What He Didn't Say (9 page)

Only when she nodded, a smile lighting her face, did hope unfurl deep inside him that maybe, just maybe, he could have a woman's love and not lose her.

 

T
UESDAY MORNING
and Emma-Lee hummed as she hurried along the hallway leading to the public entry of Double S Racing. Colorful photographs of drivers, cars and teams, both past and present, covered the walls. As she entered the lobby, Connie, the receptionist, glanced over and grinned.

“Hey, Emma-Lee. Looks like the win at Darlington really brought out the fans today.”

Through the glass doors Emma-Lee could see a crowd already milling around and it wasn't ten o'clock yet. Looked like it was going to be a busy day. She couldn't wait.

“Connie, I'm filling in for Peyton this morning. She had to take her daughter to the orthodontist so she's running late.”

Connie shook her head. “You gave up the peace and quiet of the executive suite for hordes of screaming kids and cranky adults?”

Emma-Lee leaned against the corner of the desk. “It's only for an hour. Gil's knee-deep in post-race meetings with the
teams, so he won't need me until this afternoon. It's a chance for me to learn how the tourist part of the business runs.”

Connie chuckled. “Uh-oh. I can't wait to hear what cost-cutting ideas you're going to come up with.”

“What do you mean?”

“My husband and I ate at Maudie's last week and Wade Jenkins was going on about how you thought he could save money on paint.” Wade handled the detailing of the race cars.

“I only made a suggestion that maybe there was one of those two-in-one paints so he cut out using the base coat.”

“And Wade really appreciated the thought.” Connie rose and circled the desk. “Time to open the doors.”

Emma-Lee adjusted her identification tag. It was show-time.

For a person who loved facts, taking tour groups around the public-access areas of Double S Racing headquarters for an hour was heaven. Imagine having people at your mercy like this all day long. Her mouth curved as she kept a watchful eye on the group as they viewed the work being done on the cars.

However, she now knew what she wanted to do with her life.

Funny how the events of the past few weeks had brought clarity to her choice of careers.

She swiped her suddenly damp palms over her pants. As soon as she was relieved from tour duty, she planned to march right into Gil's office and discuss it with him. Sure, it may be a while before the position actually came open. And if it didn't…

She'd jump that bridge when she came to it.

“Emma-Lee.”

She turned and smiled at the woman behind her. “Hi, Peyton. How did the orthodontist appointment go?”

Peyton, a mother of two young girls, winced. “Expensive. Denise needs braces.”

“Yikes. Good thing we have good health insurance here.”

“You better believe it.” Peyton leaned closer. “Emma-Lee, Gil needs to see you immediately, so I'll take over this group. Thanks for filling in.”

“No problem.” Emma-Lee said goodbye and then made her way to the executive suite. Gil's door was closed, so she gave a quick rap.

“Come in.”

Entering, she saw Marley Sizemore sitting in one of the two client chairs. Gil rose and gestured toward the empty chair.

“Emma-Lee. Please have a seat.”

He didn't offer his easy smile and Marley looked somber. In fact, tension in the room was so palpable that she could have cut it with a blowtorch.

Uh-oh. She sat down. “Is something wrong?”

Gil clasped his hands on top of the desk. “Possibly. What do you know about Stan Preston?”

She was good with names but drew a blank on this one. “I don't think I know him. Why?”

“Are you sure? Holt Forrester was spotted talking with Stan Preston this weekend at Darlington.”

She recalled the angry man who had been with Holt.

“Oh. Holt did run into a former business acquaintance, but I wasn't introduced to him.”

She sensed the tension easing from both Sizemores. “I'm sorry, but who is this Stan Preston?”

Gil answered. “He's the owner of a number of insurance agencies. Has made a fortune over the years. He's meeting with NASCAR officials about starting a new racing team. On Saturday he gave Holt's name as one of his sponsors.”

Confusion swirled inside her. She looked from Gil to Marley and then back to Gil. “I don't understand…”

Regret flickered in Gil's eyes. “I think Holt's been using his connection with you to get an inside track on racing.”

Emma-Lee sat forward. “Holt wouldn't spy for this other man, if that's what you are implying!”

“I'm not, Emma-Lee.” Gil shook his head. “I checked him out the first time he came to the tracks. He has a solid reputation in the business world. He's sharp, with good instincts when it comes to trends in computers and software. However, he's acted as a software consultant for Preston in the past.”

Her stomach twisted. “But Holt contacted us about donating racing memorabilia for the breast cancer fundraiser. I'm the one who invited him to the Richmond race.”

“Being the astute businessman he is, Holt probably saw the invite as a golden opportunity to get an insider's view before committing to a sponsorship.”

Emma-Lee wanted the floor to open and swallow her up. The threat of tears scalded her eyes, but she straightened her shoulders and thrust her chin forward. “You mean he's been using me.”

Marley leaned forward and lightly touched her arm. “If it helps, Gil and I both liked him and were using the opportunity to court him for a sponsorship.”

Emma-Lee gave them her brightest smile. “In other words, all's fair when it comes to doing business.”

“Of course not.” Marley sounded aghast. “But I wanted to let you know we, too, were taken in by him.”

“Oh.” Emma-Lee studied her tightly linked fingers. “Sorry.”

“We just wanted to let you know about the situation,” Gil said gently.

“Thank you.”

“However, given the circumstances, Double S will not be giving him passes anymore.”

“Trust me. That's not going to be a problem.” She rose. “Is there anything else?”

Gil wore a troubled expression, but he leaned back in his chair. “I had a message that you wanted to speak with me today if I had time.”

The charity coordinator position. She might as well kiss that goodbye for a while. She had just been played for a sucker. Why would the Sizemores entrust her with such an important position now?

“Nothing urgent.” Her voice was brittle. “The matter can wait.”

“Is the interview set up with Rafael yet?”

“No, I haven't been able to corner him yet.”

Gil's mouth curved. “He's wily.”

“But I promise you, the interview will be a done deal by the NASCAR Sprint All-Star Race.”

She spun around and left the office. It was all she could do not to run down the hall. Since there was no privacy at her desk, she went to the charity coordinator's vacant office and closed the door.

She unclipped her cell phone and with trembling fingers hit the speed-dial number for Holt.

“Emma-Lee.” Even though she knew him for what he was, his saying her name still had the power to send shivers racing along her spine. What did that make her?

A fool in love. One who had given her body and soul to a man who had used her.

She blinked back the tears and steeled herself.

“Answer one question, Holt.”

There was a pause before Holt asked cautiously, “What's wrong, honey?”

“Were you ever going to tell me about Stan Preston?”

The acute silence shattered whatever remained of her aching heart.

“I see.”

“No, I planned to tell you everything at Darlington, but then…”

“You got an extra dividend by taking me to bed as you were sealing the sponsorship deal with him.”

“That's not how it was, Emma-Lee. I'll fly there tonight and we can have dinner. I'll explain everything.”

“Don't bother, Holt. I trusted you, I trusted you with…”

She paused. She had almost said “her heart.” Have some pride, Dalton. This is the original Tin Man. He wouldn't know a heart if it whacked him on his hard head.

She inhaled a deep breath. “Holt, let's get real. Our relationship never stood a chance. You're so much more connected to that black-and-white world of microbits than you'll ever be with people. I'm sorry, but I put people first.”

She hit the disconnect button and then sank down. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she let the tears come.

H
OLT STOOD
in the classroom doorway, watching the older version of himself scrawling an equation across the chalkboard. Sam Forrester's shoulders may have been thinner and more stooped than he recalled, but his father's face still bore its trademark stamp of intelligence and intense focus.

Holt slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It had been a long day and the worst was yet to come. After Emma-Lee's call, he had tried to throw himself back into the launch of the computer game. However, as he had stared into his laptop screen, he had realized the bubble of isolation in which he lived had finally burst. He could have a future if it included Emma-Lee.

So he had started with the easiest break to mend: the present. He had flown to Mooresville and met with the Sizemores. They had accepted his apology with that bone-deep Southern class of theirs. However, they had welcomed with even greater enthusiasm his proposal to develop improved software for their racing teams.

Now to confront his past.

“Hello, Dad.”

The older man froze and then slowly turned. “Holt, I wasn't expecting you.”

Holt strolled down the stairs past the long rows of benches. Many a night in his youth he had sat here working on his homework as Sam Forrester had set up the complex formulas for his next day's classes. Then they would go to the cafeteria
for dinner before heading home, where Sam would immediately disappear into his study to work on his book.

A lonely man, a lonely boy. He didn't want to end up like his father.

Holt halted beside the desk and placed the game disk on top. “How are you doing, Dad?”

Sam laid down the chalk and wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “I'm fine. What's this?”

“My first computer game. It's called ‘The Mathematician's Secret Chamber.'”

Sam reached out a trembling hand and touched the brightly colored jacket. “A game about math?”

Dismayed by the signs of his father's aging, Holt slid his hands into his pockets so he wouldn't fist them. “Yes. I've named the secret wizard Samuel, after you.”

That last-minute change had cost a small fortune, but as his father's face lit up, he realized it had been worth every penny.

“Thank you, Holt. That means a lot to me.” Sam tapped the game again. “You'll reach more people than I ever did with my book.”

He removed his hands and spread them. “Don't say that, Dad. This is a game. Your book…” Holt recalled the pride he had experienced when he had read it. “Your book was an illumination on a new theory.”

“You read it?”

“Yes, I did.” He continued in a rush, “I'm sorry. After Mom's death, I blamed you for not being there for me. I realize now how hard it must have been for you to lose her.”

Sam shot him a startled look as he lowered himself into the old chair behind the desk. “Amanda was the emotional connector among us all and when she died, I was so lost.”

He shook his head. “I was the adult, son, and I should have figured out how to be a better father to you. I just didn't have
Amanda's people skills. However, I've always been proud of you and the man you've become.”

Holt swallowed back the lump the size of a hard drive in his throat. “You wouldn't be so proud of me at the moment. I'm in trouble.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “There's a woman.”

Unbelievably, Sam's lips curved into a smile and he made a raspy sound that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “There always is when a man is troubled.”

Stunned, Holt almost fell over. “The thing is, she's a real people person. I've never met anyone able to connect like she does.”

“And you're wondering what she sees in a loner like you?”

“Yes. No.” He raised a hand and ran his fingers through his hair. “I don't know.”

Sam's expression grew distant as he stared out at the classroom. “I experienced the same panic when I met your mother. How could anyone with so much life possibly be interested in someone like me? It was like being a moth drawn to a flame.”

His father had never talked about the early days with his mother. Intrigued, Holt asked, “How did you meet?”

Sam's eyes warmed. “At college. I was sitting between classes reading under a tree when the most gorgeous girl in the world literally fell in my lap. She had been chasing a Frisbee and wasn't watching where she was running.”

Holt stilled. He didn't believe in déjà vu, but a wave of inevitability swept through him.

Lost in his memories, Sam continued, “She laughed as she apologized. When Amanda smiled, it was as if this beam of sun lightened everything inside me. I was hooked.”

He clasped his hands together and glanced up at Holt. “I never regretted marrying her. When she fell ill and left us, I
was devastated. But if I had to go back to that moment on the campus green, I would stick out my foot to trip her all over again.”

Dazed, Holt shook his head. “Dad, did I hear you right? Mom didn't fall?”

Sam flashed an unrepentant grin that Holt hadn't seen since before his mother had gotten ill. “Nope. Amanda was the prettiest girl on campus and when I saw her running toward me I knew I had to seize the moment to make her notice me.

“So.” He leaned forward. “What mess have you gotten yourself in and what are you going to do to land your woman?”

 

F
ROM THE REAR BOOTH
of Maudie's Down Home Diner where she had taken refuge, Emma-Lee stared out at car headlights gleaming on the rain-slick street. The late-spring storm suited her dismal mood.

“Emma-Lee, is there something wrong with the meat loaf?”

Emma-Lee blinked. Looking anxious, the waitress, Mellie Donovan, stood beside her, holding a cleaning rag. Mellie gestured toward the kitchen. “We're getting ready to close for the night, but I'm sure Sheila won't mind if I asked the cook to whip you up something else.”

Despite her mood, Emma-Lee managed to smile. “What? And delay the start of the Tuesday Tarts session? She would have my hide.”

Sheila Trueblood not only ran Maudie's Down Home Diner with a firm and efficient hand, she also hosted the weekly gathering of women known as the Tuesday Tarts in the back room of the restaurant. While those who attended might vary from week to week, the purpose was always the same as they sat around the table and drank whatever wine someone brought in: to gossip, laugh and in general give moral support.

Emma-Lee had almost skipped this week's Tuesday Tarts
session. She had no experience hiding a broken heart, but in the end her friend—and hairdresser—Daisy Brookshire had convinced her to come. There had been recent sightings of Rafael O'Bryan at the restaurant, and she was on a desperate mission to prove herself once and for all to the Sizemores. She couldn't screw this up.

She picked up the plate of food she had only picked at and handed it to Mellie. “The meat loaf was delicious as always. It turned out that I didn't have the appetite I thought I would.”

The waitress nodded. “I'll box it for you.”

Two tables over several men from PDQ Racing rose. As the others headed toward the entrance, driver Bart Branch cut over to the rear booth where Emma-Lee sat. Although he gave her a friendly nod, his gaze never left the waitress's face.

“Mellie, we're leaving now. See you next week.”

The young woman's eyes sparkled. “Goodnight, Bart.”

He brushed close to her as he strolled away.

Hmm,
Emma-Lee thought.
Looks like Bart has a crush on Mellie. Interesting.

She cleared her throat. “Mellie?”

The waitress stopped watching the driver. A faint blush crept across her cheeks. “I'm sorry, Emma-Lee. You said something?”

Oh, yeah. A two-way crush definitely in the making. She perked up.

“How's Lily? I haven't seen her.”

Mellie's expression brightened at the mention of her daughter. “She's fine, playing upstairs with Louise.” Louise Jordan was the cook Al's wife, who had taken to watching Lily while Mellie worked.

The door opened and several women walked in. Emma-Lee grinned when she saw Rue Larrabee saunter toward the back of the restaurant. An impossible shade of red was the hair color
du jour
for the flamboyant owner of the Cut 'N' Chat
Beauty Salon. Behind her waddled the pregnant Daisy Brookshire, one of Rue's stylists. Rounding out the group was Susie, driver Ben Edmonds's wife.

“Looks like the meeting is about to begin. I'll bring your food right back.”

“You're not joining us?”

“No. The diner's been busy today. I haven't had much time to be with Lily all day. However, I'll bring Lily down to say hi since she asked earlier if she was going to see you.”

“Here.” Emma-Lee rummaged in her purse for her wallet and removed money. “Go ahead and ring me up. Mustn't keep the Tarts waiting.”

She noticed Gil Sizemore had sauntered up to the cash register where Sheila stood ringing up orders. As he paid, he leaned toward her. Whatever he said had the restaurant owner laughing. Why hadn't Emma-Lee ever noticed before that her boss might have a thing for Sheila?

Emma-Lee rubbed a palm over the ache in her chest. Did having a broken heart mean she was more attuned to the possibility of love for others?

Gil started for the door but changed course and came toward her. Emma-Lee's immediate thought was to slide down the booth, but she straightened her shoulders and smiled. “Good evening, Gil.”

“Emma-Lee.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “I saw your application for the charity coordinator's job. Why don't you come see me first thing in the morning and we'll discuss it?”

She swallowed and struggled to keep her voice even. “I'd be happy to, Gil.”

“Good night.” He gave her a wink, turned and strolled out of the restaurant.

Oh, boy. Excitement bubbled inside her. Her shot at a career she wanted was going to happen after all.

She glanced around and realized the crowd had thinned considerably. On the opposite side a dark-complected man rose with two others. Emma-Lee's pulse quickened.

The elusive Rafael O'Bryan at long last.

She leaped to her feet and raced past the line of booths and the photographs of NASCAR's legendary drivers past and present adorning the walls. Reaching the front, she planted herself square in the driver's path.

He looked irritated but muttered an “excuse me” as he tried to circle around her.

“Oh, no, you don't, Rafael.” She blocked him as she fisted her hands on her hips.

“I have been trying to speak with you for the past two weeks. You won't return my calls or respond to my messages.”

“I'm busy, Emma-Lee. Catch me when the season is over.”

Time to toss out the big gun's name. “Gil Sizemore, remember him? He's your boss. Well, he's asked me to set up an interview with
Sports Scene
magazine. Do you want me to report to him that one of his drivers is too busy to do interviews? That he's too busy for his fans?”

A dull red flush crept up the driver's neck. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Fine. Set it up. I'll be there. Now may I leave?”

Victory sure tasted sweet. Chivalrously, Emma-Lee stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture. Rafael stormed past her followed by his two companions, who were grinning ear to ear.

The door swung closed. Cheers broke out. Swinging around, she first bowed to the Tarts standing in a circle behind her and then pumped her fist.

“Way to go, Emma-Lee.” Sheila Trueblood folded her arms across her chest. “Now let's head back and you can tell us all why earlier you looked like a truck ran over you.”

A draft of rain-chilled air swept in as the door opened. Sheila gave the new visitor a polite smile. “Someone will be right with you.”

The hairs lifted on the nape of Emma-Lee's neck and an acute awareness prickled. Even before she turned, she knew who stood behind her. Ridiculous.

She turned and absorbed the one-two punch of love and hurt. Holt wore his battered bomber jacket over a forest-green shirt. The well-worn jeans molded his toned body. Droplets of rain glistened in his wind-mussed sandy hair. Under one arm he carried two packages.

But tonight his set jaw and the intense gaze of his hazel eyes gave him a predatory look, and
she
was his target.

One of the women behind her, most likely Rue, muttered, “Hubba hubba.”

She cleared her throat and, aware of the curious stares and listening ears, said in a low tone, “Holt, why are you here?”

He reached out and toyed with the ends of her hair. “You haven't returned any of my messages.”

“I did. I told you it was over.” Unable to hear his voice, afraid she would cave and listen to his explanations, she had texted him once.

“Oh, yes, I recall that very civilized text message.” His mouth thinning, he lowered his head. “I never would have thought you such a coward, Emma-Lee.”

He was one furious male, she realized with a start. What right did he have to be angry? He was the one who had used her. She wrapped her arms around her middle. “I don't want to see you anymore, Holt. You lied to me.”

“I did not—” He broke off on a muffled oath and cast a meaningful glance at the other women. “Can we go somewhere to discuss this?”

Although scenes weren't particularly her forte, people
weren't his. So long as she remained here she was safe from her foolish heart that even now wanted him.

She tilted her chin. “Whatever you have to say will have to wait. The Tuesday Tarts are in session.”

“Hear, hear.”

“You go, girl.”

Emboldened, she swept out an arm in dramatic fashion. “You'll have to leave now.”

Maybe she did have a little of her sister Mallory's acting ability after all.