Thunderstruck (3 page)

She set her jaw and looked up at him. “You need my consent to this deal. Period.”

“Then give me a chance to prove that I can help your business.”

“Why should I?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

When she didn’t move, he put one hand over hers. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

She searched his face, considering the question. Finally she eased her hand out from underneath his. As she did, she shifted her weight on the chair, and it let out an ear-piercing squeak. She closed her eyes for one second, an expression of resignation on her face.

“I’m going to first check on that dyno, then I’m on my way to a crew meeting,” she said, standing slowly, regarding him. “You can come, but please sit in the back and don’t say a word.”

A slow smile broke across his face. “I promise complete silence.”

She scooped up the files and papers from her desk and indicated the door with a nod of her head. “Let’s go.”

He started for the hall, then stopped, glancing back at her. “By the way, with all the motor oil around here, you might want to give that chair a touch of grease. That noise can be distracting.”

She just smiled. “You have no idea.”

S
HELBY USED EVERY
ounce of concentration she had to listen to crew chief Ray Whitaker outline his strategy for qualifying the eighty-two car at Daytona. Whit was completely in his groove, his shock of curly strawberry-blond hair bouncing as he jumped from fuel mileage strategy to innovative pit techniques. After Whit finished his plans on how their veteran driver Kenny Holt would once again take to the track this season, the energy in the room was palpable.

Shelby liked to think that was because Whit was laying down some very creative racing plans. But she knew better.

Mick Churchill’s very presence had charged the atmosphere.

Sure, he sat in the back of the conference room, doing nothing but breathing the same air as the rest of them. But somehow that air was rarified.

Nobody knew why he was there, thank God, but it didn’t seem to matter. She’d been a big girl and decided to be magnanimous and let him “shadow” her. Her only consolation was that they’d be leaving for Daytona in a few days and he’d have to disappear then.

She certainly didn’t have to introduce him since they all but knelt down when he walked into the conference room. Even Whit directed every other sentence to the guest in the back. Jeez. Who knew soccer was so popular among a group of hard-core North Carolina racers?

The talk turned to the new CNC machine, and Shelby stole a look at Mick, expecting to see his eyes glazed over. Instead he leaned forward, his focus on Ryan Magee, an engineer responsible for supervising the computer numerical control machine that they used to build parts.

Did he really care about the problem with the suspension points? Did he even know what a suspension point was?

Mick’s moss-green eyes slid away from Ryan and landed on her. He winked, and she cursed the involuntary splash of warmth that it sent through her. It was bad enough he was a total foreign object dropped like debris in her path. He was not going to turn her into a puddle of female fluttering at the same time.

Pushing herself away from the table as Ryan took a breath in his talk, she glanced at her watch. “I need to check on the status of the new hauler,” she said, excusing herself. At the surprised look of the crew around the table, she added, “Keep going. I’ll be back in here when the fifty-three team meets.”

She sensed rather than saw Mick get up to leave with her.

“Don’t you want to stay and hear more about suspension points?” she asked when they were both in the hall.

“And miss the new hauler? Are you crazy?”

She smiled at the comment but had a sneaking suspicion he wasn’t kidding. “You’ve seen one hauler, you’ve seen ’em all.”

“But, as you will no doubt point out in the next four seconds, I’ve never seen one.”

“Then you’ve just saved me the trouble of pointing that out.” She continued her march through the shop to the back lot.

Sure enough, the shiny transporter had already attracted a small crowd. Mechanics rolled in tool chests, lovingly grazing the side of the massive truck painted with the same blinding purple and yellow that decorated the number fifty-three car.

Shelby let out a low whistle of appreciation, her gaze sliding over the beast. “Ain’t she pretty?”

“She sure is.”

She glanced at Mick, but his gaze was square on her. She rolled her eyes. “Save the plays, soccer boy. I’m immune.” She jutted her chin toward the transporter. “That’s what turns me on. A Freightliner. A Classic XL. Refurbished within an inch of its life and ready to haul ass and as much equipment as we can squeeze into it.” She bit her lip and let a little shudder shake her body. “Isn’t it awesome?”

He laughed lightly. “Show me your new toy.”

The massive rear doors were already open, revealing the long center hallway lined with dozens of cabinets and compartments that led to the galley and lounge in the front.

“This is huge,” Mick said, peering up at the second level, where the two cars would be housed for the trip to Florida.

“Never big enough,” Shelby told him. “This baby will be packed to capacity when it leaves in a few days, stocked full of engines and tools and computers and supplies and every imaginable part we might need at the track. Both of the transporters—one for the fifty-three car and one for the eighty-two car—will be our home away from home for the entire time we’re down there.”

At the far end of the hauler, the door to the galley and lounge opened, and they were greeted by the broad smile, bald head and dancing gray eyes of Robbie Parsons.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Robbie said with a mock bow. “I call it the magic carpet ride.” Approaching them, he reached for Shelby’s hand to help her down into the recessed walkway as he whispered, “You got yourself a knockout, Miz Jackson.”

For one insane moment she thought he meant Mick.

“She’s gorgeous, Robbie.” With one hand she brushed the gleaming aluminum counter. “They really restored it beautifully.”

“I’m Mick Churchill.” He reached to shake Robbie’s hand.

“This is Rob Parsons,” Shelby said as they shook. “He’s been a sub driver on the eighty-two hauler, but he’s moving over to run this show as of today.”

“Best rig I ever drove,” Robbie announced. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mick. I’m a huge fan.”

Of course he was. Who wasn’t?

Shelby moved deeper into the hauler, pausing to open a tool drawer here, a locker there. Everything was absolutely pristine. “I’ll have to call Woody Maxwell and thank him for taking such good care of this. For a used hauler, it’s fantastic.”

While Mick talked to Robbie about how they stocked and loaded the transporter, she continued to the front, opening the door to the lounge. Even the leather of the wraparound seats smelled new. Stepping inside, she sat on one and tapped her fingers on the shiny top of the round conference table in the middle. The transporter lounge was a sacred place. The safe, secure belly of the beast where drivers and crew chiefs could speak their minds and owners could let their hair down.

She closed her eyes and leaned back, listening to the occasional shouts from the crew and mechanics outside. Funny, she had a beautiful town house and a nice office, but there was nowhere on earth she felt more at home than in the transporter lounge. Ever since she could remember, this was a haven. A safe place to curl up next to her daddy. He’d give her a big soda and a bag of red licorice, and she’d tuck her feet under his legs and listen to him plan a race or discuss the fine points of Chevy versus Ford.

And then everything changed.

“Whatchya thinkin’ about, Shel?”

She popped open her eyes at the sound of her grandfather’s voice. “Just getting the vibe of the new hauler, Ernie.” She patted a spot next to her in invitation. “And if you have to know the truth, I was just thinking about all those happy hours I spent with Daddy in the old fifty-three hauler.”

With a low groan as if his back hurt, he settled next to her, then inched up the bill of a Country Peanut Butter hat to get a better look around. “Saw Mick out there,” he said quietly.

“You mean the Thing That Wouldn’t Leave?”

Ernie chuckled. “Thanks for giving him a chance.”

She shot him a look. “Who says I’m giving him a chance?”

“He’s out there. He’s askin’ questions. He’s getting to know the teams and the shop and the business.” Ernie took her hand. “When I first approached him, I thought it was pretty far out there—”

“You found him?” She sat forward, unable to fathom that. “You went looking for a buyer without telling me and you found a soccer player?”

“In the Caribbean.”

“Oh, great.” She slapped her hand on her thigh. “I thought you were off having fun on some sports VIP cruise to meet fans. I didn’t know you were negotiating the sale of our company.”

“I met him on that cruise.”

“And you, what, looked up from your deck chair and saw some long-haired Brit kicking a ball and said, ‘Yes!’—” she snapped her fingers and pointed “‘—there’s the answer to our prayers.’”

“As a matter of fact, that’s not too far from what happened.”

Where had she been when all this was going on? “Why didn’t you tell me that you were thinking about selling? Why spring it on me now, weeks before the biggest race of the season?”

“’Cause I knew you’d fight me. And, frankly, I want you to see him in action. At the shop, at the races. He’s smart and he’s focused and this is what he wants to do with his life.”

Shelby blew out a disgusted breath. “And what about my life, Ernie? What if I don’t want some stranger as a partner?”

“Get to know him and then he won’t be a stranger.”

“But he won’t be family. I mean, not blood family.”

Ernie’s eyes softened at that, then he pushed himself up off the seat and adjusted the hat back over his eyes. “Just give him a chance, Shel. And teach him some stuff about the business.”

“You teach him, Ernie. I’m flat-out this week.”

“For one thing, you know the business better’n I do.”

She leaned back with a stunned look. “Since when?”

“Since, oh, maybe two years ago. Three.”

“Get real, Ernie. You are an original.”

“I am a relic of days gone by.” He squinted around the lounge and snorted softly. “Hell, I can remember when a builtin tool chest in the back of a flatbed was considered a luxury at the track. Times have changed, Shel. We should, too.”

They should and maybe they would. But she didn’t have to like it. “Why don’t we just get through this season, Ernie. Then I’ll find a solution. I always do.”

He dropped back down on the leather and put his arm around her. “Kincaid is a one-year deal, honey. Country Peanut Butter has us on probation if Kenny Holt don’t start finding his way to Victory Lane. Our best techs are getting calls from headhunters every day. I know this is what you want to do with your life, but if this business fails, what will you have?”

Memories of the best life a girl ever had. “I don’t think like that, Ernie. We won’t fail. We’ve never failed.”

“That’s right,
we
haven’t. But I want to leave.”

He looked old when he said that, and it hurt her heart. “I’ll be okay on my own. I can make it. But, Ernie—” she drew back and touched his weathered cheek “—are you sure you want to leave?”

“Do you think it’s possible for you to understand that I’d like to do something else with my golden years besides climb into that cart, slap on headphones and listen to the engines scream and the spotters cry?”

Would she ever feel that way about racing? Never. Even in her seventies? Maybe. “I understand.” She didn’t, but she’d try. “But why do we need someone else? I can handle this business alone.”

“I don’t doubt that. But, Shel, you know as well as I do that this season is our last if we don’t get some more sponsors and more money. We’re barely holding on and our backup cars ain’t as good as they should be.” He took her hand. “I promised your daddy I’d look after you. And this is my way of making sure I do good on that promise.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You didn’t promise him anything, Ernie. We had no idea he was going to die.”

“We talked, Shel. We talked plenty, Thunder and me. We talked about racing and we talked about you.”

Her chest constricted. “I’m twenty-eight, Ernie. You don’t have to worry about being mother, father and grandfather to me. I’m past the age where I’m considered an orphan. Anyway—” she tapped his hand playfully “—we’re going to win this season and—”

“Even if we win you know something has to change.”

There was no fighting the truth. He was right and she didn’t want to be stupidly stubborn. But was Mick Churchill the answer?

“Okay, Ernie, if money and sponsorship are at the heart of this, I swear to you that I’ll make getting more my top priority this year. Or I can go looking for capital. I can get more loans. We don’t need some outsider in here just because you think his world fame will bring sponsorship.” She squeezed his hand again. “Please. Let me do it my way.”

Ernie drew back. “You know what I think?”

“I’m about to find out.”

“I think you’re scared of him.”

She scowled at him. “You’re wrong. I’m scared of losing what my father and my grandfather built from nothing all those years ago.”

“You know, I was, too, but then this opportunity landed in my lap.”

“I thought you approached him.”

“We found each other.” He punched her lightly in the arm, but his eyes were dead serious. “Use your head, woman. If we don’t do something—something creative and ballsy—then we’re gonna get sideswiped right off the track. There are forty-three slots and we want two of them now. We got to fight harder and smarter and better.”

She sighed, unable to argue with the obvious. “Are you open to any other options?”

He shrugged. “If you got ’em.”

She didn’t, not yet anyway.

The lounge door opened and Mick walked right in.

“Since you’re learning your way around NASCAR,” she said drily, “you ought to know that you always knock on the lounge door when it’s in use.”