A real father.
And maybe, after spending half of her life wondering where she’d come from and where she belonged, maybe Travis Chastaine could give her some answers. Only then would she consider giving him what he needed.
Chapter
Four
Surrounded by hundreds of thousands of less-than-sober race fans, Celeste wondered if she’d moved heaven and earth just to get to hell. Even in the late afternoon, Daytona International Speedway was hot enough to qualify.
She managed to make her way through a throng of reporters and fans at the entrance to the garage area, searching for the lightning bolt and the number seven Beau told her to find.
She hadn’t told anyone at home where she was going—not even her mother or Jackie. They thought she was off to a spa to recover from the latest broken engagement.
She finally saw the words CHASTAINE MOTORSPORTS and a scarlet number seven at the top of one of the garages. Outside the entrance, men in yellow and red outfits ran around like a convention of McDonald’s employees, and everywhere she looked, she could see the well-known logo of the consumer electronics company, Dash Technologies.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” The security guard’s thick southern accent was laced with impatience. A sheen of sweat glistened on his wide forehead and patches of dampness darkened the armpits of his red and yellow lightning bolt shirt.
Before she could answer, a garbled announcement blared over the loudspeaker. She waited while the rowdy residents of hell responded with definitive approval. “I’m supposed to meet Beau Lansing today.”
He laughed heartily. “You and about fifty thousand other women.”
“He told me to come to this garage area.” She fixed her gaze over his shoulder, a flutter in her stomach at the thought that she was about to meet Travis Chastaine. Or was it at the thought of seeing Beau again? “It appears I’m at the correct place.”
“It appears that they’re droppin’ a green flag in about a half hour, ma’am,” he said with a snide smile.
She lifted the pass from around her neck toward his face. “I have this.”
“That’ll get you on Pit Road and not one inch past where you are right now.” His gaze dropped down, lingering over her thin poplin blouse and white denim pants. “Are you sure he didn’t say to go to his motor coach after the race? Nobody but team members and their family are allowed in the garage.”
I am family.
She dabbed at the perspiration at the nape of her neck, still not used to the way her recently cut hair stopped just below her ears. In this heat, she should have gone even shorter in her effort to change her look.
Someone shouted from the garage, and the guard nudged Celeste gently. “The car’s comin’ through. Step aside.”
Six men in the same vivid colors emerged from the mouth of the garage. They surrounded a brilliantly painted car with a number seven on the door and the Dash lightning bolt streaking across the hood. The men shouted to one another, one reaching into the open driver’s side window to steer the gaudy hot rod toward the access road.
The smell of burning rubber, mixed with a heady whiff of gas, assaulted her nostrils and stung her eyes. Celeste turned back to the garage. There, two men faced each other, deep in heated conversation. Beau Lansing gripped his helmet like a basketball between his powerful hands, his black hair dampened with sweat, a day’s worth of beard darkening his cheeks. He looked warrior-like in his red racing suit, and her stomach flipped involuntarily at the sight of him.
The other man stood about three inches shorter than Beau, with dark blond waves that thinned at the crown. A partly gray mustache dominated his face, and a stocky build and thick neck made him just as imposing as the strapping race car driver he was squared off against.
He turned from Beau, squinched his features, and then spat on the ground.
Revulsion rolled through her. Good God. What kind of flotsam floated around her gene pool?
The two men stepped out into the sunshine, and Celeste moved behind the security guard. As they approached, Travis Chastaine waved a piece of paper in Beau’s face, spewing obscenities in the thickest southern accent she’d ever heard.
“Son of a bitch, Beau! You may think Dash Technologies is brimmin’ in bullshit, but Harlan Ambrose is holdin’ the cards. And all you’re gonna be holdin’ is your johnson if we don’t start winnin’ some races.”
Celeste thought of the yellowed letter she’d found in the attic so many years ago. I think of you every minute and of our child growing inside of you. I’ll love you forever and then again, Lisie. I’ll always be your Chas.
This couldn’t possibly be the same man.
Then again, he hadn’t loved her forever. Not once someone waved $25,000 in his face.
“The engine was mistuned and you know it,” Beau responded in a tight voice. “The pit crew is off by three seconds, cutting fuel lines and dropping tools like a bunch of old ladies, and the information on the wind tunnel sims was dead wrong.” He leaned down toward Travis, poking a finger into the other man’s chest. “Something stinks and it isn’t my driving. I don’t need this pressure twenty minutes before I race.”
Travis pulled a baseball cap out of his back pocket and slapped it on his head. “You want pressure, boy? Let me remind you that every high-flyin’ executive who collects a six-figure paycheck from Dash is swillin’ mai tais up in the hospitality suite right now. Perhaps you forgot they dropped about sixteen million dollars so you can take their fancy lightnin’ bolt into Victory Lane at least a few times every year.”
“I can’t cross the finish line in a wrecked car, man.”
The security guard suddenly turned to her. “Wait here,” he drawled, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “I’ll talk to him.”
The guard’s movement exposed her. As soon as Beau saw her, a shared secret burned in his dark eyes. “Darlin’, you made it.”
She could do without the darlin’. Sensing Travis’s scrutiny, she ignored Beau and looked directly into a set of inquisitive green eyes so like her own it left her momentarily speechless.
“Who is she?”
“This is the young lady from New York I mentioned,” Beau said quickly. “The one I thought would be great for the sponsor relations job. This is—”
“Cece Benson.” Celeste stuck her hand toward Travis. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr…. Chastaine.”
“This ain’t no time for an interview, honey.”
She tilted her head in acknowledgment. “I’ll just take a moment of your time.”
Travis frowned. “Well, this is a daggum bad moment. Go find yourself a place behind the pit and don’t distract him.”
As he walked away, Celeste met Beau’s amused gaze. “He’s adorable,” she deadpanned. “A regular teddy bear.”
He laughed a little. “Prerace jitters. Don’t judge him by how he acts now.” Burnished gold glinted in his gaze, matching the edges of his hair in the late afternoon sun. “I’m glad you’re here.” The lock fell above his right eye, tempting any woman to reach up and brush it back in place.
“He’s not.” She looked at Travis, and not just because drinking in Beau in this heat could make her dizzy.
He leaned closer to her, an audacious smile teasing his lips. “Don’t worry about him. If I get a top ten finish, I’ll convince him you brought me luck.”
Her arms and legs felt oddly numb at his proximity. “Somehow I doubt you believe in luck.”
“Not for a second. But Travis does.”
A tall, bald man with a headset and stopwatch tugged at Beau’s sleeve. “Beau Jangles! Let’s go, man. Get up to the car and get your neck restraint on.” He gave Celeste a cursory once-over. “Bring your girlfriend, but move your ass.”
“Ce…Cece, meet my crew chief, Mickey Waggoner.” Beau pointed from one to the other. “Wag, be nice to her.”
The man nodded and started talking about tape and mileage and track temperature, but Beau had dropped a casual arm on her sho
ulder, making her…even warmer.
“Come on,” he said, ignoring his crew chief, “walk me to Pit Road.”
Several other people surrounded him, and the entourage moved toward the long row of cars, all as blindingly bright as his. Teams of men in jumpsuits that matched each car scurried around them, shouting over the noise of the crowd, forcing her against him. The asphalt scorched through her sandals, as hot as the man’s body that held her possessively to his side.
A reporter with a microphone and a cameraman holding a television minicam hustled up to them. “Beau, can we get a comment on the curse?”
“There is no curse.”
“Come on, Beau. You’ve heard the stories. You’re last year’s champion with a string of top five finishes longer than this racetrack. Since Gus Bonnet’s accident, you haven’t had a top twenty finish. And you’ve crashed or blown an engine in five of the last eight races. If that isn’t a curse, what do you call it?”
Beau slid his fingers up the nape of her neck, tunneling into her damp hair, sending a cascade of sparks straight down her spine. “A slump.”
He kept walking, but the camera stayed with them. Suddenly two women ran toward him, one wearing a white T-shirt with the words BEAU BABE emblazoned across the front, the other wearing SEVEN IS BEAUTIFUL rolling over a well-endowed chest.
“We love you, Beau!” the Beau Babe said breathlessly, holding up her hair and thrusting her right breast toward him.
“Love you right back, baby.” Without missing a beat, he grabbed a pen and autographed her shirt right above his name, winked at her, and then continued their procession. They followed the line of cars until they reached the blazing red number seven, nearly at the end.
A pack of red and yellow men gathered around him.
“It’s show time, Beau Jangles,” the crew chief said. “Get your good luck kiss.”
Suddenly his other arm came around Celeste’s waist, his face just inches from hers. “Now I believe in luck,” he whispered to her.
She could smell the garage on him, the Florida heat, and something indescribably male. Testosterone and fuel. His lips touched hers lightly, then he increased the pressure long and hard enough to send shock waves careening through her.
Someone pulled him away just as the kiss ended, but his heated gaze stayed on her.
Two men helped him place a sinister-looking black device over his shoulders and pull a canary-colored helmet over his head, then he climbed through the driver’s side window with easy grace. He spoke to one of the crew who blocked her view of his face.
She took three steps backward, then stopped as her body hit something warm and hard and human.
“I said don’t distract him and I meant it.”
She spun around to meet Travis Chastaine’s warning glare.
“I have no intention of distracting him,” she said. “That’s not why I’m here.”
He gnawed his lip and regarded her intently. “I know why you’re here.”
Her heart flipped. “You do?”
“Out to fetch yourself the grand prize of racin’—the driver.”
She laughed with relief. “I’m afraid you have it all wrong. I merely want to be part of this exciting sport.”
“Hah!” He pursed his lips like he was going to spit again. “You’ve never been on a racetrack in your life, and you probably wouldn’t recognize a spark plug if it bit you in the ass. You don’t want a job. You want entertainment and we ain’t offerin’ any.”
His voice was gruff, but something about his way-too-familiar eyes removed the sting from his words. Maybe it was because she knew he needed her. Even if he didn’t know it, she had the upper hand.
“But I do know how to get money out of people who have it. And isn’t that what you’re looking for, Mr. Chastaine?”
“I ain’t worried about what I’m lookin’ for. It’s what you’re lookin’ for that bothers me.” A young man handed Travis a pair of headphones, and he snapped them on over his hat. Without another word, he turned toward a towering tool chest and hoisted himself to one of two chairs at the top, sitting next to Wag, the crew chief.
A group of well-dressed spectators sat on the risers behind the pit, and she climbed the stairs to join them, ignoring their stares.
“Who’s that?” she heard a man whisper.
“The latest Beau Babe.”
Celeste kept her gaze riveted on the track, wondering if they were the very sponsors she was going to be hired to manage.
“What about the French girl?” someone else asked.
Thankfully a hundred grandstand speakers crackled with the opening notes of “The Star Spangled Banner.” She focused on Beau’s car, running her tongue over her lips as she remembered the warmth of his surprise kiss.
She watched him adjust his helmet, then tug on a pair of gloves. Just as one of the crew started snapping a black net over the window opening, she saw him bow his head. He really did pray before a race.
Beau forced himself to focus and forget the instant arousal he’d felt when he kissed that honey-haired angel who had miraculously, unbelievably, incredibly appeared at the racetrack. He hadn’t thought the little debutante had the nerve to show up. Son of a bitch, she’d really done it. Cut her hair, changed her name, and marched right into the garage area like the queen of England.
“You ready to rock and roll, Beau Jangles?”
Mickey Waggoner’s raspy voice came through the tiny receiver taped over his ear, using the nickname Beau hated almost as much as Travis hated being called “Chassis” Chastaine.
“I was born ready, Wag.”
He closed his eyes and blocked everything out. He didn’t believe in luck or the wretched curse of Gus Bonnet. He couldn’t. The only thing he believed in was his own impeccable timing, his skill, his focus, and his unmatched hand-eye coordination. He believed in finding the groove and out-thinking the competition. And he believed in the man upstairs.
Gil Lansing.
Beau let his lips move silently as he talked to his father, fueling the prayer myth.
Come on, Dad. Stay with me, man. Talk to me. I need to hear you. I need this one real bad.
His father’s voice, even twenty-two years after some drunken bastard silenced it on a Richmond highway one rainy night, was louder than the engines, louder than the crowd.
“Garrett, it’s not rocket science. Think, drive, and stay out of traffic. Race the track, son, not the other cars. Race the track.”
He’d have never made it to thirty-seven years old, surviving hundreds of races and countless crashes, without the force that guided him—the man who’d sat on the pit wall with a stopwatch since Beau was seven years old, driving go-carts and quarter midgets. God, how he wished his father was up on the pit cart now.
“Here come your four favorite words, Beau,” Travis’s voice crackled in his ear.
“Beau Lansing finishes first?” he joked into the mike.
“Yeah,” Travis answered. “In about three hours, boy.”
Beau smiled and checked his seat belt again. At least he had Travis—for now. And maybe for a lot longer. If Celeste cooperated, Beau wouldn’t have to go through that loss twice in his life.
The Daytona rowdies quieted just long enough for Beau to hear the speedway loudspeakers vibrate with the most famous instructions in racing.
“Gentlemen. Start. Your. Engines.”
He flicked his ignition switch with a gloved finger, spilling a surge of power through his veins and the Dash Chevy Monte Carlo.
“Watch that draft, boy,” Travis warned through the static of the earpiece. “Use it, don’t lose it.”
Beau hardly heard him over the thunder of his Chevy’s 780 horses, panting to be let loose as he rolled to his place on the track.
Nearly 200,000 people stomped their feet, but very few of them were screaming his name. The Pepsi 400 at Daytona was classic track smack, and forty-three drivers would race and clash and trade paint for 160 laps until one of them out-thoug
ht and out-drove and out-lasted all the rest. This time, he’d be the one.
A comforting quiver of excitement shook Beau as hard as the vibrating steering wheel. He positioned his body in the seat, and psyched his brain to lunge into a two-hundred-mile-an-hour free fall. The car felt good enough to get him to the front. If only he could stay pointed in the right direction and out of trouble, then he just might make it.
As the green flag fell, the speedway shook with the deafening roar of the start. He dipped deep into the groove on turn one and kissed 190 in the straightaway. The shocks and springs danced in synch and the tires resonated under him in perfect harmony.
It felt silky smooth coming out of turn two, riding up the incline to the precise line he wanted to take. He passed the next four cars in front of him, edging his way toward the front of the pack.
“Steady Beau J, you got a whole bunch more trips around the track,” Wag warned him. “Save the tires. We don’t pit for forty-five laps.”
Beau ignored him and fired forward like a missile, moving to the inside, eating up asphalt and systematically passing one car, then another, then another.
The track came to him like a thing of beauty and he stayed ahead of the pack, though not in the lead, holding his track position easily for the first half of the race.
With about seventy laps to go, a sudden change in the crowd’s pitch nearly drowned out the instructions from one of his spotters. Beau recognized the fevered cry of hero worship that rocked the massive bowl of humanity.
“Dallas Wyatt just took the lead.” Travis’s disgusted tone confirmed what Beau suspected.
“And where’s the son and holy spirit?” Beau shot back, grateful they’d switched to a private comm channel.
“Dusty’s in fifth and brother Dan’s in eighth,” Wag said.
The natives would be overjoyed if the golden Wyatt boys did well. That’s the way they used to feel about him…before Gus Bonnet got caught in Beau’s draft and slammed into the wall. Now Beau was relegated to the status of the villain for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Killer Curves Page 4
