Slide Job (Cameron Motorsports) (3 page)

Chapter 3

I should be committed. “I’m crazy, I tell you,” Morgan argued. “Why couldn’t I have just won the lottery or, better yet, gotten struck by lightning?” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the pounding beat of Gretchen Wilson’s
Here for the Party
, blaring from the truck’s compact disc player. Her foot tapped in time to the music as the golden plains of Kansas sped by outside the window.

“Okay, I’ll admit it’s slightly left of center. But what if you win? I can see it now.” Lynn waved her red licorice twist like a symphony conductor. “Morgan Blade, world famous sprint car driver… What the heck was the name of that guy again?”

“You schmuck,” Morgan laughed. “It’s not a guy; it’s a team. Cameron Motorsports. And I’m not world famous.” She pressed harder on the accelerator, urging her beat-up old truck to go just a bit faster, give just a little more. They had to get back before too many people missed them.

“Not yet. Don’t you want to be famous?”

“No, that’s my father’s dream. Not mine.” Morgan sobered as she thought of her father and his dreams. The renowned Carter Blade, racecar driver and team owner, who wanted famous race-car-driving children. Morgan had never doubted her strong-willed father’s dreams would come true, until now. Would he live to realize them?

“What will you do with the money if you win? I’d quit my job and take a month long cruise.”

“No you wouldn’t. You’d be bored silly in three days. What would you do with your patients?” She knew Lynn loved her job as an oncology nurse at Parker Medical Center, south of Denver. They’d met two years ago, when her father had been admitted for treatment and placed in Lynn’s care. Their friendship was instantaneous—they just clicked. Neither one of them had much time for socializing due to their crazy schedules, but they managed as often as they could.

“Really, what would you do with the money? Hey, don’t forget about the chance to meet Tyler Dalton.”

“Funny you managed to remember his name.” Morgan shook her head as Lynn waved the whole bag of licorice and fanned herself with it. The air conditioning in her poor truck just wasn’t what it used to be.

“He’s a big time producer. I read about his divorce while I was in the checkout line at the grocery store. Woo-hoo, his picture must be next to the word ‘hottie’ in the dictionary.”

Who gave a crap about some television producer? He was just a man. Like fleas, the damn things were everywhere.
If you weren’t lookin’ they bit you on the butt, or broke your heart.

She knew she would do anything in her power to relieve the financial burden on her mom and dad. Especially since they had used their savings to pay for everything when—

Suddenly the engine coughed, sputtered and died. “Just great, another frickin’ growth opportunity,” Morgan groused as she maneuvered the dually pickup and race car trailer off to the side of the highway.

“What’s wrong?” Lynn asked, getting out her cell phone. “Shall I call Triple A?”

“No, give me a minute.” Morgan flipped a switch under the dashboard, turned the key in the ignition and pumped the gas pedal. The engine groaned but wouldn’t start. “It sounds like it’s out of gas. I switched to the other fuel tank and it still won’t start.”

Lynn stared at the fuel gauges, both showing half full, and frowned. “Those things have read half full for the last two years. How can you tell?”

Morgan leaned her head back against the headrest with a sigh and looked out the cracked windshield at the gray ribbon of Interstate 70 stretched out before them. This was the last thing she needed. They were ten miles east of Quinter and ten miles west of WaKeeney. Not a building in sight, in any direction. It might as well have been one hundred miles.

They had cut it close, leaving the racetrack in a hurry after she finished second in the main event. Being first-place loser meant she didn’t have to hang around. She’d told the crew guys to go on to dinner in the hauler, and she and Lynn would meet them there after delivering the chassis.

Maybe it was crazy—okay, it
was
crazy—sneaking off without the camera crew. They drove her nuts, following and filming her every move. How would she get through weeks of this?

The rules stated that none of the contestants were supposed to leave the track without escorts, film crew and permission. Too bad. Screw the rules. She needed the money the chassis delivery brought in, to make payroll and payments on the most outstanding of her father’s medical bills.

All she’d wanted to do was deliver it, collect the money and then hurry to the restaurant before they were missed. Simple.
Not.

“Phil used the truck to pick up tires this morning. I thought he’d filled it up.” She knew she couldn’t blame Phil. He’d worked for her dad as part of their pit crew for five years. He had come to work for them just before Lily…

No, don’t go there.
Morgan ignored the clench of her stomach and the emotional roll of her heart that came with thoughts of Lily.

This was her truck, her responsibility. She should have asked Phil, and she hadn’t.
Damn.

“You have gas for the race car in the trailer, right? Can we put that in?”

“No, that’s methanol. It’s a petroleum product, but it won’t work in the truck.” She thought for a minute. “We do have gas for the generator, though. We can use that.” The whole truck shivered as a tractor-trailer roared by at full speed. “You stay here. I’ll go dump in the gas and be right back.”

The summer heat engulfed her as she walked quickly around to the side door of the trailer, opposite the speeding traffic. She unlocked the trailer door, reached in for the five-gallon gas can and funnel, and heard the crunch of tires on gravel. She looked up in time to see a shiny silver Mercedes two-seater pull up behind the trailer.

Late afternoon sun glinted off of the honey-blond hair rising from the open car door. His eyes were hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses.

“Do you need some help, ma’am?” His voice, smooth like aged Tennessee whiskey, poured over her, hot and tingling when it reached her stomach.

Surprised to hear a touch of the South on the plains of Kansas, she looked him up and down. She watched in heated fascination as his long legs, encased in thoroughly worn jeans, ambled towards her. Broad shoulders, wrapped up in a tailored white button-down Oxford shirt, slightly wrinkled and untucked, swayed in alternate rhythm with his hips. He moved slow and smooth, wearing the most expensive loafers she’d ever seen. It looked like there was a monogram on the cuff of his shirt, but she tried not to stare. No, never mind that. She stared.

Whew, it was hot. Beads of sweat ran down her back and between her breasts. She tented her hand over her eyes and looked slowly up at him. Light brown hair curled around the edges of his shirt where it opened at the neck. Her fingers itched to touch it, to see if it was a soft as it looked. Would it swirl in lovely whorls down that flat stomach?

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

“I, uh… I’m fine, thanks.” Get a grip, Blade
.
“We just need some gas. We’ll be fine.”

He reached for the gas can as she stood there like an idiot. “I’ll just give you a hand with this, then. It looks heavy.”

She could hear the
poor little lady
tone in his voice. It was like being doused with cold water. “I said I’m fine. Don’t bother getting your clothes dirty.”

He shook his head. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll hold the funnel for you.” He walked toward the back of the truck with the gas can and funnel, leaving her no choice but to follow.

She reached the truck and stepped in front of him. Cell phone still in hand, Lynn was staring through the back window at the man, her mouth hanging open and eyes wide.

What was her problem? Kansans were good people. They didn’t mind stopping to help the weary traveler. She’d been through here often enough to know. There was absolutely no reason to be nervous.

She removed the gas cap and grabbed the funnel out of his hand, quickly shoving it in the receptacle without looking. “Hold this, I’ll pour the gas.”

“Are you on your way to a race?” As he held the funnel, she saw him glance back at the side of the trailer emblazoned with a neon-green number seventy-one riding high atop her sponsor’s logo.

Morgan did her best to reel in her frustration, wrapping her professional demeanor around her like a protective blanket.
That’s it, close off the feelings and paste on the sunny smile. Yep, got it down pat.
Experience had taught her over the years that race fans came from all walks of life. She smiled up at him while she poured the gas from the container into the funnel. “As a matter of fact, I am. Are you a fan of auto racing?”

*

Fan, my ass,
Tyler thought irritably. This one was going to be a handful; he could see it coming. He had just gotten off the phone with his irate director, calling to report that Morgan had “slipped away” from the track. They’d no idea where to look for her in such a rural setting. It was dumb luck that she’d broken down on I-70, the main route through Kansas, or he wouldn’t have been able to find her, either.

The last thing he needed was to have to babysit wayward contestants. According to the rules, he could kick her off the show right now. Make her an example to the others to keep them in line.

He looked down at her soft smiling lips. No lipstick stained the dusty pink color. The supple muscles in her arms bunched and stretched when she lifted the gas can. It looked like she did this sort of stuff all the time. His attention was captured by her lacy bra, visible through her thin white t-shirt. It provided the perfect framework for breasts that looked as though they wanted to pour gloriously out of captivity
.

Whoa, boy. She was far prettier than film gave her credit for. The camera hadn’t caught the energy she exuded. It was like standing too close to the heat of a midnight campfire—you knew it could burn you, but it felt too good, and it was too beautiful to back away. Heat sluiced its way through his skin and wrapped him in tight knots of lust.

He admired her bravado. She didn’t appear at all nervous or afraid of being broken down on the side of the road. Quite capable, really, she didn’t need his help. It was refreshing, considering where he came from. Women were always throwing themselves at him, calling because their car had broken down, or with some other tenuous excuse to meet him for dinner.

The
blonde in the truck continued to stare at him. She had recognized him. He could tell by the look on her face. The emotions were always the same: at first eagerness and excitement, then willingness, and then they became predators. He was starting to feel like gator bait. He could see the toothy jaws opening wide to snap him up.
Run.

This was bad. For a brief moment it had felt so good; he’d felt so alive. Dammit, he couldn’t do it this way. It wasn’t in his plan. His plans revolved around Annie. He had to take care of her. After the last three years of hell, she needed him. She needed the love and support of his family, and so did he. He would be there for her, no matter what he had to deny himself.

In three months, this woman and her friend would be a memory. He needed to make sure she kept her distance, and everything would be fine. There were so many things he could be doing right now besides rescuing damsels in distress, especially when they didn’t need it or want it. She was looking at him like she expected something.

Oh yeah, an answer to her question.

*

“Can’t say I do or don’t like racing. I’ve only recently had the opportunity to see any racecar drivers. They’re not people I usually meet in my line of work.”

She vaguely wondered what kind of work he did. Was he a lawyer, a banker, an accountant? Each one reminded her of being closed in, locked inside a box while life passed them by. No thanks, not for her. Getting through school had been bad enough, long hours spent in class after class. She preferred the racetrack, or the open road. Open roads conveniently made for getting to the next racetrack, of course.

More interested in what was under his fancy shirt, she raised her eyes to his and stepped a bit closer to him. She moved in so near, her butt was lightly touching his thigh. He smelled warm and spicy, like hot cinnamon rolls. Oh, mama. She licked her lips in anticipation.

Normally she didn’t have much time for men in her life. Funny, considering there were mostly
just
men in her life. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a big fat exception made for this one. Did he taste as good as he smelled? Thinking about the places she’d like to lick made her warm and wet. She smiled again. “What line of work would that be?”

Smelling gas, they both looked down at the same time.

“Well, I—hey!” he yelled, as gasoline poured all over his sleek leather loafers.

Mortified, Morgan dropped the gas can and jumped back as he yanked the funnel out of the receptacle. She looked at the opening, and realized there was nothing attached to the inlet. There was no gas tank on this side of the truck. What the hell?

Damon.

She suddenly remembered her little brother had removed the tank on this side at the beginning of the week because it had a small hole in it. He’d promised to get a replacement from the junkyard or try to repair this one. Obviously, he had forgotten. With everything that had been going on, she hadn’t remembered to ask him about it, either.