Burning Rubber: Extreme Racing, Book 2

by Pamela Britton

  He was Derrick Derringer.

  Star NASCAR driver, and, all right, her brain had featured him in more than a few fantasies. She could admit that, but she would not let her lust for him overpower her common sense. Men like him were never serious about women like her, not that she had experience in such maters. That’s just what she’d observed over the years.

  “I’ll see you at the track, Derrick.” She hoped her voice was cool.

  He let her go this time. It was only as she stepped outside that she realized she had no idea where she was or even how close to the race track she might be—that’s how panicked she’d been to get the hell out of Dodge. She knew instantly Derrick had been telling the truth. They were very obviously at some kind of bed and breakfast. She headed off to the main structure where she found an older man more than willing to call her a cab, and who didn’t look at all puzzled when she asked where she was. A glance at her watch revealed she still had time. She was supposed to meet with her engineers and the pit crew she’d hired for the test sessions and according to the inn’s manager, they were only a short distance away. Derrick was scheduled to show up later.

  Would he still be wearing his boxers?

  She shook her head at the thought, a part of her wondering if she’d ever be able to look him in the eyes.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have a whole lot of time to think about Derrick in the ensuing hours. The truck carrying their demo cars was late. One of the men she’d hired to help with shocks and suspension turned out to be a real jerk. She put up with his sexist remarks and attitude for about half an hour before her temper flared. She’d fired the man on the spot and then promoted one of the other women he’d insulted into his position. Then, when the X-TREME Machines finally did arrive, she spent the next hour going over every inch of the Ford Mustang lookalike. She needed to be certain nothing had been tampered with—not that she anticipated anything happening—she was just OCD when it came to her cars.

  And they were her cars.

  Veronica may claim ownership of the league, but her boss knew better than to mention anything about the engineering. By her own admission, she didn’t know a thing about the 800-plus horsepower engine. No doubt her boss felt terror at the thought of someone asking her a question about them, thus the reason why she let Callie take the credit.

  Callie did.

  “He’s here.”

  Despite the heat of the day, a chill slipped down her spine like ice water off the side of a glass. This was it. The moment of truth. In less than an hour none other than Derrick Derringer would be taking her car around a half-mile oval.

  “Okay, everybody,” she clapped. “Look sharp.”

  The track they had leased for the event had gone unused for the previous five years, but the owners had gone to extraordinary measures to make it presentable for XRL. The access lane to pit road nearly blinded her. The concrete had been washed so white, the glare from Derrick’s front windshield caused her to squint. He turned toward the plain white big rigs that had carried her X-TREME Machines to Odessa, just outside of Kansas City. The back door to one of those rigs had been swung open—a la drawbridge style—providing a tiny bit of shade against the sun’s glare. She and her crew stood beneath the door, staring toward the entrance to the track. In the background a generator hummed—the thing connected to the oil warmer on her race car. They wanted Derrick to be able to go right on out and run fast if he wanted to, not spend precious minutes warming up the engine. She pasted a bright—and what she hoped was professional—smile on her face as his car approached.

  “Mr. Derringer,” she called brightly as he stepped out of his silver rental.

  She’d fallen asleep in that car last night.

  He’d carried her into a room, deposited her on a bed and—

  “Callie,” he nodded, and though she couldn’t see his eyes thanks to a pair of sunglasses, she knew he was scoping out the place.

  What he observed wouldn’t impress him.

  Compared to where he was used to driving, the Missouri track was small potatoes. Grandstands stretched along the straightaway. There were no outbuildings in the infield, just a wide expanse of concrete where race teams staged their cars prior to a race. On race day there would be no room for multiple haulers like there would be at a NASCAR track. Those would be parked outside the track, across the access road to the infield. No underground tunnels or pedestrian bridges—just a steeply sloped race track that would be a challenge to drive.

  He met her gaze.

  “Welcome to Odessa Speedway,” she said, and before he could make a comment about the track, she launched into introductions. “This will be your crew chief for the test.” She pointed to a good-looking man with dark hair and dark eyes. Usually, he worked for one of the smaller racing series, and the list of driving talents he’d worked with in the past—drivers who’d since gone on to bigger and better things—was impressive. “Chet Grant,” she said as the two shook hands.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Derringer,” Chet said, the black shirt he wore already smudged with dirt. Probably from when they’d inspected the undercarriages of the cars. Callie had donned a similar black polo shirt and jeans. She wouldn’t be surprised if she carried similar dirt spots.

  “And this is Barry Levine,” she said. “He’ll be working the computers for us.”

  She introduced the other ten people involved in the test session, from aeronautic engineers, something that was—admittedly not her forte—to simple mechanics there to wrench on the cars. “And this is Kathy.” She introduced the last member of their entourage. “She specializes in suspension.”

  “Hey, Kathy,” Derrick said, Callie watching him closely.

  Not by word or deed did he indicate there was anything different about Kathy, that difference being she was female. Callie felt the skin between her brows winkle. She had no idea why, but she’d expected a flirtatious smile and a suggestive comment to accompany his greeting. Instead Derrick turned to her and said, “Shall we get the show on the road?”

  Callie nodded, completely baffled. Why wasn’t he making eyes at Kathy? She was really pretty, with her thick blonde hair (albeit swept back into a ponytail) and her intelligent green eyes.

  “I assume you brought a firesuit?”

  He nodded. “Do you have someplace where I can change?”

  “Sure. There’s a lounge in the front of the hauler.” She pointed toward the big rig they stood behind.

  He didn’t say anything, just turned back to his rental, and pulling out a firesuit she recognized from TV. Big D. The white D on a black backdrop was instantly recognizable. The on-line bargain discount store sponsored a number of cars in various different racing leagues.

  “Show me where,” he said when he came back to her.

  She instantly tensed for a moment, then quickly chastised herself. He couldn’t possibly be trying to pull a fast one—trying to get her alone. That was her over-active imagination at work. Surely he knew where the lounge was? Race car haulers were all the same…

  “Follow me,” she said.

  Since the interior of the rig was set up like a mobile garage, she had to open a sliding glass door off the back of the transporter. She didn’t look back to see if he followed, just headed for the mini-office straight ahead. He was close. She could practically feel his presence.

  “Right here.” She pointed toward some steps that led to the private room.

  “Thanks.”

  Then he did something that made her breath catch. He closed the distance between them, leaned down. “You want to come in there with me?”

  Her cheeks combusted. “No.” She nearly choked on the word. “I have work to do.”

  He lifted a hand, his thumb stroking her cheek before she could jerk out of the way. “You work too hard.”

  “I’ll be outside.” She dashed past him. Good lord. Why did he keep doing that? Why did he keep touching her? Being nice to her? She felt like she stood on a barrel, one about to roll ou
t from underneath her.

  “Callie,” he called out after her.

  Don’t stop.

  “You snore.”

  She drew up sharply. “I do not.”

  He smiled at her. Derrick Derringer. Star race car driver. The man of her dreams. All right. She could admit it. She’d had a serious crush on him for years. Not because he was one of the hottest-looking men in America. No. What really turned her on was the way he could handle a race car. He’d be doing that today. Her race car.

  “You do,” he contradicted. Then his face softened. “But you needed the rest.”

  She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I was socked out on medication. And you still should have woken me up, taken me to my hotel.”

  “I know. But I’m glad I didn’t. You look better this morning.”

  She touched her cheek, though she didn’t know why. Was it dirty? Did she have a smudge on her skin?

  He turned away without another word, Callie nearly slumping against the gray cabinets that lined both sides of the big rig’s narrow aisle.

  Dear Lord this would be a long day.

  Because no matter how often she told herself to resist Derrick, it would be impossible to do if he kept this up. Just look at her. Smiling like a silly school girl, a grin she quickly killed as she headed for the sliding glass doors.

  She would have to give him a wide berth. And never be alone with him. She could do that.

  Couldn’t she?

  Yeah, right.

  Derrick still smiled when he emerged a few minutes later. Did she really have no idea how incredibly cute she looked in her dirt-smeared jeans, black polo shirt and her loose ponytail? He loved dirty women. He wished she was more dirty. Dirty as in willing to flirt with him. Then again, he had to admit, that was one of the things he actually liked about her. She didn’t stare at him with that I’d-like-to-eat-you look in her eyes. If anything, she seemed to have to fight to keep eye contact.

  He was still smiling as he left the hauler, Missouri’s ever-present humidity plastering itself against his face the moment he opened the sliding glass door. Damn. He’d thought North Carolina was bad.

  “Let’s get ready to rumble,” he cried out the moment his asbestos-clad feet touched pavement.

  Smiles greeted him. Smiles from everyone but Callie, that is. She seemed…pensive.

  “What’s the matter, Callie-Cakes? Worried I’ll wreck your pretty new car?” He tapped her nose gently, his grin widening at the way her eyes widened and her face flushed. So adorable.

  “No. Of course not. You’re a fantastic driver.”

  He drew up sharply. “What’s this? A compliment? From you. You sick or something?”

  She glared at him. Actually glared. A laugh slipped out.

  “Now, now,” he wagged a finger at her. “I’m just teasing. I know how much you love me.”

  “Not as much as you love yourself.”

  “Ooo. Ouch.” He clutched his heart. “The woman has claws.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, crazy girl. Let’s go make history.”

  She tried to wiggle away. He wouldn’t let her. Nobody seemed to notice how uncomfortable she looked. Everyone was all smiles. Derrick felt his spirits lift. He looked forward to trying out her cars. Looked forward to seeing what they could do.

  And if they were good?

  Well, he would cross that bridge when he got to it.

  Chapter Ten

  Someone had placed his helmet on the primer-coated race car. Derrick resisted the urge to jerk it on his head. Instead, he stood back for a moment, admiring the sleek look of her car. Well, it wasn’t really her body style, per se. She had Ford to thank for the gently sloped front end and boxy backside. Although Callie and her engineers had had to shrink the body style down a bit to avoid patent infringement, the final design was close enough to be instantly recognizable. Mustang. Based on the data she’d provided, the cars looked to be every bit as aerodynamic as their real-life counterparts.

  “Here we go.” He stepped forward.

  The Cup cars he raced on Sunday, and the X-TREME Machines, had no side windows. That was a safety feature—no shattered plexiglass to deal with and a faster escape for drivers—and so it was a familiar task for him to drop the window net. While the outside resembled a Mustang GT right down to the spoiler in the back, the inside was vastly different. Sheet metal and roll bars intersected the interior, just like any other race car. The dash looked the same too, right down to the RMP dial on his left and the pressure gauges on the right. Even the seat fitted him like a glove, a little known fact about race cars. Seats were custom manufactured to fit the driver. This one had been delivered to Callie and her team a few weeks ago, something he hoped his owner never heard about.

  He had to squint as he looked outside the car. “You want me to take it easy the first couple of laps? Make sure the engine’s broken in right?”

  Callie was all business now. She even held a clipboard. “The cars have all been thoroughly checked at the shop. The engines have about a hundred hours on them. They’re buttoned up as tight as a pastor’s wife.”

  He felt his brows lift up to the edges of his helmet. “A pastor’s wife?”

  “Don’t be afraid to uncork her,” she advised. “She’ll go as fast as you like.”

  Uncork. He really did love it when she talked shop. “Roger dodger.”

  Someone handed her a headset. Derrick plugged himself into the microphone system before flipping the switch. “Check, check,” he said, the routine so familiar he hardly paid attention to what he was doing. “Testing one, two.”

  “We’ve got you.”

  “I wish you had me.” He gave her a flirtatious smile, not that she could see it with his helmet in the way.

  From outside the car, she frowned down at him, pressed the button on the side of her headset. “If it’s not too much trouble, could we keep the suggestive comments to a minimum?”

  A puff of laughter slipped past his lips. He had no idea why he was in such high spirits. Actually, that wasn’t true. He loved to race. Frankly, he couldn’t wait to try out something new.

  “Why spoil a good thing?” he asked, and before she could make another demand for him to stop, he flipped the switch to start the engine. He almost giggled—actually laughed like a euphoric school boy—at the sound of the 800-plus horses that roared to life. Whatever she’d done, it sure sounded good.

  “Damn, Callie,” he said after idling for a moment and checking gauges. “That’s one healthy-sounding motor.”

  “It should sound good after all the work I’ve put into it.”

  When he glanced outside, she was motioning for her crew to take their places, seemingly unfazed by all she’d achieved.

  She’d designed a motor. This wasn’t some knock-off. This was a new design—still a V-8 since there was no sense in messing with perfection—but she’d completely turned traditional engine technology on its ear with her innovatively shaped pistons and valves. That wasn’t the only difference, and from the sound of it, the other changes had resulted in some serious horsepower gains. He tapped the accelerator. There was an instant, almost-crazy-fast response time.

  “Let’s go.”

  Derrick agreed, edging away from her slowly. He had to be careful. The motor responded so quickly he had to keep his foot pressure to a minimum. He pulled the wheel to the left and right, testing the suspension. That responded faster also.

  Damn. What had she done?

  Adrenaline had his heart pumping like a marathon runner at the Olympics.

  As with most test sessions, laptops and gigabytes were involved. A table had been set up outside the hauler and he knew information streamed across computer screens.

  “I’m going to take it easy for a lap.” He swiveled the wheels back and forth. “Warm up the tires a bit.”

  “Roger,” her voice low and sexy. Then again, maybe that was his imagination. In all his years of driving race cars, he’d never had a female on the other
end of the line. As Callie had said, racing was a severely sexist industry despite its equal opportunity party-line. So he found himself opening up the lines of communication even though he didn’t really need to.

  “What kind of gears am I running in the backend?”

  “4.22,” drawled a sultry voice.

  Mmm hmm. Talk dirty to me, baby.

  “Camber?” he asked next.

  “1.8 degrees.”

  “Hot damn!” he told nobody but himself. He loved talking cars with a hot woman.

  That was just it. She wasn’t hot. Not in the traditional sense. Strangely, he found her as attractive as any super model.

  He rounded the first turn. The track was tiny, as small as Bristol, but whereas Bristol had the look and feel of a professional football stadium, the Odessa track felt like high school. Actually, at least high schools had grandstands on both sides of the field. The track he circled had one set of grandstands along the start/finish line. That was it. A white safety wall sped by on his right, the tops of the trees that surrounded the track turning into a green blur as he pressed down the accelerator. He had to squint against the glare of sunshine that arced off his windshield, but he could still see the three tractor trailers Callie stood near, and Callie herself standing on pit road wall.

  “Gimme one more lap and then I’ll cut her loose.”

  “Roger.”

  He continued jerking the wheel left and right. After so many years he was used to the sideways motion, hardly noticed its dizzying effects. It was such a familiar action he found his mind wandering a bit, wondering what his next move should be as far as Callie was concerned. Should he ask her out? There was a novel approach. The minute he considered the idea, he dismissed it. She would turn him down flat. Sneak attack. That was his best bet. Maybe a kiss in the garage? Only there was no garage. So that meant cornering her in the lounge, or someplace else private.

  He looked forward to it.

  Turn three loomed ahead, Derrick comfortable enough with the track he radioed into Callie, “All right, I’m going to drop the hammer.”