve-pack of toilet paper. "Hey," Sarah said, banging on the window. "Don't do that."

"This is for Lance, isn't it?"

"I don't believe this," Sarah murmured. "I just don't
believe
this." But with nothing else to do, she picked up her cell phone and called 911.

"I'm calling 911," Sarah said, but the woman outside just kept on rifling through Lance's groceries. Sarah was flabbergasted that she didn't seem the least bit concerned that the police were on their way.

Of course, it was a little hard to explain why it was an emergency when all she had to complain about - was that someone had stolen her toilet paper (and maybe some potato chips). But oddly enough, the moment Sarah explained that the woman outside was a race fan convinced her favorite driver was inside the bus Sarah drove, the operator seemed to understand. She was, Sarah learned later, a 911 operator who happened to love stock car racing.

Her hands were shaking by the time the police had the woman in custody and Sarah felt safe enough to open the bus door again.

"You okay?" a burly state trooper asked, mirrored glasses turning her reflection into tiny crescent moons.

"I think so," Sarah said. And then she caught sight of the remnants of her groceries. "What the—" She clutched her head. "Jeez oh peets. What? Did she take one of everything?"

"Race fan, ma'am," the cop said, as if that explained everything, which, Sarah realized, it did.

"Yeah, I sort of got that."

"This Lance Cooper's tour bus?"

"Yes," Sarah said, glancing at the brown and gold police car. The woman sat in the back of the car, legs hanging out, arms cuffed behind her, her eyes still staring in the bus's direction as if she
still
expected Lance to finally come out.

"You have any race cards on hand?"

"Do I have any what?" Sarah asked.

"Race cards?" the man asked. "The woman told me you had some. And I'm actually more of a Dan Harris fan, but I don't mind Lance Cooper."

Sarah wanted to sink down on the bus's steps. Was there no end to this madness? But it only served to remind her of yet another reason she should steer clear of Lance Cooper and his crazy job.

But dealing with Stalker Girl happened to be the least of her problems that day because when she tried to drive away after the police had left (Stalker Girl in custody), the bus wouldn't start. At first she thought she might have let the battery drain down, but it didn't sound like a drained battery. And so, for the second time in as many weeks, she was forced to call the emergency repair service. And since she was out in the sticks, it took forever for someone to come out. And once someone finally
did
come, it was to tell her something truly shocking.

The bus had been sabotaged. Someone had dumped sugar into the diesel tank.

Two hours later Sarah learned that the motor coach's engine was ruined, that it would take at least a week to get a replacement, and that the only place capable of repairing a bus was a truck stop nearly sixty miles away. The final bummer was that the only place that could tow a bus happened to be closed for the night. Oh, and that the nearest hotel was thirty miles away and so she'd be forced to stay in the motor coach.

Sarah wanted to cry.

She didn't want to stay in the motor coach and so she called Sal. Sal sounded concerned, told her to hang tight while he arranged for a rental car to be brought to her, and to not worry about a thing.

Easy for him to say.

He wasn't stuck in Nowhereville, Illinois with Stalker Fan on the loose. Well, okay, maybe the woman was still in jail, but you never knew. Worse, with the bus being stuck where it was, and darkness quickly approaching, Stalker Fan would know exactly where to find her. And what if she came back with friends? What if those friends brought guns? What if bullets started flying?

An hour passed, Sarah retreating to the Piggly Wiggly where she befriended the manager. And still her cell phone didn't ring. A call back to Sal and she got his voice mail. Terrific. Now what?

One of the grocery store clerks offered to drive her to the nearest bus depot. When another hour passed, and then another, Sarah decided to take the woman up on the offer, returning to the bus one last time to leave a note for the rental car people and collect the suitcase she'd bought the week before— not that she expected the rental car people to show. Obviously, they'd realized she was out in the middle of nowhere and decided to leave her there.

The bus was hot inside, despite the fact that the sun had long since sunk below the horizon, and mosquitoes followed her across the deserted parking lot. Sarah quickly wrote a note, thinking it'd be just her luck if Stalker Fan returned when she was inside the bus.

Bam.

Sarah screamed, turned. Someone had banged on the back window—it still reverberated from the contact. She crept toward the bedroom, peeking out the window, but whoever had done it had fled, or so Sarah presumed because she couldn't see anybody.

Now what?

Was it Stalker Fan again? And if so, did she leave? Should she go outside and check? But wouldn't that be dumb? Like those movies where the heroine went outside when you just knew she shouldn't.

She almost called the police again, but right as she picked up the phone someone knocked on the Prevost's door, causing Sarah to scream yet again.

"Sarah?" a voice called in concern.

And Sarah knew. It wasn't Stalker Fan. It was Lance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Lance, thank God you're here," Sarah said, standing inside the bus on the steps above him.

The words were music to his ears; too bad she didn't say them because she was happy to see him, because she'd missed him. She said them because she was very obviously terrified.

"Are you okay?"

"Was that you who banged on the back window a moment ago?"

"No."

"Shoot," she said, looking, in a word, frazzled and all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and hug her. Only he couldn't. He'd told her he'd give her space and space he would give her.

"Someone banged on the back window?"

"Yeah. I don't know who. Scared me to death."

"You shouldn't have been hanging out here. You should have gone someplace safe," he said, ducking into the bus before she had time to protest. "Not hung out here."

"I
was
someplace safe. Up until two minutes ago I was hanging inside the Piggly Wiggly, which, by the way, smells like old shoes and Pine Sol."

"Why'd you come back then?"

"To write the stupid rental car people a note," she said, holding up a piece of paper. "They never showed."

"They didn't show because I'm here to get you."

"And if that isn't the dumbest thing I've ever heard of, I don't know what is."

"What do you mean?" Lance said, feeling confused. "I just flew a few hundred miles to come get you."

"And you didn't need to. I could have taken care of myself, which was exactly what I was about to do. One of the ladies who works at the Piggly Wiggly was going to give me a ride to the bus depot."

"You were going to get on a bus?"

"Why not? It's better than waiting around here and maybe bumping into Stalker Fan again. And speaking of Stalker Fan, you're in deep doo-doo if she catches sight of you."

"Stalker
who?'

"The woman who poured sugar down your bus's engine."

"It was a
woman?"

"Yeah. Didn't Sal tell you?"

Lance shook his head. "He said someone had vandalized the bus and tried to steal some things."

"She poured sugar down the tank, the police think as a way of keeping
you
here," Sarah said, her look turning to one of accusation—again. "When I told her you weren't around, she decided to help herself to your supplies, I can only assume because she wanted to be able to wipe
her
butt with the same toilet paper you wipe
your
butt with."

And just like that, Lance wanted to laugh. It amazed him how quickly Sarah could make him do that. "Sarah, you say the damndest things."

"Well, I'm glad I can be your personal comedian."

He wanted her to be a lot more than that. "C'mon," he said. "We're going home."

"What about the bus?"

"Someone will come and haul it away tomorrow. Sal's made all the arrangements."

She looked about ready to protest again, but then turned and collected her luggage, a tiny black suitcase that he'd seen before. "I can't believe you flew all the way up here to pick me up in your jet."

"I thought you'd be happy to go home."

"In case you've forgotten," she said, brushing by him as she exited the bus, the suitcase bumping down the steps with a thud-thud-thud. "I don't have a place to stay."

"I've taken care of that," Lance said, resisting the urge to inhale her scent.

"I'm not staying with you."

Lance had nearly bumped into her at the bottom of the steps, not having realized she'd stopped. "No. You're staying with the Sanderses," he said, squeezing by her. Crickets chirped in the distance, the parking lot's fluorescent lights buzzing. Or maybe that was insect wings he heard. That sure was the sound of their bodies colliding with the streetlight's plastic cover.

"Blain and Cece Sanders?" she asked, her russet brows lifted, brown eyes looking almost black.

"That's them."

"But they don't even know me."

"The other option is to stay with me."

"No," she said quickly.

Lance had figured that would get her to change her mind. Damn. He'd been hoping their separation might have softened her up a bit. Apparently not.

"That's what I thought," he said.

"But I'd rather stay at a hotel."

"Another place that rents rooms by the hour?"

"I was not renting a room by the hour," she said, closing the trunk on her suitcase and then sliding inside the rental.

He went around to the other side, getting in and starting the car. "I saw the place where you were staying, and those rooms were
definitely
available by the hour."

"It was the best I could afford," he heard her mumble, crossing her arms again. But then she straightened. "Wait," she said "I need to tell that nice woman inside that I won't be needing a ride."

"I'll drive you over there," Lance said.

"I can walk."

"No," Lance said firmly, trying not to lose patience. "It's too far. And it's too dark."

"Fine," she said. Lance thought she sounded as surly as the kids she used to teach.

"And why the heck did you park so far away from the store, anyway?"

"In case you hadn't noticed, you own a big bus and it doesn't exactly fit in the compact spots. Plus, when I got here earlier, there were a lot of people. The place was packed."

"Next time do your shopping in a major city."

"Yes, sir," she said, saluting him just before she hopped out of the car.

Lance watched her go, thinking he'd never met a woman that could so quickly amuse and then exasperate him. Granted, he was being something of an ass, but he'd been worried sick about her the whole flight into Ohio. And when he'd discovered just how Podunk a town it was that she'd broken down in, he'd been even more worried. What the heck had she been thinking to pull off the Interstate and select this Piggly Wiggly out of all the Piggly Wigglies in the country?

Unbelievable.

"Oh my gosh, it really is Lance Cooper."

Lance froze behind the wheel, catching sight of Sarah's false smile right before she opened her door and said, "Lance, this is Mary Ann and she's a big fan."

Soon a whole crowd of people surrounded the car, all Piggly Wiggly employees, and all sporting scraps of paper for him to sign. When he caught Sarah's eyes, she smirked and Lance almost smiled. Obviously, this was her way of paying him back for giving her such a hard time.

"I'll just wait in the car," she said, sliding inside while he dealt with the masses.

And yet again, Lance found himself chuckling. Score one for her.

He didn't look mad. He didn't look perturbed. In fact, he didn't look anything at all. Considering they were about to board a private jet—one that he owned—that seemed pretty remarkable. Then again, this was old hat to him.

Not so her.
She
had butterflies.

It was nearing midnight and yet their pilot greeted them with a wide smile at the top of the ramp, saying, "Made it," as Lance led her inside.

"I found her," Lance said. "She was in a Piggly Wiggly parking lot, but I found her."

"Gotta watch out for those Piggly Wigglies," the pilot said, meeting her gaze. "You never know what kind of crazed people you might run into there. Here, I'll take that," he said, taking her suitcase.

Terrific, so the whole world knew of her encounter with Stalker Fan. But then Sarah caught her first glimpse of the inside of the jet and she almost halted next to the pilot.

Whoa.

Plush ivory carpet spread from wall to wall, padded leather seats and elegant wall sconces that seemed to ooze ambient light making the interior look more like something out of
Fine Homebuilding
rather than a plane. And as she stood there, her gaze darting around, small niggles of dismay passed through her. Okay, so fine, she could admit it: for a moment she found herself thinking she'd been a fool to break things off with Lance. The least thing she could have done was let him fly her crosscountry for a few dates before throwing him over.

"Take a seat anyplace," Lance said, motioning to the eight or so seats that were all empty. He sat in the front row, flipping open his phone the moment he leaned back and then he... ignored her.

Sarah watched, trying not to feel even more dismayed. To be honest, he'd been pretty much ignoring her from the moment he'd climbed back into the car at the Piggly Wiggly. At first she'd thought he might be mad at her for siccing the fans on him (but it'd been worth it). But then he'd politely asked if she was comfortable, adjusting the heat when she'd said she was a bit cold before going back to ignoring her.

He was only doing as she asked—leaving her alone.

A part of her recognized this, but it still felt wrong somehow, she thought, listening to him drawl into the phone (and who was he talking to this time of night, anyway?). And all right, maybe she hadn't
dumped
him, that sounded so harsh, but she'd certainly been the one to call things off and in her experience, men didn't normally take that very well.

Lance certainly didn't have a problem with it, although there'd been a moment when she'd first opened the bus's door, just a brief second, when she'd thought he might pull her into his arms. And since she was being Mother Teresa honest, if she were
completely
truthful, she could admit to
wanting
him to pull her into his arms. Gosh, how she'd wanted to wrap her arms around him and tell him how tired and afraid she felt.

Only she couldn't, and she didn't. And apparently, she'd imagined the look in his eyes.

"We should be back in North Carolina in an hour or so," his pilot yelled out to them from the cockpit after closing the main cabin door (so much for a PA system). Sarah glanced toward the front of the plane, realizing it must have been a copilot that had greeted her. There were two bodies up there.

"Um, excuse me."

Lance turned around. One of the pilots looked back.

"Do I have to wear my seat belt?"

"Always a good idea to buckle up," the pilot said. "Although I promise not to report you to the FAA if you don't."

She caught Lance's eye. He lifted a brow, then went back to his conversation. New girlfriend? He was talking so damn low that she could barely hear him over the jet's suddenly high-pitched whine.

She didn't care who he was talking to,
Sarah reminded herself.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

They landed about one in the morning, Sarah thinking that the Sanderses couldn't be happy to have an unwanted guest arrive in the wee hours of the morning. Sarah tried to insist on a hotel again, but Lance wouldn't hear of it. He didn't think hotels were safe.

What did that say about his feelings toward her?

She mentally yelled at herself.
Stop. It.

So he dropped her off at Blain and Cece Sanders' house, Sarah a little bit relieved to learn that it was actually a guest house, one to which Lance just happened to have the key.

"They just built it," Lance said. "It's for the nanny, when they hire one, but so far Cece's resisted."

"Okay," Sarah said, eyeing the Spanish-style bungalow to the left of the house. Lance's headlights had swept the property when they arrived. Sarah tried not to gawk at the stunning two-story home less than a hundred yards from the shore of Lake Norman.

"She'll come by in the morning and introduce herself, by the way."

"Lance, are you certain this isn't a problem? I mean, I don't know that I'd want a perfect stranger to camp out in my nanny quarters. And I really don't mind—"

"You're staying here," he said. His parking lights were on and the only light came from the display on the dash, but she could see the intensity in his eyes when he said, "You'll be safe here."

And suddenly she felt—she tried to put a name to it—
aware.
Aware like a person who knows they're being watched in a way that's so elemental it gives them goose bumps.

He wasn't as immune to her as he pretended.

She smiled. She couldn't help herself. The joy she felt upon realizing he hadn't completely dismissed her from his mind was so unmistakable it should have sent off claxons in her head. It didn't.

"Thanks, Lance," she said softly.

He looked away. Sarah watched as his hands clenched the steering wheel. "Do you need me to bring your luggage inside for you?"

The goose pimples turned into fire because she knew what he was really asking. Did she want him to come in?

Did she?

The answer was, yes. But just as suddenly as she knew the answer, she knew she couldn't indulge herself in the pleasure of Lance's touch. Not now. Not ever

That way be dragons.

"No thanks," she said, opening the car door before she changed her mind. But her heart pounded against her chest like they'd just engaged in the most passionate of kisses, her skin so flushed it was as if he'd touched her with his hands.