“Mellie, we’re leaving now. See you next week.”
The young woman’s eyes sparkled. “Goodnight, Bart.”
He brushed close to her as he strolled away.
Hmm, Emma-Lee thought. Looks like Bart has a crush on Mellie. Interesting.
She cleared her throat. “Mellie?”
The waitress stopped watching the driver. A faint blush crept across her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Emma-Lee. You said something?”
Oh, yeah. A two-way crush definitely in the making. She perked up.
“How’s Lily? I haven’t seen her.”
Mellie’s expression brightened at the mention of her daughter. “She’s fine, playing upstairs with Louise.” Louise Jordan was the cook Al’s wife, who had taken to watching Lily while Mellie worked.
The door opened and several women walked in. Emma-Lee grinned when she saw Rue Larrabee saunter toward the back of the restaurant. An impossible shade of red was the hair color du jour for the flamboyant owner of the Cut ’N’ Chat Beauty Salon. Behind her waddled the pregnant Daisy Brookshire, one of Rue’s stylists. Rounding out the group was Susie, driver Ben Edmonds’s wife.
“Looks like the meeting is about to begin. I’ll bring your food right back.”
“You’re not joining us?”
“No. The diner’s been busy today. I haven’t had much time to be with Lily all day. However, I’ll bring Lily down to say hi since she asked earlier if she was going to see you.”
“Here.” Emma-Lee rummaged in her purse for her wallet and removed money. “Go ahead and ring me up. Mustn’t keep the Tarts waiting.”
She noticed Gil Sizemore had sauntered up to the cash register where Sheila stood ringing up orders. As he paid, he leaned toward her. Whatever he said had the restaurant owner laughing. Why hadn’t Emma-Lee ever noticed before that her boss might have a thing for Sheila?
Emma-Lee rubbed a palm over the ache in her chest. Did having a broken heart mean she was more attuned to the possibility of love for others?
Gil started for the door but changed course and came toward her. Emma-Lee’s immediate thought was to slide down the booth, but she straightened her shoulders and smiled. “Good evening, Gil.”
“Emma-Lee.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “I saw your application for the charity coordinator’s job. Why don’t you come see me first thing in the morning and we’ll discuss it?”
She swallowed and struggled to keep her voice even. “I’d be happy to, Gil.”
“Good night.” He gave her a wink, turned and strolled out of the restaurant.
Oh, boy. Excitement bubbled inside her. Her shot at a career she wanted was going to happen after all.
She glanced around and realized the crowd had thinned considerably. On the opposite side a dark-complected man rose with two others. Emma-Lee’s pulse quickened.
The elusive Rafael O’Bryan at long last.
She leaped to her feet and raced past the line of booths and the photographs of NASCAR’s legendary drivers past and present adorning the walls. Reaching the front, she planted herself square in the driver’s path.
He looked irritated but muttered an “excuse me” as he tried to circle around her.
“Oh, no, you don’t, Rafael.” She blocked him as she fisted her hands on her hips.
“I have been trying to speak with you for the past two weeks. You won’t return my calls or respond to my messages.”
“I’m busy, Emma-Lee. Catch me when the season is over.”
Time to toss out the big gun’s name. “Gil Sizemore, remember him? He’s your boss. Well, he’s asked me to set up an interview with Sports Scene magazine. Do you want me to report to him that one of his drivers is too busy to do interviews? That he’s too busy for his fans?”
A dull red flush crept up the driver’s neck. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Fine. Set it up. I’ll be there. Now may I leave?”
Victory sure tasted sweet. Chivalrously, Emma-Lee stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture. Rafael stormed past her followed by his two companions, who were grinning ear to ear.
The door swung closed. Cheers broke out. Swinging around, she first bowed to the Tarts standing in a circle behind her and then pumped her fist.
“Way to go, Emma-Lee.” Sheila Trueblood folded her arms across her chest. “Now let’s head back and you can tell us all why earlier you looked like a truck ran over you.”
A draft of rain-chilled air swept in as the door opened. Sheila gave the new visitor a polite smile. “Someone will be right with you.”
The hairs lifted on the nape of Emma-Lee’s neck and an acute awareness prickled. Even before she turned, she knew who stood behind her. Ridiculous.
She turned and absorbed the one-two punch of love and hurt. Holt wore his battered bomber jacket over a forest-green shirt. The well-worn jeans molded his toned body. Droplets of rain glistened in his wind-mussed sandy hair. Under one arm he carried two packages.
But tonight his set jaw and the intense gaze of his hazel eyes gave him a predatory look, and she was his target.
One of the women behind her, most likely Rue, muttered, “Hubba hubba.”
She cleared her throat and, aware of the curious stares and listening ears, said in a low tone, “Holt, why are you here?”
He reached out and toyed with the ends of her hair. “You haven’t returned any of my messages.”
“I did. I told you it was over.” Unable to hear his voice, afraid she would cave and listen to his explanations, she had texted him once.
“Oh, yes, I recall that very civilized text message.” His mouth thinning, he lowered his head. “I never would have thought you such a coward, Emma-Lee.”
He was one furious male, she realized with a start. What right did he have to be angry? He was the one who had used her. She wrapped her arms around her middle. “I don’t want to see you anymore, Holt. You lied to me.”
“I did not—” He broke off on a muffled oath and cast a meaningful glance at the other women. “Can we go somewhere to discuss this?”
Although scenes weren’t particularly her forte, people weren’t his. So long as she remained here she was safe from her foolish heart that even now wanted him.
She tilted her chin. “Whatever you have to say will have to wait. The Tuesday Tarts are in session.”
“Hear, hear.”
“You go, girl.”
Emboldened, she swept out an arm in dramatic fashion. “You’ll have to leave now.”
Maybe she did have a little of her sister Mallory’s acting ability after all.
“You want to air this in front of your friends, then fine.” Holt dropped the plastic-wrapped packages on the nearest table with a resounding thud.
Not the result Emma-Lee had expected. Steady, girl. She drew in a deep breath and smelled the intoxicating scent of rain, leather and male. Not helping the nerves. She exhaled.
He gave the Tarts a nod. “Excuse me, ladies.” Then he looked at her with a naked expression that jolted her. It was as if all barriers he’d erected against the world had been stripped away and there was only the two of them.
“You think I used you.”
“Let me think.” Since her natural impulse was to touch, to connect, she clasped her hands behind her. “All the while I was letting you view Double S’s operations, you were planning to sponsor your friend’s new racing team. Of course you were using me.”
Exasperation flashed across his face. “You parachuted into my lap, remember? You were the one who invited me to the Richmond race.”
Emma-Lee bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “You should have said something then.”
“I’d only met you. I was attracted to you. I saw your offer as a way of killing two birds with one stone. Get a closer look at stock car racing before investing in it while keeping company with a beautiful, charming woman.”
She didn’t think her heart could hurt anymore. “It was just business to you.” She turned her head so he couldn
’t see her pain.
He simply put a hand under her chin, lifted it until their eyes met. “Learning about racing, yes. Becoming involved with you, no.”
Holt looked so intent, so sincere that everything around her faded.
“The moment I realized that I couldn’t separate the two anymore and you could be hurt, I told Preston that I couldn’t be a sponsor.”
Everything inside her stilled. “When?”
“At Darlington. That’s the conversation you interrupted. I was telling him then that it wouldn’t work. In fact, I told him that he’s not suited for the world of NASCAR and he should give up the idea. He doesn’t have the dedication and passion for the sport.”
“What about the Sizemores? You used them, too.”
He rubbed his thumb along her jawline. “I met with them and apologized. We’ve come to an understanding. I’ve offered to redesign some of their software programs.
“Honey.” He dropped his hand only to wrap an arm around her waist and slowly drag her against his body to the hoots of the Tarts. Desperate to maintain some space between them, she splayed her hands against his chest and shoved, but it was like trying to move a mountain.
“Not only did I make peace with the Sizemores, I made peace with my father.”
“What?”
He nodded at the table covered with packages. “One of those is the game cartridge for your friend Phillip. The other is an autographed copy of Dad’s book for you.”
“You saw your father?” She could scarcely breath. Had they finally bridged the gap left in their lives by Amanda Forrester’s death? Hope fluttered to life once more inside her.
“We talked about Mom—cleared the air.” Holt hitched a shoulder. “I knew I had to make peace with the past in order to move into the future.”
“Emma-Lee.” He stroked a strand of hair away from her face. “I’m sorry.”
“Holt, I’m glad that you apologized to the Sizemores and reconnected with your dad, but that won’t change things between us. We’re both too wary in our own ways to take a chance on a relationship.”
With a smile he shook his head. “I disagree. I think we’re both made a turn in our lives. I know I have and it brought me to you.” His arm tightened around her.
“Emma-Lee, what do you want to do with your life? Forget about your family or anyone else’s expectations, what career will bring you fulfillment?”
The blaze in his eyes consumed her. She swallowed. “Charity coordinator. I want to be Double S’s charity coordinator.”
He pressed a featherlight kiss on the tip of her nose. “You’ll be perfect as the charity coordinator. I can’t imagine anyone more born for the role than you.”
Holt raised his head only a fraction. His warm breath fanned her face. “Emma-Lee Dalton, you’ve always been a risk-taker. Does that big heart of yours have enough room to save me from spending the rest of my life in isolated darkness?”
The packages on the table were more than a game and a book. They represented the connections to people he had made and the changes he had made in his life, changes that could mean a place for their relationship. A man who could walk away from a business deal, a man who could reconnect with his father, a man who could fight in front of a crowd—this was a man who she could trust with her heart.
She raised trembling hands and framed his face. “I love you, Holt.”
He wrapped his arms around her, hauling her up. “It took nearly losing you for me to figure it out, but I love you, too, Emma-Lee.”
As he kissed her, all the pieces of her life coalesced into stunning clarity. Dimly, she heard the shouts of the Tarts. Then there was only Holt.
EXCITEMENT VIBRATED in the air at the speedway. Last-minute preparations continued at breakneck speed as race time drew near. Holt watched the teams line up and place their caps over their hearts while a local military guard played the national anthem. As the announcer told the crowd to look up, a plane flew overhead and several forms jumped out.
At first there were only bright splashes of color against the deep translucent blue of the twilight sky. Then as the parachutist fell closer to the ground, he made out the instructor he’d contracted strapped to another carrying the snapping American flag. Pride swelled in Holt’s chest as chutes blossomed and the stand erupted into cheers.
Beside him Jeffrey Colton cleared his throat. Holt could feel a knot in his throat forming as he could now see the beaming grin on Sandy Colton’s face as the instructor maneuvered the pair toward the circle that had been painted on the infield. Emma-Lee landed beside them.
Photographers and reporters raced forward as Emma-Lee made a bull’s-eye landing. Several men grabbed the chutes while others helped the divers from the harnesses. In the glow of the spotlights and to the roar of the crowd, Sandy, wearing a red, white and blue scarf, waved the flag in triumph. The cheers grew louder as Jeff raced forward to kiss his wife.
He walked up to Emma-Lee and, laughing with the sheer joy of life that was unique to her, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Oh, Holt, I can’t thank you enough for setting this all up! For the few moments we were free-falling, Sandy yelled that she was flying.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the other couple still locked arm in arm as they faced reporters. “This meant the world to her and me.”
Holt tightened his hold, drawing her closer. “And you brought me back into the world, Emma-Lee Dalton. Business may be business, but in this life, my true bottom line is love.”
He lowered his head and kissed her, sealing the deal.
Cornered
Maggie Price
To Al and Merline Lovelace—true blue friends and the best travel companions in the entire world.
CHAPTER ONE
RAFAEL O’BRYAN LEANED forward in the chair across from his boss’s expansive mahogany desk. “My sponsor wants me to do what?”
“Get with the program,” Gil Sizemore replied.
“Meaning?”
“Acer Carpenter, the CEO of National Steel Buildings, called me last night. He and certain board members are concerned they’re not getting a substantial return on the investment they’ve made in you and your team. One concern is your uneven race finishes so far this year.”
Rafael set his jaw. He couldn’t exactly object. He’d won at Daytona in February. It was now June, and his finishes in the succeeding NASCAR Sprint Cup Series races had been inconsistent. His team was new this year, still working to get its rhythm. Even so, that was no excuse. NSB had sponsored the team expecting impressive performances. He was the one who climbed into the driver’s seat on race days. Ultimately his actions mattered most.
“You said Carpenter and the NSB board have concerns. Plural. What are the others?”
“There’s just one more, but it’s major.” As he spoke, Gil raked his fingers through his dark hair. “You don’t exactly welcome media attention.”
Here we go, Rafael thought. He’d heard much the same comment from sponsors of other teams he’d driven for. He’d had no choice but to handle those situations to suit his own needs. He would deal with this one the same way. “I never turn down requests for pre-or post-race interviews.”
“Those interviews always focus on that day’s race and your driving.”
“Which is what my fans want to hear about.”
“Not according to your sponsor. NSB believes your fans want to know more than just what strategy you used on the track during a specific race. They want to learn about what you do in your off time. Get a look into your home life. Find out about the women you date. Bottom line, they want to know what makes Rafael O’Bryan tick.”
“That’s why I write a monthly e-mail newsletter for my fans.” It contained only the information about himself that he wanted known. Some of it was true. Same thing went for the personal data listed in his official bio.
“I’ve seen the newsletter.” Gil settled back in his dark leather chair. Dressed in a team polo shirt and khaki pants, the
owner of Double S Racing in no way resembled a scion of Charleston blue bloods. But that was exactly what he was.
Rafael gave thanks daily that Gil was the Sizemore family’s maverick whose keen interest in NASCAR had prompted him to relocate to North Carolina in order to establish Double S Racing. Other drivers and teams also operated under the Double S banner, but Gil freely admitted he’d put a team together for Rafael specifically to give him a shot at the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series championship that had so far eluded him.
For that reason, Rafael felt a huge sense of loyalty toward his boss. But it tugged and tangled against the commitment he’d made to others years ago when he left his native Brazil.
“Maybe NSB’s CEO and board members haven’t seen my fan newsletter. I’ll make sure they’re on the distribution list.”
“Won’t hurt,” Gil said. “But that’s not going to solve your problem. You participate in a sport that demands its athletes step into the spotlight. NASCAR fans are loyal, they buy the products their favorite drivers represent. NSB hasn’t seen the big bump in sales they anticipated after they took on sponsorship of you and your team. That doesn’t make them happy.”
Rafael frowned. “During negotiations, you told them I wouldn’t do televised commercial spots to hawk their products. Acer Carpenter agreed to the stipulation.”
“That hasn’t changed.”
“All right.” Rafael eased out a breath. He knew there was no way a NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver could totally avoid the limelight. Knew, too, that on any given race day his image might be televised worldwide. But so were pictures of numerous other drivers, and for that reason, he felt safe enough that he blended into the crowd.
What he didn’t want was for his face to show up day after day in a commercial that might be broadcast on Brazilian TV. Granted, his appearance had changed greatly over the years. The chance was minute that he might be identified by the man whose presence he’d spent very little time in when he was a scruffy-looking teenager. Still, others were in harm’s way and it was a chance Rafael wasn’t willing to take.
What He Didn't Say Page 10
