Thunderstruck

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Okay, Ernie, if money and sponsorship are at the heart of this, I swear to you that I’ll make getting more my top priority this year. Or I can go looking for capital. I can get more loans. We don’t need some outsider in here just because you think his world fame will bring sponsorship.” She squeezed his hand again. “Please. Let me do it my way.”

  Ernie drew back. “You know what I think?”

  “I’m about to find out.”

  “I think you’re scared of him.”

  She scowled at him. “You’re wrong. I’m scared of losing what my father and my grandfather built from nothing all those years ago.”

  “You know, I was, too, but then this opportunity landed in my lap.”

  “I thought you approached him.”

  “We found each other.” He punched her lightly in the arm, but his eyes were dead serious. “Use your head, woman. If we don’t do something—something creative and ballsy—then we’re gonna get sideswiped right off the track. There are forty-three slots and we want two of them now. We got to fight harder and smarter and better.”

  She sighed, unable to argue with the obvious. “Are you open to any other options?”

  He shrugged. “If you got ’em.”

  She didn’t, not yet anyway.

  The lounge door opened and Mick walked right in.

  “Since you’re learning your way around NASCAR,” she said drily, “you ought to know that you always knock on the lounge door when it’s in use.”

  “Apologies,” he said, that British accent making the word sound damn near poetic. Then he knocked on the open door. “May I?”

  May he what? Annoy, irritate, distract, destroy and look good enough to eat all at the same time? “Yes,” she answered.

  “So,” Mick said. “The guy who drives the hauler is also the over-the-wall gas man on race day?”

  Ernie laughed. “That’s the nature of a small team.”

  “Maybe we can change that,” Mick said brightly.

  Shelby stood and gave Ernie a quick I-told-you-so glance, then slipped out of the lounge, leaving the door open behind her. As she stepped into the hallway, she could have sworn she heard them both laugh, and that just made her blood five degrees hotter.

  She turned around to tell them that when Mick’s comment froze her in her spot. “You forgot to mention your granddaughter was gorgeous, Ernie.”

  “Same as I forgot to mention she was opinionated, bossy, controlling and cautious. But she’s got a good heart and it’s in the right place.”

  “But she’s gorgeous. You might have warned me.”

  She cursed the heat that comment sent through her. So now he was going to try to take the company and hit on her at the same time?

  “Uh, did I not make this clear yet?” Ernie had his voice of authority on full force now. “She ain’t part of the package, son. Don’t you go there.”

  She closed her eyes in mock exasperation. She’d still be waiting for her first kiss if Ernie had anything to say about it.

  “We have a deal, son. You need me and I need you. I’m all for this deal because I want to leave Shelby with a healthy team and a bright future. But you so much as kiss her, you kiss this deal goodbye.”

  Shelby drew back with a surprised smile, but Mick’s laugh was half disbelief. “Are you serious?” he asked.

  “As hell. You break her heart, I’ll break your neck.”

  God bless him. As if Ernie could take on a six-foot-two athlete made of granite and steel.

  “Don’t think I don’t know all about your track record with them underwear models, Mick.”

  Mick laughed self-consciously. “That’s all PR.”

  “Not hardly. But those women, they’re different from Shelby. She’s not as tough as she acts. So you do whatever you have to do to make sure she sees how smart our plan is, but keep your hands off her, hear?”

  Part of her was touched by Ernie’s unyielding protectiveness of her. Another part, the wholly female part that had been fluttering ever since Mick had emerged from the other side of a race car, was not touched. And wanted to be. By Mick.

  “No fear, Ernest. It’s not like she’s throwing herself at me.”

  “Oh, she won’t,” Ernie said. “But if you lay a hand on her, we’re done.”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  Shelby couldn’t keep the smug smile off her face. The hauler lounge was definitely the place for secrets.

  At least she knew how to get rid of Mick Churchill if she had to. If she wanted to.

  She did want to, didn’t she?

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHELBY DARKENED THE computer screen with one keystroke and pushed herself away from the desk very slowly.

  Still, Thunder sounded a groaning opinion.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said to the noisy chair, scooping up her handbag and turning off the desk lamp to bathe the room in complete darkness. “So he’s famous and I never heard of him. So a Google search turned up seventeen billion hits. So he’s in a thousand pictures carrying around various versions of blond arm candy. Now we know the enemy, Dad.”

  And the enemy was not exactly on top of his game. The Striker, it seemed, hadn’t scored a goal in his last ten games. In fact, this year he hadn’t renewed his contract and had taken a “hiatus.” At least that’s what his agent called it. In her sport they called it nonrenewal.

  The chair was silent, and Shelby stood very slowly, listening to the quiet of the shop this late at night. What she wanted to hear was the one voice she’d never hear again. The real voice, and not just one she imagined.

  It was one thing to pretend Daddy really did squawk his opinions to her from this chair, one thing to refuse to oil him into submission. But in truth, she’d give anything to hear what Thunder Jackson really had to say about Mick Churchill worming his way into their business.

  Maybe he’d say if Ernie wanted to do it, then it was smart. He’d always respected his father. Maybe he’d say she was being pigheaded and shortsighted.

  Or maybe he’d roll over in his grave if he knew an interloper was sniffing around Thunder Racing and threatening to change the family business that Thunder and Ernie had built from nothing but sweat and grease and raw determination.

  But he wasn’t there. She was on her own. Once again.

  The first time, she’d been six and Mama had decided she hated the racing life. So she took Shelby to Minnesota and was diagnosed with breast cancer a year later. When she died, Thunder brought Shelby back to the races and spent the rest of his life trying to be two parents to her. At sixteen, Shelby fell hard for a boy who was killed on the highway driving to his first race.

  Change had never been good for her. Just about the time she and Thunder had hit a perfect stride, he’d changed crew chiefs and switched from Fords to Chevys and worked himself to…well, to death. At least it seemed that way when he went to take a nap in his motor coach right after qualifying fourth at Darlington and never came out.

  She’d been twenty when Thunder had died of a heart attack, long past the age where she needed a parent. But Ernie had stepped into the job with both feet, and as a business partner she’d relied on him for years. What tragedy could this latest change bring? She closed her eyes and thought of Ernie, looking older and more frail than she could remember.

  Something about this deal just didn’t feel right. If Ernie wanted to retire, that was understandable. But couldn’t she figure out her own way to save the company?

  She slipped into the darkened hallway. It was nearly eleven o’clock and none of the mechanics were working late tonight. Did that mean everything was hunky-dory out there?

  She wouldn’t know. She’d been so distracted all day she’d forgotten to check the status of the engine building and the new tires they’d ordered. Instead she’d spent the last hour and a half Googling Mick Churchill.

  She locked the back door and kept her keys out, pointing them at her black Chevy Colorado truck to unlock the doors and turn on the
lights. Stomping the cold, hard asphalt, she started toward the truck but paused at the sound of a strange rhythmic noise. Thwack. Bump. Thwack. Bump.

  What was that? Peering into the darkness toward the grass beyond the lot, she saw a shadow moving, heard the smack of…

  Oh, Lord. A soccer ball.

  Thwack. Bump. Thwack. “I thought you’d never finish up in there.” His English accent spilled over the night air like hot caramel on ice cream.

  He moved closer, into the beam of her headlights so that halogen bathed his hair in an ethereal glow and made his teeth even whiter against tan skin. He bounced the ball from knee to head and back again, keeping it in constant motion. And yet his hands stayed tucked into jeans pockets, unused. Misty puffs of cold air surrounded his face, and his down vest hung open, revealing a broad chest she’d spent way too much time noticing all day.

  Was he crazy playing soccer out here in the cold?

  “I heard that heading the ball can give you brain damage.” She hadn’t actually heard that; she’d read his quote in an interview. “Although someone said most players have so few brains it’s not much of a loss.”

  “No, I said I had so few brains. It was self-deprecating humor and it works very well with the media, you know.” He let the ball hit the ground and set one foot on top of it with the ease of a man who’d made the move a billion times. “But I’m flattered you’re reading my press clippings.”

  No use denying it. “My daddy always said, ‘Know thy enemies.’”

  She waited for the quip, the teasing grin, the wink that probably melted the legions of blondes hanging on his arm and his every word.

  Instead he gave her a very serious look, then jerked his leg, and the ball came right back up and he grabbed it with his hands. He held it to her like a peace offering. “Shelby, I’m not your enemy.”

  She shivered and prayed that was the cold night air and not the look in his eyes. “Aren’t you freezing out here?” she asked, continuing toward her truck.

  He shrugged. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You could have come into my office. The door is always open.”

  “You looked busy.”

  Good thing she’d admitted the truth. He’d probably stood in her doorway and watched her peruse every word ever written about him. “I have a lot of work to do to get ready for the season. Daytona is right around the corner.”

  “And it ends in Homestead after thirty-six races. See?” He followed her to the driver’s-side door as she pulled it open. “I’m learning.”

  “You still don’t know what an intake manifold is.”

  “Teach me.”

  She shot him a look as she climbed onto the running board. “There’s a book called NASCAR for Dummies. You’re the target audience.”

  He laughed. “So what did you learn today?”

  “That my grandfather is not too old to surprise and astound me.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “That’s for sure. But I meant what did you learn in all your Internet searches about me?”

  She pulled herself into the driver’s seat, and he immediately filled the open space, blocking her from closing the door.

  “Where do I begin?” she asked. “From your birth to your last goal, it’s all out there in cyberspace. Your accomplishments, your celebrity, your twenty-five-million-dollar contract, your rise…and—” she gave him a deliberately hard look “—your pathetic last season.”

  “Pounds,” he said with a half smile. “The contract was for pounds, not dollars. Quite a difference.”

  “Regardless of the exchange rate, you’re rich and you’re finished.” She tugged at the door, but he didn’t move. “And now you’re buying your way into more fame and glory since what you had seems to be slipping away fast.”

  He cocked his head. “Fame I don’t need.”

  “Well, glory you won’t get. Not with this team. There are much bigger names in the sport.”

  “Did you learn anything else?” he asked. “From your search?”

  Was he concerned she’d find dirt? He almost sounded worried. “Only that the media has tracked at least three major breakups with someone named Chelsea. Or Lindsay. Or Darcy. I get them all mixed up.”

  He grinned. “That makes two of us. Can I come into your truck? It’s cold out here.”

  For one insane split second she almost said yes. But she’d save that for when Ernie was around. “Freeze.”

  That made him laugh. “You’re pretty tough, aren’t you?”

  On the outside. “I can be.” She stabbed the key into the ignition and glanced at him. “I’m leaving.”

  He still didn’t move. “I’m staying.”

  “Don’t make me drag you across the parking lot.”

  He chuckled. “I mean I’m staying here. At Thunder Racing. For a while. Let’s call a truce and see how it goes.”

  “I have,” she said. “Now I want to go home and sleep so I can get up early and run this shop again tomorrow.”

  “You know, I think it’s more than just the fact that this whole thing blindsided you. What else is bothering you?”

  She’d actually asked herself that question a million times during the day. “When my father died and I inherited his half of the business, I promised myself I’d run it exactly the way he’d want it run. I don’t think that includes agreeing to sell Ernie’s half to a soccer player who doesn’t know or love the history of this sport.”

  He put both hands on the roof, his magnificent body forming a human window net. “But I know or love sport in general. I understand the nature of competition. Does it really matter if you’re kicking a ball down a grass field or driving a car two hundred times around a circle? Winning is winning. And I live for it.”

  “There’s a history in my sport, a culture and a way of life,” she countered. “There’s also a sense of family among my employees—some of whom have been with Thunder for twenty years or more. You don’t understand that.”

  “I understand family, Shelby,” he said, his voice suddenly low and serious. “And I’m willing to learn the way of yours.”

  “And that’s very smart and noble,” she said, eyeing him. “But you already told me you want to make this a big team like the powerhouses that are all over NASCAR now.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Thunder wouldn’t agree. He’d hate what’s happened to this sport. He’d despise all the television coverage and the movie stars in the Victory Lane. He’d hate having to go on Larry King after winning at Daytona.”

  “I’d bet he’d hate having to shut down his business even more.”

  She swallowed against a lump the size of a lug nut in her throat. “That’s true,” she acknowledged.

  He rested on his elbows, his masculine scent mixed with the aroma of cold night air and the worn leather of the soccer ball filling her car.

  “Tell you what, Shelby. How about we make a deal?”

  She slid her gaze to the side, to where his vest hung open and his chest rose and fell just inches from her face. Her palm actually itched to touch it. Instead she looked straight ahead and jangled the keys impatiently. “What?”

  “Give me two weeks. Then, if you don’t agree that my influence and partnership would be a great thing for the team, I will walk away.”

  She frowned at him. “Really? You would leave if I decide it’s not good for the team?”

  “Absolutely. So you have nothing to lose. Give me a couple of weeks, and if you still feel the way you do today, then I’ll never darken your race shop again.”

  Two weeks. With that chest inches from her fingertips. That accent torturing her ears. That hair, that smile, those eyes.

  “I don’t have two weeks to give you, Mick. We leave for Daytona in a few days and we’re there until after the race.”

  “Awesome. I’m looking forward to going.”

  She closed her eyes and let out an exasperated breath. What if he was the answer to Thunder Racing’s prayers? She wasn’t
so stupid she’d let the ship sink without trying to figure out some way to save it.

  “Let me think about it,” she said. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Tell me tonight.” He dipped a little closer.

  She couldn’t fight the urge anymore. She put a hand on his chest. “Tomorrow.” But she didn’t push as she’d intended to. Instead she just felt the muscles under her fingers tense and his heart rate kick up.

  A sense of power flowed through her. Did he have the same physical reaction to her as she had to him? Or did he just love the thrill of a challenge?

  “C’mon, sweetheart. Make this deal. When they wave the checkered flag—see, I know that now—then you can look at me and say one word. Yes or no. You have nothing to lose.”

  “Oh, I have plenty to lose,” she said with a mirthless laugh. Sleep, sanity and control. Especially if she tried to lure him into something just so Ernie would get rid of him. Yep, she could lose plenty. But not her team. She wouldn’t lose that.

  “Just until the first race.” He reached one hand out, an expectant look in his eyes. “Deal?”

  Instead of reaching out to shake his hand she squeezed her fist and balled up a piece of his shirt. She could still feel his heart hammer and, under her fingertips, the steel of his muscular chest. Heat rolled from him regardless of the temperature.

  She looked up into his eyes and pulled him deeper into the car. “Deal.”

  And then he kissed her, and all she could do was part her lips and kiss him back. Even though there wasn’t a witness in sight.

  “WHOA. DID YOU SLEEP in the transporter or something? You look like hell on a stick.”

  Shelby dropped onto the torn leather sofa that lined one wall of the break room and closed her eyes. “Thank you, Janie. You can’t imagine how good that makes me feel.”

  Janie Nelson held out the full cup of coffee she’d just poured and handed it to Shelby, her blue eyes full of sympathy. “Darlin’, you need this more than I do.”

  Shelby sipped and squished her face in disgust. “God, I hate fake sugar.”

  “If I had your figure, I would, too.” Janie poured another, dumped in two yellow packets of poison and settled next to Shelby. “If having a second car and driver is going to steal this much sleep, you should reconsider the decision.”