A NASCAR Holiday 2: Miracle SeasonSeason of DreamsTaking ControlThe Natural

by Pamela Britton

TOM STOOD IN VICTORY LANE at the Chicago racetrack, his hair plastered to his head with a combination of July sweat and jubilantly sprayed champagne. A reporter stuck a microphone in his face, certainly not the first, nor would it be the last during this celebration.

  “You’ve just won your third race of the season and you’re only a couple of points out of first place in the championship race,” the reporter said, as if Tom didn’t already know all of that. “What would you say has turned your team around this year after the terrible season you had last year?”

  “Len’s doing a phenomenal job as crew chief,” Tom said, giving a thumbs-up to his grinning teammate. “The whole team is working together like clockwork, and the hard work and spirit of cooperation is really showing out on the track.”

  “Your own attitude seems to have undergone a change this season,” the reporter persisted, jostling to keep his prime position from the others eager to get a quote. “Even last week when Malloy took you out of the race with that aggressive move that sent you into the fence, you kept your cool and smiled through the interviews afterward. The Tom Wyatt from last year would have hid out in the hauler and avoided the press after a disaster like that. Can you explain the difference?”

  “I guess I do have a new attitude this season,” Tom admitted. “Maybe it’s helping the team that I’m more positive now, which makes it easier for everyone to do their jobs.”

  “And what brought about that change?”

  “I think I’d lost sight of why I started racing in the first place,” Tom answered candidly. “It wasn’t just for the championships or the fame or the money, it was for the love of the sport. I’m going to give everything I’ve got to win the championship again this year, but if it doesn’t happen, then I’ll start focusing on winning next year, knowing I’ve done my best.”

  And speaking of his job… “I want to thank my sponsors, RightTime Realty, Colby Oil, Hometown Building Supplies and Quench Cola,” he recited smoothly. “My owner, Philip Shaw, and everyone at Shaw Racing. All the members of my team, who give me the cars and the support I need to win. The fans who’ve stood by me through the good times and the bad. My friend and business partner, Dan LeMay of LeMay Resort in Lake Ozark, Missouri. And my new bride, Melissa, who keeps me on track in both my professional and my personal life.”

  “So would you say you’re a happy man now, Tom?” the reporter asked just as he was pushed out of the way by another impatient microphone-holder.

  Tom grinned as cameras flashed all around him. “I’m the happiest guy on earth. It’s like celebrating Christmas all year long.”

  “Lucky man,” he heard someone say behind him.

  Lucky, indeed, he thought as Melissa slipped through the crowd to join him with the same loving smile she had given him the week before, when he hadn’t even finished the race. Theirs was a partnership that had nothing to do with championship points—and everything to do with living a dream.

  TAKING CONTROL

  Ken Casper

  To Pres Darby,

  An endless source of ideas and inspiration

  Thanks, friend

  CHAPTER ONE

  “CONGRATULATIONS, you are now each the proud owners of one-third of Satterfield Racing.”

  “Humph,” Estelle Satterfield grumbled. “What could I possibly want with a race car? My Bentley is excellent transportation—”

  “Not nearly as fast, though,” her daughter, Ellie, reminded her.

  “I assure you, darling, comfort and style are far more important than noise and speed.”

  Ellie wasn’t so sure. Oh, she definitely liked her comforts. The last time she’d returned home to San Francisco she’d been forced to fly coach instead of first class and vowed never to do it again. As for style, well…there was style and there was style. She’d take Wally’s Ferrari over her mother’s Bentley any day, even if she wouldn’t take Wallace Carmichael IV to have and to hold as her mother had so fervently wished. Estelle considered the quality of a man’s cummerbund—silk was the preferred fabric, of course—far more important than its girth. In this case Ellie was thinking of Sylvester Agincourt, another one of her suitors. But she really didn’t want to dwell on the Pillsbury Doughboy. Even if the dough part also referred to mountains of money.

  “Race cars,” Estelle huffed. “Your father liked them, too. I never could understand why. Noisy, dirty and driven by men to match. If your uncle wanted to leave us a legacy, why couldn’t it be something more dignified or at least more marketable? A house. A tract of land perhaps. Stocks and bonds are always acceptable. But a race car! We’ll probably have to pay someone to tow it to the junkyard.”

  For just a fleeting instant Ellie thought she spied an upturned curl at the edges of the family lawyer’s thin mouth, but she must have been mistaken.

  “How soon can you dispose of our interests in this jalopy?” Estelle asked him peevishly.

  Rupert Hollingsworth pulled back his double chins as if he’d just been served with a subpoena to appear as a witness for the defense in the case against the Hollywood Madam.

  “Estelle, really. Hollingsworth, Diddlemeyer and Hollingsworth is not a company of merchants. We don’t broker business deals. Should you find a willing buyer, I will, of course, be most happy to draw up the contract and see to the legal details of transferring ownership—”

  For a hefty fee, Ellie mused.

  “But the sale of a NASCAR racing team,” he continued, “must be placed in the hands of people…with those sorts of skills.”

  Ellie perked up. “Did you say NASCAR?”

  “Satterfield Racing is currently competing, I understand, in the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup Series.”

  Ellie let out a low whistle, earning a scowl from her mother.

  “Surely you know someone—” Estelle argued.

  “Mother, leave this to me.”

  “Sweetheart, what would you possibly know about selling an auto racing…whatever?”

  “Team,” Ellie supplied impatiently. And the answer was nothing, at least at the moment, but she was a quick study, and if her instincts proved right, this could be a very lucrative undertaking.

  “Really, how difficult can it be?” Ellie went on. “You seem to forget, Mother, that I just received my Masters of Business Administration from Harvard University.”

  “Of course you did, dear, and I’m very proud of you, but managing a Fortune 500 corporation and selling cars, a used car at that—” she shuddered in a very ladylike way “—are hardly the same.”

  Except Ellie hadn’t been overwhelmed with tenders to manage any Fortune 500 companies. Okay, one of the management trainee offers she had received from a burger-and-shake franchise was part of a fast-food conglomerate on the Fortune 500 list, but that hardly counted. The position hadn’t exactly been what she would call executive level at corporate headquarters, either. Or anywhere close. Well, their loss.

  “We’re talking business, Mother, something I happen to be well trained in, an expert, as a matter of fact.”

  “I really don’t think—” Estelle started.

  “Tell me the provisions of the will again, Mr. Hollingsworth.”

  The senior partner heaved his massive chest and settled deeper into his oversize leather swivel throne.

  “Your uncle, Walter Wilson Satterfield, left one-half of his two-thirds interest in Satterfield Racing to each of you.”

  “Two-thirds?” Estelle questioned. “Who’d he leave the other third to?”

  Hollingsworth didn’t like being interrupted. “He didn’t leave it to anyone, madam. He only owned two-thirds.”

  Estelle picked a speck of nonexistent lint from her black skirt. “Must have fallen on hard times then. Can’t say I’m surprised. He used to own the whole…whatever you call it—”

  “Team,” Ellie supplied again. “How do you know that?”

  “Of course, that was years ago,” Estelle rambled on, “when John was still alive.”

  Ellie glanced over at the elegantly ove
rdressed woman in the chair beside her. Estelle rarely mentioned Ellie’s late father, but when she did, there was always a note of wistful sadness in her voice, as there was now. John Satterfield died when Ellie was only a year old, so she had no personal recollection of him, only a romanticized portrait in a silver frame of a handsome officer in uniform.

  “Perhaps he was sole proprietor at one time,” Hollingsworth advised her mother, clearly annoyed at having his explanation challenged. “But at the time of his death Walter Satterfield owned only two-thirds of Satterfield Racing.”

  “Do you know who owns the other third?” Ellie asked politely.

  The attorney shuffled through the papers on his otherwise unencumbered desk, came to a sheet, held it up to examine it and announced, “One Aidan O’Keefe.”

  “Who’s he?” Estelle demanded.

  Hollingsworth further perused the paper. “He’s apparently the driver of the race car they own, identified as number 555. The will is quite explicit. Any one of the three partners can sell his or her share of the racing team with the concurrence of one of the other partners.”

  Estelle looked mystified.

  “Which means,” Ellie elucidated, “Mother and I can agree to sell one or both of our shares with the concurrence of the other. Neither of us needs Mr. O’Keefe’s permission or approval.”

  “Quite correct,” Hollingsworth stated. “It also means one or both of you can agree to his selling his interest to a third party.”

  “Or to one of us,” Ellie posed.

  “Indeed, since selling to one of you implies an ipso facto two-thirds sanction of the transfer of title.”

  “I don’t understand,” Estelle said.

  “I’ll explain it to you later, Mother.”

  Estelle scowled but only for a second. She wasn’t in the habit of dwelling on trifling details and was perfectly content to let her daughter—her beautiful and brilliant daughter—handle them.

  Ellie tapped her right front tooth with the polished nail of her right index finger, a habit going back to childhood, which her mother positively abhorred. Estelle was about to remind her how distinctly undignified it was when Ellie spoke up.

  “Do you know when Mr. O’Keefe bought into this partnership with my uncle?”

  “I do not.”

  “Or why?”

  The lawyer shook his head.

  “Or for what amount?”

  Again the attorney dismissed the question without an answer.

  “Surely it wouldn’t be worth much,” Estelle volunteered. “Probably sold it for a case of beer.”

  Ellie chuckled. “More like a brewery, Mother. Seems to me the last time I read about a NASCAR team sale it was for over twenty-five million dollars.”

  Estelle had a sudden and very unladylike coughing fit. “Did you use the word million after twenty-five?” she asked at last, her brown eyes as wide and gleeful as Ellie had ever seen them. “So that would mean each of our thirds is worth eight million, three hundred thirty-three thousand, three hundred…. Whew!”

  It was amazing how adept at numbers the woman could be with the proper motivation. Ellie winked at the man behind the desk, and this time she was sure she saw him holding back a grin.

  “It seems to me,” Ellie said slowly, thoughtfully, “the person who would be most interested in buying us out is Mr. O’Keefe.”

  “Write him a letter,” Estelle directed. “Call him immediately. Tell him we won’t settle for a penny less than eight and a half million apiece.”

  “I’m going to do better than that, Mother,” Ellie replied. “I’ll go see him personally.”

  AIDAN O’KEEFE STOMPED on the gas as he rounded Turn Four. He leveled onto the front stretch, the checkered flag fluttering wildly before him.

  Twenty-two cars zoomed under it ahead of him.

  Coming in twenty-third probably wasn’t a bad ending in a race fraught with problems from the start. A front tire blowout in lap twelve. At least he’d been able to maneuver through the spinout without crashing, in fact with hardly a scratch. A sixteen-second pit stop that had cost him four more positions. And last but not least, a carburetor problem three laps from the finish line that made him look like a Sunday driver in a funeral cortege. Not that it made any difference by then.

  He pulled onto pit road, applied his brakes. No hurry now. This race was over. Phoenix was history. One race left for the season. Miami. No way was he going to win the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup trophy this year, either. He just didn’t have the points. He’d been hoping for a better showing, though. For Walter.

  He missed the guy. The heart attack that felled him the day after Aidan won at Talladega had come as a complete surprise to everyone. Aidan rushed to the hospital as soon as he received word of his partner’s collapse, but it was too late. The man who’d been like a father to him was already gone.

  He pulled into the garage area. Mace Wagner was waiting for him as he rumbled to a stop, and from the expression on his crew chief’s weathered face he wasn’t any more pleased than Aidan was. Their next team meeting would be a long one.

  “We let you down,” Mace said, as Aidan coiled himself out of the car’s window.

  “Stuff happens.”

  “You drove a good race.”

  “We all did our best,” Aidan replied.

  The members of his team, all in orange-and-green uniforms similar to his own, took custody of the car. He knew they were listening and would be beating themselves up without his adding a sucker punch to their pride.

  “Fulton stopped by a few minutes ago,” Mace muttered.

  “Tell him to go—”

  “I did.” They marched side by side toward the hauler. “Got a call from the office this afternoon. Apparently Walter’s niece is coming to Charlotte on Tuesday.”

  “Didn’t Shirley explain I won’t be there, that I’ll be going directly to Miami on Thursday?”

  “She tried to, but this gal, Ellie Satterfield, insisted she’ll be arriving at our headquarters on Tuesday and expects to be shown around, whether you’re there or not.”

  “Whoa. Throwing her weight around already, huh?”

  “Shirley said she was very pleasant, very polite, but also very specific about her expectations.”

  “How about her mother? Is she coming, too?” Aidan asked. “From what Walter said, she’s the one who flies the broom.”

  “No, the daughter said she was coming alone. She did have Shirley book a suite for her, though, at the Hyatt.”

  Aidan considered having flowers delivered but changed his mind. Wouldn’t want the scent to go to the princess’s head.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ELLIE’S PLANE SAT on the tarmac at San Francisco International for three hours before receiving permission to take off. Then it was diverted to Chicago because of a hurricane brewing off the Gulf Coast. Instead of arriving at Charlotte Douglas International at five o’clock in the afternoon as originally scheduled, Ellie wasn’t able to deplane until nearly midnight. Even at that hour the terminal was chaos as other passengers, who’d also been diverted or delayed, occupied every available seat and even camped out like a bunch of vagabonds on the floor. The baggage claims area was pure bedlam.

  “Miss Ellie Satterfield, please meet your party at the lost-and-found office in the main baggage claims area. Miss Ellie Satterfield…”

  Her party? Sherrill or Shauna or whoever it was she’d spoken to at Satterfield Racing on Sunday must have arranged for a limo to pick her up. And they’d kept track of her flight! Well, that was the first positive thing to happen today…or was it yesterday?

  She scanned overhead for signs to lost and found, saw one for the restrooms and was tempted to head in that direction first. The driver would wait. That was what he was paid to do.

  “Paging Miss Ellie Satterfield. Miss Ellie Satterfield, please meet…”

  Okay, okay. She followed the sign to lost and found.

  No chauffeur, just a guy standing there in a black T-shirt and snug jeans.
He needed a shave, but he was sort of cute. Actually more than sort of and more than just cute. Hot and dangerous. Too bad she wasn’t into scruffy.

  She stepped up to a room crammed with luggage of every description and condition, taped boxes, snow skis—in Florida? The man behind the counter was short, shaped like a sagging dumpling, bald-headed and sweat-stained. He made Mr. Scruffy take on the aura of a movie star.

  “Excuse me,” she called out, but the attendant ignored her while he checked tag numbers against a crumpled form in his hand. “Hey, you paged me.”

  “Miss Satterfield?”

  She whirled around to the voice behind her and came face-to-face with Mr. Scruffy Movie Star. He was only a few feet away now. Taller than she’d realized, sinewy muscled, and even better-looking up close. Gorgeous blue eyes and a mouth that made her want to lick her lips…or his.

  “Yes?”

  He extended his right hand. “I’m Aidan O’Keefe.”

  The race car driver? The other third of Satterfield Racing?

  She realized his hand was still extended and placed hers in it. “Ellie Satterfield. I certainly didn’t expect you to come out personally to meet me, Mr. O’Keefe, especially at this hour.”

  “Call me Aidan. I’ll take you to your hotel.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I requested a limo—”

  “Well, sure, if you’d prefer to wait,” he said, gazing at her with those heavenly blue eyes, “I reckon we can get one here in, oh, an hour or so.”

  He was smiling at her. Or was it laughing? At this point she wasn’t sure she cared. She just wanted to get out of this madhouse. Although it was an exceptionally attractive smile. Sexy as hell, actually.

  “I apologize, Mr. O’Keefe. I’m tired and out of sorts. Thank you for coming to get me. It’s very kind of you.”

  “Do you have baggage?”

  “Yes, of course.” She dipped into her purse and pulled out her first-class ticket folder. “Three pieces.”

  He offered her the crook of his elbow. “Let’s go see if they made it in as good a shape as you did.”