“Are you sure?”
She drew back to study his face. “Yes, I’m sure. Why?”
“Because you might hear some.”
She waited a beat, and when he didn’t elaborate, she frowned. “After that fight in the hauler? Yeah, I expect we will. And everyone is going to want to know what magic potion you used to bring Scott Bronson out of self-imposed retirement.” He still didn’t say anything, his expression guarded. “Will you tell me the secret?”
“What secret?”
“How you got Scott.”
“Oh, that.” He exhaled hard and turned onto his back, pulling her into his side but looking at the ceiling. “Both our sports agents work for the same firm. There was no magic, really. I made one phone call.”
She traced a line along the curve of his bicep with her finger. It was as firm as she’d imagined. And, God, she had certainly imagined.
“The answer to our prayers,” she whispered.
He looked at her. “What?”
“The day I saw you out on the grass at the shop. Ernie pronounced you ‘the answer to our prayers.’”
He half smiled. “I hate to think how you responded to that.”
“I said it depended on what you were praying for.” At his quizzical look, she laughed. “I thought, if I’d been praying for someone to make me lose my mind, strip my clothes off and start my engine every time he looked at me, then, yeah, my prayers have been answered.”
“I start your engine?”
She punched him. “Oh, please. As if you didn’t know.”
He rolled over, laughing and kissing her. “Do I crank your carburetor? Turn your cylinders? Hit your throttle?”
“Stop!” She almost choked with a laugh. “You are living proof that a little knowledge is truly a dangerous thing. Not one of those is right. Haven’t you been paying attention to me?”
He kissed her mouth. Her eyelids. Her temple. “Sweetheart, you’re all I’ve been paying attention to since I crossed the pond. From the moment you bounded into the garage misquoting Winston Churchill, I’ve been awestruck.”
“Really?”
It was his turn to give her a get-real look. “As if you didn’t know,” he echoed.
A smug, content, completely wonderful feeling washed over her, and she pulled him down onto her. “I knew,” she whispered. “I thought I might use it against you.”
“But your evil plan backfired, didn’t it? Now Ernie has all but blessed our union.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but he knows. He might not like it, but he’s not stupid.”
“Yes, I know. I heard you when I walked in on your tell-all yesterday in the lounge. You were right in the middle of saying something about no-strings relationships and a roll in the…” He fluttered the edge of the sheet. “Why do you call this hay?”
“A roll in the hay is meaningless sex.”
She felt his whole body tense. “Meaningless?”
“Short-term. Fun. Commitment-free.” She shot him a look. “I gotta believe that’s your usual M.O.”
His eyes darkened to the color of winter sea. “Not necessarily.”
“I guess,” she said slowly, studying him for the tiniest reaction, “if you buy half this company, that creates some fairly serious strings.”
A tiny wrinkle began to form between his eyes as he frowned. Did the idea of “strings” bother him? Emotional or otherwise?
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I won’t pull the strings.”
He didn’t say a word.
“I won’t, Mick. I’m actually quite comfortable with this being purely physical, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
The shake of his head was nearly imperceptible. “That’s not what’s bothering me.”
Whatever it was, she suddenly didn’t want to know. It threatened these last few moments of predawn intimacy, and she wasn’t willing to lose them. Whatever serious thoughts had invaded his previously playful mind-set, she wanted to get rid of them. And in the last eight hours she’d learned how.
She arched her back, leaning her body into him. “You want to know what’s bothering me?” she asked.
He replied with similar pressure and a lusty look. “I think I know.”
“Then fix it.” She whispered the demand, and he closed his eyes with a soft, sweet moan of pleasure.
An hour later dawn broke for real, and Shelby pulled herself from a spent, satisfying alpha state at the sound of insistent tapping on Mick’s door.
Mick swore softly and untangled himself from her.
“Who wants you at this hour?” she asked.
He dipped to kiss her one more time. “Besides you?”
She laughed lightly but inched away when the rapping increased in tempo and power. And a woman called his name.
Frowning, he threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed, yanking on shorts and peering out the window. “I can’t see who it is.”
“Well, do me a favor and close the bedroom door when you answer.”
He did, and Shelby slid out of bed and stepped into her jeans and shimmied into the Manchester United jersey.
“What do you want?” she heard Mick say.
“I know she’s here.”
Shelby startled at the familiar voice and whipped the bedroom door open to confirm. “Tamara? What are you doing here?”
Tamara raked her with a look, then took a much slower journey over nearly naked Mick, her knowing expression taking everything in. “I need to talk to you,” she said to Shelby. “Privately.”
The ice in her tone and the sudden drop from the sweetness of sleeping with Mick to the harsh reality of her life left a metallic taste in Shelby’s mouth.
“Give me a second,” she said and she took at least five minutes in the bathroom, trying to psych out why Tamara was here and what she wanted.
When she returned to the salon, Mick was still shirtless, although he had put on jeans, and Tamara was gone. “Where’d she go?”
“She said she’d wait for you at your motor coach.”
Shelby blew out a disgusted breath and peered out the slats of the blinds, where a soft rain had started to fall. “So much for discretion.”
“She’s royally pissed about something.”
“She’s trying to muscle into my team and you’re the competition. Obviously—” Shelby grazed his six-pack with a playful knuckle “—you have an unfair advantage.”
But he frowned. “Are you sure that’s the problem?”
“Don’t know.” She scooped her jacket from the floor where she’d dropped it during last night’s impromptu strip show. “But I’ll let you know.”
She blew him a kiss, but he clasped her outstretched hand. “Wait. I don’t want you to go. I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah, right. Talk.” She squeezed his hand. “We’ll talk when I get rid of her. Later. Tonight.” She waved the sweatshirt. “As Arnold says, Ah’ll be bahck.”
He didn’t smile.
“Maybe that’s only funny to Americans.” Still no smile. In fact, he wore that odd expression again. “Mick.” She brushed his cheek, as casual as she could muster. “Don’t worry. No strings, no problem. This is separate from the decision about the team. This was just…” Heart-stopping. Mind-blowing. Crazy, wild, perfect. “Sex.”
Before he could contradict that—or not—she opened the door and hoisted the sweatshirt over her head to stay dry. She stopped running when she reached her motor home, where Tamara sat stewing on the steps.
She stood, snuffing a cigarette in the wet grass. “Sorry to ruin your afterglow, but we have to talk.”
“Sorry?” Nothing on Tamara’s face said she was sorry. Her eyebrows were pinched and her mouth was set in a sour line. Shelby pulled keys from her jacket pocket, unlocked the motor home and yanked open the door, not bothering to let her guest go first. “This better be pretty damn important.”
“What were you thinking?” Tamara demanded, closing the door as she followed Shelby in.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I wasn’t exactly thinking. I was…” Her voice trailed off at the moisture in Tamara’s eyes. “Are you crying?”
She blinked and shook her head. “It’s rain.”
No, it wasn’t, but Shelby didn’t feel like arguing.
“I don’t mean what were you thinking by sleeping with the British rock star.” She cocked her head in the general direction of Mick’s motor coach. “I mean, who wouldn’t?”
Shelby ignored the comment and waited for her to continue.
“I meant what were you thinking when you hired Scott Bronson to be your substitute driver for the race?”
Shelby stared at her, completely surprised by a question that came so far out of left field she’d never dreamed it was headed her way. “What? Why? I mean, why do you care? It’s good…no, it’s fantastic for the team.”
“But Kenny Holt was under contract.”
“He cheated. Breach of contract. I’m not getting slammed with owner’s points deductions and fines because he wants to play with technology in order to win.” She narrowed her eyes at Tamara. “You of all people should understand.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Look, NASCAR didn’t catch him. You did. Rap his knuckles and let him race. It doesn’t help the team to be jumping around from driver to driver.”
Resentment prickled the hair on the back of her neck. “Thanks so much for your advice, Tamara. If we ever decide to formalize a relationship, I’ll ask for it. Now? Not so much.” She pointed to the door. “You done?”
“No, I’m not.” Tamara slammed her hands on her hips and jutted her chin. “You’re making a huge mistake, Shelby.”
“I’ll take my hits, thank you.” Did she have to physically remove the woman from her home?
“He’ll be gone after one season, and you’ll be left with—”
“Scott? He may be gone after one race, but—”
“Not Scott. Mick.”
Mick? Now they were talking about Mick? “He’s not leaving,” she said. But even as she said it, the words sounded hollow. “He wants to buy the team. He’s in for the long haul.”
“Really? Well, that must have been some sweet pillow talk he whispered to you last night, but staying around isn’t part of the bet.”
The what? “Excuse me?”
“The bet he made.”
Her throat tightened. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know why he’s here? Why he wants to buy half your team? Don’t you know anything about this guy who’s got his hands all over your business and all over you?”
A dull, throbbing ache squeezed her chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Last fall, on the sports cruise? The one that big agency sets up for all their clients to gladhand sponsors and rich fans? You know about that, don’t you?”
“Yes. Ernie was there. That’s where he met Mick.” Right? Wasn’t it? “Why?”
“Then Ernie probably told you what happened.”
She thought he did. Ernie’s version of what happened. “Tell me,” she said.
“It was near the end of the cruise,” Tamara said. “A bunch of them—soccer players, baseball players, tennis stars, racers, owners and a lot of hangers-on—got drunk and started making bets. Mick bet some guy that he could win in any sport, in any country, as a player or a team owner. Someone put it to him and bet him a million bucks, literally, that he couldn’t buy a NASCAR team and win a race in the first season. He bet that he could. He bet a million dollars that he could win a race in the first season as a NASCAR team owner.”
Shelby tried to breathe, but pain stopped her. He was doing this on a bet? For a million lousy dollars?
“Shelby, you really don’t know about this?” All traces of Tamara’s tears were gone, replaced by a hard look and something mighty close to gloating in her eyes. “Your partner is temporary, doll. In the bedroom and in the garage. Now with me, you have a long-term partner. And, as much as I like you, you don’t have to worry whether or not I’ll respect you in the morning.”
She still couldn’t respond.
Tamara’s chin tilted up and her smile was firmly back in place as the balance of power—and of the room, it felt to Shelby—tilted toward her. “Of course, I don’t know this for certain, but the whole Scott Bronson thing could have been part of the bet. He was on that cruise, too.”
“I think you need to go now,” Shelby said, grasping at every ounce of self-control. “I have a lot to do today.”
“Like get rid of that driver.”
That wasn’t in her plans. “I just have a lot to do.”
“Of course. And my lawyer has the paperwork ready. Should I have him send it to you? The offer’s good, Shelby.”
“Whatever.” Go!
Tamara opened the door and gave Shelby a sympathetic look. “Ernie knows about this bet, I’m sure. They must have just been protecting you.”
She nodded. “Yes, okay. Thanks.”
Tamara cocked her head. “You really need to get out from underneath that old man’s thumb, Shelby. Time to fly on your own, don’t you think?”
“Goodbye.”
After she left, Shelby dropped onto the couch and sucked in a deep breath. But all she could smell was rain and sweat and…Mick. On her. She stripped off his jersey, rolled it into a ball and pitched it in the trash with a grunt.
Lies. Lies. Lies. The only thing worse than a cheater was a liar, and she’d just made love to both. With a force that rocked the motor home, she shoved the bathroom door open and ripped off the rest of her clothes.
Maybe a blistering-hot shower would wash the scent and the memory and the hurt away. Maybe.
“WHERE’S SHELBY?” WHIT asked, looking around the quasi-deserted garage area, then focusing on Mick. “I thought she’d be here the minute they unlocked the garage door.”
Mick flipped his cell phone closed when Shelby’s number jumped to voice mail. Again. “I don’t know,” he said. “She’s not answering her phone.”
Something was wrong.
He knew it the minute he’d arrived at the garage area and she wasn’t there. She’d left his motor coach a few hours earlier, with plenty of time to shower, eat, dress, do whatever she wanted to do before seeing him again. Plenty of time to do other things, too. Like wallow in regret. Or hear rumors.
Surely she wasn’t sorry about what had happened the night before? She’d left him with an air kiss and a look of pure satisfaction, and he’d put it there. Three times, he thought with a knot low in his belly. A knot that wasn’t arousal but worry.
When Ernie walked in stuffing a newspaper into a satchel and looking as worried as Mick felt, he only had to ask, “Where’s Shelby?” once.
Didn’t anyone know where she was?
“I’m going to find her,” Mick announced. He shouldn’t have let her go off after Tamara. He shouldn’t have let her leave without knowing the whole truth of why he was there, buying her team.
Hell, he shouldn’t have made love to her without telling her that, and now he had to undo that wrong.
“I’ll go with you,” Ernie said. “I need to talk to her.”
“No.” He’d said it too fast, he could tell by the look on Ernie’s face. “I’m going to do a couple of other things, too, and she could be anywhere. You should stay here in case she shows up. Then call me, okay?”
Ernie’s look was sharp, but he nodded in agreement. “Bring her right back here,” he said, a subtle warning in his tone. “She should be here while we work on the setup.”
“No chance you could run today, is there? If it clears?” Mick knew the answer before he asked. But surely getting that car on the track would bring her out of hiding. “I mean, with a new driver and all.”
“No, not until practice on Wednesday. And—” Ernie looked up at the soggy sky and steady drizzle “—not much is going on in this weather. We’ll be in here or in the hauler.”
Mick jogged of
f in the direction of the Drivers and Owners lot. In minutes, hair was plastered to his head and neck, his jersey clinging to him.
He rapped on the door of her coach, but, as he’d suspected, no one answered. Where would she go? Why wouldn’t she pick up her phone?
He tried his own motor home, grabbed a jacket while he was there and then jogged toward the infield. The locals were all inside, grills covered, blinds drawn, tucked in for a rainy day.
Exactly what he should be doing…with Shelby.
He crossed an access road and walked through the alleys between motor homes and trailers, his sneakers squishing the wet grass. He nodded to the occasional passerby and peered under the covers of golf carts that drove past, in case she was in one.
He scanned the infield, then squinted into the rain to the empty grandstands. He could only see the front stretch and boxes, the rows of white tents where party planners were no doubt scurrying about and hoping the sun would break through.
Could she have gone to an event? A meeting? Could she and Tamara have left the track? Gone to breakfast or—he looked at his watch—lunch? He picked up his pace, slipped into an overpass to get dry and tried to reconcile the thumping of his heart and the anxiety that poked at him.
Why was it so important to find her?
Because he cared. Because he’d made love to her and seen inside her tough shell—and he bloody liked what he saw. A lot. She was no flighty soccer fan, no gold-digging headline seeker, no self-indulgent model. She was…
Real.
Real smart, real pretty, real intense, real right down to her unpainted toenails hidden in work boots. As he reached the opening of the tunnel, the rain kicked up, and he pulled the hood of his jacket over his head before stepping into it.
As he did, a golf cart came around the bend, and he leaned closer to the wall so he didn’t get sprayed or hit. As it drove by, he dipped his head to check out the two passengers and froze as he saw the profile of a face he’d recently punched.
What the hell was Kenny Holt doing here?
He was deep in conversation with a heavyset blond man whose jowly cheeks and hunched shoulders looked vaguely familiar. They buzzed past him in less than two seconds, and neither one took notice.
Thunderstruck Page 17
