In the Groove (4 page)

"Why the hell'd you do that?"

"Because I didn't want her trotting out of here, mad as hell, and thinking later on that she might have a good lawsuit on her hands. This way, she's here. We can soothe her ruffled feathers, maybe even convince her to stick around for a while, see a doctor. We really should have her checked out."

"I know. That's why I'm calling Doc Brown now."

"I know, I know, and he'll tell us if he thinks her injuries are real or faked."

"You think she might be faking?" Lance asked in disbelief.

"It's possible."

"Doubtful," Lance corrected. "That woman doesn't have a dishonest bone in her body. It's why I like her. And why I want her to stick around. So you better have the tow truck company bring her car here. I want her happy."

Sal gave him a strange look. Actually, it was more of a concerned look. "You're not attracted to her, are you?"

"No," Lance denied. "Not my type!"

But Sal's eyes narrowed. "You better watch yourself," his business manager warned.

"Don't worry. I will."

But Sal didn't look convinced. Not surprising because Lance wasn't convinced himself. He had a feeling Sarah Tingle might prove to be a huge distraction. And that wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.

CHAPTER FOUR

It amazed Sarah how quickly Lance and his manager arranged everything. Within an hour they had her car parked in the driveway, the doctor examining her leg, and a couple of guys from "the shop" examining her transmission.

Sarah didn't know whether to be impressed or intimidated. It seemed to her that only the very wealthy and the very influential could order mechanics to repair a car and have a doctor show up on their doorstep.

In North Carolina, apparently, race-car drivers ranked right up there with the Pope.

So she waited for the doctor to finish poking and prodding her (diagnosis: superficial wounds) then sat in Lance Cooper's fancy family room while she waited and waited for the mechanics to be equally brilliant in diagnosing her car.

It wasn't good news. It was terminal.

"What do you mean you can't fix it?" Sarah asked a little later, feeling as if every molecule of blood had suddenly dropped to her heels.

"There's a lot of miles on that motor, Miss Tingle. Over two hundred thousand by the looks of it," a blond headed guy said. "Sorry, but the block gave out. It's cracked. Given the number of miles on it, I'm surprised the engine lasted this long."

She'd bought the car used in college by saving money from working nights and weekends. She'd nursed the blue Bug through a leaky radiator, a bad transmission and a whole host of other problems. That it had finally died made her feel... resigned. She felt resigned. What else could go wrong in her life?

"So what do I do with it?" she asked. Three male faces stared down at her—only three because one of the male mechanics was still outside with her car, like it was a dying patient or something.

Would you like some oil, Mr. Bug?

"Well," said the mechanic, glancing at Lance, hero worship in his eyes. "We could put a new engine in it."

"That sounds expensive," she said.

"It won't be too bad if we run the parts through the shop," Lance soothed in his Carolina voice.

"I'll have to find out where to get them from, but that shouldn't be a problem," the mechanic said.

"We can pay for your car to be repaired and take it out of your salary," Mr. Lowenstein added. "Not all at once, but a little bit at a time. That way you'll have a car to drive when you're not busy driving for Lance."

And she would have to drive for Lance, she realized. She'd driven across the country in a burst of misplaced optimism, had hoped to find one of the jobs that she'd been told were so prevalent in booming Charlotte, North Carolina. It'd taken her two weeks to realize that North Carolina school board politics prevented those on the outside from getting in, no matter what the woman on the phone had told her. When she'd seen the help wanted ad for a bus driver, she'd thought it might be for a private school, thought maybe she'd get to know a few people, maybe move up the waiting list for a teaching job. She'd been shocked to realize the "bus" she'd be driving had actually been converted into a coach and that she'd be driving it from race to race for a famous driver. Even still, for some reason, she'd pictured a local-type driver, not... not...

A drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a man.

"Oh, jeez," she said, dropping her head into her hands.

"It'll be okay," Lance said, sitting down next to her. "You'll have your car back in no time."

"Well, I don't know..." his mechanic started to say.

"In no time," Lance repeated. "I promise."

He completely contradicted everything she'd heard about professional athletes, Sarah admitted. He wasn't a jerk. He didn't appear to have an ego. And he'd treated her with nothing but respect ever since they'd first met—well, aside from the pool-boy incident. Of course, she wasn't his type and so it wasn't like he'd try and make a pass at her. Ever. And he'd run her down in his car and so he
had
to be nice to her.

Her eyes suddenly narrowed. "You don't have to worry I'm going to sue you."

He drew back, then smirked at his business manager. "Looks like she has you pegged, Sal."

"I'm not worried about a lawsuit," Sal denied.

But years of handling tiny little males stood Sarah in good stead. "Yes, you are," she corrected. "And I understand
why,
but you don't need to be."

"And you
don't need to worry, either. We'll fix your car," Lance interjected. "Heck. That's the business we're in, so before you start protesting, just remember we fix cars every day. And if you like, we'll get you a rental so you can get around town. We get great deals through some of the rental car agencies. And if you don't feel up to driving my coach out to Daytona tomorrow, you can start next week."

"No, really—"

"No arguments," he interrupted. "This is how it's going to be done. Now. Let's go get your stuff out of your car. You're spending the night with me."

He almost laughed at the look on her face.

"I don't mean in my bed," he added.

Which, of course, made her blush, and made her instantly say, "No, no. Of course not."

He almost contradicted her.

Of course not?

Could she really think he didn't find her attractive? Was she that beaten down?

What's more, there was no flirtatious comment back, no look of pure, sexual interest pouring from her eyes. He almost smiled just because it was so nice, so damn nice, to be looked at like a human instead of a walking dollar sign. No wonder Sal had hired her on the spot.

"I really think you should stay here. Doc Brown said it's all superficial, but I'd feel better if you had someone nearby. Or are you living with somebody?"

Again, no flirtatious glances, no look of invitation, no nothing. "No. Just a few dozen cockroaches."

"Well then, good. You can sleep in one of my guest rooms," he added, not giving her time to answer, just standing up and saying, "And when you feel up to it, I can show you the motor coach."

"A guest room isn't necessary. I'll be fine on my own. And I can look over the bus on my own. You don't need to go to any trouble."

"It's not trouble and there are some special features you'll need to be shown how to operate, but we can talk about that later. In the meantime, let's get you settled in your room."

He saw her release a breath, the kind that was directed at a hank of hair. "I really don't want to impose."

"Will she be imposing, Sal?"

His business manager rolled his eyes. "In a house this big? I don't think so."

"Stay," Lance said again, and when she still looked hesitant, he added, "If it makes you feel any better, I won't be here this evening. I have a
Raceday
interview in a couple hours. I won't be back 'til later. Sal's gonna keep an eye on you."

"I am?" Sal said, bushy brows arching.

"You are."

"I still don't know...." she murmured.

"Are you worried about Sal making a pass at you?"

"No," she said, looking torn between amusement and horror.

"Then stay."

"It's too much to ask."

"No, it's not. Look how easy it'll be. I think half your clothes are in the back of your car."

She gave him a "You noticed that?" look that was part humiliation, part resignation.

"Do you always travel around with half your clothes?" he teased, trying to set her at ease.

She looked away, giving him her pretty profile. "Actually," he heard her mumble. "Those are
all
my clothes."

"All?"

She nodded. "The place I'm staying at. It's not exactly the best and so I keep my clothes in the car in case I need to make a quick exit."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"Then it's settled," he said quickly. "C'mon. I'll show you to your room. You can have your choice."

And this time he didn't give her the opportunity to protest He just walked out of the room, resisting the urge to turn around and help her up. He'd let Sal do that. If he turned back to her he just knew she'd argue some more. Stubborn. He could tell that already.

To his surprise she didn't argue. So he showed her upstairs, Sal acting like the concerned citizen by helping her up the sweeping staircase when, in fact, he was probably more concerned about her falling and slapping him with a second lawsuit. He showed her to the flower puff room, so dubbed by him because it was a total chick room. The decorator had let her inner estrogen fly, using roses and white chintz (or so she'd called it—looked like cotton to him) to create a room Martha Stewart would be proud of. Sarah looked a bit wide-eyed, Lance leaving her behind with firm instructions to take some of the painkillers Doc had left her and get some rest

When he got back from his interview a few hours later Sarah's car had been towed, a rental car had been delivered, and Sarah Tingle herself was sound asleep, Lance noticed. He stood in the doorway, observing her for a moment, her fully clothed form sprawled out on the "chintz" bedspread. Sarah Tingle slept a lot like Lance suspected she lived, no holds barred and everything wide open—in this case, her mouth.

She snored, lips parted, a strand of hair having been pulled into the black hole by the tractor beam of her breath.

He stood there for a second listening to the discordant sound, a chuckle escaping him.

"She's out," Sal said, coming up behind him.

"Obviously she needed rest."

They both stood there, another growl being let loose.

"She snores," Sal observed.

"Yeah. I don't think I've ever heard anyone snore quite like that."

"Amazing."

His business manager, tie loose around his dress shirt, jacket discarded, glanced at her and then back at him then back at Sarah Tingle again. "I still can't believe she had no idea who you were. I mean, when I interviewed her for the job she told me she didn't know anything about racing but I still thought she knew who you were."

"And I still can't believe you pretended her car had been towed."

"Got your best interests at heart, buddy."

"Well, do me a favor and camp out here tonight. I don't want her freaking out thinking I'm going to molest her or something."

"You think she'd think that?"

"I think she doesn't trust men."

"Yeah. Maybe," Sal agreed. "Wouldn't do to have her claim something happened that didn't happen."

"She wouldn't do that."

"You never know," Sal said with a shrug. "And I've already got an overnight bag in the back of my car for emergencies, so it's no big deal."

"You really do think of everything, don't you?"

"Why you pay me the big bucks," Sal said, turning away.

But Lance lingered in the door.

Sal came all but running back, which was a sight to see given his size. "I
told
you, no distractions."

"She's so cute."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. You're going to allow someone to work for you whom you find
cute?"

"And frisky."

"Frisky? What are we talking about here, a woman or a golden retriever?"

"I like her," Lance said, his eyes roving over the curls that lay strewn across the pillow, then back to her gaping mouth. He still couldn't believe the sounds coming out of her mouth.

"This could be bad," Sal said, echoing Lance's own fears. "This could be very bad."

"You think we should hire someone else?"

"I'm thinking that's exactly what we should do. I mean, I thought she was perfect for the job earlier, but now you're telling me you think she's cute."

But Lance was already shaking his head. "Nah. Can't do that. She needs the money."

"And you need to focus on
your
job."

"I will. Don't worry."

But it was plain to see Sal was worried.

"We should probably wake her," Lance said, sidestepping his own concerns. "Doc said she might have a concussion and to keep an eye on her."

"You're sick, you know that?" Sal asked. "You're really sick. You can't stay away from her."

"She needs her dinner."

"That's it," Sal said. "I give up."

"No, wait," Lance said, frustrated with himself, too. "You're right. I should let her sleep."

"Yes, you should. And you should stay away from her, too."

"I will," Lance said.

And he did stay away from her. Right up until the next morning.