Thunderstruck

by Roxanne St Claire

  Kenny shook his head before she answered, digging his hands into his trouser pockets. “You know what, Whit?” He always spoke to Whit and not her. “Just do whatever you think will work,” Kenny said casually, chewing his usual wad of gum. “You work it out.”

  The statement smacked Shelby back to terra firma faster than Whit’s wake-up finger snap. What kind of racer in his right mind would totally defer any input into a decision as major as the chassis setup for qualifying?

  No racer. A driver, maybe, but no real racer.

  “I really gotta run,” he continued, glancing at his watch. “Got to be over in the media center in ten minutes.”

  As if his cavalier attitude didn’t notch her already warm blood up a few degrees, the mention of media pretty much put her at boiling point.

  “Who’s interviewing you?” she asked.

  Kenny’s eyes narrowed at her tone. “Nobody. I just want to be a fly on the wall at Austin Elliott’s press conference.” He plastered on a fake smile and looked at Whit. “Always nice to see how the big boys do it.”

  He lifted a can of diet soda—one of Austin Elliott’s sponsors—in farewell, pivoted on one foot and left, leaving Shelby with the first syllable of an obscenity in her mouth.

  Without uttering it, she and Whit stared at Kenny’s back, then each other, Whit’s expression of dismay revealing that he nursed identical thoughts to hers.

  He voiced them first. “That SOB’s going to a press conference and he can’t even bother to wear a Country Peanut Butter shirt?”

  “Which sucks.” Ryan Magee popped out from behind a stand-up computer station, holding a printout. “Since they paid eleven million dollars for the honor.”

  So much for a private conversation in the garage area with engineers and mechanics hovering and hiding.

  Whit grunted in agreement, taking his cap off to wipe his brow, then tugging it back on with a jerk. “Fact is, until we got a household name plastered on the side of Kenny’s car, he’s never going to be happy.”

  A household name. Like that soda Kenny drank. Not happening in the foreseeable future for Thunder Racing. She’d tried, but they just didn’t have the cachet of the big-name teams. And Kenny Holt, with his cocky bravado and beady eyes always on the lookout for something better, was the best driver they could hope to get.

  Unless something changed.

  Shelby stomped that thought and reached for the papers in Ryan’s hand. “How’d we do this time?”

  Before he answered, she sensed the undercurrent of buzz that suddenly flowed through the garage stalls. She didn’t need to turn, she didn’t need to squint into the sunshine and see his spectacular silhouette and movie-star smile. When someone of note showed up in the garage, there was a distinct change in the atmosphere. Tools stopped clanging, engines slowed, mechanics murmured.

  No doubt about it, keeping Mick Churchill a secret in Daytona was a total waste of time. The best she could do was keep her distance, let him learn the business from someone else and wait for him to go away. What was their deal? At the end of the race, all she had to do was turn and say yes or no. Until then, she’d stay as far away from him as she could.

  A warm hand landed on her shoulder.

  “We need to talk.”

  She turned around to meet a grass-green gaze full of…what was that look? Contrition? Accusation? Hope? “I’m very busy and will be that way for the next ten days.”

  Mick glanced around. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

  “Not in the garage area at Daytona.” She shifted her stance and notched her jaw up to look at him. “What’s up?”

  “How about the hauler lounge?”

  “Clay Slater is being media trained by our publicist in there right now.” She waited a beat and added, “Perhaps you’d like to go give some pointers to him.”

  “You can go over to your motor home, Shel,” Whit suggested. “We’re just gonna run these tests a few more times. You guys can talk privately there.”

  She tried to kill her favorite crew chief with a dirty look since there was no air gun handy.

  “Excellent idea,” Mick said. “I haven’t checked out mine yet. Why don’t you take me on a tour of the D and O lot while we talk?”

  She pulled her sunglasses down from the bill of her cap and slid them on. “Let’s take the golf cart. It’ll be faster.”

  He’d barely climbed into the passenger seat when she flipped the ignition switch and started maneuvering down the access road toward a long row of colorful haulers. She glanced to her left, to the row of cars lined up like horses in oversize garage stalls, a sea of tools and computers and color.

  The comfort and control of the garage called to her. Instead she stole a look at her passenger, at the sun highlighting a few golden strands of his hair and cheekbones that carved shadows over the ever-present unshaven beard. Comfort and control suddenly felt very much out of reach.

  She faced forward and drove silently.

  “Did you start that rumor?” he asked.

  She gave him a sideways look. “Can’t take credit for that one, I’m afraid. Has Ernie heard yet?”

  “I sure hope not. But you’ll tell him the truth, won’t you?” He half smiled. “Or maybe not.”

  “Giving Ernie the wrong impression will be a last-ditch effort, Mick. While my life would be a lot easier if you’d simply disappear on your own, I did make a deal with you, so you just lay low, enjoy your time at the track and let me work, okay?”

  He pulled out a pair of sunglasses and a Kincaid Toys ball cap. Unlike Kenny, Mick would know exactly how to butter up a sponsor.

  “I really hoped to be down here anonymously,” he said.

  Like that was possible. “I get the impression I’m the only person in the free world who didn’t know you on sight, so I guess we can pretty much assume you’re going to be recognized.”

  “I didn’t expect media the minute I walked in.”

  She flashed her ID to the security guard at the entrance to the manicured grounds of the VIP compound.

  “To be honest, Thunder Racing isn’t exactly fending off TV reporters by the dozen,” she said drily. “Clay Slater in the new Kincaid Car is about the only story we have here.” That was, until they had the owner-sleeping-with-potential-buyer story.

  “I don’t want my interest in the team to get out,” he said. “As for that other part—”

  She waved a hand to shut him up, then pulled the golf cart up into a line of others at the end of one row of motor homes, turned it off and climbed out. “I don’t want your interest in buying the team to get out either, but why would you care?”

  “Bidding war.”

  Her laugh was humorless. “Don’t worry, Mick. We’re not swimming in offers to outbid you. Someone smart might just suck up our assets, the drivers’contracts and the sponsorships, but there’s no huge equity in the Thunder Racing name.”

  “There used to be. There could be again.”

  She considered a dozen different responses but settled on something benign. “Do you know where your motor home is parked?”

  He pulled out a card from the ID packet that hung around his neck and read the stall number to her.

  She pointed to the left, a primo position close to the entrance. “Right over there. You have a key?”

  “Billy said the driver would leave it open with a key inside.”

  She nodded and headed that way. “You sure know some serious people to be able to score a motor home this late, not to mention the quality real estate.”

  “I was prepared to bunk with the natives on the infield, but your friend in the travel department is quite handy.”

  Could Janie have started the rumor? Not on purpose, certainly.

  They slid through a narrow passageway between tightly packed motor homes and stopped at an elegant navy-blue Featherlite.

  Shelby let out a low whistle. “Half a mil if it’s a penny. Janie didn’t get you this. She wouldn’t know where to find o
ne this high-end.”

  He turned the handle to the door and it opened. “I admit I pulled a few strings of my own.”

  The reminder of the behind-the-scenes power he wielded slowed her step as she followed him inside, the first burst of airconditioned coolness wafting toward her. But she pulled herself in quickly; if she hesitated too long or stood outside and was seen going into his motor home, rumors would be confirmed.

  She swore silently. The last thing she needed was to be the center of attention—that kind of attention—at the beginning of February.

  “Look at this,” Mick said, indicating the main salon, all decked out in creamy leather and containing a plasma TV. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

  “Top-of-the-line.” She knocked her knuckles on the granite top of the dinette table and tapped her boot on the hardwood floor. “There are drivers who don’t have it this good. Ours, for instance.”

  At the refrigerator, Mick glanced at her as he opened the door to peruse. “All that could change with the right partner, Shelby.”

  Change. Change. Change.

  “I have the right partner,” she said, flipping off her sunglasses. “At least I did. Any soda in there?”

  “Nothing diet.”

  “Save it for your model friends. Something dark with caffeine and plenty of sugar, please.” Sliding into the booth seat at the table, she took the can of cola he offered and popped it, watching him open a bottle of French springwater.

  He eased right in next to her, close enough to feel the heat of his thigh next to hers.

  “You got a fifty-foot motor home with a big sofa and two recliners, Mick. Do you have to sit one inch from me?”

  He just smiled, took off his cap and shook back the layers of burnished gold that brushed his collar. “Who leaked the story, Shelby?”

  She choked on a drink. “You tell me.”

  “Not me. You have a leak on your team. Is it you?”

  “We have twenty people down here on two teams. All of them have seen you in the race shop up in Greensboro for the past week. Your intentions are not a huge secret, although it would be nice to think we had some level of discretion in the shop.” She shrugged. “It’s a very small universe inside the track.”

  “Which intentions are you referring to?”

  “To buy half of Thunder Racing.” She spared him a pointed look. “You have any others you’re keeping secret?”

  He leaned a tiny bit closer. “You know what I’m talking about. Who thinks we’re sleeping together?”

  “Someone who wants to start trouble on our team. Or distract me. Or ruin my reputation. Or infuriate my grandfather.”

  “Yes, Ernie won’t like this.”

  “That’s for sure.” A smile pulled at her lips. “Would serve him right for dropping you in my lap. And, who knows, maybe it’ll start that bidding war.”

  He angled toward her. “Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart. If people think we’re madly in love, they might think that’s why I’m here. Then you won’t have any chance at a bidding war.”

  Love? “I’m not talking about love, Soccer Boy.”

  “What exactly are you talking about, Racer Girl?”

  She smiled at the seamless return volley. “Perception. Perception is reality, you know that. All Ernie needs to do is perceive that there’s something going on between us and he’ll kick you right back to England.”

  “You can’t have it both ways,” he said, still close enough that she could see the long, black lashes around his emerald eyes, the hint of golden beard. “You can’t pretend to be sleeping with me just to enrage your grandfather and not expect people—and the media—to talk about it.”

  She shrugged. “I’m unattached.” She paused a beat and drew back just an inch. “And you?”

  “At the moment.”

  Relief? Was that what she felt? “Perfect. You’re the quintessential playboy.”

  He laughed softly. “You can’t use me like that.”

  “I can if I want to stop this deal. If Ernie thinks—”

  He put a finger on her lips. “Then it’s real.”

  “What?”

  With his forehead he inched her ball cap higher and tilted his head until his mouth was directly over hers. “If I’m going to get used, then I’m going to get…”

  The unspoken word hung in the air. Neither one moved. The only sounds were the infield and engines in the distance. Shelby closed her hands around the soda can and squeezed hard enough to dent the aluminum, every cell taut in anticipation.

  He was going to get what? Kissed? Lucky? Laid?

  “In trouble.”

  He pushed himself away from the table so hard he knocked his water bottle on its side.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HE COULD DO THIS. HE could fend off a woman bent on sex—even if it was only pretend sex and even if it had nothing to do with how much she liked him. Or, in this case, how much she didn’t like him.

  And if he couldn’t, well, then…

  Mick’s whole lower half tightened and threatened to launch a counterattack to what his brain was telling him to do, which was diametrically opposed to what Ernie had told him to do.

  “Let’s go back to the garage,” he said, taking the fallen water bottle to the sink.

  “What happened to ‘never, never, never quit’?” she asked, handing him her half-empty soda can, a sly smile matching the lusty look in her eyes.

  He found a trash container and dropped the bottle in, then poured out her soda in the sink. “Why don’t we just figure out our problems here without making it more complicated?”

  “Sure, start a list,” she said drily. “Problems keep mounting.”

  He turned and leaned against the counter, facing her. “Okay, one—” he held up his thumb “—I want to buy half your business, you want me to disappear.”

  She didn’t contradict him.

  He lifted his index finger. “Two. The word is out, like it or not, and we have to decide—together—how we’re going to manage that message.”

  She made a face. “I hate that term.”

  “You’ve got a publicist?”

  “Of course. Avery McShane. She’s young but very good.”

  He nodded. “Three.” They were hot for each other. “Three.” He dropped his gaze over her face and body, settling on her mouth. “Three…” He wanted to kiss her. Again. A lot.

  She reached out and trapped his extended fingers in her hand. “Listen, we better forget three for now. I’m up to my rear bumper with one and two.”

  He changed the grip to hold her hand, slowly, easily, pulling her closer. “If it weren’t for Ernie…” He tugged her, closing the space between them. “You’d really enjoy three.”

  “I’m sure I would.” She pointed to the door. “Let’s go see the publicist.”

  They’d get back to three. For better or worse, they would get back to three.

  “So what do you think of your first racetrack experience so far?” she asked as they left the motor home.

  “Not my first. I went to a Grand Prix race in Italy a while ago.”

  She made a face. “Open-wheel.”

  “Too Euro for you?”

  She shrugged, launching into a speech about the subtle differences between the two types of racing, and as she did, her face lit up and her voice changed from tight and defensive to light and lyrical.

  Funny, he hadn’t felt that way about his sport in a long, long time.

  At the wheel of her golf cart, Shelby navigated the constant stream of cart traffic and pedestrians like a pro. All the while she chattered about sheet-metal panels and stock-car specs and ladder frames made of box section tubings and single-carb, cast-iron V-8 engines. She spoke of places he’d never heard of—Darlington, Pocono, Talladega—with reverence. She glowed.

  “You know about the changes in the car specs being phased in this season, don’t you?” she asked as they waited for a pack of pedestrians crossing an access road.

  “I�
��ve heard there were going to be some. And you hate them because you hate change, right?”

  “Wrong.” She grinned at him. “These are good changes. Not only are they safer but teams like ours really benefit.”

  “How’s that?”

  She turned into the lot near the garage area, waving to two crew members from another team who walked by. “The new designs basically level the playing field and take some of the advantage away from the big, rich teams. No doubt you’ve heard the expression ‘Money buys speed’?”

  “Repeatedly.”

  “Well, the way it was before, all the competition was out of the drivers’ hands and controlled by engineers and technology.” She made that same face she’d given him when he mentioned managing the media. “It was getting ridiculously expensive and it took all the driving talent out of the mix.”

  She parked, and as she climbed out Mick checked out the nice curve of her jeans from behind the shield of his sunglasses.

  “But now,” she continued, oblivious to his admiring gaze, “all the cars, no matter who the manufacturer, will be virtually identical. Except for the grilles, of course. So we won’t have to custom-build a car for each track. It’s way cheaper and better for the small teams who can’t afford seventeen backup cars and engines customized for tracks. And the changes are smart, right down to the fuel volume.”

  Fuel volume? Could he really be waging war with full-body lust, and losing, to a woman describing fuel volume?

  “The new bumper sort of catches air instead of deflecting it,” she explained as she stepped away from the cart’s parking spot. “Like this.” She made an angle with her hands, but he was noticing how narrow her waist was and the way her shirt—

  “Are you getting anything I’m saying?”

  He got out of the cart and followed her. “I told you I’m a quick study. I got it all. Trust me.”

  “Good,” she said with the first sweet smile he’d seen since arriving at Daytona. “’Cause there’ll be a quiz.”

  “I can handle it.” He could handle anything except what he wanted to handle. Her.

  No matter. He had bigger issues than lust. He had to show her what he could do. All he needed was the right opportunity to kick his goal.