Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice

by Kimberly Raye

  “I’m tired, Vernon. That’s all. Can’t a man get tired?” “Well, maybe this team isn’t worth our money anymore.”

  “This team is worth more than your money. This team is a part of your image.”

  Clint leveled a stare at his old friend. “You’re a sponsor, Vernon. A good one and a good friend, but still a sponsor. I own the team. I hire and fire the crew, and I decide who drives. I appreciate your input, but that’s the reality of it. If you want to continue to be a part of this team, then you need to let me do my job and you do yours. Get on up to the sponsor’s suite and cool down and I’ll handle this.”

  Vernon looked as if he wanted to argue, but then he clamped his mouth shut. He walked away red-faced and angry, but definitely in his place.

  “That was a good speech and all,” Jeep said after the door rocked shut on Vernon’s heels. “But how are you going to handle this?”

  “We’ve still got two minutes.” He knew it was useless to keep hoping. “Shit.” Clint passed a hand over his face and damned himself for thinking that Tuck Briggs could ever really amount to anything.

  He’d thought he knew Tuck. When he watched the young man race, he saw the raw talent. He’d remembered the beginning of his own career, the way he’d had to prove himself to everyone. He’d seen Tuck and he’d remembered and he’d hoped to give someone like himself the chance he’d had.

  But while Tuck had the talent, he obviously didn’t have the drive or determination to be anything other than the hellraiser who’d gotten fired from every race team he’d ever driven for.

  Jeep herded the crew out into the pit area to break the news about Tuck. The garage was empty now, except for Skye and Clint and the #62 Chevy. “What’s going on?” Skye asked as she came up to him. “One of the mechanics said that you don’t have a driver.”

  “Tuck’s still not here.”

  “Why don’t you just drive? I mean, you can do that, can’t you?”

  “I’m a licensed NASCAR driver, and NASCAR does allow for a relief to step in in emergency situations. I can drive. But I don’t drive anymore. I’m an owner. I’ve got different priorities now. You know that.”

  “The wife and kids?”

  “I’ve spent fifteen years working my ass off and for what? So I can wake up alone every morning?” He shook his head. “No more. I won’t do it.”

  Skye eyed him, a curious glint in her eyes. “You won’t, or you can’t?”

  He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That maybe you’re not half as scared of ending up old and alone and past your prime without having fathered even one of the half dozen, as you are of finding out that you can’t do it anymore.”

  “I can drive. I’m one of the best drivers this sport has ever seen.”

  “That’s not what the press is saying.”

  “Fuck the press. They don’t know anything.” He ran a hand over his face. “You would think that after fifteen years they would know that I can do anything I damn well put my mind to.” He shook his head. “My whole life it’s been this way. I’ve had to listen to the garbage and then jump right in and prove everybody wrong. Well, you know what? I’m tired of it. I have other things to worry about. I’m not getting any younger. Hell, you know what I’m talking about. You want a man in your life. You’re tired of waking up alone every morning.”

  “True. I know exactly how you feel. If that’s how you feel. But I can’t help but think that maybe you’re blowing all of this off not because you don’t care about it, but because you care too much.”

  “I think you’ve been inhaling too much exhaust.” He said the words, but he wasn’t so sure he meant them.

  Because Skye was a lot more right than he wanted her to believe.

  “You’re looking for an excuse not to get behind the wheel,” she went on, “because you’re afraid that what everybody is saying is really true.”

  “Like hell I am,” Clint growled, his tone low and threatening, warning her to shut up.

  “You’re afraid that you’ve reached the limit,” she persisted, stirring his respect as much as his temper. “That your heyday really is over.”

  “It’s not over unless I say it’s over.”

  “So say it.” She rounded him and touched the hood of the car, challenge gleaming in her eyes. Along with a warm, understanding light that eased the sudden pounding of his heart as he stared through the open window at the familiar interior. “You say it. Don’t let anybody else say it for you.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” he said, his voice low, filled with the fear he’d felt for so long. “I just don’t know. I’ve crashed before. Things have malfunctioned. One time the carburetor blew and I suffered a broken leg and several broken ribs, but those things weren’t me. They were the car. When I crashed during the 500, it was my fault,” he said, admitting the truth out loud for the very first time. “My hand slipped on the wheel. My hand has never slipped.”

  “Then you’re entitled.“ Her voice softened. “You’re only human, Clint. And humans make mistakes. We’re not invincible.”

  He shook his head, wanting to believe her. But Cowboy MacAllister had been building himself up, feeding his own ego for so long to keep himself focused and determined, that a small part had actually started to believe the hype. “Mistakes like that don’t belong on the track. I’m dangerous, to myself and other drivers. I shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”

  “Racing is dangerous, period. And you belong behind the wheel.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I read NASCAR for Dummies.” When she saw that the admission didn’t impress him, she added, “In which you were mentioned two-hundred and seventy-six times. And I’ve watched TNN the past few Sundays since I met you. I’ve seen two races from beginning to end, including pre and post commentary. Not to mention the Winner’s Circle show hosted by that sports guy—what’s his name, Waltrip?”

  “Darrell Waltrip. He used to be a driver. His brother drives.”

  “I thought the name sounded familiar. Anyhow, I lost count on how many times you were mentioned during all that coverage. You’re a legend. The press has been speculating, true, but the real reporters, the ones that count, know how good you are and how important you are to the sport.”

  “And you know this based on two races?”

  “And my reading, and I’ve learned enough to know that the sport wouldn’t be near the phenomenon it is without you and drivers like you. If you want to retire, fine. You’re entitled to that, as well. But don’t do it because you feel like you have to. Because you’re afraid not to.” She held his gaze, her green eyes warm and compassionate. “Do it because you want to. Because it’s time. Because you know you’re the best and you’ve reached the pinnacle and there’s nowhere else to go.” When he didn’t say anything, she added, “If you really want to get on with your life, you have to start fresh. Right now you’ve still got something to prove to yourself.” She touched him then. Her soft, warm fingertips trailed down the side of his face in a feather-like caress that might not have meant anything were it not for the emotion bright in her eyes.

  Skye believed in him.

  It was the first time anyone had ever looked at him that way. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that his own confidence had been shattered. Skye had faith in him and the realization was enough to feed his own faith, and urge him back behind the wheel.

  Clint knew then that he’d been wrong about her. Skye Farrel wasn’t every woman in his past. She was the one woman in his future, even if she didn’t realize it.

  Yet.

  He planted a hot, hungry kiss on her lips before going to tell his crew and get suited up. A few minutes later, he climbed into the car, gunned the engine and spent the next few laps showing everyone, especially himself, that Clint MacAllister hadn’t lost his touch, after all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A cheer went up in the pit box when Clint raced past the green flag at the finish line and NASCAR officials
announced the qualifying results.

  Number 62 slowed and swerved onto pit road and pulled to a stop several feet past the pit box where Skye waited by herself. Clint climbed through the window and hauled himself out, pulling off his helmet. Their gazes locked and before she could draw another breath, he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her into his arms.

  “I did it. I won pole position!”

  “That’s great.” She hugged him back, relishing the feel of his strong arms. “It’s better than great. It’s wonderful. Pole position,” she exclaimed. “Wow!”

  He gave her a quick, intense kiss before easing her to her feet in a slow glide down his hard body. He stared down at her, a smile curving his lips. “You don’t have a clue what pole position is, do you?”

  “No. I don’t mean to take away from the moment, but I’m totally lost.”

  “Pole position is a racing term that refers to the car who starts the race on the inside of the front row. Pole position goes to the car with the fastest qualifying time.”

  “You had the fastest qualifying time.”

  “Bingo.”

  Skye beamed. “That’s great!”

  He stared down at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “It is great, but you know what’s better?” Before she could answer, he went on, “You didn’t have a clue and I still have a woody.”

  Her smile faded into a confused look. “What’s that supposed—” she started, but the rest of her question was lost as the excited crew quickly caught up and surrounded them.

  “Dammit, boy, I knew you could do it,” Jeep said, slapping Clint on the back.

  “That was beautiful!”

  “Just like old times!”

  Skye stepped back as the racing team congratulated their boss. Then it seemed as if the flood gates opened. Media joined the crowd and the number of people grew. Skye quickly found herself pushed to the outer edge.

  But she didn’t feel like the odd man out. She felt happier than she’d felt in a long, long time.

  Because Clint was so happy, and she’d had a small part in that.

  “Clint, Clint!” A tall brunette called out as she scooted up next to Skye and tried to wedge into the crowd. She was tall, a good head over Skye, her long dark hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. She was pretty in a quiet, unassuming sort of way. She wore a red Daytona Beach International Speedway T-shirt tucked into blue jeans. A handful of tags hung from a rope around her neck—everything from a pit pass to a Raceway nametag with the name

  DARLA in big black block letters—Darla.

  Reality smacked Skye upside the head and she knew in an instant that this was the Darla. The woman who’d turned down Clint’s marriage proposal. The woman Clint had been so eager to impress that he’d actually swallowed his male pride to take sex lessons.

  “Clint!” she called out again, waving the clipboard in her hand. “We need you in Victory Lane.”

  “You’re Darla,” Skye blurted.

  The woman turned on her. Big, brown eyes locked with Skye’s. “Pardon me?”

  “You’re the Darla that works here at the racetrack. You’re a friend of Clint’s.”

  The woman smiled, a warm, genuine smile that sent a rush of dread through Skye.

  This was Darla, and tomorrow was the Pepsi 400, and this weekend was Clint’s big chance to show off his stuff.

  Funny, but all of that had slipped to the farthest corner of her mind over the past few days as she and Clint had gotten closer with all the sex and the talking. Skye had gotten so caught up in fighting her own feelings, that she’d completely forgotten that their relationship wasn’t about what she did or did not feel.

  Their relationship was strictly a business deal. A means to an end, and for Clint the end was Darla.

  Even if he did look at her with those deep blue eyes that whispered more. Much, much more.

  He’d never once said that he felt anything for her. That he actually liked her. He hadn’t said anything, except a heartfelt thank-you a few moments ago. And something about a woody.

  Skye pushed the strange thought aside and focused on the moment and the woman standing next to her.

  Darla seemed nice with her easy smile and naturally pretty without so much as a stitch of makeup and sincere with her big, warm brown eyes. Judging by the excitement in her gaze as she stared over the sea of heads at the man who dominated the middle, there was no doubt that she knew exactly what pole position meant.

  Skye hated her instantly, and then she hated herself for having such feelings. She should be happy for Clint.

  This was the woman he wanted, and if his performance over the past few days was any prediction of success, Clint was going to totally wow her.

  This was it. The end of the line. School was out. Time for Skye to step aside.

  While she had, indeed, come to the startling conclusion that she liked him, her feelings didn’t change anything.

  Clint wanted more than a woman who liked him. He wanted a wife. Marriage.

  Together, they’d gone as far as they could. Clint’s next step was toward the altar.

  While Skye was tempted to stay through the next day and draw out what little time she had left with him, she wouldn’t. She already knew as much as she needed to about macho man Clint—namely that he was one of a kind and chances were she would never find another who made her feel half as wonderful. And he knew as much as he needed to about sex.

  There was no sense prolonging the inevitable, not to mention the last thing he probably needed, let alone wanted, was to have Skye hanging around. This was his chance with Darla and Skye wasn’t about to stand in his way.

  If anything, she was going to help him.

  Because as much as Skye liked Clint, she loved him even more.

  She blinked back her own tears, tapped Darla on the shoulder and said, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  Clint was going to skin her alive.

  He stomped up to the desk at the hotel where they were staying after a thorough search at the racetrack, prompted by a very enlightening conversation with Darla.

  First he was going to kiss her, then he was definitely going to skin her alive.

  Christ, Skye had actually talked to Darla about him, about the sex, about how great he was in bed. While Darla hadn’t been half as excited about his new level of expertise, she had been touched that he would go to so much trouble just to make her happy.

  Though she had no intention of reconsidering his proposal based on the new facts, she was willing to go out on a few dates and see where things might lead. Her words should have been music to his ears except for the all-important fact that he hadn’t been able to get past the initial, “Skye told me what you did.”

  Where did Skye get off telling anyone anything? He didn’t need Skye to talk him up. Hell, he didn’t want her to talk him up, because Clint MacAllister had had a change of heart.

  He no longer cared what Darla thought, which he’d quickly told her in a nice, polite way, before he’d said that he wanted to remain friends. Of course, she’d been agreeable. While they’d made terrible bed partners during their two quick encounters, they did make good comrades.

  After all, they had a lot in common.

  A definite plus between friends.

  It didn’t mean diddly between lovers.

  Clint had realized that when Skye confessed her hatred for fishing and he’d still been as turned on as ever. He’d realized then that the Holy Commitment Trinity her mom was so passionate about didn’t mean jack shit with his heart pounding so fast. In theory, it made sense. But to a man in love, it was just a bunch of bunk.

  Christ, he loved her.

  The realization hit him as he stood at the desk and listened to the clerk tell him that she’d checked out.

  “She what?”

  “She left in a cab about an hour ago and headed for the airport.” The clerk searched behind the desk. “But she did leave you this.” The man handed Clint a Tootsie Pop. “She said if all else
fails, you should try this.”

  He was definitely going to skin her alive.

  That desire faded as Clint walked out of the hotel and climbed into a cab. Doubt settled in and he considered for the first time that he might not get the chance to skin her alive. That for all his determination, this might be one race he couldn’t win.

  While he wanted Skye Farrel, she might not want him. Not in a forever kind of way.

  The urge to turn the cab around and head back to the speedway hit him hard and fast. Two days ago, he might have done just that. After his mess-up at the Daytona 500, he’d let his fear cripple him. Not the fear of what everyone had thought about him because of the crash, but the fear of what he’d thought about himself. That he was dangerous. A loser. A has-been.

  But he’d faced that fear today, thanks to Skye, and he would face his fear now.

  Chances were she would tell him to take a walk on a short bridge. Regardless of his feelings and the undeniable connection between them, they were different.

  The question was, were they too different? Maybe. Maybe not.

  Either way, he needed to know.

  Skye finished unpacking and had just settled on her sofa to watch the replay of the race when her doorbell rang. Punching the Mute button and silencing the commentary, she wiped the tears from her eyes, walked over and gazed through the peephole.

  Her heart jammed in her throat when she found Clint MacAllister staring back at her. Her hands trembled as she hurriedly wiped her face and opened the door.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He stared at her, his gaze unreadable. “Your last and final lesson.”

  “But you have to race tomorrow.”

  “Tuck showed up. It seems that he and Lindy had a meeting of the minds and, while I was tempted to boot his ass off the team, she talked me into keeping him. And then he talked me into keeping him. A first because Tuck never does much talking. But that’s going to change. At least that’s what he told me, and I believe him enough to give him a chance.”

  “Oh.”

  “But even if he hadn’t shown up, I would still be here. Actually, I was halfway here before I even got Lindy’s call.”