Thunderstruck

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Got your hands full with Slater, don’t you?” he said, surprising her with the change of subject as he circled the car.

  Clayton Slater’s reputation as a bad boy was only one of the reasons she almost didn’t hire him. But last Christmas he convinced her he had the goods in the most untraditional way. She smiled thinking of how he’d pretended to be happily married just to impress David Kincaid. The truth came out, but not before Shelby had recognized a kindred spirit willing to take risks to win.

  But she wasn’t going into all that with this nosy reporter. “He’s ready to race at Cup level, I have no doubt. His record in the NASCAR Busch Series was impressive and we’re confident he has an excellent shot at a top-ten finish in his rookie year.”

  Rocco wrote something in his little notebook, but Shelby couldn’t make out the scratching.

  “Oh, he’s a helluva racer, I’ll give you that,” he said, dividing his attention between the car and the notebook. “But his personal life’s a mess.”

  “Not anymore.” She could have kicked herself the minute she said it because the reporter looked at her with interest. Always looking for dirt. “I’ll let him tell you about it,” she added.

  “So what are you doing differently this year, Shelby, to improve that lousy finish you had last year?”

  What did they call that question in media training? A trick, no-win trap. Like how long ago did you stop beating your wife?

  She smiled. “Why don’t you come into my office, Rocco, so I can tell you all about it?”

  He nodded, and she took him the back way to keep him out of the shop. And away from Mick, a face he’d no doubt recognize instantly.

  In the safety of her office, she buzzed her assistant, who brought them coffee, and settled into her chair with a quick, secret squeeze of the torn leather seat.

  C’mon, Daddy. Help me out here.

  Rocco flipped through the last pages of his notes and formulated his next question.

  “So where’s Ernie?” he asked far too casually.

  She had no idea. “He’s not in today.”

  Rocco gave her a surprised look. “A week before you leave for Daytona? The team owner isn’t here?”

  “Co-owner,” she corrected. “And we both have many, many responsibilities away from the shop.” But where was Ernie? He was never around anymore.

  “Guess he’s getting kind of old for a business that keeps you on the road thirty-six weeks a year.”

  “He doesn’t need to make every race,” she answered. “I’m there. And he’s always watching and consulting by phone. It’s not like he’s not involved with the team.”

  She cursed the defensiveness in her voice. There was no story here.

  “Ever think about selling?” he asked suddenly.

  Or maybe there was. “No.”

  “Does Ernie?”

  “I can’t speak for Ernie’s every thought, Rocco. I’ll be happy to arrange an interview.” Not.

  He held up one hand. “No need to get testy, Shelby.”

  Screw him. “Do you want to talk about our cars, drivers and strategy for winning or are you looking to do some sort of behind-the-scenes look at the inner workings of one of the last family-owned teams in NASCAR? If it’s the latter, I’ll be glad to have my PR team arrange for you to spend a few days with us during the off-season. But this close to Daytona, I’m afraid I’m not prepared to invest that much time.”

  He scratched something on the paper.

  “That’s not for attribution.”

  He looked at her over the glasses. “I don’t believe in ‘off the record’ and you know it.”

  She swallowed a retort and let him continue to write, seconds crawling by as he looked at his notes and prepared his next question.

  “All righty then,” he said, leaning back. “Are you and Ernie fifty-fifty owners or does one of you own a larger percentage?”

  Shelby swore silently. What the hell did this have to do with how they were preparing for Daytona? This kind of coverage would demoralize the team and wouldn’t make the sponsors feel too great either. How could she get him off this track?

  “I bet I could get Clay Slater in here tomorrow for an interview,” she said. “He hasn’t done too many since he signed on to drive the Kincaid car. I’m sure we could get you something exclusive.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m hearing rumors, Shelby.”

  Outside of her shop? “What kind of rumors?”

  “That your grandfather is looking to back out of racing.”

  “So what if he is?” she shot back. “I could buy his half of the business.”

  “Oh, so you are fifty-fifty partners.”

  Another trick she’d played right into. “No comment.”

  He gave her a get-real look, but then his attention was suddenly diverted by a noise in the hallway. The familiar thwack-bump-thwack could only mean one thing.

  Rocco DiLorenzi’s smile confirmed it. He looked at Shelby, then the hall, then back at Shelby. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Shelby rolled forward to look and her chair whined loudly. “I don’t know. Who do you think it is?”

  His dark eyes bulged. “Mick Churchill. I heard he was here.”

  Just her luck he’d know soccer as well as racing. There was a double thwack-bump.

  “That’s me.” Uninvited, Mick suddenly filled her undersize office. His hair fell over one eye, his T-shirt du jour just as formfitting as yesterday’s. And, if it was humanly possible, he looked better in khakis than in jeans.

  He held out his hand as Rocco stood, staring.

  “It’s great to meet you, Mr. Churchill. What are you doing in Greensboro, North Carolina?”

  He buried Shelby in the sexiest smile she’d ever seen that wasn’t on a toothpaste commercial. “Just visiting some friends.”

  Rocco looked carefully from one to the other. “Really? I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

  “The world of professional sports is very small,” Mick assured him. “And I love nothing better than stopping by my friend’s race shop to see the incredible changes. This place just gets better every year.”

  Another minute and she have to lift her feet to avoid the BS piling up on the floor. But Rocco was buying it. And most definitely on another track. Only this one might be more dangerous.

  “How long have you followed racing, Mr. Churchill?” Rocco asked.

  Mick sat down in the other guest chair as if he’d been invited. “Long enough to know that this team is about to blow the socks off the competition.”

  “How’s that?” Rocco’s pen was poised, his eyes drawn to his new subject. “I mean, a team this small isn’t even guaranteed a spot, let alone two, in a race like Daytona.”

  Shelby leaned back and the chair grunted softly. Oh, I know, Daddy. He couldn’t even possibly understand the arcane rules that dictated qualifying races at Daytona or the fact that owner points helped set the race order. But she’d let Mick take a pass at Rocco. Who would no doubt roll over him like a fresh set of Goodyears.

  “All you have to do is spend a day with the guys out there and you’ll know.” Mick pointed toward the shop and Rocco scratched in his book. “They’re warriors. They want to be consistent, they want to be aggressive and they want to be in the front. This year, with two cars on the track, Thunder Racing is the team to watch.”

  He hadn’t really said anything, but Rocco was madly scribbling every word.

  “What’s the difference this year?” he asked.

  How could Mick possibly answer that?

  “You’ve got some of the best crew chiefs and mechanics in the business out there. And you’ve got a brand-new driver who wants to win and a seasoned driver who knows how. Not to mention the legacy of Thunder Jackson in the air.”

  Don’t squeak over that, Daddy. Shelby placed her chin on her knuckles, just for the pleasure of watching Mick hand out platitudes that she couldn’t have sold to Rocco DiLorenzi ten minutes ago. And Ro
cco sucked them up and wrote them down and evidently forgot he’d had a story angle when he’d walked in the place.

  Mick spared her a quick glance as Rocco wrote. Then, of course, he winked, and her throat went bone-dry. Surely it wasn’t one little eye twitch that could make her feel so…tight. It had to be his use of terms like elite and fearless and competitive and, her favorite, dominant in the field of play.

  Frankly it was amazing. Not one word about racing. Not a single NASCAR acronym. Not one hint that he knew a drop about fuel strategy, pit times or shock absorbers.

  “There are two teams out there, Rocco,” Mick said, lowering his voice and leaning closer as if he was about to deliver the secret recipe for a happy life, “who live to race and race to win. You watch. They’re going to do it.”

  She didn’t know whether to stand up and applaud or roll her eyes. But she did know that Rocco wrote down every word Mick said, and even he couldn’t mess up a quote that powerful. Kincaid Toys and Country Peanut Butter would like it. The employees would like it. NASCAR would like it. Hell, she liked it.

  Before long, Mick ushered him out and promised to spend more time with him at Daytona. He was gone before he remembered he wanted a picture of the new car. Even the PR people would be happy.

  When they closed the front door on Rocco, Mick turned to her and gave her a serious look. “Nice guy.”

  Shelby held up her knuckles for some skin. “Nice work.”

  He tapped her back. “Told you to give me a chance.”

  “You really fended off a mess with him.”

  A spark lit his green eyes. “You know, on my planet we have a very specific way of saying thank you.”

  She looked up, a smile threatening. “On ours we just say it. Thank you.”

  “Not good enough,” he said, tapping her chin lightly. “Why don’t you go home at a decent hour and change into shoes that don’t have a single metal rivet, and I’ll pick you up at seven for a proper dinner.”

  Dinner. Date. Bad idea. Unless Ernie was around to witness her undoing. “I really can’t—”

  “By the way, the dyno’s fixed.”

  She didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. Instead she touched the spot on her chin where his finger had left a trail of warmth. Plus, if Ernie even heard about it, it might make him less enthused about Mighty Mick. It didn’t mean she was giving in or accepting him or consenting to the deal. It was dinner, for crying out loud.

  “No need to pick me up,” she said. “I’ll meet you somewhere.”

  Rationalization. Her power tool of choice.

  SHELBY WALKED INTO the Pillar House at exactly seven o’clock. Mick knew she wouldn’t be late. Although he half expected jeans and a T-shirt, he was certain that Shelby Jackson ran her life on time.

  But she had taken the time to change and, he noticed when she spied him sitting at the bar nursing a Glenlivet on the rocks, she’d even put on some makeup. As he got up to meet her, his gaze slid over the jacket she wore and down a pair of elegant black trousers.

  She pulled up her pants at the ankles and revealed a very sexy pair of high-heeled leather boots. “No rivets,” she said.

  “I’m honored.” He helped her out of her jacket and practically moaned at a sweater the color of sweet cream butter cut low enough to reveal a delicious inch of cleavage and tight enough to conform to the curves of her breasts. “Brilliant,” he whispered, not hiding the note of admiration in his voice. “And to think I thought you might stand me up.”

  “You don’t know me very well,” she said as he dropped a bill on the bar and left his drink behind. “My word is good.”

  As the hostess led the way, he put a sure hand on her lower back, liking the way it dipped and fit in his palm.

  As he had requested, they were seated at an intimate table in the back, a raging fireplace on one side, a frosted window looking out over hills and city lights on the other.

  “So you avoided me all afternoon,” he said after the hostess gave them menus and a wine list.

  “I was busy.” She opened the leather folder and smiled. “And you were not exactly lonely. The entire Mick Churchill Fan Club was waiting in line to show you their specialty. Good heavens, you even have Kenny Holt enamored of your fame.”

  “You got a problem with that driver,” Mick said.

  She put her menu on the table and furrowed her brow. “Is it that obvious?”

  “I’m afraid so. He doesn’t really want to be driving for Thunder Racing, and the message is buried in the subtext of everything he says.”

  “He jokes a lot,” she said vaguely.

  But Mick shook his head. “Trust me on this. He’s not doing you any favors.”

  She let out a long sigh. “I know that. I’ve known it for a while. But Country Peanut Butter loves him and they’re the sponsor.”

  “You’re the team owner.”

  “We’re small enough that we can’t really command the best drivers in NASCAR. But,” she added brightly, “I’m very excited about Clayton Slater. You’ll meet him tomorrow. You’ll like him.”

  “I’m sure I will. I like all competitors.” At her quizzical look, he added, “I know you don’t believe me. I know you think your sport of racing is unique and unlike anything played in the world today. And in some sense it is. But once you understand the mind-set of an athlete in one sport, you can pretty much understand them all.”

  She looked down, straightening her place setting and thinking. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

  “Rocco the Reporter did and that’s all that matters.” When she looked up, he smiled. “I’ll convince you eventually.”

  The waiter came, and Mick ordered a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape and listened to the specials. When they were alone again, he put both elbows on the table, balanced his chin on his knuckles and looked right into her eyes. “Can I ask you a very personal question?”

  She looked wary but lifted one shoulder. “I might not answer, but go ahead.”

  “Is that Winston Churchill quote really your motto?”

  She blinked at him, obviously expecting something more difficult to answer. “Never, never, never quit? Yes, it is. And it was my father’s. He didn’t know the meaning of give up and would rather slit his wrists than get a DNF.”

  “A DNF?”

  She laughed softly. “See? You didn’t learn everything about racing yet. It stands for Did Not Finish.”

  “I see.” He reached behind to his back pocket and pulled out his billfold. “I want to show you something.”

  He slid a worn yellow paper from its permanent home behind his Manchester United ID card. “Look.”

  She took the business card and held it to the light, sucking in a quick breath when she read it. “Winston Churchill?”

  “My father won that in a poker game. It’s real. Turn it over.”

  She did and read the words written in black script. The waiter came and opened the wine, and while he poured Shelby examined the card, reading the back. Mick knew the words by heart.

  Never, never, never give in.

  When they were alone, she handed him the card. “Who wrote that? Winston or your father?”

  “I did. But as I mentioned when we met, Winston said it first.”

  “Is it your personal motto?”

  “It’s my personal philosophy.”

  “And your father’s?”

  He managed a wry smile. “Hardly.” At her intrigued look, he took the confession one step further. A step, he realized, he hadn’t taken with anyone in many, many years. But something in his gut told him that Shelby would understand and that it would give her some much-needed insight. “My father killed himself when I was a lad. He had one too many gambling debts.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  He slipped the card into his billfold. “I thought you’d appreciate the significance.”

  “Of your card or your father’s suicide?”

  He looked at her. “Both.”

  “I remember se
eing pictures of your mother in your biography online. Did she ever remarry?”

  “No, she just raised all her kids the best she could.”

  “All?” Shelby frowned at him and he instantly knew he’d slipped. “I thought there were just two. I read you have a younger sister.”

  “Actually, I have a brother, too. Kip. Doesn’t get much press coverage.” At least not if Mick had anything to say about it.

  “What does he do?”

  “Bits and pieces of lots of things.” Mostly ruin his life and Mick’s.

  “Funny, I never read about him in all those articles, never saw him in the pictures of your family.”

  Not if his publicist was doing her job, she wouldn’t. “I didn’t tell you about my father to elicit sympathy or to let you know you don’t have the market cornered on miserable pasts,” he explained, wanting the subject off Kip. “But I thought it was ironic that we share a similar philosophy about quitting. Or not, as the case may be.”

  “Kind of hard to win a power struggle when neither one will quit,” she said, her lips lifting into the beginning of a smile.

  “This doesn’t have to be a power struggle, Shelby. Merely a business arrangement.”

  She shook her head. “Cutting into my business is a power struggle. And I don’t like to lose.”

  “Neither do I.” He raised his wineglass to hers. “So this should be quite interesting.”

  She tapped his glass but didn’t drink. Instead she leaned forward and whispered, “But you’re wrong about one thing, Mick.”

  He looked questioningly at her.

  “There was nothing miserable about my childhood. It was wonderful. It was unusual, I’ll give you that, but it was never miserable. Not for very long anyway.”

  “What was it like being raised in racing?”

  She lifted one delicate shoulder. “What you’d expect it to be. Dirty. Fun. Crazy. I was surrounded by men and machines, speed and noise, rubber, paint, oil, grease and a healthy dose of danger.” Her coppery eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and that sweet flush rose up from the V-neck of her sweater.

  “You know, Shelby, something’s been bothering me since I met you.”