A NASCAR Holiday 2: Miracle SeasonSeason of DreamsTaking ControlThe Natural

by Pamela Britton

  Darn it, he had her.

  She didn’t even get to make him sweat a little longer—Roger shouldered his way into the conversation. “We’d be honored to help you out, Danny. You’re our favorite driver.”

  Danny’s gaze met Madison’s and she telegraphed, “Not mine,” with her eyes. One side of his mouth quirked.

  Roger insisted on leading the dog out to the reception himself. The animal tugged on the leash—like most patients, he wanted to be more active than his injuries permitted. At times like this Madison wished she could speak Dog. She’d woof, “Take it easy.” And maybe, when he got close to Danny, “Bite him.”

  The dog responded to Danny’s “Hey, buster” with joyous welcome.

  Then a tall woman arrived, introducing herself as Sandra Jacobs, Danny’s PR representative. Fifteen minutes later, the place was overrun with reporters and photographers, even a couple of TV crews. Danny pulled on a Sports Force America cap and posed hunkered down with an arm slung around the dog. He grinned as if they were long-lost buddies, and didn’t flinch when a long, slobbery lick landed on his cheek.

  In response to the journalists’ questions, Danny recounted the story of how his truck came to hit the dog—his publicist jumped in and emphasized the wet road and terrible conditions.

  Madison chipped in with answers to questions about the dog’s health. From the corner of her eye, she saw the reception grow increasingly crowded—no one wanted to go into their appointment while Danny was there. The backlog would likely last all day.

  A reporter asked, “What happens to the dog now?”

  “I hope the owner will see this story and come forward,” Madison said. “If not, he’ll go to a shelter, probably at the end of the week when his wound is more healed.”

  At last they ran out of questions, and the media left. While the PR lady thanked Roger for the clinic’s cooperation, Danny turned to Madison. “You did great.”

  She shrugged, her earlier annoyance dissipated by the realization that the media interest could be useful. “If it helps find the dog’s owner, I’ll be happy.”

  He glanced down at the animal lying at his feet. “I’m glad he has someone like you looking out for him.” He smiled, with his eyes not his mouth, as he stuck out a hand.

  “I’m a sucker for a stray,” Madison said lightly, trying to get the handshake over with as fast as possible. But he caught her with his other hand, trapping her fingers between his, the way she’d done to him the other night. She wondered if his bones had melted then.

  For a long moment, he looked down at her hand as if he could feel her liquid response. Mortified, Madison tried to tug free. He tightened his grip. “How about I buy you dinner tonight?”

  The words swam in her head in a delicious sea of temptation. Dinner with Danny… “Why? Are you planning another photo shoot tomorrow?”

  He laughed. “Nope, but you never know what might come up.” A pause. “Dinner would be to say thanks for helping out when I didn’t deserve it.”

  She’d bet he knew there was nothing sexier than a man acting humble. Then he glanced at his watch, and she remembered this man would happily forget Christmas, would forget anything that didn’t help him win races. He would forget her long before she forgot him.

  “Thanks,” she said, “but I’m getting together with my mom and my sisters tonight to plan Christmas. It’s important.”

  His eyes gleamed an acknowledgment of her put-down. At last, he relinquished her hand, and immediately she felt the loss of contact.

  “It was interesting to meet you, Madison Beale.”

  Before she could even regret the finality of those words, he was gone. Madison squelched a pang of disappointment as she headed to the reception desk, picked up her clipboard.

  “Mrs. Barrett,” she called. A stout woman with a blue rinse and a black poodle heaved herself out of a chair. Madison smiled a greeting. “Come this way.” As she headed down the corridor, she tried not to stew over Danny’s description of their encounter as “interesting.” Surely he could have managed “fun” or “great.” She’d even settle for “nice.”

  ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, Madison gave in and picked up the phone to call Danny. She ran a finger over the cell phone number on his business card. He must have minions to answer the phone. I probably won’t even get to talk to him.

  She pressed in the number.

  “Cruise.” No minion had a voice that sexy.

  She cleared her throat. “Hi, uh, it’s—”

  “Madison, hi.”

  It felt darned good that he’d recognized her voice.

  “How’s the dog?” he asked.

  She collected her thoughts. “Do you really care?”

  “No, but I’m too scared not to ask.”

  She heard his smile, couldn’t help smiling back. “He’s fine.” She paused. “The story came out well in the papers. On TV, too.”

  “The ‘bad sport’ theory has gone away,” he agreed. “And my sponsor’s thrilled to have so much off-season publicity.”

  “Hold that thought, because it’s my turn to ask you for help.”

  A moment’s silence. Then a cautious, “Uh-huh?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I had a choice,” she said. “We’ve been flooded with e-mails and phone calls since that story came out.”

  “People wanting the dog’s autograph,” he guessed.

  “NASCAR fans wanting to adopt him,” she corrected. “His real owner hasn’t come forward, but there must be five hundred people who want him.”

  “That’s great.”

  She tsk-tsked. “I don’t have time to deal with them. You must have people who handle your mail. They can sift through these inquiries and give me a short list of potential owners.”

  Danny’s silence seemed contemplative rather than reluctant. Madison was learning he didn’t talk until he had something to say. She personally found it difficult to say nothing, so she added, “It’s just I have a—a patient about to arrive for lifesaving surgery.”

  “I’ll deal with it,” he said abruptly. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “I only wanted—” But she was talking to dead air.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Danny walked into the treatment room where Madison was working.

  “How did you get in here?” And how come every time he turned up she had something odd on her head? Today she wore a pair of magnifying goggles that made her look bug-eyed.

  “There was no one at reception. Nice specs.” He stepped toward her…and stopped, his eyes fixed on the patient she held in one hand, the needle poised in the other. “Don’t tell me,” he said in a strangled voice, “this is the lifesaving surgery?”

  “Yes, it is. And I don’t have a lot of time, so you’d better leave.”

  She bent over her tiny patient. Danny came closer.

  “I realize,” he said conversationally, “this is probably some rare species on the verge of extinction, but it looks just like a goldfish.”

  Madison bit down on a twitching of her lips, prayed her hand would stay steady as she made another tiny stitch. “It is a goldfish,” she admitted. “His name—” a little snort of laughter escaped her, and she paused in her work “—is Goldie.”

  Danny guffawed, a noise to which Goldie thankfully seemed oblivious. “What happened to him?”

  “Cat,” she said briefly, intent on her last two stitches.

  When she was done, she dropped the fish into his bowl. After a wrenching moment of immobility Goldie flexed his tail experimentally, then swam a circuit. Madison sighed with relief as she pulled off her goggles. She rubbed the skin around her eyes, where the goggles had left an imprint.

  “Did you ever think,” Danny said, “about just flushing the little guy?”

  “Goldie is a child’s pet,” she said, shocked. She picked up the bowl. “She’s waiting in reception, very worried. I’ll be right back.”

  WHEN SHE RETURNED, Danny jumped right in, aware this was his best
chance to convince her. “I’ve found a new owner for the dog.”

  Madison’s face lit up. “Who is it?”

  “Me.”

  Her face darkened.

  “What’s the problem?” he demanded.

  “Am I wrong, or did you just suggest flushing away an animal?”

  “A goldfish,” he corrected. “A dog is very different.”

  “Too big to flush, you mean?” Superciliously, she added, “Leaving aside the latest research proving that goldfish have considerable social and memory skills, you made it very clear the dog is low on your list of priorities.”

  “He’s growing on me. I’ve realized a pet would make me a more rounded individual.”

  “You don’t want to be rounded,” she pointed out. “Racing comes first and you’re proud of it.”

  Danny had noticed how that statement of his had rankled with her the other day. He figured it was why she’d turned down his offer of dinner. He should have been relieved—he didn’t have time to date her—but instead he’d had that empty, gnawing feeling that hit when he lost a race. Unlike racing, where he could throw himself into his efforts to do better the following week, he’d been stuck with this feeling.

  “Besides,” she continued, “you’re too busy for a dog. You spend half the year traveling.”

  “Plenty of NASCAR people take their dogs with them.” He added, “I have a huge backyard, and if he doesn’t come with me I can hire a dog-walker. When I’m home, he’ll be good for my fitness.”

  “Big dogs don’t need as much exercise as you think,” she warned.

  “He’ll keep me company.” Danny wished he hadn’t said that. It made him sound lonely. Still, it produced the first softening he’d seen—Madison’s brown eyes warmed up a fraction.

  “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully.

  “Dogs help people deal with hurt and rejection,” he reminded her. Though, truth was, he hadn’t thought about the breakup with Kristal with anything other than relief.

  Danny knew for certain it would be a dumb idea to tell Madison he’d had such great publicity from the dog that he wanted to keep the story going. Even dumber to mention that a dog food company had approached the team about becoming a sponsor. Dumbest of all would be the revelation that Danny and the dog were getting as much media coverage as Trent Matheson and his fiancée—a level of coverage that drivers usually attracted only by getting married or having babies.

  All Danny had to do was own a dog. It was a no-brainer.

  Doubtless Madison wouldn’t see it that way. She wasn’t one of the many people who would roll over just because Danny Cruise asked her to.

  “A dog can be a good friend,” she agreed.

  Danny didn’t have a lot of time for friendships—and that was the beauty of dog ownership. Instant friendship of the best kind, where he didn’t have to do more than pat the creature’s head every so often. Hell, he wished more of his girlfriends had been like that.

  “I don’t have a lot of friends,” he admitted. If that’s what it would take to get the dog…

  Her mouth softened. But her eyes fastened on his, as if she could see into his thoughts. Danny blocked her by mentally rerunning last February’s race at Daytona.

  “What happens,” she mused, “if the dog’s real owner turns up?”

  “I don’t know,” he said cautiously. It sounded as if she was considering letting him have the animal, but this might be a trick question. He threw it back to her. “What happens?”

  “It might be a kid who doesn’t see TV, who doesn’t know we’ve found his pet,” she said. “He could be crying himself to sleep every night.”

  Danny figured it was futile to point out that these days there weren’t any kids who didn’t see TV.

  “The poor child has lost his pet right at Christmas,” she continued.

  The goldfish incident had shown Danny how seriously Madison regarded children and their pets. Which gave him the answer to her question.

  “If the real owner comes along, I’ll give the dog back,” he said triumphantly.

  She sighed with relief. “You’re right, of course.”

  “So I can have it?” Maybe it would be well enough to go for a walk, even chase after a stick, on Sunday. Sandra could tip off the newspapers about where he’d be.

  “On one condition,” Madison said.

  Danny groaned inwardly. Was any publicity stunt worth dealing with a woman this difficult?

  “I’ll want to check the dog’s living conditions and monitor how you’re looking after him the first few weeks.”

  She had nerve, suggesting he wasn’t a suitable dog owner. Then he remembered he hadn’t been honest about his motives. He spread his hands in capitulation. “Fine.”

  “What are you going to call him?”

  It took him a second to realize she’d conceded. He grinned, light-headed with relief. “Buster, of course.” When she frowned, he teased, “You didn’t think I’d call him Gorgeous, did you?”

  She laughed, and her brown eyes danced. “Buster will do. I can give you some information sheets that will help you get started. He won’t need a lot of exercise at first—he should take it easy until he’s healed. Next week I’ll take those sutures out.”

  She walked briskly to a filing cabinet in the corner, found what she wanted, then passed Danny a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of what you’ll need to buy before you take him home—a bed, food and so on.”

  Danny hadn’t had more top-five finishes in the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup Series than any other driver last season without taking advantage of every single gap open to him. And right now, he saw a gap that would allow him to get rid of the feeling that had bugged him since Madison had turned him down for dinner the other night.

  But sometimes, the best way to attack a gap wasn’t the most obvious. The gap might be between your rival and the wall—but if you sensed he would try to close the high gap, the smarter move was to run low. Danny sensed the less obvious approach was required here.

  “I may need help to be sure I get the right stuff. How about I pick you up after work and we go to that pet emporium next to the mall?”

  She frowned. “The list is pretty specific.”

  He scanned it. “It says I need a lead and collar. How long should the lead be? A soft collar or a leather one?” The chewing of her lower lip told him she was wavering. “It won’t take long—Buster and I could really use your help.” Relying on a dog to swing a date arguably represented a new low in Danny’s career. But as always, he’d do what it took to win.

  “Fine,” she said at last, and he was conscious of that release of pressure that came when he successfully sneaked through a gap out on the track. “You can pick me and Buster up tonight, if you’re happy to leave him in your car when we’re anywhere other than the pet store.”

  “No problem. Uh…he is potty-trained, right?”

  Mischief lit her eyes. “We’ll soon find out.”

  AS THEY WANDERED the pet store that evening with Buster on a leash, Danny insisted on pointing out which owners looked most like their pets. Nine times out of ten Madison disputed any resemblance, but there was one very funny instance of a Bichon Frise-toting blonde with an Afro.

  “Wait till you start to look like Buster,” she warned him.

  He grinned. “It might improve my love life.” As if every woman in the store hadn’t turned to look at him, even those who didn’t know who he was. But he didn’t seem to register the attention—he was always one hundred percent focused on the task at hand. Which was what made him a great race driver, Madison guessed.

  By the time Danny had bought out half the pet store, it was seven o’clock.

  “I’ll take you to dinner,” he said as he loaded his purchases onto the truck bed.

  Five harmless words. But Madison’s imagination rampaged past dinner and didn’t stop until it found a scenario that involved the two of them getting much more personal. Maybe she was coming down with a fever. She must be,
because her brain lost its capacity for original thought and told her mouth to say, “Sorry, I have to wash my hair tonight.”

  He chuckled, ushered Buster into the backseat of his truck. He slanted her a half smile as he held her door open. “I insist.”

  Madison blew out a long, cooling breath and got a grip on herself. Why not see dinner as an extension of their shopping trip—she had to eat.

  At a steak restaurant a couple of blocks from the mall, they agreed to share an appetizer of breads and dips, and ordered individual entrées. After the waiter had brought Danny’s beer and Madison’s glass of white wine, Danny leaned back on his side of the cowhide booth, his arms clasped behind his head, surveying Madison with an unnerving satisfaction.

  “What are you smirking at?” she demanded.

  He raised his eyebrows at her assertive tone. “Can’t I be pleased we’re out on a date?”

  “We—we’re not,” she said, as her imagination took off on another wild ride.

  He pursed his lips as he looked around the restaurant. Following his gaze, Madison saw most tables were occupied by couples. Much of the lighting was supplied by candles. And sometime in the last few minutes the background music had switched from country to a popular love song.

  “It’s not a date,” she said again. “You’re not my type.”

  “Ouch.” Yet he didn’t look overly concerned as he leaned forward. “Where did I lose out? Is it my looks?”

  Spoken like a guy who knew he was gorgeous. “You’re okay,” Madison admitted, her eyes fixed above his head.

  His lips quirked. “Not rich enough for you?”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “Hmm.” He rubbed his chin. “My sense of humor?”

  “Passable.” She’d discovered she loved his deadpan, dry humor.

  “Just no spark, huh?” He reached across the table, took her hand. His thumb traced her knuckles, and heat coursed through her veins, up her arm, suffused her whole body.

  “That’s right,” she managed, slightly breathless. “No spark.”