What He Didn't Say (14 page)

Caitlin's gaze followed Rue's to the slim woman dressed in a got-to-be designer suit, a navy ribbon belt tied artfully around the waist. Her dark hair, frosted with silver streaks, hung in a sleek, chin-length sweep.

Rue waved the woman over. “Caitlin, this is Doris Martin, my friend and financial adviser. Doris, this is Caitlin Dempsey, a reporter writing a profile on Rafael O'Bryan.”

Just then, two more women stepped through the door. Rue excused herself to go greet them.

“Aren't you the lucky one,” Doris said while shaking Caitlin's hand.

“Why is that?”

“You have access to Rafael O'Bryan. Like Rue said, I'm a financial adviser. I represent numerous race car drivers, team owners and others involved in racing. I've been trying to book an appointment with O'Bryan for the past year. In fact, he's the
only
NASCAR driver I've yet to even get a chance to talk business with.”

“Maybe he uses a different adviser?” Caitlin suggested while the other woman poured a mug of coffee.

“Not according to the financial grapevine around here.” Doris blew across the steaming liquid before taking a sip.

“Have you seen where he lives?”

“I will tomorrow. I've scheduled a photo shoot at his condo. Why?”

“It's in a nice enough area of town,” Doris said. “But considering what a NASCAR driver of O'Bryan's caliber makes each season, he could afford to settle in a much more affluent
location. I imagine the inside of the place is as nondescript as the outside. O'Bryan hasn't even treated himself to a flashy sports car, which a lot of drivers do when their earnings increase.”

Caitlin knew exactly what he'd earned over his NASCAR career because it was a matter of public record. She had also looked into his past winnings during his go-karting days. The total amount of money was impressive.

Doris took another sip. “It's a mystery to me what the man does with his money.”

Caitlin thought about the surgery Rafael had financed for the little girl in Ecuador. “He could make private donations to worthy causes.”

“If so, he's doing a good job of keeping them quiet.”

“Maybe he spends his money on women,” Caitlin tossed out, telling herself it was a supposition any investigative reporter worth her salt would make. “Or one specific woman.”

“That would be one lucky female,” Doris murmured. “But I doubt that's the case since I've never heard mention of him seeing anyone on a steady basis.” As she spoke, Doris flicked a wrist. “It's just a rare thing for someone who participates in such a public sport to avoid the spotlight the way O'Bryan does. It's almost as if the man has gone out of his way to stay offstage and in the shadows. I wonder why.”

You're not the only one,
Caitlin thought. That same issue had looped through the reporter track of her brain since the day she'd snagged this assignment.

A round of laughter from the other women filled the air. Doris looked at Caitlin. “Guess it's time we join the party.”

“I agree.” Now more curious than ever about Rafael, Caitlin carried her coffee mug to the nearest empty chair. Since she had yet to see where he lived, the issue of how he spent his income on the long term hadn't come up. Now it was a bright blip on Caitlin's radar.

She glanced at the other women. She'd been to enough races to recognize the wives of several NASCAR drivers. Another was married to the owner of one of the race teams. Before the night was over, Caitlin intended to speak to each of them about Rafael.

Hopefully their input would fill in some of the blanks about the man who guarded information about himself with a secrecy the CIA would envy.

 

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON
, Caitlin sat at the small work nook carved out of one corner of Rafael's kitchen, her notepad sharing space with his laptop computer. Pete, the freelance photographer she'd used at National Steel Buildings' health fair, was busy snapping pictures of Rafael deftly chopping ingredients, then tossing them into a pot on the stove.

The kitchen was hunter-green with pristine white woodwork, a ceramic-tile floor and stainless-steel appliances that looked serviceable. As did the furnishings Caitlin had glimpsed when Rafael led her from the front entryway, through the living room and into the kitchen. The condo was clean and tidy, but far from elegant. She studied his laptop while a screensaver sent stock cars speeding across its display. The computer was definitely a few years old.

As Doris Martin had predicted the previous evening, the furnishings and decor inside the condo did nothing to indicate its owner had racked up heart-stopping race winnings.

Which was about all Caitlin had learned at the Tuesday Tarts meeting. None of the other attendees had been able to give her additional insights about Rafael. She'd left Maudie's diner for her hotel room, wondering if there was anyone in the entire world who had the answers to what lay beneath the surface and motivated the man.

She
certainly didn't!

Scowling, she gazed at him across the kitchen. Today he'd
paired slacks with a silky-looking turtleneck, both as coal-black as his hair. The bright lights over the stove seemed to enhance his olive complexion. Not to mention those lady-killer eyes that were too blue for his own good.

And hers.

Standing there, a dish towel draped over one shoulder, Mr. Brazil looked so smokin' hot she was tempted to hose herself down.

She bit off a sigh while the glorious scent of simmering sauce wafted over her.
The heartthrob of NASCAR
might be cooking for her, but this was not a social visit. Her editor had insisted on a Rafael-at-home angle in the profile, and with prompting from Gil Sizemore, he had agreed to the provision…grudgingly.

“Need any more shots before I leave for my next assignment?”

Pete's question pulled Caitlin out of her thoughts. After a quick mental review of the pictures he'd taken since he arrived, she shook her head. “I think we've got enough.”

He packed his camera in its case, then slung the strap over one shoulder. “I'll get the pics to you sometime tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

While Pete said goodbye to Rafael, then headed toward the door, Caitlin glanced at the recipe she'd jotted on her notepad.

“So, how often do you cook
feijoada
?”

He grinned, his eyes lingering on her as he used a long-handled wooden spoon to stir the pot. “Your pronunciation is flawless.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Huffing out a breath, she rose, moved to one side of the stove and peered into the pot's bubbling contents. “Are you going to answer my question? Or do you consider your cooking
schedule a matter of grave secrecy, like most every other detail of your life?”

Sardonic amusement played around his mouth. “Do you always show so much frustration to the athletes you interview?”

“Just the ones who waffle around answers like a politician on the stump.”

“
Feijoada
is the national dish of Brazil, traditionally served on a Saturday. Nine months of the year I spend my weekends at a race track. So, to answer your question as to how often I cook this, or anything, the answer is—seldom.”

“Do you ever get tired?”

“Of?”

“Being gone so much. Spending all those weekends on the road.”

“It was…difficult at first. I'm used to it now.”

She leaned against the counter, watching him stir the pot. “Your fans will appreciate this glimpse of a side of you they don't know.”

“Maybe, but my fans are not why I'm cooking today. I've made this dish for you, Caitlin.” He laid the wooden spoon aside. “
Feijoada
is considered a festive meal to be shared with close friends.”

The fact his accented voice had dropped one octave lower when he'd said
close friends
should not have tightened every muscle in her belly. Yet it did.

“You must try this wine.” He retrieved two glasses from a cabinet, then reached for the bottle that had been breathing on the counter. “It, too, is from my native country.”

“I didn't realize there was Brazilian wine.” Had her voice really gone husky, or was it just her imagination?

“My country is not all rain forests, beaches and the samba,” he said while filling the glasses. “The southern area is more temperate and farther from the equator. Italian immigrants
settled there in the 1880s and began growing the crop that has turned into a major industry.”

She sampled the wine. It was hearty, with a touch of sweetness. “Interesting.”

“The wine, or the history about Brazil?”

“Both.”

“I agree.” He touched his glass to hers before taking a sip.

Caitlin watched him over the rim of her glass. Something like regret, only more complex, flickered briefly in his blue eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“I was thinking that it's been a very long time since I've been there.”

“Do you plan to go back?”

“Someday, perhaps.” He set his glass aside. “Will you stay and have dinner with me? I know you've come here on business, but I would like to share this special meal with you.”

To give herself a moment to think, Caitlin took a long swallow of wine. Just being in close proximity to the man started an alarm blaring in her head. She couldn't deny she wanted to be with him.
Wanted him.
But those type of yearnings were strictly physical and could be controlled.

What she didn't have a handle on was the mix of emotions swirling inside her. She couldn't even identify them, much less control them. But that was the woman in her talking. The investigative reporter was vividly aware this was the first time she and Rafael had been alone together for any length of time. She had only two more weeks to spend on this assignment, and she needed to start making substantial progress. Perhaps here, in the relaxed atmosphere of his home where the scents of glorious spices perfumed the air and wine flowed freely, he might open up about himself.

“All right,” she said. “I'll stay for a while. I have to meet Emma-Lee at the mall later.”

He nodded. “Sounds like you've made a friend.”

“A good one.”

After Rafael served the
feijoada
, they ate at the high counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, their long-legged stools only inches apart. During the meal, Caitlin asked him about last Sunday's wreck.

“I'd have been totally terrified,” she said after he gave her a detailed account.

“I was too busy trying to keep the car on the track to feel anything,” he said, before dishing up another bite.

“Understandable. But after it was over, and you were on your way home, what did you feel?”

“Bruises. Aches and pains.”

She shook her head. “I meant emotionally.”

“
Gratitude
that I was still around to feel all those bruises, aches and pains.”

“Does being in an accident like that make you think twice about climbing into your race car next Sunday?” As she spoke, she slid her half-full plate aside.

“No. For me, racing is equivalent to breathing. It's something I must do.” He gestured his wineglass toward her plate. “You didn't like the
feijoada
?”

“I
loved
it. But I'm stuffed.” She rested a forearm on the counter. “Who taught you to cook like a pro?”

When he swiveled his stool toward hers, their knees bumped. He adjusted by sliding his thighs on either side of hers. The intimate contact made her nerves shimmer.

“I don't want to talk about myself right now.”

“There's some breaking news,” she managed to get out past the lump that had formed in her throat.

“I'd rather talk about you.”

“Remember the day we met? I told you I'm the interviewer, not the interviewee. That means we talk about you, not me.”

“So you did.” He set his glass on the counter, then took her hand in his. “Perhaps we should do something other than talk?”

Her body was aware—
very aware
—of his nearness, responding to it in ways that were instinctive and fundamentally feminine—warming, melting. With the counter on one side of her and Rafael on the other, she was caught between an immovable object and an irresistible force.

“If I'm not mistaken,” she began, “we agreed to keep things between us on a business level.”

“I seem to remember that, too. Although it escapes me now why we thought that was a wise decision.”

She looked down at their joined hands. At some point, his long, bronzed fingers had twined with hers. “I'm sure…we had a good reason. At the time.”

“I imagine you're right.” His thumb stroked the pulse point in her wrist.

She couldn't control the shiver that raced beneath her flesh. The man was going to give her heart failure.

He put a finger under her chin, nudged upward. “So, Caitlin Dempsey, why don't we agree to not talk?”

He was going to kiss her. She knew it; she could read the intention in his eyes, could see the intense longing that matched her own.

She should have moved. She should have stopped him. The events of the past had taught her the bitter consequences of emotional involvement. She had sworn never again to jump into a relationship with a man she didn't know inside and out. Besides, this was business. Rafael was just one more athlete to be added to the long list she'd interviewed and be treated with the same objectivity. He had no business touching her and she had no business wanting him to.

Her heartbeat thrummed with the urgency of an engine
revving on the starting line. She held her breath, waiting, watching, as his mouth drew closer.

She should have stopped him.

But she didn't.