In the Groove (2 page)

Apparently race-car drivers made good money.

"I wonder if he's home," she murmured.

"Doesn't look like it."

"Great," she said, dropping her hand back to her lap at the same time she blew a hank of hair out of her eyes. "The man must have thought I stood him up."

"I'm sure he figured something happened."

But for Sarah, it was suddenly all too much. "I just can't catch a break," she found herself saying, her hands digging into her skirt. Her nose was starting to clog—never a good sign—and her throat suddenly constricted. But she wasn't going to cry. Not in front of— "I don't even know your name," she said in a voice that sounded on the verge of tears, even to her own ears.

"Lance," he said softly, even the way he said his name sounding southern—
Lay-yance.
She almost sighed again.

But then she straightened in surprise. "Lance?" she asked. "You have the same name as the guy that owns this place?"

"Uh, yeah."

Later, much later, Sarah would look back at that moment and call herself the world's biggest, most bimbonic fool (if bimbonic was really a word). But right then she was barely hanging on by a thread, and so instead she said, "What a coincidence." She had bigger fish to fry. Such as holding on to her sanity, something that was getting increasingly harder and harder to do.

"You in pain?" he asked, probably because he'd seen her face contort as she tried to refrain from crying.

"No." And, oh Lord, was that her lip quivering?

"You look like you're about to cry."

And he sounded so concerned, so caring—and all right, a little bit panicked—that she found herself taking a deep breath and saying, "You ever go through times when you feel like a fish being slowly digested in the belly of a giant whale, bile eating at your flesh, bacteria nibbling at your eyeballs? And then, just when you think it can't get any worse, you get regurgitated and you're floating in some water current, flailing about with giant sharks circling overhead?'

She looked over at him. He was blinking in a funny way, kind of like a dog the first time it saw a toilet flush.

"Uh... no."

"Well, that's the way I feel."

"Why?"

She took another step closer to tears. "Because in the space of a week I've been publicly humiliated, lost my job, been hit by a car. And now…
now
I'm about to embark on a career driving a bus for some famous race-car driver. I'm a
kindergarten
teacher, not a bus driver."

"Then teach instead."

"I can't," she said. "Not back home at least."

"Why not?"

"Because of the pictures,"
she said in total, absolute frustration—forgetting for a moment that he had no idea what the heck she was talking about.

Which was why he probably asked, "What pictures?"

Which made Sarah realize she didn't really
want
him to know about them. "Nothing," she said quickly.

"Oh, no," he said, a half smile alighting on his face. "You can't say something like that and take it back."

"I'm not trying to take it back. I just refuse to expand on it."

"What kind of pictures?" he asked again.

"Forget it," she said, trying to get out.

He locked the car doors with a pop. "What pictures?" he asked again, giving her a wicked grin.

Sarah was suddenly aware of the fact that she was alone, with a near stranger, parked in front of a deserted home. "Let me out."

"Did you pose for
Playboy?"

Her face suddenly felt like a barbecue.
"I did not."

"Hustler?"

"I'm leaving." She tried the door again. He let her go this time. That made her feel a bit better, though the sticky Norm Carolina air did nothing to cool her heat-embarrassed cheeks.

"Wait," he said, getting out, too. "You can't leave me hanging like this,"

"Yes, I can," she said, turning toward the house, though she suddenly realized she had no idea what to do. Wait for Mr. Cooper? Go back for her car?

Get hit by a bus next time?

"You
were
in
Playboy,
weren't you?" he asked, coming around the front of his car. "C'mon, tell me what issue."

She gasped in outrage. "Why you... sleazeball! I was
not
in
Playboy."

"Sleazeball?"

She crossed her arms in front of her. He chuckled a bit.
Oh, wow.

Sarah almost melted into the fancy stone driveway. She'd never, not ever, been in the presence of a man who looked like Lance before. Gorgeous smile with just a hint of razor stubble lining his masculine jaw. Lips that curved up in a wicked way, a more pronounced patch of razor stubble right below his lower lip. And his eyes; they were a playful gray filled with laughter that seemed to poke fun at her.

"It wasn't
Playboy,''''
she said when she realized those eyes were staring at her in unabashed curiosity, too.

"Then what?" he asked.

"Is there a hose I can use to wash off my knees?" she said, turning away.

Lance stayed with her. She stopped, her gaze darting to his. He'd wiped the laughter from his face, but a film of humor still drifted in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I forgot for a moment that I'd just run you over with my car. C'mon. We have Band-Aids and stuff inside." He motioned for her to follow.

Sarah stood there for a second, watching him turn away. "I didn't pose naked," she found herself confessing.

He stopped. She met his gaze, feeling her chin lift in dignified pride. "I was wearing undergarments. And I took the pictures in college. Driving a bus wasn't paying the rent and this was a way to make some quick money."

"And you got fired over something that happened years ago?" he asked. "How could that be?"

She should have let the matter drop. But he seemed genuinely curious, and perplexed, and Lord knows, she'd been dying to talk about it to somebody who might understand. "The photos were published
this
year," she said. "And they were put in a magazine that makes
Playboy
look like
Reader's Digest."
She shuddered. "I can't even say the name. But the worst, the absolute worst was that they took my underwear off and replaced it with someone else's—" She couldn't finish, humiliation making it impossible to speak.

"Somebody else's..." he prompted.

"Somebody else's
you know."

"No, I don't know."

"Body parts," she admitted.

"Body parts?"
he asked.

"Yeah, body parts."

But he still looked confused.

"I was wearing somebody else's you-know-what," she confessed, pointing to the appropriate area.

He drew back, and for a second he looked incapable of speech. Then he started laughing, a big, booming laugh that filled the air and all but vibrated her skull.

"You were wearing someone else's—" His words got choked off by his laughter.

"It's not funny." Only, suddenly, it kind of was. "I got fired for this!"

She heard him bite back a laugh before choking out, "Why?"

"One of the parents found out. Other parents heard about it, too. Someone brought the magazine in to show the principal. There was a formal review..."

She left out the part about dating one of the school's officials. And that he'd turned his back on her during the whole affair. That little humiliation she managed to keep to herself.

"I packed my bags and headed for North Carolina. I'd heard teaching jobs were more prevalent here, but they're not, so I had to take the first job I could find."

"Driving a motor coach."

"It was better than nothing. Plus it came with living quarters. I was, ah, living with someone at the time, someone who frowned upon my illicit past."

"Your boyfriend," he surmised.

Well, and now that cat was out of the bag, too. Not that it mattered. After today she'd probably never see Lance again.

"He kicked you out," he said softly.

Sarah met his gaze, surprised at the sudden compassion she saw in his eyes. "Well, it
was
his apartment."

Silence filled the air, the kind of heavy quiet that seemed to amplify everything. Her breathing. His breathing. Her scent. His scent...

And then his lips began to twitch a bit. He moved in closer to her. And then there was noise, loud noise—her heart as it echoed in her ears like the slap of water against a rock.

Her cheeks heated all over again, especially at the brief glimpse of... something she caught in his eyes.

Then he flicked her chin up with his hand. And Sarah knew the moment he touched her that she was in deep,
deep
trouble.

CHAPTER TWO

"C'mon in," Lance said, his hand dropping back to his side, fingers tingling as if the steering wheel had been jerked out of his grasp during a wreck.

That was bizarre.

"Let's get you fixed up," he added.

She nodded wordlessly, Lance feeling something warm seep though his insides. She looked so forlorn. So completely downtrodden—like Bluto, the dog he'd found by the side of the road when he'd been a kid. In need of food and a good hug.

Hug?

Okay, maybe not that. After all, he didn't want any lawsuits on his hands. But he sure sympathized with the way she felt. He'd been there himself.

"Where are we going?" she asked as Lance turned back to bis house.

"Inside," Lance repeated.

"Wait. Inside? We can't do that," she said, stopping on the path.

Oh, yeah. That's right. Damn it. He was supposed to be the pool boy. Unfortunately, she didn't look anymore capable of handling the news of who he was
now
than she had a few minutes ago.

"I have keys," he said. "In, ah... in case of an emergency."

Lame. Really, really lame.

She bought it. Nodded. "Do you think he'll mind if you let me in?"

"Nah. Lance Cooper is a great guy." Okay, so that might have been a little over the top, but he couldn't resist. In fact, he was beginning to find the whole thing kind of amusing.

He opened his front door, turning to the left and disabling the alarm. If she thought it was strange that he had the alarm code memorized, she didn't show it, though to be honest he had a feeling she was too distracted to notice much.

Maybe not.

When he glanced back at her, her mouth was open, her eyes darting left and right, then up and down, then left and right again.

"Holy guacamole."

"Yeah," he said, glancing at the vaulted ceilings, numerous skylights and tall paned windows. "It is kind of big."

Though he hardly noticed it anymore. He'd had a decorator work on the interior right after he'd bought it, but most of her "homey touches" had faded away, replaced by his own personal items: a Gatorade bottle saved from his first victory at Pocono. He doubted his prissy decorator would have approved of the yellow lug nuts inside the bottle: they clashed with the rose-colored Tiffany lamps. There were other souvenirs from his years on the track, too, most of them stashed atop shelves in his cherry-wood entertainment center, the big-screen TV reflecting back their distorted images. Helmets. A battered pair of asbestos shoes—they'd been the shoes he'd worn his first year Cup racing. And then there were the pictures.

Lots and lots of pictures.

Uh-oh.

"This way," he said, lightly grabbing her arm and steering her toward the back of the house.

"But I wanted to look at the pictures."

"I don't think Mr. Cooper would like that."

"Oh, yeah," she murmured.

Close. That had been really, really close.

She followed him along, looking left and into his private office which faced the front of the house. There were pictures in there, too.

"He's a bit of a slob," he said, wincing at the papers all over the place. "Anyway. We, ah, we better get this over with. I'd hate for the boss to return and get mad at me for letting you in here."

She nodded, her Shirley Temple hair bouncing along.

He led her to the kitchen. No pictures there. At least none that he remembered. She paused for a moment beneath the multifaceted chandelier that he'd always thought was a bit overkill, but that his decorator had insisted upon.

"Wow."

"You like it?"

"Well..." And then she surprised him with one of those I'm-going-to-be-honest-with-you-even-though-I-don't-know-if-I-should-be looks. "Not really," she admitted.

He laughed, nodding his head. "I don't really like it either."

Her expression cleared and she looked a bit more relaxed when she started to follow him again, though now that he watched her closely he saw that she limped.

Poor thing. She'd really had a tough time.

And he'd just lied to her.

Yeah, but it was for a good cause.

"Good golly," she said, his hand sliding off her arm when they reached the kitchen. "How much does driving race-cars pay?"

"Big bucks," he said. "If you're any good at it."

"Lance Cooper must be very, very good."

Oh, yeah, I'm good.

Or I used to be.

He shook his head, walking past the blue-tile counter to the stainless steel sink to his right.

"C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up."

She shuffled forward, her eyes darting all around.

The whole kitchen was decorated in a Mediterranean theme: maroon walls, dark cabinets and thick-leaved banana plants. A skylight oozed filtered light, copper pots and pans hung over the island, and glass-fronted cabinets were filled with the blue-and-white dishes that his decorator insisted on calling "crockery." Whatever.

"You could dance the Coco Cabana in here," she mumbled, her eyes on the island.

"Yeah, well, you won't be doing any dancing any time soon. Sit down," he said, wetting a paper towel, then guiding her to the wrought-iron kitchen table and chairs.

"Do you serve drinks when he has guests over?"

He paused in the act of opening up the cabinet where he kept suntan lotion, medicine and first-aid items.

"When who?"

"Your boss."

"What makes you think I'd be asked to do something like that?"

"Well, look at this place. All it needs is Hugh Hefner and few Playboy Bunnies to make it complete. So scratch that. He probably has the Bunnies serve the drinks."

"He's not like that."

"No? Could have fooled me. So if he doesn't have a huge ego, he must be lacking in other departments."

He almost choked. "What?"

She blushed, looking instantly contrite. "I'm sorry. That wasn't very nice. I've never even met the man and I'm certain he's perfectly nice."

"You think the house is pretentious?"

She gave him a look that she must have practiced on her kindergartners. "Nobody needs this much space."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he built such a big house because he wants kids."

"Is that what you think?" she asked, looking curious.

And suddenly, with her head tilted to the side, her curly hair falling over one shoulder, her hazel eyes wide and more green than brown, Lance found himself saying, "Yeah. He does."

"Then he better get busy 'cause he's got a bunch of rooms to fill."

"I'll tell him you said that."

Her eyes widened. "Don't you dare!"

She had really thick lashes, he noticed, with sweeping, dark-brown brows above them. Pretty eyes.

Gorgeous
eyes, he quickly amended.

"What's the matter? Afraid he might think you're volunteering for the job?" he teased, kneeling down in front of her and giving her a smile.

"No." She half snorted, making that funny noise people made when they were trying not to laugh, sort of a combination snort/cough. "He'd only need to take one look at me to know I wasn't his type."

"And what makes you say that?" he asked, opening up a tin of Band-Aids. He stored a tube of antibiotic lotion inside.

"Look. I may not know anything about race-car drivers. Heck, I don't know anything about racing at all. But I know something about celebrities. Famous men, as a rule, don't date women like me."

"Yes, they do."

"No, they don't."

There was such a self-deprecating look of acceptance in her eyes that he found himself almost bristling. "Jeez, don't tell me you think you're ugly?"

"Not
really
ugly. But I'm not exactly a candidate for
America's Next Top Model."

"So? What's wrong with that?"

She looked away. "Want to hand me the antibiotic lotion?" she asked. "I'll put it on myself."

Changing the subject. So she
didn't
like her looks. "No. I'll do it," he said.

"That isn't necessary."

"Yeah, it is. I ran you down. I'm taking care of you. Lift your skirt."

She blushed, mumbling. "Really. There's no need."

And the way that color spread from her neck up into her face... She blushed so bad he knew in an instant what the problem was. She was attracted to him.

He almost sat on the floor.

She thought he was good-looking. And she didn't even know who he was.

Cool.

"Lift up your skirt."

"No," she said, holding out a hand. "I've doctored more scraped knees than I can count. I can do my own."

"Just the same, I'm doing it for you. Lift up your skirt."

She looked ready to protest again,

"Do your kindergartners give you such a hard time?" he asked. "You know, when you want to doctor them up?"

Her eyes narrowed. He found that kind of cute, too. But then her expression turned to one of long-suffering resignation. She even let out a huff of exasperation.

Lance tried not to laugh.

She was adorable. There was no other way to describe her. Adorable and completely unaware that he found her makeup-free face and curly hair more attractive than a hundred made-up models.

She reached down, pulling up her pretty floral skirt. "There," she said.

He glanced at her knee. "Uh-oh."

"What?" she asked, leaning forward, her hair hanging next to his face. It smelled good. Kind of sugary.

"We're going to need to stitch it up."

"No, we're not," she said, leaning even closer. Lance didn't move.

"I'm just teasing."

She looked up then, their faces inches apart. Both of them went still. No. That wasn't right. She opened her mouth a bit, a plump, fully kissable mouth (funny he hadn't noticed
that
before), the word,
Oh
escaping on a sigh.

"We'll need to ki—clean it," he said, mentally wincing at his near slip.

She didn't appear to notice. "Yeah."

She had freckles. And the cutest little dent right at the tip of her nose. And a sexy mouth. And if he leaned forward just a bit...

"Lance!"

They jerked apart.

"Lance, where are you?" a masculine voice called. "I know you're in here. Saw your car out front."

He heard steps. Shit. It was Sal, his business manager.

"There you are. Oh. And there
you
are," Sal said to Sarah. "I thought you stood him up. What happened, Lance? She show up after you called me to complain?"

And Lance knew he was busted.

Sarah looked up at him, little flames all but flicking out from the center of her eyes.
"You're
Lance
Cooper?"
she asked in a low, tight voice.

"Guilty," he admitted with the smile of a ten-year-old who's just knocked his baseball through Mom's kitchen window.