Thunderstruck (12 page)

“Where will you be?”

“You should go on top of the garage area,” she told him. “It’s a great view. Or from a pit stall. I’m sure Billy or Whit will be happy to be your tour guide.”

He took the step and entered her coach. “I didn’t ask where they would be. I asked where you would be. I’d like to watch the race with you.”

“I watch on my own,” she said.

He lifted one eyebrow, no question necessary.

“You wouldn’t like it,” she assured him. “Not a place where the team owners watch. Or potential team owners. You’re better off on a pit cart.”

He frowned. “So why do you go?”

“’Cause I hate change,” she said with a smile. “And it’s where I always watched the Busch Clash and the Bud Shootout as a kid. Some years, when my dad didn’t make the event for whatever reason, he came with me and…”

“Is there room for two?” he asked.

She picked up the envelope and tapped it against the countertop, regarding him. Only Ernie knew where she went to watch this race and, at other tracks, the Busch race. Only Ernie knew why. And even if she’d been seen, no one knew why the seat next to her was always empty.

“As a matter of fact…” She peeked into the envelope. Of course, she should say no. She should send him to the garage or the pits and go have her little night race with nothing but the memory of the past next to her. She should, but…

She looked up and held his warm green gaze. “I have an extra ticket.”

His expression softened as though he understood what she’d just shared with him. “I’d be honored if you’d take me along.”

She studied him for a moment, barely aware that she held her breath. “Okay. Let me grab a jacket.”

And just to be sure she made herself good and
warm
, she left his jersey on, where it could slide against her skin all evening.

“It’s a long walk,” she told him. “But I don’t take a tram or cart. I always walk.”

“Don’t tell me. Tradition.”

She grinned at him. “You’re catching on, Churchill.”

They started out toward the outer bands of the bowl to circle almost the whole track, and she took a deep breath, blinking into the purplish-blue of the evening sky. “When it’s dark and the lights are on, you won’t believe how beautiful it is,” she told him. “Night races are simply the best.”

“Why’s that?” Mick fell into step with her, and the second time a throng of people separated them, he took her hand. Just like the jersey she wore, it felt too good to let go.

“Everything is intensified by the lights,” she told him. “The colors of the cars, the fiery sparks from the engines, the people, the track. It’s like watching the sport in four dimensions. You’ll see.”

Strong, sure, long fingers threaded hers. “But this race doesn’t count, right?”

“Trust me, that doesn’t make it any less exciting. Anyway, to a racer, there is no such thing as a race that doesn’t count,” she said. “True, there are no points in this race. And it’s only last year’s pole sitters, the champions who might not have made the pole and—”

“Drivers who have won the event before.”

She slowed her step and looked up at him. “You really have been paying attention.”

“I told you—”

“I know.” She held up their joined hands to stop him, laughing. “You’re a quick study. Here, this way’s faster.”

He followed her down a separate corridor with less traffic. “You sure know your way around here.”

“I know my way around every track. Remember, I was raised on them. In fact, if we’re going to do this right—” she slowed her step at a concession stand “—we should stop here for the beer and popcorn. They use more butter at this one.”

He just shook his head, laughing. “And buttery popcorn is…”

“Tradition.” They said it at the same time, making her laugh and slip closer to him.

In the back of the line, he slid his arm around her, their hands still joined. As if they were on a date. Lovers. A couple. Not business partners and certainly not adversaries.

He leaned closer to her. “There’s a difference, you know.”

Could he read her thoughts? “Between what?”

“Between liking tradition and hating change. I don’t think you hate change as much as you like the comfort of what is familiar to you.”

She considered that. And how damn good it felt to lean into the powerful torso of this man. How wonderful it was to be lost in the cavernous tunnel of the speedway, rich with scents of a night race, packed with numbers and logos and colors and brand names she’d grown up knowing and loving, in the arms of someone she liked. A lot.

“The only thing I know,” she admitted quietly, “is that every time something changed in my life, I lost someone. My mother, my father. Someone. I just like to hold on to everything, to every moment, because I know…” Her voice trailed off at the admission and at the intent way he looked at her.

“Yes?”

“Things change even when you don’t want them to,” she finished.

He pulled her just a little closer. “I’m not trying to change anything, Shelby. Just make it better. Trust me.”

Without warning, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers.

“Uh, here’s you’re beer, sir.”

He lifted his head and held her gaze with one full of promise and desire and the certainty of
change
. Then he handed her a foaming draft beer and a bag of popcorn. He held up his beer toward hers. “To tradition and the beautiful racer girl who’s letting me horn in on hers.”

She toasted him, their plastic cups making no noise.

He sipped, but she just shook her head.

“What?” he asked, wiping some foam from his upper lip.

“Life sure would be a lot simpler if I could just go on hating you.”

He grinned behind his cup and winked. “I’ll work on that.”

When they stepped through the entry to turn two, Shelby stopped and held him back. “Talk about things that don’t change.” She stared at the track. “Just look. This view is a constant.”

The track was always updated, the seats replaced with newer models, the railings painted, the billboards revised. The dinged aluminum steps were fixed and upgraded, and even the Daytona logo had evolved over the years to something that fit the twenty-first century.

But the view of turn two remained the same.

Shelby stood at the top of the stairs, looking out over the high bank and blacktop of the track, the entire scene bathed in blinding, shocking spotlights.

Watching her face, Mick smiled. “You like it this far from the action?”

“Oh, we’re not far,” she assured him as they descended the stairs to the front row of the section. “We’re far from the garages and pits and the start/finish, but, trust me, this is where the action is.”

“Is that what brought you all the way out here?” He indicated the colorful crowd around them. “Or to mingle with the average race fan?”

She didn’t answer because the loudspeaker crackled and the crowd roared and the pace car was already on its way into the first turn.

“This is where my dad liked to watch the races the night before a Cup race,” she told him when the thunder had rumbled down to the opposite corner of the track.

“And he brought you.”

“Always. Since my mother passed away.”

His eyes looked sympathetic. “So was this tradition just here in Daytona?”

“Oh, no.” She took a sip of beer and set it gingerly on the ground in front of her. “We have seats like this in every track.”

“Excuse me, did you say
have
or
had?
”

She gave him a defiant gaze. “Have.”

He tapped the armrest of the plastic stadium-style chair. “And this seat is always empty.”

She swallowed. Hard. “No.”

“Well, who…sits…?” His voice faded. “Oh.”

She closed her eyes, waiting for the laugh. The tease. The put-down or, worse, the pity. But when he said nothing, she looked at him. He stared straight ahead, his hands on the armrests, as though…as though he understood.

Something twisted and turned and threatened to pop right out of her chest. Yes, that would be her heart. She didn’t trust her voice but cleared her throat instead. “Yep. That’s my Daddy’s seat.”

He half smiled. “You sure?”

She tapped the metal armrest. “Move.”

“You want me to get up?”

“Move around in your seat. Give it a good shove in any direction.”

Gripping the armrest, he used his body weight to push back, then side to side. The plastic chair squeaked in objection.

She gave him a smug, victorious smile and glanced at the chair. “Told you.”

Mick moved again. It squeaked. Again, and it creaked, barely loud enough to be heard in the deafening roar of the prerace. Laughing, he tapped the armrests, but then the grandstands exploded as the green flag dropped and thousands of people leaped to their feet. The rumble vibrated right down to her toes.

“I bet your dad loves this!” he hollered above the ear-shattering roar, grabbing her hand.

Loves
. Not
loved
. Present tense.

Something halfway between a sob and a laugh caught in her throat. Mick’s green eyes blazed intensely as he took in the drama and speed, his hand clutching hers as they shared the power surge of the start. For one insane, incomprehensible second, a bone-deep sensation of happiness jolted straight through her.

She couldn’t hate him, this outsider, this threat to her tradition. On the contrary, she could actually fall in love with him.

If she hadn’t already.

M
ICK HAD FIGURED OUT
days earlier that talking about racing tore down Shelby’s defenses and coaxed a cheeky, relaxed woman out of her protective shell. What he hadn’t realized until about halfway through the Bud Shootout was that actually
experiencing
a race—it wasn’t fair to call what Shelby did
watching
—was even more intoxicating.

For two solid hours she focused on how the cars handled, on why drivers made certain decisions, on what the spotters saw and what they missed—almost nothing—and when a crew chief would opt for two, four or no tires. Then, every once in a while, she’d direct that intensity toward him, her eyes as fiery as the showers of sparks that lit the track under the blinding paint jobs of the cars.

Mick felt the impact in every cell in his body—certain cells more than others. By the time the race ended, it wasn’t the rumble of the grandstands that had his body humming. It was the woman next to him.

Later, they meandered through the infield, their fingers casually touching, even clasping as they dodged the crowd or turned a corner. When he spoke to her, he leaned close, smelled her hair, tipped her chin with his finger just to get that luscious lower lip closer to his mouth. When the crowd crushed, they let their bodies inadvertently press together. When they laughed at each other’s jokes, it included some endless eye contact.

Another kiss—a real one—was inevitable, and Mick knew it. Her motor home was in sight when she shed her jacket and tied the arms around her waist.

Was that an invitation? A tease? Or was she just as warm as he was? He barely managed to stifle a groan of pleasure at the way his United jersey draped over her woman’s body.

“You sure you want to walk around the infield advertising my team?” he asked, curling his arm around her.

She rolled her eyes and plucked at the fabric. “If you can parade around in a Thunder Racing uniform at practice, then I can wear the Manchester United colors.”

“You look great in them.” As they reached the door of her motor home, he paused and turned her so that she was facing him. She looked right up into his eyes, lips parted.

Yeah, a kiss was inevitable.

“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Usually.” She laughed a little. “Okay, not always, but my dad taught me to fake it.”

He glanced left, then right, down the alley formed by rows of motor coaches. In the distance a few people walked by, laughing. No one was paying any attention to the couple standing arm in arm, face-to-face, saying good-night…or not.

“Then let me ask you this—are you faking it now, Shelby, or do you know what you’re doing?”

The tip of her tongue wet her bottom lip and she tried to swallow. “I know what I’m doing.”

“So you know that if you don’t stop looking at me like that…I’m going to…” He lowered his face, his mouth over hers so he could whisper against her lips. “Have to ask for my shirt back.”

She smiled and took in a tiny breath as he kissed her lightly. Barely. Almost. Not nearly the full mouth to mouth he wanted. Not yet.

She shuddered, and he tightened his grip around her waist.

“My grandfather could be watching,” she said.

He drew back and narrowed his eyes at her. “Let me make something clear, Shelby. The reason I’m not pulling you into this motor home and kissing you the way I want to kiss you has nothing to do with your grandfather.”

“Then what is the reason?”

He stroked a strand of sorrel-colored hair off her forehead, studying her face, her lashes, the upward tilt of her eyes. “Because you are all fired up from the race.”

A tiny crease formed between her eyes. “What?”

He grazed her jaw and knuckled her chin gently. “
I
didn’t get you excited. The race did.”

She looked dubious. “You’re underestimating yourself, Mick.”

“Yeah?” He chuckled. “That’s a first.” He slid his finger between her lips. Bloody hell, he wanted that to be his tongue. “Then I’ll be waiting for you.”

She dropped her arms and took one step back, withdrawing from his touch. “What do you mean?”

He glanced in the direction of his own motor coach. “I mean I won’t lock the door. If you want me, you just need to walk right in. But it has to be your decision, your move. I guarantee you…” He reached toward her, tunneling his fingers in her hair, pulling her back to him. “I’ll be delighted to see you. But—” he kissed her forehead “—you come to me.”

“Why?”

“Because, like everything else we have between us, you hold the cards. You have the final consent. As I’ve said from the beginning, you say yes or no.”

Her eyes darkened, searching his face. She opened her mouth, then closed it, dipping out of his touch and away from him. “I’m not playing games with you, Mick. Good night.”

She turned and mounted the stair to the door, ripping her jacket off her waist and snagging the keys from the pocket. Just as she slipped the key in the door he took that step, too, and put two hands on her shoulders.

Easing her around, he kissed her, hard, deep and long. Pulling her tight against his chest, he angled his head, opened his mouth and let their tongues collide. Her heart hammered through his jersey, matching the pace of his. She tasted like salt and beer and butter and the track. A tiny groan of pleasure vibrated her throat as he traced her teeth with his tongue, grazing her back and her ribs with sure, hungry hands.

Slowly, reluctantly, he ended the kiss.

Her eyes stayed closed. A vein in her throat throbbed with the same rush of blood that pumped his veins.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, her voice raspy and tight.

“So you know what I bloody have to offer.” He kissed her one more time, took a quick taste of her lower lip, then backed down the stairs without taking his eyes off her. “’Night, Racer Girl.”

S
HELBY POWERED DOWN
her first cup of coffee but barely touched the second as she scanned the empty concession area looking for her grandfather’s familiar gait among the few passersby. The occasional burst of engine noise was about the only sound, the infield as quiet as a college dorm on a Sunday morning after an all-night party.

She lifted her face toward the early-morning sunshine, which was still not strong enough to burn or require sunglasses but powerful enough to warm. Sighing, she closed her eyes and leaned her head on her fist.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

She popped her eyes open and grinned at her grandfather. “I’ve been looking for you.”

He chuckled, sliding onto the stone bench across from her. “Be a helluva lot easier to find me with your eyes open.” He tugged his hat brim down and a dark shadow covered his wrinkly face. “Been in the garage yet?”

She shook her head. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Sure. How are things going with Mick?”

She blessed the sun as an excuse for the warmth that no doubt added some color to her cheeks. “Fine.” She repositioned herself on the bench and inched the foam cup to the side. “That’s what I wanted to talk about.”

“He’s really impressed the crew,” Ernie said. “Whit and Pete like him a lot, and everyone thinks he’s pickin’ things up so fast.”

He was picking up plenty last night. “Ernie, what if I presented another option?”

“What do you mean?”

She took a deep breath. “I found another buyer. A good one. Someone who knows racing, an insider. Someone who can also bring us some press coverage.”

Ernie regarded her for a minute. “Who is it?”

“Her name is—”

“Her?”

“Yes. Her. Do you have a problem with a woman as co-owner of the team?”

His expression morphed into pure guilt. “No.”

“Her name is Tamara Norton. She used to be married to—”

“That bonehead Bobbie Norton who drove for Jason Rockwell a few years back. He’s not allowed in the infield, let alone on a track. Forget that, Shel.”

“They’re divorced,” she told him. “She has money. A lot of it. And she said she’d beat whatever offer Mick made. Will you talk to her?”

“Nah.” His wave of dismissal practically shot Shelby to her feet.

“Nah?” She slammed a hand on the concrete table. “I’m supposed to welcome some British soccer player with open arms to share my pit cart and you won’t even
talk
to this woman who brought a legitimate offer. What’s up with that?”

“Nothing’s
up
with that.” He mocked the words that hadn’t made it into his seventy-seven-year-old vocabulary. “Mick’s better for the team, that’s all. If you don’t believe me, ask Ross Johannsen of
Sportsworld
. Or that little worm from Raleigh who changed his tune in his paper a couple of days ago. And guess what?” He leaned forward and glanced around as though someone might hear his secret. “I got a message from Scott Bronson’s agent.”

“Really? I thought he was taking time off for personal reasons.”

Ernie nodded. “He is. But he should be back next year, and the bidding will be fierce. He’s one of the best stock-car racers alive today.”

“We can’t afford him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Maybe if Mick Churchill was involved. Which was exactly why Scott Bronson’s agent had called—because rumors were flying over Daytona like a squadron of fighter planes after the “Star-Spangled Banner.”

“That’s great,” she said, purposely keeping her voice flat.

“But we have to look at every option, Ernie. And Tamara is another option.”

Ernie rubbed his chin and looked at her. “I just don’t think she’s got as much to offer as Mick.”

So you know what I bloody have to offer.

The words still rang in her head. And her stomach still flipped as it had when he’d said them.

“No,” she said slowly. “She has something different to offer.” Something safer. Something less thrilling, less distracting and much less arousing. Something that doesn’t involve a kiss that could grind the numbers off a camshaft. “She wants to stay in the background and be an angel investor.”

“An angel investor? What the hell is that?”

“She’d have no involvement with the day-to-day operations of the team. All she wants to do is give us money. A lot of money.”

He scowled in disbelief. “For what?”

“Well, for a piece of the profit, I assume. And, to be honest, she wants access to the track and the action. She wants to stay involved in the sport in a legitimate capacity.”

Ernie just shook his head. “I don’t know, Shel. I don’t know this gal, but I gotta tell you, I hate anyone even remotely associated with Norton. The guy was a cheater.”

No arguing that. “But they’re divorced.”

Ernie dropped his chin into his palm and blew out a long breath. Then his gaze moved over her shoulder and his face brightened. “Hey, Mick.”

Shelby willed herself to take a breath.

It wasn’t easy. Lord, she couldn’t go on like this forever. Forget the fact that he didn’t know racing and was an outsider. Forget the fact that he wanted to take the team to a size and place that terrified her. The man turned her to liquid from the waist down, and she’d never be able to concentrate on racing until she got this
need
out of her system. And if she did that she’d…

“Morning.” He leaned so close to her that Shelby thought he was going to kiss her head, with a voice just sleepy enough to make her think of sheets and pillows. Tangled, sweaty sheets and pillows.

“Hi.” She copped a completely casual tone, but Ernie dragged his gaze from Mick to Shelby. Then back again.

“So we qualify today, huh?” Mick asked.

“
We
do,” she said without looking up at him.

He reached over her shoulder and took her coffee cup. “May I?”

She barely looked at him, but Ernie did. Hard. Watched him drink from her cup as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m still not sure I understand the whole qualifying process,” Mick said as he set the cup down.

“Don’t worry,” Ernie assured him. “Most people don’t at Daytona. Anyway, anything you learn won’t count for other tracks because it’s done differently here.”

“Shelby explained it to me during last night’s race,” he said, putting a casual hand on her shoulder. “But I’m not sure I get the whole reason behind the duels on Thursday.”

Ernie’s eyes narrowed a bit as he looked from one to the other again. “You didn’t watch the Shootout from turn two?” he asked Shelby.

“Yes, I did.”

His eyebrows shot up to Mick. “And you went with her?”

“Brilliant view from out there in the grandstands.” Mick gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’m going to check on the boys in the garage. See you in a bit, luv.”

Ernie watched him walk away, a dubious expression on his face.
“Luv?”
His eyes flickered. “I guess it’s nice to see you’ve stopped thinking he might be the devil incarnate.”

No
might be
about it. He
was
the devil incarnate. “And since I’m being such a big girl about this, maybe you’ll put the devil aside for a minute and talk to my angel investor.”

Ernie set his jaw and glanced in the direction Mick had gone. “I guess it can’t hurt to talk to her.”

If she really wanted to get rid of Mick for sure and certain, all she’d have to do is give in to that need. Then she’d get what she wanted on every level.

Problem was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get rid of him anymore.

U
NTIL
K
ENNY
H
OLT SENT
the number eighty-two car face-first into the wall, Mick had been bored for the first time since he’d arrived at Daytona. Pole Day had been little more than a four-hour drill where every driver took less than a minute to get around the track, two times each. After Kenny spun, things got lively.

Mick arrived at the hauler just a few minutes after the driver did, and hell had definitely broken loose. Kenny and Shelby were in the front near the lounge, face-to-face, nose to nose, horns firmly locked. Whit and Billy had disappeared with the car, trying to salvage what they could. Everyone else was focused on getting the backup car off the hauler and ready to race.