Dangerous Race (6 page)

“What’s that look on your face?” Mac asked. “You know this guy?”

Tracey shrugged. “It sounds like the guy I’m thinking of. He’s a die-hard fan. He’d planned to meet me the last time I was here, but I had the accident.”

“Yeah,” Mac said. “What are you not telling me?”

“He was a little on the obsessive side, but I wouldn’t call him dangerous. He’s sent a lot of emails through my website, but that’s been the extent of it.”

“How many is a lot?” Mac asked.

“Several hundred.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Point him out to me.”

Tracey forced a laugh, but it sounded nervous and jittery. “It isn’t him, Mac.” Even as she said the words, a crowd of people herded toward her table and she spotted him. John Wallace. She’d seen his name too many times to forget it.

John wore an oversized navy windbreaker zipped up to his throat and something bulky hid beneath. Something long and narrow that might resemble a very large gun. He nervously wiped his palm against his head, flattening his hair against his scalp. The man was beyond anxious.

Mac moved to the end of the table and studied him with hard eyes. Every muscle in his body seemed tight-wire taut. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

Funny how he knew immediately.

“Yeah. He’s sent his picture to me. Several dozen times.”

“He’s got something under his jacket.”

Her
surprise.
She hated surprises.

Tracey shot him a disparaging glance. “Oh, calm down, Mac. He’s just a fan who wants an autograph and few words like everyone else.” She hoped. “Relax. Another three, four hours and you can call it a day.” Tracey tipped her head. “In fact, why don’t you call it a day now? If you hurry, you could—”

“Save your breath, Tracey.” Mac stood tall with his arms crossed in front of chest, a he-man ready to conquer the world. Much to her dismay, he looked really good at the part. “I’m not going anywhere.”

At the moment, she didn’t mind his decision, but she’d be damned if she’d admit it. “Fine. Stay. Pull up a chair. It’s going to be a while.” Tracey snapped a lid on the stress bubbling in her center and smiled as the first fan approached her table.

Five people later, John stood in front of her, sweating and nervous. “Hi, Trace.” He wiped his hand on his head again. “I’m John Wallace. I’m your b-biggest fan.”

Tracey sat forward. “Of course. Hi, John. Good to see you. Thanks for coming out.” She pulled a publicity shot from the pile next to her. “Can I make this out to you?”

“Oh, no.” He smiled, displaying a crooked front tooth, “I’ve got something better. Something just for you. Something you’re never going to forget.” As he spoke, he unzipped his jacket and reached inside.

Tracey’s heart rate tripled and she rose from her seat. Mac moved toward her as did both security guards, but they were all too late. John whipped out his surprise. An exact model replica of her Arrow car. Relief thundered through her as she sat back down. “It’s beautiful, John. It must have taken weeks to build.” The guards exchanged looks as they stepped back.

John nodded and wiped his head with both palms. “It’s a p-present for you.”

“What if I sign it and you keep it,” Tracey suggested. “Sort of a memento since we finally got to meet.”

“Really?” His face lit up. “You want to sign it for me?”

“Sure.” Tracey signed her name on the car with a flourish and her standard
Thanks for your support.

After another minute of small talk, John took his car as if it were gold from Fort Knox and edged away. Next to her Mac sighed heavily and she faced the next fan.

Three hours and forty-nine minutes later, Tracey was still signing autographs, still smiling and posing for pictures, and still amazing Mac. He’d listened as each fan gushed over her or told her how she’d inspired them. She hadn’t taken a bathroom break with the other drivers and she hadn’t complained. She’d kept her seemingly endless line moving continually, but still managed to give everyone equal time. John Wallace hadn’t seemed to faze her in the least.

Mac looked at the four people left. Three women and a man. The guy was brawny and struck Mac as suspicious but maybe that’s because he seemed so out of place next to the women. He’d jogged up with a couple of others before security blocked any more autograph seekers.

A ruckus broke out two tables over as fans started fighting about a place in line. The remaining crowd got rowdy when two big men began pounding each other into the ground.

The security around Tracey’s table bolted to stop the fight. Even Mac took a couple of steps toward the melee in case someone tried to rush past him and get to Tracey.

Then he heard it behind him. “Yeah, you can sign my dick, you stupid bitch.” Mac’s gaze snapped back to Tracey. Her eyes widened as she stood and faced the brawny guy in her line. Mac moved toward her when a rough hand gripped his shoulder and held him back.

“Not so fast, hot shot,” a low voice said. The cocky smile on the huge guy’s face said it all. Mac realized the fight was a setup. “My friend wants a word with your girlfriend. Alone.”

Instant hot anger flooded Mac’s veins. He hauled back and slugged the guy. No questions asked. Pain ripped through his hand. He started toward Tracey, but got tackled from behind. “Tracey!” he yelled. As he struggled with the man holding his legs he heard their raised voices.

“You’ve got no business racing cars. You’d make more money sucking dick than driving for a living.” The asshole talking sounded highly pleased with himself as he shifted restlessly from foot to foot.

Color rose on Tracey’s cheeks. She fisted her hands. “You son of a bitch. You want me gone then come and get me. Be a fucking man, not some two-bit, chickenshit wimp afraid of his own shadow.”

Mac kicked off the behemoth holding him and scrambled up as the man flexed his hands then launched himself over the table at Tracey.

If she was scared, she didn’t show it. With her dark brows pulled tightly together, she looked pissed as hell. She actually landed a solid right hook to the guy’s face before he made contact and they both went flying backward.

Mac’s stomach clenched in a tight knot. The thought of this guy hurting Tracey sent him into a rage. In one agile move, he leapt over the table, pulled the creep off her and slugged him hard. His hand burned like fire.

The guy fell back as security rounded the table. They picked him up and hauled him away. Breathing hard, Mac knelt next to Tracey. A box of headshots had saved her from cracking her skull on the cement. He grabbed his leather jacket from the ground, balled it up, shoved the box aside and laid Tracey’s head gently on his coat. She stayed there, her chest heaving, staring up at the sky. Then up at him. Those wide blue eyes nearly undid him.

She started trembling, but she held back tears. Watching her battle to stay strong did something to his heart. A sudden picture of her after the crash four years ago jumped into his brain and a feeling of helplessness washed over him. Mac took her hands in his. “You okay?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I just need another minute. Or ten.”

Her calm, her humor amazed him. “Take all the time you need.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Call an ambulance,” he ordered the remaining security guard.

“No!” Tracey shouted. “No,” she said more quietly. I just need a couple of minutes.” She looked at him with pleading eyes. “Please, Mac. No ambulance. I’m fine, honestly. Just a little shaken up. This is so
not
ambulance-worthy. Trust me on that.”

He studied the beseeching expression on her face. Her courage floored him faster than a knockout punch. “Scratch the ambulance,” he said over his shoulder.

Her pretty blue eyes softened. “Thanks. Thank you.”

He nodded and basked in the new kinship with her. Wanting to stay in the unique territory and befriend this woman who was such a contrast in personality, Mac squeezed her hand softly. “Did he hurt you?”

“Kind of,” she answered. “My hand is killing me.” She lifted her hand and tested raw knuckles. “Damn, his jaw was made of steel.”

“You didn’t break it, did you?” That would end the race.

She flexed her fist gingerly. “Naw. Just scraped it up. I’m okay.”

Her hand had to hurt. His did. Mac shook his head in wonder, amazement and frustration. “I would never have believed if I hadn’t heard it for myself.”

She narrowed questioning eyes. “What?”

“You called him, and I quote, ‘a two-bit, chickenshit wimp afraid of his own shadow.’”

Tracey actually smiled. “Yeah. That sounds about right. Joe thought I cussed too much. I honestly try not to, but it’s hard working with a group of guys who swear like sailors.” One tear streaked its way down her temple and disappeared into her black hair.

Mac watched as she struggled to keep any weakness from showing. “Hey.” He spoke quietly, and she bit her bottom lip as she met his gaze. “It’s okay. We got him. It’s over.”

Nodding, she blinked back more tears. “Yeah, yeah.” She looked up to the sky. “Hear that? Fuckin’ A, Joe. We got him.”

Silence descended, but tension remained thick in the air. Mac didn’t want to lose the ground he’d gained. “Damn.” He shook his head and sighed.

“What?” she asked.

“I should’ve made that bet with you. You’d owe me twenty bucks right about now.” Mac smiled at the new sparkle in her eyes, but it didn’t last. Seeing Tracey on the pavement did weird things to his heart. His stomach was only now beginning to settle. “How’s your leg?”

Tracey took a deep breath. “That’s a good question. It hurts a little but that’s because I was sitting for so long. I won’t know for sure until I stand up.”

“Do you want to stand up?”

She thought about it for so long that Mac worried she was more hurt than she’d let on. “On one condition,” she finally said.

Mac held back the urge to groan. Leave it to Tracey to come up with an ultimatum while flat on her back. “What?”

“You let me finish signing those last two autographs. Those people waited all day and I don’t want them to leave empty-handed.”

Mac dropped his chin to his chest. He shouldn’t have expected anything less and he didn’t want to battle her, especially after this last incident. He studied her hopeful gaze. “You are nuts, Tracey Bradshaw. Certifiably insane.”

“Is that a yes?”

After a three hour drive to Indiana, Chelsea’s nerves were beyond rattled. She’d come all this way with no real clue how to handle the situation, but she was determined to tackle it regardless.

She and Kim hauled their luggage from the back seat of Chelsea’s sapphire-blue Miata and trudged into the hotel. Families and groups of friends roamed around, and a giant water fountain bubbled in the lobby, making Chelsea’s problem worse. Kim headed toward the registration desk.

“Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta pee,” Chelsea chanted, making a beeline to the ladies room.

Kim chuckled. “I’ll get in line and meet you at check-in.”

Chelsea nodded and waved, then shoved open the bathroom door. A few minutes later she emerged, a new woman, and spotted Kim. The undeniable scrutiny of passersby had a ribbon of unease curling in her stomach. Then she saw it and froze: a life-size poster of Tracey Bradshaw staring at her with a charismatic smile. The resemblance was uncanny. Almost scary.

Kim’s frantic wave from the registration desk caught her eye and she walked over. “You won’t believe this,” Kim said. “You know how I booked this at the last minute because of a cancellation? Well, there was a mix up and they gave away our adjoining rooms.”

This trip was off to a rip-roaring start. Chelsea slapped on her serious face. She’d learned to be as cutthroat as the men she confronted in business. She pinned the clerk with a man-eating glare. “That’s ridiculous. How could—?”

“Ms. Bradshaw,” the clerk sputtered. His round brown eyes begged for mercy. “I had no idea you were expecting a guest or needed another room.”

“What?” Chelsea said. This guy thought…“Wait a minute. I’m n—”

“I didn’t know you were checking in
again.
” He stressed the last word and started typing on his computer at warp speed. “But I think I can make this work.”

Chelsea opened her mouth and closed it. She had to make this trip work as well, and she’d had such little luck this past year that if this guy wanted to help her, she wouldn’t argue. A long forgotten tingle of success rippled down her spine.

“Here we go,” he said. “Unfortunately your adjoining rooms are gone, but I’ve got something else.” He found two card keys, scribbled some room numbers on two different small key-card folders and handed them to the women. “Naturally we keep several suites open in case these little
mishaps
occur. Although you ladies won’t be on the same floor, you both have deluxe suites.”

“At the same price as the other rooms, correct?” Kim asked. The accountant in her never stopped working. Thank God.

“Of course,” the man said. “I apologize for the inconvenience.” He looked down at the names on the computer. “Have a nice day, Ms. Jacobs…
Ms. Harding.
” He winked at her.

A brilliant idea blossomed in her brain. “Could you do me a favor and give me
Tracey Bradshaw’s
room number?” She winked back at him as if they shared the secret to life. How easy would it be to knock on the lady’s door? Chelsea hadn’t expected to find her this quickly, much less land in the same hotel.

The clerk’s beaming smile told her she’d won and he leaned closer. “You can’t fool me,” he said. “I would never give out that information,
Ms. Harding.
” He looked immensely pleased with himself. “Did I pass the test?” he asked with pride.

Chelsea wanted to strangle the guy. “Look I know you’re not supposed to give out certain information and you’re just trying to do your—”

Kim grabbed her and pulled her back. “Let it go,” she ordered softly in her ear. “They screwed up our reservation and they’re booked up completely. If we don’t take the suites, we don’t have rooms. The whole city is packed because of the race so don’t fight it. It’s an omen, my friend. Go with it. If he thinks you’re not her, the rooms are history.”

That was the reason they were business partners. Kim saw the final destination, and she was just plain devious. It was those traits that were going to land her best friend a very wealthy husband. Chelsea let her lead the way to the elevators.

“You realize we won’t be next to each other. The suites are on different floors.”

“Nice,” Kim said. Coming from a family of eight girls, she loved her privacy and didn’t care how she got it. That and she was known for bringing home the occasional possible future husband. Kim constantly assured her it was just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor man. Her goal in life was to be some lucky SOB’s trophy wife.

“Well, at least now I won’t have to listen to the headboard bang against the wall if you find Mr. Right.”

Kim’s eyes widened as if she’d been grievously hurt. “Hey, did you just dish me?”

Chelsea could’ve cried, but instead she leaned her head forward and sighed. Kim’s play on words reminded her of the current slogan sweeping the country. Six months ago, she’d scrambled to come up with a campaign for a new satellite dish company. The rap singer hired to pitch the product had taken control of everything. Including publicly trashing every idea she’d come up with. In a flash of frustration, in front of the execs, the agents, managers and various entourage of said rap star, and thinking she’d lost the account anyway, she’d faced the poor excuse for a singer head-on. “Did you just dish me?” she’d asked. She’d cringed inwardly at the slip of her tongue and prayed no one noticed. “Dish”
kind of
sounded like “diss.” The silence that followed had nearly been the death of her. And then a roar of celebration as the whole place went wild at the clear, but unintentional, discovery of the slogan. However, Master Funky J., or Mister Stinky Guy, as she referred to him, had walked out in a snit and taken the account with him.

Three months later her slogan was everywhere and she had a lawsuit draining what was left of her funds. The rapper was going to do for the satellite dish what Jordan did for sneakers, Foreman for grills and Levi for jeans. He was going to be huge. So was the satellite dish.

She’d lost a fortune.

Chelsea shook her head, still angry at the whole futile situation. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“I know, but I couldn’t resist the opening,” Kim replied. “Besides, it’s yours and you’ll get the credit for it eventually.”

“Before or after I’m living on the streets?”

“That’s not going to happen, remember? If you—”

“No. I already told you no.” The express elevator arrived and they both got in.

“Yes, but sometimes ‘no’ means ‘yes.’” The doors closed.

“Oh my God,” Chelsea said, her eyes wide. “I cannot believe you said that too. You’re starting to sound like the last guy you dated.” In the quest for a rich husband, Kim had dated some very questionable characters.

Kim looked offended. “Hey, Simon would have been fine if he hadn’t been married.”

Chelsea’s eyes grew even wider. “Kim, I’m beginning to think you need some serious therapy.” The doors opened and Kim rolled her bag out on the seventeenth floor. Chelsea still had two more floors to go. “I’m going to make some calls and see if I can get a lead on Tracey, but I’ll pick you up for dinner at six o’clock,” Chelsea said, holding back the elevator door. Maybe by then the knot in her stomach would hurt less.

“Wear something special,” Kim told her. “Let’s make the most of the trip. You need to get laid. Posthaste. You need to loosen up. I promise if you do that, you’ll have a new outlook on life and you’ll see that I’m right about this whole business proposal.”

“That is the one of the lamest bits of reasoning you’ve ever had,” Chelsea said. She moved back and the doors closed. On the other hand…she’d worked hard to get her company off the ground, and even harder to keep it above water the last year. Maybe Kim’s plan had merit. The time had come to break the rules in battle.

The shrill telephone ring brought Matthew Rivers out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. After working on the car all day it felt good to shower off the grease. It was also a relief to be away from the unnatural stress in the garage.

The clock said five-fifty and he still had plenty of time before meeting some of the guys downstairs for dinner. He fought a tickle in his nose but as he picked up the phone he let out an enormous sneeze.

“Wow,” a female said. “That was a whopper. God bless you.” Then she charged ahead before he got a word out. “I know I said I’d pick you up at six but I’m having a clothes dilemma. I’ve got my little black dress and my even littler red one. You told me we were dressing up tonight but which one do you think I should wear?”

Matthew coughed. That was a hell of a question to ask a practically naked guy. And it made him think. “If your dresses are on the bed, what are you wearing now?”

Silence on the other end told him he’d caught her attention. “Uh…you’re not Kim.”

Something about her voice seemed strangely familiar, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. “No, no,” he said. “I’m definitely not Kim.”

“I dialed room 1728. Who’s this?” she asked.

“Ah…” he said, looking down at the numbers on his phone. “Therein lies your problem. You dialed 1725. You missed it by a row. I’m Matthew. Not Kim.”

“Oh, my bad,” she said. “Sorry.”

“Hey wait, wait a second.” Now why the hell had he said that?

She returned, her voice strong on the line. “Yes?”

A reckless streak hit like lightning. “The black dress,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your dilemma. Black or red. Wear the black dress.” He loved women in black. He all but felt her smile over the phone. Women loved black too. It was dangerous. Sexy.

“You don’t even know what the black dress looks like,” she countered.

“I know it’s little so I already like it.” He loved the sound of her voice. Wanted to hear more of it. “What color is your hair?” he asked.

“That’s really none of your bus—”

“I’m not a pervert. I’m just trying to picture which dress might be better on you. What’s your hair color?”

She paused as if she could think of a reason
not
to answer him. “Black. Very black,” she finally said.

“Hmmm.” He heard her waiting for him and reeled her in. “Yeah. I’ll stick with my gut. Wear the black.”

“Tha—” she cleared her throat, “—thanks, Valentino. I’ll be sure to give you credit as my stylist for the evening.”

“It’s Matthew,” he said again. Man, she had a sexy voice. Low and husky. She sounded dangerous. “What’s your name?”

“Nice try, but it’s time to hang up, Matthew. Thanks for the advice. Have—”

“Wait, wait. If you’re not going to tell me your name, at least tell me what floor you’re on.” Maybe he could find her somehow, but—

“Why? So you can loiter at the elevators and accost every woman you see in a black dress?”

He smiled at her suggestion. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but now that you mention it…Although the word ‘accost’ might be a little harsh.” All he’d have to do is hear her voice.

She paused. Was she really going to make him stand around the elevators looking for a woman in black? “Do you have a pen and paper? Are you ready?” she asked.

Matthew scrambled for both and his towel slid to the floor. “Ready,” he said.

“It’s a combination of the first three numbers of your room. Good night, Matthew. Thanks for your help.” She hung up the phone and left him standing there naked and perplexed. The first three numbers of his room? One, seven and two. Ten? She was on the tenth floor? What if she meant multiply? Maybe the fourteenth floor? He could call Kim in room 1728, but that would defeat the purpose. Matthew grinned. He loved a challenge.

Tracey stared up at the ceiling before forcing her eyes closed. Normally, she’d pass out after four hours of signing autographs, but after this afternoon she was too wired to sleep. She took a deep breath and relaxed her tense muscles.

Pounding on the door jarred her senses with lightning speed and she sat up, her muscles screaming in protest.

“Room service,” a man called. It had only been fifteen minutes since she’d ordered and doubt climbed on her back like a monkey hanging on for dear life. Tracey opened the door a fraction and saw a young man pushing a cart. Heat crept up her cheeks as she pulled back the maid’s lock and let the waiter in. He set the food on her desk and left with a hefty tip.

Ten minutes later, Tracey covered the remains of dinner with her napkin. She stood and stretched sore muscles, the result of her “fan attack” hours earlier. She still couldn’t believe the guy had shown his face after all this time. Couldn’t believe he’d attacked her in public. And to think she’d been worried about John Wallace…

Although the night was still young, an odd uneasiness weighed her down. The quicker this day ended, the happier she’d be. She threw on her pajamas, brushed her teeth and hair, and tossed the covers back. Someone knocked on the door. She jumped at the sound, cursing her newfound jitters.

She wasn’t expecting anyone and she really did hate surprises. “Who is it?”

“Me. Uh, Mac.”

As if she didn’t know who “me” was from the sound of his distinctive low voice. A voice that hummed through her whenever he spoke. If only they could communicate by mental telepathy. Tracey laughed at that idea. They were so far apart mentally, they couldn’t see eye to eye if they were nose to nose. Although she’d felt a definite change this afternoon. He hadn’t argued with her about the ambulance. He’d held her hand and looked at her in an odd way. He’d seemed genuinely worried about her. Something she really wasn’t used to from anyone other than Joe or Ed. Had it been because of the kiss they’d shared earlier? Hmm…interesting thought.

Tracey opened the door a crack. “What’s up?”

“We need to talk to you.”

Tracey looked around the empty hallway. “We? Have you been drinking, Mac? You’re all alone,” she said, stating the obvious.

Mac glanced down the hallway as the sound of an elevator bell rang. “Not for long.”

Detective Hahn rounded the corner and strode toward them. Her stomach took an odd twist and she tried to quell her apprehension.

“Hi, Trace. Sorry to bother you,” he said, clearly noticing her pajamas and big fluffy slippers.