Race To The Altar

by Patricia Hagan

  “Well, that’s nice, Liz. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Something in his voice raised suspicion that he wasn’t all that pleased, but not about the show. He probably thought she had flirted with Jimmy Barnes to get him on there. But she hadn’t.

  One of the things Liz adhered to was her personal rule that she would not use womanly guile to open doors. Yes, she would try to dress nicely, but she would be all business. If anyone got any ideas, she set them straight. And that was how she intended to conduct herself in the racing world.

  Liz ordered breakfast, even though she wasn’t hungry. In fact, she never ate breakfast, just grabbed a quick cup of coffee on the run.

  She told herself the only reason she was eating this morning was because it was going to be a long day. She needed her energy. She would not even remotely consider it was to prolong her time with Rick because he was being friendly. Still distant. Still reserved. But it was an improvement over his previous demeanor.

  He was wearing a T-shirt again. It reminded her of Clint Eastwood in Bridges of Madison County. The man might be pushing seventy, but in a T-shirt he was a sex symbol nonpareil.

  Liz munched on a piece of toast she didn’t want and wondered what size shirt Rick wore. She seized on an excuse to ask. “I should be receiving the new T-shirts today that Big Boy’s had made up to sell at the concession stands. I’ll take out a few for you guys. What size do you wear?”

  “Extra-large.”

  She should have known.

  “And how big are you?”

  “Thirty-four, C cup,” she blurted without thinking and wanted to die then and there. What was wrong with her? She gulped and corrected, “I meant medium.”

  “I can’t believe you’re blushing.”

  “Am I?” She took a big swallow of orange juice, hoping it would cool her cheeks.

  “Yeah, you are. And that’s kind of nice. I didn’t know women blushed anymore.”

  “I just got too much sun yesterday.” Maybe it had been a big mistake to prolong the meeting. But she had dared to think she had her emotions under control. Last night she had lain awake for hours lecturing herself that she was a fool to be even remotely attracted to him.

  The waitress brought the check. Liz reached for it, but Rick got it first.

  She protested, “I’m on an expense account.”

  He leaned across the table so those around would not hear. “Then next time make arrangements to pay the tab before it’s put on the table.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I don’t know where you come from, Liz, or how they do things there. But I hail from a small town in Georgia, which makes me, I guess, a country boy, with old-fashioned ways, and one of them happens to be the man pays the bill when he’s dining with a lady.”

  “I paid it last night.”

  “It wasn’t just the two of us.”

  She argued, “I’m not paying for it. The sponsor is.”

  He countered, “Others don’t know that.”

  “I don’t see why we should care what others think.”

  “Hey, aren’t you the one who was giving me a lecture on public relations just yesterday? Well, we’re in public, and we’re having relations—social, anyway. So that means I have to be aware of what others think. Am I right?”

  “You’re stretching it a bit,” she said stiffly.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal. And I don’t have time to debate the issue, anyway. I need to get to the track. I’ll let you know tomorrow how the show went tonight. Or maybe you’ll listen to it.”

  He rose, and so did she to quickly inform him, “Not only will I listen, I will be there. In fact, I’d like for us to drive together, if you don’t mind. It will look good for you to walk in with your PR rep.”

  Rick did not like that picture, at all. After the dream he’d had last night, he wanted to avoid Liz like the plague. He hadn’t had a dream like that since high school, for crying out loud, which only reminded him all the more how long it had been since he’d slept with a woman. And he needed one badly. But not Liz.

  She fell into step beside him. “I’m going to the track, too. In case you do really well in the qualifying races, I’ll need to be around to put a spin on it.”

  She had been up since dawn, doing more studying and now understood the twin qualifying races. At other tracks on the circuit, drivers just went out individually for time trials. The starting lineup was set according to the average speed they ran for two laps. It was different at Daytona, where two 125-mile races were held, and the way drivers finished was how they would start the race on Sunday.

  Liz realized Rick had stopped walking and had come to an abrupt halt. She whirled around to see that he was staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What?”

  “This isn’t politics.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to hang around me putting a spin on things.”

  She felt totally frustrated. Was everything that came out of her mouth that day going to sound all wrong? “What I meant was—I’ll be around to drum up as much coverage from the media as I can. Brag about how you did and point them in your direction.”

  “I guess that’s okay.” He started walking again.

  As he caught up with her, his bare arm brushed against hers, and he cursed himself for the rush. She was wearing slacks. Tight white slacks. And a pale green blouse of some kind of cool, clingy material that emphasized her nice breasts.

  No doubt about it, he thought on a sigh. He had to make her want to quit…and fast.

  Liz heard Rick sigh and mistook it for annoyance at the trio of girls standing in the lobby.

  “Rick Castles, it’s really you,” one of them squealed. She was poured into her jeans, which cut below her navel. Her braless bosom was about to tumble out of her halter top as she bounced up and down on the toes of her platform slides.

  “Can we have your autograph?” asked another girl, dressed almost identically, as she rushed up to Rick.

  “Yeah, sure,” Rick said pleasantly. He suspected Liz thought it was for her benefit that he was being so nice about it, but the truth was he didn’t mind when the girls weren’t at the track. “Got a pen?” he asked Liz.

  “Who’s she?” one of the girls asked, scowling jealously at Liz.

  “My PR rep.” He took the pen Liz handed him and signed the piece of paper the girl thrust at him.

  He did the same for another, but the third girl, who had been hanging back, moved in and said, “I want something else autographed.” She indicated her arm.

  Liz held her breath to see how Rick would react.

  “Sorry. No body parts.”

  His smile could have melted an icicle. In fact, it kept the girl from having her feelings hurt, because she was practically swooning before it. “Then…then just sign this,” she stammered, overcome by his nearness, and handed him a souvenir race program.

  Outside in the parking lot, Liz offered him a ride to the track. “You could come back with one of the guys.”

  He shook his head, not about to be cozied up with her in a car. Too intimate. “No, I’ve got some stuff in mine I’ll need, and it’d take too long to switch.”

  “Well, okay.” She tried not to sound disappointed. It was for the best, anyway. She knew she didn’t need to be alone with him any more than absolutely necessary. “By the way, you were really nice to those girls back there.”

  “Of course, I was. They weren’t bugging me at the track when I’m doing something. Besides, to them I’m just another driver.”

  Liz watched him walk to his car, wickedly observing that he looked just as good going as he did coming.

  But he was wrong about thinking he was just another driver to those girls.

  Like Liz, they knew a hunk when they saw one.

  Rick was in the second qualifying race, and he and Mack and the crew used the extra time till then to keep working. Still Liz managed to get the who
le crew lined up beside the car for more photos.

  It did not take much to get caught up in all the excitement, and she felt so proud to walk with the crew as they rolled the car onto the track to line up for the start of the race.

  The grandstands were packed. Bands were playing. All around fans were cheering for their favorite driver.

  Liz wondered where she should watch the race. She didn’t want to be in the way in the pits but wanted to keep up with what was going on. Then she noticed some PR guys she’d met at the party last night heading for the press tower in the infield. She fell in step behind them, figuring she couldn’t go wrong following her peers.

  The tower was floor-to-ceiling glass on all sides, and Liz thrilled to be able to see the entire track. It was deliciously air-conditioned, and there was plenty to eat and drink.

  As writers worked on laptops, other PR reps passed out freebies like caps, T-shirts and other items with their drivers’ logos. Liz hoped her own supplies would come in. As soon as the race was over and she knew where Rick would be in Sunday’s lineup, she was off to work on his press kit.

  “There’re off,” somebody shouted.

  Liz found a chair and sat down to watch. The cars had taken the pace laps. The pace car had pulled in, and the green flag was waving.

  Her eyes stayed on Rick’s car, and, for a while, things went smoothly. Then there was a four-car pileup right in front of him. She clenched her fists and bit down on her lower lip—hard—to keep from screaming. It looked as though he was going to plow right into the middle of the melee. Instead, he went high, and then she feared he’d hit the wall.

  “Hey, look at how slick car sixty got around all that,” a writer yelled. “Who’s the driver?”

  “Rick Castles,” Liz said loudly and proudly. “Sponsored by Big Boy’s Pizza.”

  “He’s a rookie,” somebody else said. “Quite a feat. He’s gonna bear watching this season.”

  “Right.” Liz was beside herself. “I’ll have his press kits in a few days. Meanwhile, if anybody needs to line up an interview, I’ll take care of it. The name’s Liz Mallory, and I’m his PR rep.”

  She turned back to the race, thrilling to every second as Rick kept up with the pack. When he moved into fifth place, she heard more murmurs from the press as to his driving ability.

  When he passed for third, and it looked like he might give a run for victory…actually had a chance to win, Liz could contain herself no longer. She was jumping up and down and clapping her hands and so were a lot of the writers, eager to pull for an underdog.

  But he never made it closer than third. Still, cheers went up for a rookie who had done so well.

  Suddenly Liz found herself surrounded by journalists clamoring to set up interviews. Rick Castles’s finish was worthy of a feature story.

  “Say, why don’t you call down on your radio and get him up here for an interview?” someone suggested. Others agreed.

  Liz felt stupid not to have her own headset and radio. She’d seen how a lot of other PR reps had them to keep in touch with the crew chief, but that was something she just hadn’t thought about. Boy, did she have her homework cut out for her.

  “Radio wasn’t working,” she said with an exaggerated shrug. “I’ll just go get him.” She passed the food tables, laden with sandwiches and fried chicken. “He’ll probably be hungry, anyway, since his garage space is far away from the food like the rest of the rookies.”

  A writer helping himself to cake squares gave her a strange look. “What are you talking about?”

  “The rookies. They aren’t near the food. They have to earn it, you know.”

  Others, overhearing, turned to stare.

  “The rookies,” she repeated lamely, wondering what was wrong. “They aren’t near the food like the top drivers.”

  “Would you please explain that?” the one with the heaping plate of cake squares asked, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I mean, what does being a rookie have to do with being near food?”

  Stiffly, defensively, Liz said, “That’s what I was told by the garage guard my first day when I asked where I’d find my driver. He said he’d be in the back, not up front with the hot dogs. I asked somebody what that meant, and they said rookies weren’t near the food stands, and—”

  As the room exploded with laughter, Liz slapped her forehead and groaned to remember just who that somebody was.

  The mechanic under the car.

  Also known as Rick Castles.

  And once again he’d made her look like a fool.

  Chapter Four

  There were two days left before the big race. Liz was sequestered in her hotel room going over her notes to make sure she had not forgotten anything. Gary Staley’s jet would arrive just before lunch, so she had plenty of time.

  Jeff was coming in on a commercial flight and had said he would meet them and take them to lunch. Liz had made reservations at an upscale restaurant and planned to join them there.

  The press kits had been completed by midweek. She was very proud of them, and several journalists had complimented her on a great job. She had thanked them without explaining they would be even better once she had time to write some feature articles on Rick herself. But she could not do that till she got to know him a little better, and since the humiliating incident in the press box, she had avoided him as much as possible.

  A week had passed since his performance in the qualifying races had given him a little more than fifteen minutes of fame. He had been the subject of several stories the following day in newspapers all over the country. He’d also been interviewed for radio and TV.

  Liz had planned to play it for all it was worth, but the next day a well-known driver had wrecked his car in practice. The car was nothing but crumpled sheet metal, and she could not believe anyone could have survived such a crash. The driver had to be airlifted from the infield medical center to a local hospital, mercifully with no life-threatening injuries, but, of course, the media focused on him.

  The day after that, something else had happened, and so it went. The sportswriters were constantly looking for new subjects to write about, so no one driver stayed in the limelight for long. Still, Liz had stayed busy trying to drum up interest in Rick. She had wanted to have a big story in the Sunday paper to impress not only the sponsor but her boss, as well.

  She was sprawled on the bed, wearing shorts and a T-shirt with Rick’s picture on it. The tees had just gone on sale at the track concession stands the day before, and she was anxious to find out how they were selling. But first things first.

  After lunch, Jeff was to drive the VIPs to the track, where Liz had arranged for them to have passes to the pit area to watch the last practice session. However, the crew was taking a day off. Their families had arrived, and they planned to relax at the beach the rest of the day.

  She picked up Rick’s folder and began leafing through it. She knew it by heart. He was thirty-two. Older than the other rookies in their mid-twenties. But his had been a small, cheap operation. It had taken a lot of work and time on a very small budget to finally catch the eye of a sponsor willing to back him on the NASCAR circuit.

  It had also taken skill as a driver, which Rick obviously had. He and Mack were longtime friends from a small town in Georgia. They had formed the team and run the short tracks all over the Southeast. Rick had won several local championships, made a name for himself and now he had been given a chance to run with the hot dogs.

  Liz made a face to recall her humiliation in the press box. Though sorely tempted, she’d not said a word to Rick and spent little time in the garage, instead focusing on the press kits and getting them distributed, as well as trying to line up publicity for him.

  She had approached him only when she needed to talk to him about something specific—like the autographing he’d done earlier in the week at a nearby mall. She had been quite impressed at the crowd he’d drawn. He was obviously popular with his fans, and she hoped to make him even more so and
win new ones.

  She read in his bio again about his degree from Georgia Tech in automotive engineering. He had probably commanded a high salary in that field before giving it up to go into racing full-time.

  She took out the color photos from the press kit. She especially liked the one of Rick beside the race car. He made wonderful pictures, his dark, rugged good looks coming through on camera.

  As always, Liz found herself wondering about his personal life and what he would be doing on a day others were with their families. Someone so handsome was bound to be in a relationship, which would explain his ambivalence to the beautiful young women who flocked around him at every opportunity. If so, it was an admirable trait. She liked loyalty in a man…something she, unfortunately, had yet to experience.

  But she did not envy Rick’s girlfriend his archaic views toward women. Maybe she never showed up at the track because he made it clear he thought it was no place for females. Probably he kept her in what he considered her place—at home.

  That would never work for Liz. But it didn’t matter. She was hoping if all went well, Jeff would move her on up the ladder to bigger accounts. So it wasn’t as if she would have to remain Rick’s PR rep for the duration of his sponsorship with Big Boy’s Pizza.

  She wondered about her own schedule. The next race was in Rockingham, North Carolina, in only a week. Qualifying would begin midweek, which gave her just a few days to return to Charlotte and settle into her new apartment. She’d rented it on the Internet and hoped it would be okay. It really made no difference, though, because with a thirty-four-race schedule to follow, she’d hardly be home long enough to unpack, do her laundry, then throw everything back in her suitcase.

  A glance at the clock told her she still had plenty of time to get dressed for lunch. Still, a long, soaking bath would be nice.

  She was about to step into the tub when the phone rang. It was Rick, and he sounded annoyed.

  “I need your help.”

  She went into her public relations mode, sounding cordial but all business. “Certainly. What can I do for you?”