A NASCAR Holiday 2: Miracle SeasonSeason of DreamsTaking ControlThe Natural

by Pamela Britton

  She should be afraid to climb through the window into this thing, and maybe she was just a little. Maybe, too, fear added to the excitement. Or…it could have been the driver.

  “Will you be driving?”

  “If you want me to.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Come on, then.”

  SHE WAS NERVOUS—he’d be worried if she weren’t—but she followed directions meticulously without complaint. Her hands shook slightly as she put on the gloves he gave her, and she bit her lip—he was sure without realizing she was doing it. She didn’t chatter, just concentrated on what she was doing.

  “If at any point you want me to stop, just tell me,” he instructed her.

  He looked over at her, strapped snuggly into the passenger seat, and he realized she was at least as excited about this ride as she was apprehensive about it.

  He slipped into First gear and let out the clutch with his left foot. Following track rules, he moved slowly and carefully between the garages, rolled past the low wall separating the garage area from the pits, turned left onto pit road, received the go-ahead through his headset and glided down the line to the entrance onto the track proper.

  “Here we go.”

  He rammed his right foot to the floor.

  The g-force pressure of acceleration flattened them against the backs of their seats. He glanced over. Ellie had her hands at her sides, gripping the seat in pure terror, then he saw the corners of her mouth twist into a grin.

  They did three laps before she said anything.

  “How fast are we going?”

  “About one-fifty.”

  “Is that all?”

  He chuckled and pressed down on the right pedal.

  “One-sixty,” he announced.

  “You said you normally cruise at one-eighty.”

  “In a race.”

  “Will this car go that fast?”

  He was enjoying this, enjoying her unexpected appetite for speed. “It will if I tell it to.”

  “Tell it to,” she urged.

  He laughed and flattened the pedal to the floor.

  “Wow!” she said, not even trying to hide her wide-eyed grin.

  He drove more laps, taking turns wide and tight, high and low, before finally pulling onto pit road again.

  Back in the garage area his crew helped her through the window on her side of the car. She was astounded to discover she was wobbly legged, but he wasn’t surprised. In a little while, when the adrenaline faded from her bloodstream, she’d be so weak she’d be worried she’d injured herself.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That was…fantastic.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Something happened when they made eye contact this time. It was a strange sensation, as if for that twinkling of time they had ceased to be two people. A second later the connection was broken, but the bond wasn’t. He took her hand, led her aside, out of the hub of activity, and they talked about NASCAR. Later he wondered what he had said, what she had said, if she herself knew. A change had taken place. He couldn’t define it, but whatever it was made him feel good.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON Ellie was in Mace Wagner’s office getting a rundown on his staff, what they did and how they were organized and compensated, when her cell phone went off. She expected it to be her mother wanting to know when she could expect her multimillion-dollar check. The image made Ellie smile. Estelle wasn’t as bubbleheaded as she acted, but there was no doubt she liked money—or more precisely, spending it.

  Viewing the caller ID, however, the name that appeared on her screen wasn’t her mother’s. Without realizing she was doing it—a sign undoubtedly of fatigue after her stress hormone–pumping ride with Aidan—she muttered the name: Mitch Fulton.

  The instantaneous wave of hostility that washed across the desk from the crew chief put her nerves immediately on edge.

  She answered the phone. Fulton identified himself and, wasting no time on small talk, requested they meet at her earliest convenience.

  “About what?” she asked. Sitting across from her, Mace made no pretense of not listening, nor did he offer to leave the room to give her privacy.

  “I’d rather wait until I see you to go into details,” Fulton replied.

  “I’m not asking for details, Mr. Fulton. All I’m asking is what you want to see me about.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know who I am. I—”

  “You own Q Racing. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why do you want to see me?”

  “To discuss the sale of Satterfield Racing, of course.”

  The announcement came as no surprise. “I’ll be leaving in the morning for Miami. Perhaps after the race, on Monday.”

  “I’d prefer not to delay this conversation that long. Would it be possible for us to get together this evening? Someplace private.”

  She waited a beat before answering. “I’m staying at the Hyatt. If you can be there at eight this evening, we can meet in my suite. Will that be convenient?”

  “That’ll be fine,” he said.

  The conversation ended, Ellie closed her phone and slipped it into her handbag.

  “There are a few things you need to know, Ms. Satterfield, before you meet with Mitch Fulton,” Mace said, clearly tight-jawed.

  She sought a more comfortable position in the stiff-backed visitor’s chair and took a fortifying breath. “Fill me in.”

  “If you sell Satterfield Racing to Fulton, Aidan will be the first to go.”

  “You mean fired? Why would Fulton do that? Aidan’s the team’s star.”

  “Because Fulton hates O’Keefe, has for years, and has been waiting for a chance to get back at him.”

  “For what? I don’t understand.”

  “Jenny, Aidan’s late wife. The three of them, Aidan, Mitch, and Jenny went to high school together. Aidan and Mitch were both racing dragsters back then. Jenny was going with Mitch at the time, until one race when he got caught cheating. She dropped him and started dating Aidan. Mitch continued to get in trouble and a few years later was suspended from racing for an entire season. Meanwhile Aidan advanced to the NASCAR Busch Series and finally the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup Series. By then Mitch had inherited a pile of money from his rich daddy, bought into Q Racing and eventually forced the original owner, Quint Quintana, out.

  “Three years ago Jenny was diagnosed with terminal cancer. There was a new drug available the doctors suggested trying. Aidan was desperate for anything that might save her, so he and Jenny agreed she should take it, but it was too late. She died a month later. Mitch blamed Aidan, claiming that by forcing her to take an unproven, experimental drug he accelerated her death. It wasn’t true. You never saw two people more in love than Aidan and Jenny….”

  “That’s terrible,” Ellie said. “And Mitch would fire Aidan if he had a chance.”

  “In a New York minute. Not that he’d get a chance. If Fulton takes over Satterfield Racing, Aidan will walk.”

  AT TWO MINUTES TO EIGHT that evening Ellie’s hotel phone rang. The clerk at the desk announced Mr. Fulton was there to see her. Since her suite was on the concierge level and required key access in the elevator, permission was required before a bellhop would bring him up.

  The digital clock on the mantel over the gas log in the fireplace showed exactly eight when her doorbell rang.

  Mitch Fulton appeared slightly older and grayer in person than he did in his professionally touched-up portrait on the Q Web site. He handed the bellhop a tip and greeted her.

  “Please come in.” Ellie’s voice was flat.

  After the door was closed they shook hands. She led him from the small foyer to the living room and offered him a choice of drinks from the bar or coffee from the tray room service had delivered five minutes earlier. He declined both.

  He was taller than she’d expected and leaner, almost too angular to be considered good-looking. As they sat on opposing couches in front of the fireplace, Ellie noted he had large hands with lon
g, straight fingers. He was dressed in a suit, probably an Armani.

  “Since you know who I am,” he said, in the pleasantly modulated voice she remembered from the phone, “I don’t have to give you a long-winded introduction, and I’ll get right to the point.”

  She nodded.

  “I’d like to buy Satterfield Racing from you and your mother.”

  “You already have Q Racing, which has teams in both the Busch and NEXTEL Series,” she said. “Why acquire another team?”

  “Growth. It’s the nature of business to expand.”

  “That’s a true enough statement, but it doesn’t tell me anything. Why Satterfield Racing?”

  “I should think it would be fairly obvious. Because it’s available.”

  “And you’re sure we want to sell.”

  The thin smile that appeared on his lips came close to a smirk, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared. His eyes met hers unflinchingly.

  “Please don’t take me for a fool, Ms. Satterfield. I know that in all the years your uncle owned Satterfield Racing neither you nor your mother ever attended a single race. You’ve come here as an ingenue, ignorant of even the most rudimentary facts about NASCAR. You and your mother now own the controlling interest in a racing team, but neither of you has the least desire, much less the expertise, necessary to manage it successfully. You’re here to sell, and you want the best price you can get for what you see as a commodity.”

  Ellie’s breath caught in her throat, and it was only by the greatest force of will that she kept from lowering her gaze.

  She should throw him out. The crack about being an ingenue—an artless innocent, an actress playing a part—both offended her and frightened her. Mitch Fulton hadn’t raised his voice. In fact his tone throughout his brief diatribe, all the facts of which had been completely correct, had been downright friendly, and that only seemed to make him more intimidating.

  “Touché, Mr. Fulton.” She resisted the urge to laugh nervously, smiling with narrowed eyes instead.

  “You and your mother will undoubtedly entertain other offers. When you have received what you consider to be the best one, call me and I’ll top it.”

  He clearly wanted Satterfield Racing every bit as much as Mace had said he would. She wondered if she should mention Aidan and perhaps make a stipulation that he was not to be fired. But this was, after all, a business decision, not a sentimental one. Besides, she couldn’t stop Aidan from quitting.

  “That’s a generous offer, Mr. Fulton, and a dangerous one. You could find yourself paying a highly inflated price.”

  His smile this time intimated how naive she was. “Not if I’m dealing with someone of integrity. It’s also acceptable practice in a case like this to see such a bid in writing. Naturally, if I had any doubt of the sincerity of the offer I would verify that the other party had the wherewithal to follow through on it.”

  The man certainly knew how to insult with finesse.

  “Just so there is no misunderstanding, Ms. Satterfield, I am prepared to pay one million dollars in cash over your highest offer for all rights to Satterfield Racing. All rights means just that. Upon signing the contract of sale and electronically transferring the money to the account or accounts of your choice, onshore or off, you walk away and I take complete control of Satterfield Racing.”

  “Will you put that in writing?”

  He reached into his jacket’s inside pocket and removed a vellum-type envelope which he placed on the coffee table separating them. “It’s all there. Short and sweet. We can conclude this transaction within twenty-four hours of your concurrence.”

  He didn’t mince words. A bid in writing was hard to ignore.

  “I’ve specified no time limit on this offer, but naturally the sooner the better, before the first of the year is preferred. That’ll give the team adequate time to adjust to the transition before we start the new NEXTEL season.”

  And bring in a new driver.

  He rose from the couch. She did the same. They both moved toward the foyer.

  “Good luck on Sunday.” He extended his hand to her.

  She smiled. “See you at the races.”

  He grinned back. “Race, Ms. Satterfield. There’s only one left.”

  He opened the door himself and was gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “WHAT’S WALTER’S NIECE like?” Beth Wagner asked, as they drove from the airport to the racetrack Thursday night. A storm had delayed their arrival, so Aidan’s daughter and Mace’s wife and sons were getting in much later than planned. “Mace hasn’t said much about her.”

  Aidan’s first impulse was to say sexy, followed by beautiful, intelligent, stuck-up and insecure. But his mind didn’t seem to want to go past the first word.

  “Not much like him,” he said.

  “I miss Uncle Walter,” Annie said from the backseat, where she was securely belted in between ten-year-old Kevin and twelve-year-old Lief. The boys’ heads were bobbing to their iPod music.

  “We all do, honey,” Aidan replied, “but he’s still here in spirit. All you have to do is picture him and there he is.”

  “I do, but sometimes I forget what he looks like. Like I forget what Mommy looks like.”

  “That’s all right, sweetheart,” Beth said, reaching back and patting the girl’s knee. “People’s looks change, but their love never does.”

  Annie nodded and continued gazing out the window. The infield was packed with vehicles and RVs of every variety. People were milling around. Music was being pumped from stereos, and the scents of food being cooked on grills permeated the air.

  “Are we going to meet Ellie tonight?” Annie asked a minute later.

  “Not tonight, but in the morning.”

  It was already after nine locally, well past Annie’s bedtime.

  “I invited her to stop by and meet you in the morning at eight. She’s using Uncle Walter’s RV.”

  ELLIE SHIFTED the cell phone from one ear to the other as she told her mother about Aidan’s offer to buy their interests but with the stipulation that full payment be delayed a year.

  “I was hoping you’d be able to settle this ridiculous matter quickly,” Estelle complained.

  Ellie didn’t tell her about Mitch Fulton’s offer to top it or any other offer by a million dollars, payable immediately. It was a no-brainer, yet she hesitated. This was a business deal, and that meant accepting the high bid and getting out.

  She should have stayed in California and handled it from a distance. The decision would have been easy then. Now she was faced with Aidan O’Keefe, and he was hard to ignore. Time to change the subject.

  “When was the last time you saw Uncle Walter?” Ellie asked her mother.

  Silence on the other end.

  “Mother? Are you still there?”

  “Just thinking, dear.”

  “Could it have been last January? Aboard a ship in the Caribbean?”

  The sound on the line had an uncanny resemblance to a muffled gasp.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were seeing him?”

  “I wasn’t seeing him,” Estelle objected. “We just happened to be on the same cruise.”

  “Every year?” Ellie laughed. “I’ll say this for you, Mother. You’ve been discreet. Why didn’t you ever bring him home, let me meet him?”

  “He wasn’t suitable, Ellie. For one thing, he was my brother-in-law. Your father—” there was that pause again “—your father was refined, educated, sophisticated. An achiever. Walter… Well, Walter was the wild one, the renegade—”

  “The bad boy,” Ellie supplied.

  Estelle sighed. “Exactly.”

  And bad boys can be very attractive, even seductive, Ellie reflected. Of course, a lot depended on how you defined good and bad.

  “He didn’t do too shabby, though,” Ellie reminded her mother. “He got to own a multimillion-dollar NASCAR racing team.”

  Estelle didn’t respond. Instead she asked, “What�
��s this Aidan O’Keefe person like?”

  Sexy, Ellie almost blurted out. Dangerous. “An experienced driver and an astute businessman, as well as a dedicated family man.”

  “Family man? I didn’t know—”

  “He has a six-year-old daughter. I haven’t met her yet, but I will tomorrow.”

  “And his wife?”

  “Died two or three years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. And he’s bringing his daughter up all by himself? Can’t be easy.”

  Her mother’s comment took Ellie a bit by surprise. Estelle didn’t usually dwell on other people’s lives, except as they impacted her own, but having been a single parent, she could appreciate the challenges a widower faced.

  Ellie knew her mother’s self-absorption was largely a defense mechanism. She suspected the young Estelle, who’d married the handsome air force captain, had been a different person from the mature woman she’d developed into. John Satterfield’s sudden and tragic death had traumatized Estelle and made her afraid to get too close to people, at times, even to Ellie. Still, Ellie never had any doubt she was loved.

  What, then, of Estelle’s relationship with Walter? Ellie wouldn’t be surprised if it had gone beyond a once-a-year assignation, but this wasn’t the time to probe deeper.

  What she had to do now was figure out how she was going to handle the sale of Satterfield Racing. More particularly, how she was going to deal with Aidan O’Keefe.

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING Ellie tried, not wholly successfully, to prepare coffee in the galley of her late uncle’s motor coach, which, she had to admit, blew her away. This wasn’t your weekend camper but a home away from home.

  Among the things she’d found in inventorying the coach the day before, after flying in from Charlotte, was a doll. Very different from the dolls Ellie had grown up with, the kind dressed in finery and lace, wearing wide-brimmed hats and a myriad of crinolines. This doll wore denim, clunky shoes and a long-sleeved shirt displaying Satterfield Racing colors. Only the length of the yellow hair and painted fingernails identified it as a girl.