“You’ve been sitting at that table signing autographs for two hours,” she said. “How about we walk around while we talk so you can stretch your legs?”
“Works for me.” She truly wasn’t up to speed on NASCAR if she thought sitting for a couple of hours bothered him. Try spending an entire afternoon strapped and harnessed into his race car’s HANS Device.
Her left hand touched a small microphone clipped to the strap of her purse that hung over one shoulder. “I’m going to record our conversation. In a setting like this, it’s much easier than trying to jot stuff down.”
“Fine,” he said, noting that her long, narrow fingers were ringless.
“Do you do this often?” she asked as they strolled by the black-as-pitch No. 499 car.
“Do what?”
“Take your race car to events and sign autographs.”
“That isn’t my race car.”
She craned her neck across her shoulder in the vehicle’s direction. “It looks exactly like the one I saw today at Double S Racing.”
“True, it does.” Rafael noticed the photographer trailing alongside them, snapping an occasional photo. “It isn’t even a show car, which is usually a retired race car. This one is an impostor. You’re looking at a vehicle painted to exactly resemble the real thing.”
“Did you drive it here?”
“No, but I could have because it’s street legal. There’s no 400-horsepower performance V-8 engine under the hood.”
“I spent hours today interviewing your boss, then your crew chief and some of your other team members,” she commented as they passed by the gazebo where Acer Carpenter was huddled with the musicians. “They gave me tons of information about the business of racing and NASCAR. No one mentioned impostor cars.” She shrugged. “Guess they just scratched the surface.”
“There’s a lot to learn. And for your information, as far as my schedule is concerned, this gathering isn’t an ‘event.’”
“In NASCAR lingo, you mean?”
“Exactly. It’s a prearranged sponsor appearance, to which National Steel Buildings has invited its employees and some VIP clients.”
“Got it. I’ll add that to the growing list of things I’ve learned today. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He’d been cornered by reporters who’d pretended to be expert on all things NASCAR, and some of their questions had been inane. He found Caitlin’s honesty about how little she knew refreshing.
They strolled into the area that had been cordoned off for entertainment. A group of people gathered at the Wheel of Fortune, plopping down a dollar for a chance to win more. At another booth, several teenage boys hurled softballs at stacked bottles. From a kiosk around the corner, muffled pops sounded from rifles aimed at a row of moving targets. At the far end of the area, people stood in line to ride the brightly lit Ferris wheel.
The smell of popcorn, grilling meat and cotton candy hung in the air. “Want a lemonade?” Rafael asked when they neared one of the drink booths.
“Yes, thanks.”
He made the same offer to the photographer, who declined.
Rafael paid the vendor then handed Caitlin her cup, his fingers brushing hers. Again, he felt it, that jolt. Magnetism. Heat. Under the booth’s bright lights, she looked gorgeous and appealing. He skimmed his gaze down to her mouth while wondering if she was as elementally aware of him as he was of her.
Either way, that was something he couldn’t allow to matter. He had no choice but to deal with her, and he was determined to keep their association on his own terms. Meaning he needed to keep her talking about anything other than himself the majority of the time.
He took a sip of cold, tart lemonade. “My offer to tutor you about NASCAR is still open.”
“I might not need those lessons.”
“You think you learned everything there is in one afternoon?”
“Hardly. But our readers—and Mr. Carpenter—want this profile to focus on you. Racing and NASCAR will probably stay in the background.”
“Don’t you think Sports Scene magazine’s readers will be disappointed if you don’t give NASCAR equal time?”
Caitlin shook her head. “I think everyone will be disappointed if information about your job overshadows the personal aspects of the profile.”
“You should understand that for me, racing is not a job. It’s my passion. A part of who I am.”
While she studied him over the rim of her cup, her eyes seemed to cool and something settled in their green depths. He realized he was getting his first glimpse of the reporter at work.
“All right, Mr. O’Bryan, let’s talk about who you are.”
“Since we’re going to be together for a number of weeks, I suggest we try something less formal. Call me Rafael. Caitlin’s an unusual name.” He found he liked the way it sounded when he said it. Soft and feminine and old-fashioned. “Were you named after someone?”
“My grandmother.”
His gaze returned to her hair that shined like wet fire under the lights. “Did she have all that flame-colored hair, too?”
Frown lines formed between her brows. “Here’s the deal, Rafael. I’m the interviewer, not the interviewee. That means I ask the questions.”
He shrugged. “Just curious.”
“As am I. You were born thirty-four years ago in São Paulo, Brazil, right?”
“Yes.” He turned and they began retracing their steps.
“You started racing go-karts in your teens. You were such a natural at the sport you earned the nickname O Tubarão— The Shark—because of the methodical way you went after the competition. Your success in go-karting brought you to the United States when you were barely twenty.”
All true. The events that had occurred before he first laid eyes on the go-kart track in São Paulo were what he’d buried deep. “Sounds like you already know all you need to about me.”
“Just verifying the information on file. Who taught you to speak English so fluently?”
“A friend.”
“In Brazil?”
“Yes.”
“How did he or she know English?”
“Her mother was from the States. Texas, I believe.”
“Can you give me her name? I’d like to interview some people who knew Rafael O’Bryan back when.”
“Her family moved away after she got married. I have no idea what her name is now.”
“I’m sure you have other friends in Brazil who would be willing to talk about their famous pal, the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver.”
“It has been many years since I was in my native country. I’ve lost contact with people.”
“Surely there’s some special friend in your past or present whose name you can give me.”
“Special friend, meaning lover?”
“You’re a sharp guy, Rafael.”
He paused, turned to face her. “So sharp that I would never offend a past, present—” He let his voice drift off when the light breeze teased wispy strands of her hair from its fancy braid. Without conscious thought, he reached to tuck the strands back, skimming his fingers over her cheek. So soft. He watched emotion glint in her eyes. “—or future lover by giving the media her name,” he finished softly.
“What about—” Caitlin cleared her throat “—your own family?”
Just then, a towheaded boy raced up, his right arm covered in a cast from wrist to elbow. He wore baggy shorts and a striped shirt, and clutched a marking pen in his fingers. “Mr. O’Bryan, will you autograph my cast?”
“Sure.” Rafael handed Caitlin his cup, then crouched to put himself eye to eye with the boy. He couldn’t have timed the interruption better. “What’s your name?”
“Bobby. Bobby Watson.”
“What happened to your arm?”
“My dumb sister jumped in front of my skateboard. I had to dive off to keep from running over her.”
“Sounds like you opted for the best course of action.” Out of the corner of his eye,
Rafael saw Caitlin gesture to the photographer, who began snapping photos of himself and the boy. “Nevertheless, looks like you had a rough landing.”
“Yeah,” Bobby agreed, staring wide-eyed at Rafael. “I saw you race once at Homestead.”
Rafael raised a brow as he autographed the cast. “How’d I do?”
“You finished second in points for the Chase. Dean Grosso won the championship.”
“I seem to remember that.” In the final race of the season, he and Grosso had battled it out to the very last lap. Grosso won the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series championship by a hair-raising photo finish.
“Gee, thanks!” the boy exclaimed as he admired the signature.
“You’re welcome,” Rafael said, returning the marker.
“I gotta go show your autograph to my dumb sister.”
Chuckling, Rafael rose as the boy sprinted off.
“Sounds like you’ve got a big fan,” Caitlin commented while handing over his lemonade.
“Not just any fan, but one who knows the lingo. Impressive kid.”
They continued retracing their steps, the voices of the people and attractions around them ebbing and fading on the warm air. “Before Bobby showed up, we were talking about your family.”
“Were we?”
“I’d like to hear about your parents. Are they in Brazil?”
“Both are deceased.”
“Any siblings?”
“No.”
“Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”
He tossed his cup in a trash can they passed. “No.”
“You have no family?”
“None to speak of.”
She paused, looked up at him. “You really want me to believe you have no friends in Brazil that I can contact?”
“What do you want me to say? It’s the truth. Which is how I’ve answered all your questions. Truthfully.”
Sending him a skeptical look, she disposed of her empty cup.
“I’m a man who values his privacy, Caitlin. I’ve always felt that what I do on my own time is my business.”
“After I met with your boss today, he turned me over to his assistant. Emma-Lee Dalton told me that NASCAR Sprint Cup Series drivers and teams spend nearly nine months a year on the road during the racing season. And on any given day a driver can have some sort of activity booked every hour on his schedule.”
Rafael saw the same intensity in her green eyes that he heard in her voice. “Your point?”
“Sounds to me like you don’t have a lot of time to call your own. And that the majority of your life is centered around NASCAR, which happens to be a very public sport whose participants are expected to stand in a spotlight or anywhere else his major sponsor tells him to.”
He took a step forward, dipped his head. “I’ll do my best to give you information, Caitlin. What I won’t do is fabricate facts about myself just so you can flesh out the profile you’re writing.”
Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
“You seem to be suspicious because I lack relatives for you to interview. The fact is, my parents were both an only child, so I had no aunts, uncles or cousins. It was just my parents and me.” He kept to himself that the mother and father he had no memory of died in an accident when he was barely two years old, leaving him without a single blood relative. To reveal that could link him to the orphanage where he grew up. And put those he most loved in danger.
Rafael glimpsed the man behind the counter in the shooting booth gesturing a tattooed arm. “Hey, buddy, how about buying your lady a couple of chances to hit a target and win a prize?”
Another distraction. Perfect timing. Rafael shifted his gaze back to Caitlin. “Are you game?”
“I’ve never held a gun.”
He raised a brow. “Never?”
She shrugged. “My dad doesn’t hunt. I have four sisters, we used to play tea party, not cops and robbers.”
“Well, you’re in luck because I do know how to shoot. I can give you tips.”
“Where did you learn to shoot?”
“Brazil has many areas in which to hunt.” He left off that he had learned to shoot out of necessity because he’d been considered a vicious man’s prey. “This gives you something for your profile that links back to my native country.”
“And since those links are apparently rare, I’d better not pass up this opportunity.”
He grinned at the sardonic tone in her voice. “My thoughts, exactly.” He snagged her wrist, easing her through the crowd. Pulling a few bills out of his pocket, he handed them to the man behind the counter. “How many shots will that buy?”
“Five.”
Blowing out a breath, Caitlin accepted the rifle from the vendor. “All right, Wyatt Earp, I’m ready for your tips.”
“Don’t aim.”
She blinked. “I thought the object was to hit the target.”
“True. The thing is, most people are accurate in pointing at something, but when they try to aim a weapon the mechanics of doing so somehow interfere with that natural ability.”
“Just point? Don’t aim?”
“You got it.”
She raised the rifle, rested its butt against one shoulder, then jerked the trigger.
“Missed the entire target!” the man behind the counter announced.
Caitlin sent Rafael a withering look. “Some teacher you are. Maybe you’d better stick to driving a race car.”
“Like everything, shooting takes practice.” He stepped behind her, put his hands on her shoulders. Her blouse was sleeveless, so his palms settled against bare skin. Creamy, bare skin that stirred his blood.
She instantly stiffened and whipped her head around. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you another tip. In racing, I don’t drive the car using just the steering wheel. I use my entire body. The same thing applies to firing a weapon.” He slid his arms around her, closed his hands over hers where they lay against the rifle. Instantly, electricity coursed from her fingers straight to his gut. If she felt it, too, he couldn’t tell. Surely this hunger that was crawling around inside him wasn’t all one-sided.
In his peripheral vision, Rafael saw that a handful of people had stopped to watch them. The photographer moved around, shooting pictures from different angles.
Refocusing his attention, Rafael made a few minute adjustments in her grip. “Lean against me,” he urged. “Just relax.”
“Relax?” Was it his imagination, or had her voice gone hoarse? With the noise from the crowd and the rides, he couldn’t be sure.
“Relax,” he repeated, shifting his body against hers to assume the correct stance. Her spine remained stiff while her seductive scent pulsed off her warm flesh in little waves, clogging his lungs.
“Don’t jerk the trigger,” he murmured against her cheek. Without thinking, without being able to think, he tightened his arms around her and battled the urge to keep from burying his face in all that flame-red hair. “Just squeeze. Gently.”
The instant the rifle fired, she surged from his hold.
“You hit the target this time, missy.”
“I’m done,” Caitlin said, almost shoving the rifle into the vendor’s hands.
“Your gentleman friend paid for three more tries.” The man swept a tattooed arm in the direction of the stuffed animals hanging over the targets. “You get lucky, you could go home with a prize.”
“No, thanks.” She turned to Rafael. Her face was flushed, her eyes glittering. Her pulse tripped wildly in the hollow of her throat. Oh, yeah, he’d gotten to her.
“I have enough info for tonight.” As she spoke, she gestured for the photographer. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she added before she and the photographer strode off together.
Rafael tracked her until she disappeared into the crowd. To his disgust, he realized he was anticipating seeing her again far more than any man should whose very life might depend on keeping the secrets that she was trying to uncover hidden.
THE
CHASE for the NASCAR Sprint Cup. Pole position. Banking. Drafting. Tight versus loose. When it came to NASCAR, there were a kazillion terms to learn, Caitlin thought three days later while easing into a corner of one of the garage bays at the Pennsylvania race track.
It was Saturday, and the final hour of practice was about to begin.
Centered in the bay beneath a row of fluorescent lights was the gleaming black No. 499 car. The real one this time, with massive red and white National Steel Buildings decals on the back, sides and top of the hood. The hood was raised while several members of the garage crew wearing team polo shirts and dark pants peered at the engine. Another—the tire specialist—was squatted down, conducting an intense examination of the car’s right front tire.
On the far side of the car, crew chief Denton Moss stood with several team members. All of them except for Rafael wore similar Double S Racing apparel.
O Tubarão—The Shark—had suited up in his black uniform covered in sponsorship logos, his dark hair mussed from wearing a helmet during the day’s practice sessions. Standing amid his teammates, Rafael looked like a prime example of raw male power. Adding to the drool factor was the way the snug fit of his uniform emphasized the contours of his strong shoulders and flat belly.
Even now, Caitlin couldn’t think about their session at the shooting booth without feeling a little flutter in her belly. The way he’d wrapped his arms around her, steadying the rifle she held while he whispered target-shooting tips in that tantalizing deep, accented voice had turned her insides upside down.
Just thinking about that reaction had her gritting her teeth. She was not proud of it. Determined not to repeat it. An investigative reporter did not get weak in the knees over an interviewee. Which was all Mr. Rafael O’Bryan was. Emotionally, she was not in trouble. Period.
It had become crystal clear at the health fair that he did not intend for her to learn anything more about him than he wanted her to know. Which left no doubt that if she didn’t change her tactics, she would have scant information on what personal issues defined the man by the time the assignment wrapped up. Which was why, the following day, she had approached him as someone he could tutor, not as a reporter intent on laying open his past.
What He Didn't Say Page 12
