Ballet Shoes and Engine Grease (24 page)

“
Which way is David Ballard’s office?” he
asked.

The youngest, a busty blonde, fluffed her
hair
. “Do you have an
appointment?”

“
You bet I do,” Nick replied.
One I’ve neglected
to keep for eight years.

The blonde
gave him directions. He thanked her and marched
down the corridor. The offices were private, fully shielded from
prying eyes. Not even a glazed panel on the door. Perfect, Nick
thought. He found the right office and barged in without
knocking.

“
David.” His voice was full of sarcasm.
“Good to see you again.”

“
What the devil—”

Before David Ballard had
finish
ed the sentence,
Nick had circled the desk, hauled him up by his shirt front, and
slammed him against the wall. Taller by several inches but twenty
pounds lighter, Nick jerked his opponent up on his toes to make
their faces level.

“
Keep your hands off Constantine Motors,”
he growled.

His
adversary made no effort to fight. “What the hell are you
talking about?”

“
Did you pay someone to vandalize the
place?”

“
For God’s sake, Nick, I owe you, if
anything.” David Ballard directed an earnest gaze at him. Blue
eyes, butterscotch hair. His accent combined a British prep school
and an Ivy League college.

“
Did you, or did you not, make a deal with
my father?” Nick asked. His arms were getting tired and he let his
quarry slide back down to his feet. “Do you hope to take over
Constantine Motors next year?”

David glared up at him—if you could call a
puzzled expression on the face of the placid, steady, even tempered
David Ballard a glare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.
I’ve never spoken to your father in my life. And I have absolutely
no desire to take over Constantine Motors. I have enough problems
of my own.”

Uncertainty added to the turmoil in Nick’s
mind.
David Ballard was
not a liar. To start with, he lacked the imagination. Was the whole
situation one of Stephan Constantine’s practical jokes? Even in
death, his father must be up to some clever tricks. Layer upon
layer of them, it was beginning to seem.

Nick
let go off David’s shirtfront, but couldn’t resist shoving
the man a little, making him shuffle on his feet. “I must have
misunderstood.”

David straightened his tie.
“I certainly hope so. I’d hate
to think what you’d do if I was actually guilty of
something.”

“
Aren’t you?”

They were talking eight years ago now.
They both knew it. David made his way back
behind the desk and sank into his chair.
He nodded at the seat facing him. “Sit down.”

Nick settled
in the swivel chair.

“
I’ve…” David made a steeple with his hands
beneath his chin. “I’ve always wanted to talk to you. Clear the
air. But I’ve never figured out how to go about it. Marcela and I
had known for a couple of weeks that we wanted to be together, but
she wanted to put off telling you until the season ended. That
day...”

He lowered his attention to the blotter on
the desk.
“I hated
winning that race. Hated winning the series. I couldn’t face you
afterward, and neither could Marcela. We got on the plane and flew
out to Vegas and got married there before traveling on to my
mother’s place in England. At that point, we had no idea you were
badly hurt. You walked out of the wreck.”

“
So I did,” Nick said.

“
We stayed in an old hunting lodge in
Scotland, and then in a convent in Spain. We got no news. By the
time we found out, you were back in the States. Your career was
over. I had a seat in the IndyCar Series. I felt that whatever I
said to you, it would seem like gloating. So, I avoided you.
Marcela was distraught. She blamed herself for your accident. I
persuaded her not to get in touch with you. I knew she’d only
torture herself over it.”

Nick managed a lopsided grin.
“Yeah. That woman weeps for
dead frogs and chopped up worms. I guess I might have merited a
tear or two.”

“
I…” David squirmed in the seat, rolling
his stocky shoulders inside the handmade shirt. “In case it means
anything to you…Marcela and I didn’t…hell, I don’t know how to say
this…she never…she was scrupulous about not doing anything while
she was still engaged to you. The first time my lips touched hers
was when the preacher said
you may kiss the bride
.”

Nick felt a muscle tug at his
jaw
. He said
nothing.

David flicked him a glance. “It would
never have worked out between you and Marcela and deep down you
know it. You are fiery, full of temper. Marcela needs someone like
me. Solid. Dependable. Boring, if you will. Someone who holds her
tight and sooths her fears and coaxes her through her fits of
melancholy. That’s not you.”

The words hit
an uncomfortable truth. Nick had to admit that
he’d never been any good at mumbling the kind of sweet nonsense
women seemed to find so reassuring. Telling them that everything
would be all right, even when they both knew it wouldn’t be.
Perhaps it was a skill men developed when they were besotted by a
woman, and he’d never been that much in love, not even with
Marcela.

He shrugged, a little awkward.
“Maybe you’ve got a
point.”

“
You know I have.” David leaned back in the
seat. “If you and I went off fighting in some war, Marcela would
wait at home and knit socks. You need the kind of woman who’d be
out there with you, blowing up trains.”

The image made Nick
smile
. That’s what
Crimson would do. Be out there, blowing up trains with him. Hell,
she’d do more. She’d try to steal his dynamite, so she could go off
and blow up trains on her own.

“
I guess you’re right.” Nick got to his
feet, stretched his legs to release the tension. “I’m sorry I…” He
made a gesture at David’s shirtfront.

“
No harm done.”

“
And I’m sorry to hear that your marriage
is in trouble.”

B
ehind the desk, David jolted to attention. “Who told you
that?”

“
It’s in the gossip rags. Marcela’s gone
off to China.”

“
India.” A shadow passed across the blond
man’s square features. “It’s a secret, because she’s done something
that doesn’t sit easy with her religion. She’s gone to one of those
baby factories. They have these places, something like a cross
between a rest home and a clinic, where women act as surrogates.
We’ve hired one, and Marcela wants to be there for the
pregnancy.”

“
If it’s a secret, why are you telling
me?”

“
Trusting someone proves how much you value
them.” David rose from his seat, ready to say goodbye. After a
moment of hesitation, he looked around the room, gesturing. “I’d
give up all this, everything, to give Marcela what she wants. A
baby. We’ve tried IV. Had every test under the sun.” His voice was
rough with emotion. “You know how it is with Marcela. It’s God’s
will, she says, and yet she cries herself to sleep at night. How on
earth can that woman write books about Christians being fed to
lions and people being stretched out on the rack? It defeats
me.”

Somewher
e inside Nick, a tight tangle of pain from the
past began to unravel itself. David was right. It would never have
worked. He’d been too blind with lust for Marcela, too consumed
with wanting and not having, to look beyond the surface and see the
lack of compatibility between them.

He
held out his hand. “Tell her I said hello.”

David took it, his grip steady.
“Want to be a
godfather?”

“
Do you mean…why…sure.” Surprised, Nick
contemplated his old friend. “I was baptized orthodox, though.
Won’t that be a problem?”

“
We’ll work it out, somehow. I’m
a protestant. That’s the one
thing I’m not prepared to change, not even for Marcela. I won’t
pretend to believe in something that I don’t believe
in.”

Nick hesitated. “I’m kind of involved with
someone. If it works out, if our problems have blown over by the
time the baby is born, I’d like to do it. But I think godparents
come in pairs, so if it’s just me, I’ll pass. Is that okay with
you?”

“
It’s fine. I’ll tell Marcela. She’ll be
thrilled.”

“
You tell her,” Nick said, and walked out,
his heart lighter than it had been in years.

****

Crimson
shivered with Raymond in the bicycle shed on the
edge of the parking lot. Dressed in black, shoe polish darkening
their faces, they crouched on the concrete floor on the opposite
sides of the gap in the wall that served as the entrance. The burly
security guard was leaning forward, using night vision goggles to
monitor the grounds.

They were keeping an eye on the
huge trailer they had set up as
overflow storage for the finished Panthers waiting for customer
pickup. Constantine Motors didn’t deliver. Buyers had to collect,
either in person, or through an authorized representative, and sign
off on the specification. Sometimes, the requirement caused delays
that created a storage problem. And now, Crimson had contrived to
create one, to set a trap for the vandal.

For the thousandth time, Crimson told
herself she
should just
walk away from it all. Let the business go. But something inside
her stopped her from giving up. Stubbornness, she tried to convince
herself. Nothing but sheer, utter, bloody minded stubbornness. But
in truth, she was doing it for Nick. Even now, she wanted to rescue
his birthright. If she could secure the ownership of Constantine
Motors for him, then perhaps it would be possible for them to
explore what could be between them…

“
Ssshhhh
…” Raymond tensed on his feet. “I can see
something.”

Crimson lifted
her night vision binoculars and studied the eerie
green landscape. It must be past midnight. The chilly air made
goose pimples on her skin. Cramps shot through the legs. In the
distance, across the empty parking lot, she could see a lean, dark
figure advancing toward the trailer in a silent lope.

Among the staff, only
the three directors knew about the
potential sale to Ballard Automotive. One of them might have found
a way to benefit from a change of ownership. Of course, the traitor
could be anyone. David Ballard could have recruited someone with
money. But instinct told Crimson the vandal was acting out of
anger. She sensed too much malice in how the factory had been
damaged in the fire, how the beautiful vehicles had been destroyed
when the racing car tumbled down.

But which director was
the culprit—Peter, Hank or
Jorge?

Her heart gave a painful jolt as Peter’s
narrow, unassuming face and long, lean body took shape in the
binoculars. Of the three directors, he had shown the most kindness
to her, had been the most supportive from the start. Was his shy,
earnest manner an act? Did it cover up a bitter, deep-seated
grudge?”

“
Oh no,” she groaned out loud. “Not
Peter
.”

“
Son-of-a-bitch,” Ray muttered and released
his 9 mm Sig Sauer from the leather holster at his hip.

“
Be careful,” Crimson whispered. “Don’t
hurt him.”

Ray slid the safety off.
“I won’t,” he said. “I know
what I’m doing.”

In breathless silence, they
watched as Peter reached the
trailer. He paused by the metal wall that shone pale above the
tarmac, rose on his toes and peered in through the small window.
Appearing satisfied, he set off again in a stealthy dash toward the
bicycle shed.

Crimson lowered the binoculars.
In the darkness, she could just
about make out Peter’s features as he slipped inside. The surprise
on his face was almost comical.

“
Ray? Crimson?” he spluttered. “What on
earth are you doing here?”

Ray holstered his gun.
“Pumping up bicycle tires.”

“
What? There are no…Oh…Joke. Right.”
Peter’s voice rose in amusement. He sat down on the floor, arms
wrapped around raised knees. “Stakeout. It seems I’m not the only
one with brains.”

Ray huffed.
“You can stay, provided you keep your trap
shut.”

Crimson stifled a smile. Peter had a habit
of using any opportunity for an impromptu business meeting. He
could never understand that others didn’t share his love of facts
and figures.

Ray resumed his vigilant position. “Quiet.
He is here.”

At first, Crimson saw nothing
through the night vision
binoculars but the blurred green contours of the landscape. Then he
saw a figure. He was holding something in his hand. She lowered the
binoculars. The clouds parted for a second, and a beam of moonlight
glinted on metal.