Purely research, she’d told herself. She’d never had such a macho man at her disposal and it would be a grave injustice to her own education not to gather as much information as possible.
It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that she wanted to get to know him.
So in between finishing off the remaining ten positions, they spent the downtime talking about everything from NASCAR—her next and final lesson—to Skye’s family—he’d spotted her photo box in the corner of her bedroom—to his family. Of course, he wouldn’t let her pick his brain without doing a little picking of his own and so they’d both done an equal amount of talking.
He’d told her about Tuck and the ultimatum, and she’d assured him that his driver would smarten up and take the deal in time for that weekend’s Pepsi 400. He’d gone on to talk about his career with NASCAR and how everything had come to a head during the Daytona 500. How he’d realized then and there that he wasn’t invincible. He’d suffered only a minor shoulder injury, thankfully, but the next time? He’d made up his mind never to find out. He still had goals in his life, namely to settle down and raise a family of his own. After all, what was a man without a good woman and a half-dozen kids behind him?
Skye gave him a womanist earful on the proverbial good woman behind the good man theory, or as Clint had said, she’d chewed him a new asshole, before going on to tell him about her own hope of finding a long-term relationship.
They’d shared tips on what it was like to be the oldest child—namely that it sucked most of the time because of the added pressure of younger siblings. He’d told her what it was like to grow up in a family of mostly boys and she’d filled him in on the danger associated with having one bathroom in an all-girl household.
The conversation had continued, along with the sex, until they’d parted ways early that morning. Clint had several PR things to do before the Pepsi 400 that weekend which, he’d told her, would be her final lesson—an up-close look at the sport of racing.
Likewise, they had now completed three parts of her four-part workshop—the body, foreplay, sex play and after-sex play. He was due for the after-sex lesson which Skye intended to give him in the plane ride over. It was primarily just a summary of past points and a list of appropriate things to say and do in order to keep your lover coming back for more.
Of course, Clint was sure to ace the subject. He’d left her with a hot, deep kiss and a promise to see her soon, and she definitely wanted more.
“You like him,” Jenny said, her voice pulling Skye from her thoughts.
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do. You really like him.”
Jenny’s words followed Skye home after the workshop, crawled into bed with her and kept her tossing and turning all night long.
She climbed out of bed the next morning even more confused than she’d been the night before.
Like? Real, true, genuine like?
It was impossible. She couldn’t really like him. Not without totally upending her entire belief system. Like came after the Holy Commitment Trinity, not in spite of. It was a direct result of all three points. Without the Trinity, there could be no real like.
True, they had great sex.
Ditto for the mutual respect.
But common interests? While she’d beefed up her macho knowledge, she was still way out of his league. She didn’t just dislike fishing, she hated it and Clint was a man who prided himself on mounting his catches and putting them on his wall.
Forget any sort of like.
That’s what she told herself until she opened the door to find Clint on the other side. She took one look at him standing on her doorstep with his dark good looks and his intense eyes and something shifted inside her.
We’re worlds apart, she kept telling herself as she gathered up her suitcase and headed out the door for Florida. Even if they had seemed pretty darn close with all that talking. And sex. And more talking. And more sex.
This was it. The end of the line. The last lesson for him, and the last lesson for her. The future with a yet-tobe discovered macho man waited for her, while Darla waited for him in Florida.
It was the first time she’d really let herself think about the other woman. A surge of jealousy went through her, followed by anxiety because she had no right to be jealous. Unless...
“What’s up with you?” he asked as they headed toward the airport.
“Nothing.” Except for the fact that she needed to think. To clear her head. To find her perspective and get her priorities back in order and remember that Clint MacAllister was not one of them.
And there was only one way for a thirty-three-year-old sexpert to do that.
“Do we have time to make a stop? It’s an emergency.”
“A shoe emergency,” Clint said a half hour later as he sprawled in a chair at Anne Kleins, in the heart of downtown Dallas.
Skye slid on her tenth pair and eyeballed her feet in the mirror. “I need something comfortable for Florida.”
“Those look painful, not comfortable.”
Skye wiggled her toes in the three-inch-red sandals and winced. “You’re right. Let me try that other pair.” She spent the next ten minutes trying and re-trying at least a dozen different styles of sandal, but she kept coming back to the painful red ones.
Definite Barbie shoes.
“Why don’t you just get those?”
“I can’t get these.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re not practical. You said it yourself. They look painful.”
“But you still like them.”
“So?”
“So if you like them, get them.”
“I can’t get these,” she said again, eyeing the shoes. “Do you like the damned shoes or not?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
But it wasn’t, Skye realized in a startling instant as she watched Clint toss the red stilettos into the box and hand it to the sales clerk with a deep, final, “We’ll take them.”
Panic welled inside her and fear rushed, cold and gripping, through every inch of her body. The same fear she’d felt when her mother had caught her baking the cookies for her seventh-grade Valentine, and staring at the Princess Barbie in the toy store window, and riding on the back of the motorcycle that time in high school.
Not the fear of being caught, but the fear of disapproval. Of seeing the disappointment in her mother’s eyes.
It wasn’t about whether Skye liked the shoes or not, because her own likes and dislikes had never mattered. It was about what she was expected to like because of who she was, because of who her mother was.
“No daughter of mine would ever wear shoes created by a man purely for a man’s enjoyment, at the woman’s expense. Men are visual. High heels slim the calves and make the female legs more visually appealing, all the while doing irreparable damage to the feet. Why, no daughter of mine would ever condone, let alone finan-
cially support, such an invention. She might as well stab me in the back and put me out of my misery right now.”
She being Skye.
Skye had heard the preaching her entire life, so much so that she’d embraced it as her own. It was easier to go along than stand up for herself, particularly since she’d grown up as the proverbial outsider. She’d never been accepted by the other kids, never included in their activities or their social circles. She’d had only her mother’s acceptance, and so she’d held onto it for all she was worth. She’d learned early on that the more she appeared to be the model daughter, the more her mother seemed to like her.
To love her.
To accept her.
And so Skye had spent her entire life trying to please her mother. She was still trying, and still falling short, because she wasn’t her mother and Jacqueline Farrel would be satisfied with nothing less. The woman didn’t want a daughter. She wanted a miniature copy of herself to preach her womanist doctrine and further her precious movement. Even
more, she wanted affirmation. Seeing her daughters live and breathe and succeed as modern womanists merely confirmed her beliefs and gave proof that her time and energy had been well spent.
But Skye wasn’t a carbon copy of her mother. She admitted that to herself as she stood at the sales counter and watched them bag her shoes. A thrill of anticipation raced through her, and nothing else. No hesitation. No fear.
She wasn’t her mother. She never would be.
She had her own identity now. She wasn’t just Jacqueline Farrel’s daughter. She was the successful owner of a growing company. She had her own home, her own career, her own friends. She didn’t measure her self-worth by what other people thought of her.
She was all grown up now, and that was okay.
She didn’t live and breathe for her mother’s approval. She could have her own likes and dislikes.
And she liked the red Barbie shoes.
Almost as much as she liked Clint MacAllister.
“This isn’t the Daytona International Speedway,” Lindy said as she walked up to the small jail cell and stared past the bars to the man sitting inside.
“Nah, really? I never would have guessed.” Tuck sat on the small bunk situated against the far wall. He wore only jeans, boots and that irritating grin that made her want to slap him. Or kiss him.
Instead, she frowned. “I can see why they arrested you.” She could see a lot more, as well. His broad shoulders and bare chest dusted with golden hair. He was really gorgeous, and much too big for his britches, judging by the sarcastic tone of his voice.
“They don’t arrest you for being a wiseass,” he told her.
“So why did they arrest you?”
“Disorderly conduct. I sort of got into a fight.”
“Did this sort of fight hurt anyone?”
“No. It just pissed off the reporter from Car & Driver. He wanted a picture and I wasn’t in a picture-taking mood. I was trying to relax.”
“At a shot contest at a bar. Downing tequila isn’t relaxing.”
“I didn’t do any shots. I had one beer. I’m not an alcoholic like Clint thinks and I don’t need an AA program. I drink to unwind and have a little fun.”
“Alcohol impairs. How do you know what you need?” “Because I watch myself. I have a three-beer limit and I never pass it.”
“You never drink more than three beers?”
“I may act a little drunk, but that’s all it is. My old man was a social drinker. He hated drinking alone and so he was always after me to join him. But I knew while I might want to tie one on just to forget him and my shitty life, I couldn’t. Because somebody had to pick him up and take him home, and that somebody was me. Since I was twelve years old and my mom walked out, it was always me.”
As Lindy stood there gazing at Tuck, she got more than just a good look at his bare chest. She got a good look at what was beneath.
Fear and desperation and sheer loneliness flashed in his gaze. Lindy couldn’t help but remember her own childhood, and her own loneliness.
“The night before my high-school graduation,” he went on, “he tied one on so bad that he actually stopped breathing. I had been out at a party and I remember when I came home, I found him on the sofa. Unconscious. I called an ambulance and they rushed him to the hospital. They were able to revive him and he was all right, but I’ve never been so scared in my whole life. He was all I had after my mom left. I couldn’t imagine losing him, too. I realized then that I had to get myself together and get out of there.” His gaze met hers. “I left the next day and I haven’t seen him since.”
“So you ran away.”
“I didn’t run away. I needed some distance and my dad needed to realize that there wasn’t always going to be someone there to pick him back up.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that Clint was wrong. I’m not an alcoholic.”
“No, you’re just an idiot.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you had an ounce of gray matter, you would have told Clint what you just told me and then he would have realized that the only reason you act like a jackass is because you don’t want people to get too close to you. Because then you might get too close, and then you would be right back where you were before you ran away. Needing someone.”
“My past is my business.”
“If it affects his race team, then it is Clint’s business. He likes you, but if you don’t trust him enough to talk to him, you can’t blame him for thinking the worst. You should have called the number anyway to satisfy him and keep your job.”
“I don’t need this job. I don’t need Clint. And I sure as hell don’t need all your advice.” He shrugged. “All I need is to be left alone.”
“Is that so? Then I guess it was someone else by the name of Tuck Briggs who called me on my cell phone and asked me to come down here and bail him out.”
“I’ll give you the money back just as soon as I get out of here and get to an ATM.”
“I don’t care about the money. You need me. Admit it.” “You don’t know what I need.”
“I know how you feel. You’re not the only who’s ever been scared or disappointed or lonely. Try having a socialite mother who wanted her only daughter to follow in her cheerleading, homecoming queen footsteps. Needless to say, I was a big disappointment. I could get straight A’s but not a date to the prom. I didn’t even go to the right college. I won a scholarship to the University of Texas when my parents were Aggies through and through and got a geeky accounting degree.”
“But you’re not an accountant.”
“Not technically, but I do keep Clint’s books.”
“Why didn’t you join some fancy accounting firm? You’re smart enough.”
A zing of warmth rushed through her at the sincere compliment and stopped her from telling him to mind his own business. Instead, she shrugged and said, “Because Clint needed me as his personal assistant. No one had ever really needed me before. My parents just ignored me. Clint was different. He didn’t care what I looked like or how popular I was. He was the first pretty boy who ever really liked me. The first one that I ever really liked. He was never mean like the other boys.”
“And that’s why you hate those pretty boy types. Because they’re mean?”
“Actually, I hate them because they’re self-centered and too stubborn to ask for help.”
“Not all pretty boys are self-centered and stubborn.” “No, just you. Speaking of which,” she glanced at her watch, “it’s been nice talking to you, but I’ve got a qualifier to catch. Take care and good luck.” She turned and managed two steps.
“Wait.”
She stopped, but she didn’t turn around.
“I need you, Lindy. That’s why I called you. Because I need you.”
She turned back to him and the light blazing in his eyes stopped her cold. He was sincere and desperate and he didn’t try to hide it behind his usual irritating grin. He grasped the bars, his face serious, his eyes slightly narrowed as he eyed her and waited for her response.
She smiled. “Maybe you’re not an idiot, after all.” The expectant look on his face eased into a crooked grin that made her heart pound and her palms sweat. “And maybe you like me a lot more than you let on.”
“Maybe. Now put on your shirt and let’s get out of here.”
“Most women would rather have me take my clothes off.”
“I’m not most women. I have priorities. We have a race to get to.” Her smile widened. “Then we’ll worry about taking off the clothes.”
“A woman after my own heart.” “Maybe.”
“He’ll be here,” Clint told himself for the umpteenth time as he paced the garage late Saturday afternoon. He glanced at his watch yet again. Only five minutes later than the last time he’d looked. Only ten minutes shy of three P.M. and the second round of qualifying for those drivers who weren’t among the twenty-five fastest during the first day. Or, in this case, for drivers who did
n’t bother to even show up on Friday.
He still couldn’t believe it. He’d flown in with Skye early Friday morning. After dropping her off at the hotel, he’d headed out to the track to check out the car and give Tuck a few words of warning about communication with the spotter and the car chief.
The entire crew had been hard at work. Everyone, but Tuck. No one had seen or heard from him.
Clint hadn’t panicked. He’d been sure the man would show up. No one would be stupid enough to throw away a championship.
That’s what he’d told himself all day yesterday and all morning. Tuck was mad because Clint had dealt him an ultimatum, and so he was trying to make Clint sweat.
He was doing a damned good job.
“He’ll be here,” Clint told Jeep, the only other person who knew Tuck still hadn’t shown up. “What about Lindy? Is she here yet?” He and Lindy usually flew in together, but since he’d had Skye with him, Lindy had opted to hop a commercial flight. She hadn’t said anything, but Clint had the feeling she thought he was sweet on Skye. “I tried her cell phone but it just went to voice mail.”
“I haven’t seen her, boss. You think she’s with Tuck?” “Hardly, but she still might know where he is.”
Jeep shook his head and eyed the rest of the crew, who went about their business as if nothing were amiss.
Clint’s gaze went to Skye, who followed his car chief around with pen and notebook in hand, taking notes for her NASCAR lesson. One he had intended to give her himself, before his life had turned into a big pile of crapola.
“You want me to tell everybody the bad news?” Jeep asked.
“He’s still got five minutes.”
“I knew this was going to happen,” Vernon said when he arrived a few minutes later and saw #62 still sitting in the garage. “I told you that boy was unreliable. We can kiss the Pepsi 400 goodbye, not to mention our winning streak.” Vernon eyed Clint. “Unless you get your ass out there and get us into this race.”
“I don’t drive anymore.”
“You don’t, or you can’t? I never thought I’d say this, Cowboy, but maybe the press ain’t all that far off with all that stuff they’re saying.”
Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice Page 20
