Checkered Past

by Abby Gaines

  “Where to?” he asked as he buckled himself in. He started the engine.

  She stared straight ahead, her purse clasped demurely in her lap. “Atlanta.”

  Midway through reversing out of his parking space, Chad hit the brake. “What?”

  “I’m going to see my father.” That was definitely a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I told him I’d be there by seven.”

  Chad pulled back into the space.

  “Maybe next time,” she said sweetly, “you should think twice before ordering me around.”

  He might have known she’d turn his helpful—make that kind and soft—offer into some sort of personality defect. Chad’s hands tightened on the wheel. His plans for going over the finances this evening shuffled through his mind and he discarded them.

  He reversed out of the space, executed a fast, squealy U-turn and headed out of the parking lot.

  “What are you doing?” Brianna grabbed for her purse before it slid off her lap.

  “Taking you to Atlanta.” He flipped his turn signal, drove out onto the highway.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You wanted to go there—” he consciously loosened his jaw so he didn’t sound so uptight about it “—so that’s where we’re going. You’re calling the shots, Brianna, not me.” He managed to direct a carefree smile at her.

  BRIANNA BIT DOWN on any further protest. She’d wanted to teach Chad a lesson about his domineering ways. She hadn’t for one second imagined he’d take it into his head to drive to Atlanta.

  “You are so stubborn,” she contented herself with. “It’s pathetic.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Where I come from, we call it kind and soft.”

  She clammed up.

  When they hit the interstate, Chad said, “Since you’re calling the shots, what do you want to talk about?”

  She stayed silent.

  “Come on, Brianna—” his knuckles dusted her upper arm, teasing her senses “—it’s a three-hour drive.”

  She hadn’t heard that coaxing tone in his voice since he’d asked her to marry him. She closed out the memory. But he was right, not talking for three hours would be childish.

  “We’ll talk about work.” Which was the safest of the topics available to them. Not that talking business would stop her from noticing the timbre of his voice, or the thickness of his lashes in profile, or the molded fit of his jeans.

  Darn it, Chad had been horrible today, and she still wanted him. She could only put it down to that vulnerability he’d shown when he’d come out to yell an apology at her and ended up trying to convince her he wasn’t the super-tough, impervious guy he liked to pretend he was.

  They conversed about the forthcoming NASCAR Sprint Cup Series season, about the other teams and their strengths and weaknesses. The conversation flowed surprisingly well, dissipating the tension, and the 250 miles flew by.

  “So,” Chad said as they reached the I-285 ring road around Atlanta, “who’s the front-runner for the Getaway sponsorship?”

  Brianna swallowed. If she wanted to be the consummate professional, she would tell him that her investigation was very much a work in progress, that both teams had considerable strengths.

  She felt him glance at her. She couldn’t keep their personal relationship out of this, couldn’t treat him as just a business contact, much as she would like to.

  “FastMax,” she blurted, and when she heard his sharp intake of air, wished she hadn’t. “Chad, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but their driver is more consistent, and their teamwork is impeccable. They’re an excellent operation.”

  “And you’re not divorcing Andrew Clark,” he said sourly.

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  He shook his head. “Since the first minute you arrived at Matheson Racing you’ve been determined to see only the negatives.”

  The accusation stung. Her voice wobbled as she said, “That’s not true.”

  He ignored her. “You accuse me of being a dictator whenever I apply a little team discipline, but if Zack does something out of line, you suggest he’s undisciplined.”

  Okay, that might be true.

  “You criticize me in front of the team, instead of trusting me to see the big picture.”

  “I made one comment.” Admittedly a bad, very public comment. Plus a couple of other comments to Zack, she thought guiltily.

  Chad stared at the road ahead. “You’ve made a big deal over the fact that back in Vegas I didn’t want the kind of support you were offering as a wife,” he said. “If what I’ve seen the past couple of weeks is a sample of that, then I think I’m vindicated.”

  The accusation shot through Brianna like a lightning bolt, jerking her back in her seat.

  It was true! She’d been so determined to protect herself against her hyperawareness of Chad, against falling for him again, she’d emphasized every negative. And she’d let that spill over into her evaluation. Regardless of how much it might hurt him.

  “Brianna?” He glanced at her sidelong.

  She shook her head, wordless.

  “Uh…did I upset you?”

  The last thing she needed was him trying to make her feel better.

  “I’m fine,” she said shortly. After that, she didn’t say another word, other than to direct him to her father’s house. They pulled into the driveway right at seven.

  “I’ll be ready to leave by nine,” she said, “if you don’t mind driving me back.” Right now, she wouldn’t be surprised if he made her walk.

  She opened her door.

  Chad said, “I’m coming in.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BRIANNA STOPPED halfway out of the car. “Excuse me?”

  Chad opened his door. “I’d like to meet your father, talk to him about the team.”

  “You can’t.” Her regret over her attitude toward him evaporated, leaving only alarm. “This isn’t a business meeting.” Unfortunately she couldn’t sound convincing. With her father, everything was business. Quickly, she got out of the car, closed her door so that would be the last word on the subject.

  Chad got out, too, and retrieved her briefcase from the trunk.

  “Chad, I mean it. Go away.”

  “Hello, dear,” a voice called. Once again, Margaret had seen Brianna coming.

  Chad took the steps two at a time, leaving her scurrying to catch up. “Hi, I’m Chad Matheson.” He shook Margaret’s hand.

  “Ooh, I’m a huge fan of your brother. Trent, I mean, though I’m sure Zack’s very nice.” The housekeeper laughed at her own rambling. “Tell me, is Trent as handsome in real life as he is on TV?”

  “Handsomer,” Chad said expansively. “He’d bowl you over in a heartbeat.”

  Margaret put a hand to her chest as if she could feel that heartbeat.

  “Mr. Matheson isn’t coming inside,” Brianna said.

  But Mr. Matheson was already over the threshold, chatting away to Margaret for all the world as if he was the charmer in the Matheson family.

  Which he could be, she knew.

  Margaret looked from one to the other, loyal to Brianna, but responding to Chad’s natural authority. “Your father’s upstairs, but he said he’ll see you in his office,” she said to the space between them. She led Brianna into the familiar, paneled room. Chad, naturally, followed.

  After she left, Brianna turned on him. “I mean it, Chad, I don’t want you talking to my father.”

  “And I meant it when I said I don’t think you’re giving Matheson Racing a fair shot.”

  Hot tears of anger pricked at her eyes. It was one thing to accuse her of bias—quite another to tell her father. As if her dad didn’t doubt her enough, without Chad complaining she was mishandling the project. Good grief, he’d probably drop in a few choice words about what a terrible wife she was.

  She was about ready to beg him to leave when her father walked into the room.

  She almost didn’t recognize him. Gone was the head
of thick, silver hair, and in its place, sparse gray wisps. Thankfully, instinct had her stepping toward him without hesitation—she could only hope her shock didn’t show on her face.

  “Brianna.” He sounded almost pleased to see her.

  She hugged him, felt his reassuring bulk. Then she absorbed the grayness of his complexion, the faintest tremble in his fingers, the wince when a horn blared in the street outside. Her father looked past her, at Chad.

  “Dad, this is Chad Matheson,” she said reluctantly.

  When her father frowned, she felt a twinge of relief. Dad didn’t like things happening that weren’t part of his plan, and he didn’t like people seeing him at less than his strongest. Not that Chad knew how ill her father was—for all he knew, this was her dad’s normal appearance.

  Chad shook hands with Brian, explained how he came to be driving Brianna to Atlanta.

  “I suppose your car was overdue for its annual service,” her dad said. He waved them to sit on the leather couch that flanked the fireplace, and took a seat in the wing chair she’d used last time she was here. That he hadn’t chosen to sit behind his desk told Brianna he wasn’t himself. But she knew better than to ask how he was feeling in front of Chad.

  Brian said, “How’s the project going?” He glanced at Chad. “Perhaps I should have Margaret show our guest to the living room.”

  “Good idea,” Brianna said.

  Chad said, “Sir, before you do that, I want to comment on Getaway’s NASCAR-sponsorship plans. From what Brianna’s said, you intend to take a strategic, long-term approach to your sponsorship decision.”

  “Of course,” Brian said.

  “As the season gets closer and the drivers spend more time in their cars, the pressure increases to favor a driver with more recent NASCAR Sprint Cup Series experience than my brother Zack has. I’m here to advise you not to forget the bigger picture when you choose a good match for Getaway Resorts.”

  If there was anything her father liked less than unplanned interruptions, it was being advised. Brianna folded her arms and relaxed against a cowhide cushion.

  She took the opportunity to examine her father. Was his face thinner? She couldn’t be certain. His shoulders were a little hunched, though, where normally he sat tall and proud. He’d reiterated on the phone just this morning that his doctors were wrong, that the chemo had a good chance of curing him. She hoped so.

  She realized Chad’s tone had changed, become confiding, and that her father was leaning toward him, listening. Uh-oh. She snapped her attention back.

  “What I’m saying,” Chad said, “is that you have a chance to create a legacy.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Brian Hudson said. “Why do I want a legacy?” But to Brianna, his voice lacked its usual certainty.

  “You might live for years or you might die tomorrow,” Chad said with a candor she could see her father liked—though Chad could have no idea how likely the second part of his sentence was. “So might I. It’s never too soon to start creating something that will last more lifetimes than your own.”

  Brianna’s father grunted, and unconsciously ran a hand over his hair.

  “Some people sponsor NASCAR because they want the glory this year,” Chad said. “They want to be on TV when their driver wins. They want their name in the newspapers.”

  Her dad dismissed those attention-seekers with a sneer. He and Chad smiled at each other. How did Chad know which buttons to push talking to her father when she constantly got it wrong?

  Because they’re two of a kind. Two men whose businesses matter more to them than anything else.

  Except…Chad did care about his family, she knew that. He just didn’t have room for a wife.

  Chad said, “A visionary knows things change from year to year—winners come, losers go. But there’s one thing that lasts.”

  Going by the lift of his eyebrows, Brian was hanging on for the answer in his own restrained way.

  “Sportsmanship,” Chad said. He paused, let the word sink in. “The reason NASCAR is still one of America’s favorite sports after sixty years is because it’s about winning fair and square. It’s about taking it to the track every weekend and battling your peers, no holds barred. It’s about the best man winning.”

  Brian nodded.

  “Sponsoring NASCAR—the right kind of sponsorship,” Chad corrected himself, “is about investing in the values that have made the sport great. I urge you to choose a team that embodies those values. That’s what you’ll get with Matheson Racing.”

  Brianna felt as if she’d been manipulated into letting him say his piece, and now he was hijacking her job. “I should point out—” her voice was thin, and she swallowed before she continued “—that FastMax also embodies those values, as do many of the teams.” She gave Chad a tense, I’ll kill you later smile. “If Matheson Racing was the only one that did, those wouldn’t be seen as the sport’s values.”

  “Matheson’s right,” her father said. “It would be easy to give too much weighting to driver performance.”

  “That’s why you and I agreed on the criteria before I started.”

  “How do I know you’re sticking to those?” her father asked, turning toward her. “I’ll get one of my marketing guys in there to take a look.” He steepled his fingers. “Perhaps I should put someone else on the project with you.”

  Brianna’s face flamed. From the corner of her eye she saw Chad shift on the couch—doubtless he planned to jump in and undermine her further. She swallowed over a lump in her throat. What was the point? She would never meet her father’s expectations, never earn his respect and love. Why had she thought agreeing to do this job would open his heart?

  Her father had shown more warmth, more connection to Chad tonight than he had to her.

  “If you have someone else you think would do a better job,” she said stiffly. “I’m willing to step aside.”

  Chad must be cheering inside—he wouldn’t have to deal with her anymore. Dad would put one of his bright young men on the project, the kind of man Chad could relate to, someone who thought this was all about business and nothing more.

  Her father folded his arms. “If you think that’s best.”

  Then Chad said, “You don’t want Brianna quitting this project, Mr. Hudson.”

  CHAD WISHED he could pick up those words and stuff them back down his throat…but no, he’d sent them rolling into the room at 180 miles an hour, and there was no getting them back. He believed every word he’d said to Brianna on the way here, about her prejudice against him and against the team. So why was he trying to help her keep her job?

  Because he knew how important it was to her. No matter that she was steely-eyed as she threatened to quit, she had some crazy idea that completing this project for her father would earn his love.

  Brian Hudson, who a minute ago had looked as if he would lick Chad’s hand if it got near enough, now appeared more likely to inflict a serious bite. “Don’t tell me what I want.”

  Give it up, Chad told himself. You don’t get anywhere when you butt into a family argument. He should know.

  He heard himself say, “Brianna has been very thorough in her assessment so far.”

  She gave a hiss of annoyance, which he considered most ungrateful.

  “I don’t need you reporting on me to my father,” she said.

  Didn’t she? It seemed to Chad that if he didn’t stop her, she would throw away this big chance of hers.

  “It’s just, she’s a tough sell—” her dad would like that “—so I wanted to make sure I got a hearing from you, too.”

  “I thought you were suggesting she wasn’t looking at the big picture.”

  “All I want is a fair shot for Matheson Racing,” Chad said.

  “That’s what you’ll get,” Brianna replied. There was a meaning in her voice Chad couldn’t decipher. Had she accepted she was judging Matheson Racing by a different, more personal standard than she was applying to FastMax? Was she willing to ch
ange that?

  Brian let out a beleaguered breath. “Is she doing a good job or isn’t she?”

  “Why don’t you ask me?” Brianna demanded.

  “She is,” Chad said.

  “You don’t need to doubt you’ll get a fair shot from me,” Brian said. He glared at Brianna. “You’ll stay on the project. Just don’t lose focus—you know what you’re like, flitting from one thing to the next. I want this job done properly.”

  Chad’s hackles rose. He had a sudden glimpse of why Brianna objected to him ordering people around. Not that he was as unreasonable as her father, of course, but constant exposure to this could make anyone oversensitive.

  “Sir, I’m sure you didn’t intend to be rude to your daughter.” Chad didn’t normally have a problem with his mouth running away with him, but tonight it was as if a dozen green flags waved every time he opened it, and he had no choice but to put his foot to the floor. “But I’m sure she’d appreciate your apology.”

  Brianna’s jaw dropped. Brian Hudson went so silent and his color rose so high, almost purple, that Chad wondered if the man had swallowed his tongue. Instinctively his mind raced ahead, working out what to do: get the guy on the floor, clear the airway, have Brianna call 9-1-1. And later, assure her he hadn’t intentionally tried to kill her father.

  He half stood, but it turned out Brian was just building a head of steam.

  “Get out,” he commanded, and once again, Chad found the bellowing of orders grew tired fast. “How dare you tell me how to talk to my daughter!”

  Chad recalled saying something along the lines of How dare you tell me how to talk to my brother! to Brianna a few hours ago.

  He might as well try her argument with her father. “Encouraging Brianna will do more for her than insulting her,” he began.

  Then Brianna wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

  The contact was so unexpected, its effect—his blood pooling beneath her fingers—so startling, that he let her tug him to his feet.

  “I need to get back to Charlotte, Dad, if I’m to deliver the results you want at the speed you want,” she said. “Please look after yourself. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”