Thunderstruck (8 page)

She pulled her sunglasses down from the bill of her cap and slid them on. “Let’s take the golf cart. It’ll be faster.”

He’d barely climbed into the passenger seat when she flipped the ignition switch and started maneuvering down the access road toward a long row of colorful haulers. She glanced to her left, to the row of cars lined up like horses in oversize garage stalls, a sea of tools and computers and color.

The comfort and control of the garage called to her. Instead she stole a look at her passenger, at the sun highlighting a few golden strands of his hair and cheekbones that carved shadows over the ever-present unshaven beard. Comfort and control suddenly felt very much out of reach.

She faced forward and drove silently.

“Did you start that rumor?” he asked.

She gave him a sideways look. “Can’t take credit for that one, I’m afraid. Has Ernie heard yet?”

“I sure hope not. But you’ll tell him the truth, won’t you?” He half smiled. “Or maybe not.”

“Giving Ernie the wrong impression will be a last-ditch effort, Mick. While my life would be a lot easier if you’d simply disappear on your own, I did make a deal with you, so you just lay low, enjoy your time at the track and let me work, okay?”

He pulled out a pair of sunglasses and a Kincaid Toys ball cap. Unlike Kenny, Mick would know exactly how to butter up a sponsor.

“I really hoped to be down here anonymously,” he said.

Like that was possible. “I get the impression I’m the only person in the free world who didn’t know you on sight, so I guess we can pretty much assume you’re going to be recognized.”

“I didn’t expect media the minute I walked in.”

She flashed her ID to the security guard at the entrance to the manicured grounds of the VIP compound.

“To be honest, Thunder Racing isn’t exactly fending off TV reporters by the dozen,” she said drily. “Clay Slater in the new Kincaid Car is about the only story we have here.” That was, until they had the owner-sleeping-with-potential-buyer story.

“I don’t want my interest in the team to get out,” he said. “As for that other part—”

She waved a hand to shut him up, then pulled the golf cart up into a line of others at the end of one row of motor homes, turned it off and climbed out. “I don’t want your interest in buying the team to get out either, but why would you care?”

“Bidding war.”

Her laugh was humorless. “Don’t worry, Mick. We’re not swimming in offers to outbid you. Someone smart might just suck up our assets, the drivers’contracts and the sponsorships, but there’s no huge equity in the Thunder Racing name.”

“There used to be. There could be again.”

She considered a dozen different responses but settled on something benign. “Do you know where your motor home is parked?”

He pulled out a card from the ID packet that hung around his neck and read the stall number to her.

She pointed to the left, a primo position close to the entrance. “Right over there. You have a key?”

“Billy said the driver would leave it open with a key inside.”

She nodded and headed that way. “You sure know some serious people to be able to score a motor home this late, not to mention the quality real estate.”

“I was prepared to bunk with the natives on the infield, but your friend in the travel department is quite handy.”

Could Janie have started the rumor? Not on purpose, certainly.

They slid through a narrow passageway between tightly packed motor homes and stopped at an elegant navy-blue Featherlite.

Shelby let out a low whistle. “Half a mil if it’s a penny. Janie didn’t get you this. She wouldn’t know where to find one this high-end.”

He turned the handle to the door and it opened. “I admit I pulled a few strings of my own.”

The reminder of the behind-the-scenes power he wielded slowed her step as she followed him inside, the first burst of airconditioned coolness wafting toward her. But she pulled herself in quickly; if she hesitated too long or stood outside and was seen going into his motor home, rumors would be confirmed.

She swore silently. The last thing she needed was to be the center of attention—that kind of attention—at the beginning of February.

“Look at this,” Mick said, indicating the main salon, all decked out in creamy leather and containing a plasma TV. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

“Top-of-the-line.” She knocked her knuckles on the granite top of the dinette table and tapped her boot on the hardwood floor. “There are drivers who don’t have it this good. Ours, for instance.”

At the refrigerator, Mick glanced at her as he opened the door to peruse. “All that could change with the right partner, Shelby.”

Change. Change.
Change.

“I have the right partner,” she said, flipping off her sunglasses. “At least I did. Any soda in there?”

“Nothing diet.”

“Save it for your model friends. Something dark with caffeine and plenty of sugar, please.” Sliding into the booth seat at the table, she took the can of cola he offered and popped it, watching him open a bottle of French springwater.

He eased right in next to her, close enough to feel the heat of his thigh next to hers.

“You got a fifty-foot motor home with a big sofa and two recliners, Mick. Do you have to sit one inch from me?”

He just smiled, took off his cap and shook back the layers of burnished gold that brushed his collar. “Who leaked the story, Shelby?”

She choked on a drink. “You tell me.”

“Not me. You have a leak on your team. Is it you?”

“We have twenty people down here on two teams. All of them have seen you in the race shop up in Greensboro for the past week. Your intentions are not a huge secret, although it would be nice to think we had some level of discretion in the shop.” She shrugged. “It’s a very small universe inside the track.”

“Which intentions are you referring to?”

“To buy half of Thunder Racing.” She spared him a pointed look. “You have any others you’re keeping secret?”

He leaned a tiny bit closer. “You know what I’m talking about. Who thinks we’re sleeping together?”

“Someone who wants to start trouble on our team. Or distract me. Or ruin my reputation. Or infuriate my grandfather.”

“Yes, Ernie won’t like this.”

“That’s for sure.” A smile pulled at her lips. “Would serve him right for dropping you in my lap. And, who knows, maybe it’ll start that bidding war.”

He angled toward her. “Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart. If people think we’re madly in love, they might think
that’s
why I’m here. Then you won’t have any chance at a bidding war.”

Love?
“I’m not talking about love, Soccer Boy.”

“What exactly are you talking about, Racer Girl?”

She smiled at the seamless return volley. “Perception. Perception is reality, you know that. All Ernie needs to do is perceive that there’s something going on between us and he’ll kick you right back to England.”

“You can’t have it both ways,” he said, still close enough that she could see the long, black lashes around his emerald eyes, the hint of golden beard. “You can’t pretend to be sleeping with me just to enrage your grandfather and not expect people—and the media—to talk about it.”

She shrugged. “I’m unattached.” She paused a beat and drew back just an inch. “And you?”

“At the moment.”

Relief? Was that what she felt? “Perfect. You’re the quintessential playboy.”

He laughed softly. “You can’t use me like that.”

“I can if I want to stop this deal. If Ernie thinks—”

He put a finger on her lips. “Then it’s real.”

“What?”

With his forehead he inched her ball cap higher and tilted his head until his mouth was directly over hers. “If I’m going to get used, then I’m going to get…”

The unspoken word hung in the air. Neither one moved. The only sounds were the infield and engines in the distance. Shelby closed her hands around the soda can and squeezed hard enough to dent the aluminum, every cell taut in anticipation.

He was going to get what? Kissed? Lucky? Laid?

“In trouble.”

He pushed himself away from the table so hard he knocked his water bottle on its side.

H
E COULD DO THIS
. H
E
could fend off a woman bent on sex—even if it was only pretend sex and even if it had nothing to do with how much she liked him. Or, in this case, how much she didn’t like him.

And if he couldn’t, well, then…

Mick’s whole lower half tightened and threatened to launch a counterattack to what his brain was telling him to do, which was diametrically opposed to what Ernie had told him to do.

“Let’s go back to the garage,” he said, taking the fallen water bottle to the sink.

“What happened to ‘never, never, never quit’?” she asked, handing him her half-empty soda can, a sly smile matching the lusty look in her eyes.

He found a trash container and dropped the bottle in, then poured out her soda in the sink. “Why don’t we just figure out our problems here without making it more complicated?”

“Sure, start a list,” she said drily. “Problems keep mounting.”

He turned and leaned against the counter, facing her. “Okay, one—” he held up his thumb “—I want to buy half your business, you want me to disappear.”

She didn’t contradict him.

He lifted his index finger. “Two. The word is out, like it or not, and we have to decide—together—how we’re going to manage that message.”

She made a face. “I hate that term.”

“You’ve got a publicist?”

“Of course. Avery McShane. She’s young but very good.”

He nodded. “Three.” They were hot for each other. “Three.” He dropped his gaze over her face and body, settling on her mouth. “Three…” He wanted to kiss her. Again. A lot.

She reached out and trapped his extended fingers in her hand. “Listen, we better forget three for now. I’m up to my rear bumper with one and two.”

He changed the grip to hold her hand, slowly, easily, pulling her closer. “If it weren’t for Ernie…” He tugged her, closing the space between them. “You’d really enjoy three.”

“I’m sure I would.” She pointed to the door. “Let’s go see the publicist.”

They’d get back to three. For better or worse, they would get back to three.

“So what do you think of your first racetrack experience so far?” she asked as they left the motor home.

“Not my first. I went to a Grand Prix race in Italy a while ago.”

She made a face. “Open-wheel.”

“Too Euro for you?”

She shrugged, launching into a speech about the subtle differences between the two types of racing, and as she did, her face lit up and her voice changed from tight and defensive to light and lyrical.

Funny, he hadn’t felt that way about his sport in a long, long time.

At the wheel of her golf cart, Shelby navigated the constant stream of cart traffic and pedestrians like a pro. All the while she chattered about sheet-metal panels and stock-car specs and ladder frames made of box section tubings and single-carb, cast-iron V-8 engines. She spoke of places he’d never heard of—Darlington, Pocono, Talladega—with reverence. She
glowed.

“You know about the changes in the car specs being phased in this season, don’t you?” she asked as they waited for a pack of pedestrians crossing an access road.

“I’ve heard there were going to be some. And you hate them because you hate change, right?”

“Wrong.” She grinned at him. “These are good changes. Not only are they safer but teams like ours really benefit.”

“How’s that?”

She turned into the lot near the garage area, waving to two crew members from another team who walked by. “The new designs basically level the playing field and take some of the advantage away from the big, rich teams. No doubt you’ve heard the expression ‘Money buys speed’?”

“Repeatedly.”

“Well, the way it was before, all the competition was out of the drivers’ hands and controlled by engineers and technology.” She made that same face she’d given him when he mentioned managing the media. “It was getting ridiculously expensive and it took all the driving talent out of the mix.”

She parked, and as she climbed out Mick checked out the nice curve of her jeans from behind the shield of his sunglasses.

“But now,” she continued, oblivious to his admiring gaze, “all the cars, no matter who the manufacturer, will be virtually identical. Except for the grilles, of course. So we won’t have to custom-build a car for each track. It’s way cheaper and better for the small teams who can’t afford seventeen backup cars and engines customized for tracks. And the changes are smart, right down to the fuel volume.”

Fuel volume? Could he really be waging war with full-body lust, and losing, to a woman describing
fuel volume?

“The new bumper sort of catches air instead of deflecting it,” she explained as she stepped away from the cart’s parking spot. “Like this.” She made an angle with her hands, but he was noticing how narrow her waist was and the way her shirt—

“Are you getting anything I’m saying?”

He got out of the cart and followed her. “I told you I’m a quick study. I got it all. Trust me.”

“Good,” she said with the first sweet smile he’d seen since arriving at Daytona. “’Cause there’ll be a quiz.”

“I can handle it.” He could handle anything except what he wanted to handle. Her.

No matter. He had bigger issues than lust. He had to show her what he could do. All he needed was the right opportunity to kick his goal.

All around the hauler, Thunder employees worked. In their matching short-sleeved uniforms, her crew hustled between their garage bay and their side-by-side transporters. Pete Sherwood, just inside the hauler, beckoned Shelby to the computer screen, and Mick followed.

“Look at these shock dyno numbers, Shel.” He tapped the keyboard and the screen flashed. “Good, huh?”

Mick squinted at the columns of numbers, and although they didn’t make sense to him, he could see the pattern that emerged.

“Those are great, Pete,” she said encouragingly. “You got forty-eight hours to get them better.”

The crew chief gave her a toothy grin and a quick thumbs-up. “Of course we can.”

She tapped Pete’s arm. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“Saturday is qualifying?” Mick asked.

“Practice,” Pete said. “Tomorrow’s the Shootout, but we didn’t make that show. Sunday we qualify.”

“It’s a complex system of qualifying at this race,” Shelby said. “Great for fans because there’s lots of racing, but the process is intricate. I’ll explain it to you later. Is Clay still in the lounge with Avery?” she asked Pete.

“Yeah, some other guy’s in there, too. I think it’s an interview.”

“Really?” She cringed. “Who is it?”

“That guy from
Sportsworld
magazine,” Pete said. “Johan…something.”

“Ross.” She looked up at Mick, surprise in her eyes. “He’s never printed ten words about Thunder Racing, and what he has was less than flattering.”

“Ross Johannsen?” Mick asked. “I know that guy.”

The lounge doors opened, and Mick immediately saw the hole in the field he’d been looking for. The only thing in his way was a pretty blond PR girl who was closing up the meeting in progress. When she stepped to the side, Mick grinned at Ross Johannsen.

“No freaking way!” the reporter exclaimed, moving right by the young woman. “Is that you, Mick?”

“Ross!” Mick said, hand extended. “Great to see you, man.” The two men exchanged a friendly guylike shake and shoulder pat.

“What the hell are you doing in Daytona?” Ross asked, throwing a slightly accusing glance at the PR person as though she’d intentionally held back The Big Story.

Mick deflected the question with a media-trained smile. “Who’d be anywhere else in February?” Then he turned to Shelby. “You know the co-owner of Thunder Racing, Shelby Jackson?”

Her look of dismay said everything. How had this happened?
He
was introducing
her
to the media in the Thunder hauler? Perfect.

“I don’t think we’ve ever had the pleasure,” Ross said, shaking her hand. “I’ve met your grandfather a few times. And—” his voice dropped with reverence “—I was a fan of your father’s.”

Pride made her eyes beam, but Ross looked away to Mick, then back at Shelby. “Oh. Now this makes sense.” He nodded as if some mysterious lightbulb had just gone off in his head. “Now I’m putting two and two together and getting…” He smiled. “A story.”

If Mick could do anything, he could steer a story in the direction he wanted it to go. Smooth as a hook shot. “Why don’t we sit down in the lounge for a few minutes?” he suggested. “So we can talk.”

Without waiting for the obviously concerned PR person to step in, Mick guided Ross into the lounge and cocked his head to Shelby to join them. She glanced at the young woman holding a clipboard.

“Avery?” Mick asked. When she nodded, he put an authoritative hand on her shoulder. “I know we haven’t officially met yet, but you can trust me with this guy. I go way back with Mr. Johannsen and
Sportsworld
magazine. No worries, I assure you.”

“That’s for sure,” Ross called from the lounge. “You’ve been on the cover seven times, Mick. Maybe we can make it eight, huh?”

Shelby’s eyes popped wide. “Seven times?”

He grinned at Shelby and whispered, “And Thunder Racing? How many covers?”

“How many column inches is a better question,” Avery said, keeping her voice low. “We’ve never had a feature story in that magazine, and he didn’t seem too inclined to do one now. He was on his way to Austin Elliott’s press conference.”

Mick looked from Shelby to Avery. “I’ll keep him here.” He put a hand on Shelby’s back and led her toward the lounge door. “But I need
you
for this story.”

She hesitated. “What story?”

“Trust me,” he whispered with a wink. “We’re on the same team.” And he was about to prove that.

M
ICK SPRAWLED
comfortably on the sofa across from where Shelby sat facing Ross Johannsen at the small conference table. How could he be so comfortable? His hands locked behind his head, one foot hooked onto the leather arm, his impressive body and undeniable presence filling up the entire room, Mick was the embodiment of ease.

Shelby took a slow, deep breath, digging for that same level of relaxation. Would he break the story of his interest in the team? And would they tell the reporter she had to consent to the deal? Okay, that wasn’t the end of the world, but it might really irritate the sponsors and worry the team.

“So,” Ross said, flipping a reporter’s notebook to a fresh page. “Is the move from soccer to racing official?”

Mick didn’t move a muscle, but his gaze slid easily to the notebook, then back to Ross’s face. “How ’bout we do that part off the record?”

The reporter looked dubious. “Mick, you know I can’t do that.”

Mick dropped his arms, sat up and leaned forward. “All right. For the record, I’m taking a leave of absence.”

“I ran that story already. Are you retiring for good?”

“I’m looking at other opportunities.”

“In NASCAR?”

He scratched the back of his head and thought for a minute. “Maybe.”

Ross glanced at Shelby as though she could help him, then back at Mick. “I’ve heard some rumors, but until I saw you here I dismissed them. Can you confirm them?”

Mick looked at him for a minute. “You know what I love about the stories you do, Ross?”

Ross lifted an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“The human touch. Like that feature you did on the kid from Vegas who walked on to the Yankees and ended up starting?”

“Oh, yeah.” Ross nodded. “Got a lot of mail on that.”

“You know why? Because you captured his heart. And, oh—” Mick sat up straighter, his voice excited. “That cover story on the Nevada Snake Eyes pitcher.”

“Deuce Monroe?”

“Brilliant stuff about his return to his hometown and the girl who loved him since she was five years old. Just brilliant. Full of emotion, the kind that twists your gut and makes readers understand what makes an athlete tick.”

Ross beamed at the ego stroke. “Picked up about ten thousand female readers on that one.”

“Of course you did. Because it had
heart
. Listen to me, Ross.” Mick lowered his voice and leaned closer, ready to hand out that secret to life on a silver platter again. Exactly as he had with Rocco DiLorenzi from Raleigh.

“The best story in Daytona, the one that in your capable hands will read like a bestselling family saga, is right here.” With one hand he indicated Shelby. “In this room with you.”

She bit her lip to keep from sucking in a breath, her heart sliding around helplessly as Ross turned his questioning gaze on her.
What
story was Mick talking about?

“There is no other female owner in NASCAR,” Mick said. That was true. At the moment anyway. “There is no other that has a legend’s blood in her veins or the willingness to shed it in the process of fighting—and I mean fighting—to keep this sport rich with the history and lore that means so much to her.”

Ross nodded, then scribbled something on his pad. No doubt stealing Mick’s words for a lead paragraph. “Could be an interesting feature,” he mumbled.

A feature story? On Thunder Racing?

She looked at Mick, and—what a surprise—he winked at her. So that’s what the net felt like when a soccer ball hit it full force.

“You know what the really amazing thing is?” Mick asked when Ross stopped writing.

The amazing thing was where the man could take an interview.

“There is nothing, absolutely no single element about the sport of racing that this woman doesn’t understand,” he said to Ross. “She’s the real deal—a racer. Living testament that the new cars that NASCAR introduced this year will help owners of smaller teams like Thunder compete effectively in a sport that could easily become the playing field of engineers. Just ask her.”

Shelby actually felt her jaw drop. He’d been
listening
to that diatribe about the new car design?

Ross looked up from his notebook at Shelby. “I understand you were the force behind getting Kincaid Toys to sponsor a car and hiring Clayton Slater to drive it.”