Thunderstruck (9 page)

She cleared her throat, realizing that she hadn’t spoken a single word since they’d started the interview. Mick had handled it all. Like a master.

“My father’s dream was to have two cars and two drivers.”

“And what’s your dream?” Ross asked.

Shelby wet her lips and considered that. Her dream was Thunder’s dream. “Just to keep racing the best cars we can, every week, at Cup level. Not to buckle under the pressures of the changes in the sport. To remain true to the roots and history of stock-car racing.”

“How can you do that?” he asked quickly. “This is the new NFL. This is not your father’s NASCAR.”

No kidding.

“Shelby represents the best of the old and the new,” Mick said. “That’s what’s so attractive about her team. And her.” He paused, his mouth kicking up in the sly smile. “Especially her.”

Why did that make her stomach flip?

“Are you going to buy this business and these teams?” Ross asked him.

Mick bit his lower lip, considering his response. “You know, Ross, that’s not the story here. When that announcement’s made—or not—everyone will have that story. What you will have is what makes your magazine in general—and Ross Johannsen’s work in particular—worth reading every week. You’ll have the human story.”

Mick propped his knees on his elbows, his eyes so wickedly mesmerizing that Shelby could practically cry. “Shelby Jackson runs her team with the one element that you might find missing at the bigger shops. Sure, the big guns have dynos galore and seventeen backup cars with engines customized for every track. But this team has
soul
. You can’t buy that. You can buy speed, but you can’t buy soul.”

Dynos galore? Seventeen backups?
Soul?
Yeah, she might cry.

The story and reporter forgotten, she regarded the man who’d taken over her interview, her lounge, her team. Her head. He’d listened to her and he
got
it.

Once again, the question reverberated. Was Ernie right? And if he was, what was she going to do about it? Maybe Mick wouldn’t be the worst partner in the history of joint ownerships. Except that she’d spend her days with an achy longing to get closer to him. To kiss him again. To touch and have him. That might make her workday difficult. Interesting but difficult. Especially once she’d been discarded faster than a set of worn tires after forty laps at Bristol.

“Is that true, Shelby?” Ross asked her.

She blinked at Mick. Great. Here was the interview of her dreams and she was worrying about being discarded. Before she’d even had the chance to be used.

“Oh, it’s true,” he answered for her. “And that’s why her sponsors and team are loyal. They won’t leave for the bigger teams. They’re in this sport because they are racers. Real racers. With soul.”

Ross nodded as he scratched a few more notes. “Soul,” he whispered to himself. Then he glanced at his watch. “Oh, damn, I missed Austin’s press conference.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Mick said.

Ross shrugged. “I’ve written plenty about that whole family. Shelby, can I bring a photographer over here later this week? Maybe we could do something a little personal? Something that would go with the tone of the piece?”

“That’d be fine,” she said. The piece would have a
tone?

“How about in your motor home? Something that lets us see ‘the soul of a woman inside racing’?” His air quotes gave her the distinct impression he had a headline in mind.

“Well, I’d prefer you concentrate on the racing and the teams,” she said. “I don’t spend much time in the motor home. I live in the garage while I’m at Daytona. And the story here is the Thunder Racing teams.”

“I think the story will have multiple angles, and maybe we can convince my editor to run it in the special issue that comes out a week from Sunday.”

Shelby set her chin in her palm, if only to keep it from hitting the table. The Daytona issue? Was she dreaming?

She looked at Mick, who had resumed his relaxed position, hands locked behind head, golden locks casually falling near his bedroom eyes, those kissable lips curled in a smile of pure victory. A dream man.

A dream man who made dream media happen.

“Excuse me?” Avery McShane eased open the door and inched her head in, looking around. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here who wants to talk to Shelby and says it’s important.”

Shelby stood up. “Duty calls,” she said to Ross. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank you, Shelby.” He stood to shake her hand. “It was great to finally get to know you.”

Mick made no move to leave. Part of her didn’t want to leave him alone with the reporter. That would be the stupid part. He obviously had this media thing well in hand.

She gave Mick a nod of goodbye and mouthed
thanks
and stepped into the hallway of the transporter, resisting the urge to do a little jig.

“Avery,” she whispered, “you are not going to believe what just happened.”

Avery’s pale blue eyes widened. “I was worried about you in there. That’s why I came in. To give you an escape.”

Shelby laughed. “Ever the PR genius.”

“I would have liked to have been in there. Was everything okay?”

“It was brilliant.”
Brilliant
. Oh, God, she was starting to sound like him now. “They’re bringing a photographer and doing a feature story on Thunder Racing.”

Avery jerked back. “No way!”

“Way.” Shelby glanced back at the door. “Mick was really something. You would have loved how he put a spin on the story. So you didn’t have to make up an excuse to save me after all.”

“Actually, I didn’t make it up. There’s a woman who’s been hanging around the hauler since you walked in. She says she knows you and wants to talk to you. Her name’s Tamara Norton.”

Shelby frowned. “The Tamara Norton who used to be married to Bobbie Norton? I heard they got divorced after he was banned from NASCAR for multiple rule infractions.”

“No clue,” Avery said. “I can tell you she’s gorgeous. Shampoo-commercial hair and an outfit that cost what I made last month.”

“And what a surprise,” Shelby said with a humorless smile. “She’s waiting at the hauler ever since she saw Mick Churchill.” That’s what life would be like with a man like that. Women crawling out of the woodwork to get a piece. “Let her wait. I’m sure he’ll oblige her with a smile and an autograph.” And a wink.

“She asked for you,” Avery said, reaching into the file folder she carried. “And asked me to give you this.”

Shelby took the business card. TNC Racing Enterprises. On the other side, a handwritten message.

Talk to me before you make any decisions. TN

Decisions? About what? “I’ll talk to her on my way back to the garage,” Shelby said, slipping the card into her back pocket. What decisions could the ex-wife of a bad racer care about?

“She mentioned something about an investor.” Avery gave her a pointed look.

“An investor?” Shelby looked at her in surprise. “Really? I’ll talk to her.”

As she walked through the hauler to the sunlight in the back, she could hear her father’s voice in her head.

As long as the checkered flag hasn’t dropped, you’ve still got a prayer,
Thunder would say, squinting into the sun or staring at the empty track.
Anything can happen on that oval. Cars wreck. Engines die. Tires blow. Anything could happen to take you to the front. That’s racin’, Shelby girl. That’s the very best part of racin’.

With the sound of her father’s voice in her ears, she headed directly toward the breathtakingly beautiful woman waiting in the shade of the next team’s tent.

Anything
could
happen.

S
HELBY REMEMBERED
Tamara Norton the minute she saw her. Shampoo-commercial hair, indeed. Black, thick and stick-straight. Along with cheekbones you could eat off, legs as long as the straightaway at Darlington and a body that had been toned and pampered to perfection. What in God’s name did she want from Shelby?

Duh. Access to Mick Churchill.

Yeah, right, an investor. Smart enticement, though. She’d give the woman an A for creativity.

Tamara reached out both hands and embraced Shelby as though they were long-lost friends. “Shelby Jackson! You look gorgeous, as always.”

Shelby returned a halfhearted hug. “Hey, Tamara. I haven’t seen you in ages.” Not since her sleazebucket of an ex-husband was officially kicked out of the sport for tricking up his car with improperly enlarged carburetor openings. Six times. “How are you?”

“Fantastic, absolutely fantastic,” she said, squeezing Shelby’s arms with perfectly manicured French nails and leveling a dark-eyed gaze through pale pink designer sunglasses. “It is so great to be back at the track.”

“Yeah, I understand you and Bobbie…” Shelby pointed her thumbs in opposite directions. “Splitsville.”

“Oh, God, honey, what a disaster. You can’t imagine the hell of that divorce.” Tamara still hadn’t let go of Shelby’s arm, but instead slid her fingers tighter around and guided them away from a group of mechanics and crew nearby. “We have to talk. I have so much to tell you.”

Shelby managed not to cough “bullshit.” They’d barely had more than a passing conversation in the entire time Bobbie Norton raced at Cup level. As if she didn’t know why Tamara was acting as if they were schoolgirl chums. “I’d love to, but I’m swamped in the garage, so if all you want is to—”

“I heard you have another team! And a great new sponsor!” She tugged Shelby enthusiastically. “That is so cool. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She had about fifteen seconds of patience left. “What do you need, Tamara?”

Tamara didn’t say anything but dampened her glossy lip with the tip of her tongue. “Am I too late?”

“For what?”

“To bid on the race teams.”

“No,” Shelby said slowly, spinning through options as she regarded the other woman. There was no use in denying the sale of Ernie’s share any longer. “I haven’t made any decisions. What exactly are you asking me?”

“Come here.” Tamara led her toward an empty break table under a party tent currently not in use.

They sat across from each other on benches, and Tamara folded her hands in front of her and peered through her pink shades.

“The only good thing to come out of my six years of marriage to that man was that…well, let’s just say Bobbie invested his race earnings very wisely and I had an excellent attorney.” She pushed a lock of slick black hair over her shoulder. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Shelby shrugged. “You took Bobbie to the cleaners when you got divorced?”

A smile tipped Tamara’s shiny lips. “You might put it that way.”

“I can’t say I feel sorry for him, because I never really was too crazy about the way the guy raced,” Shelby said. “But let me just get this straight—are you bidding to buy Thunder Racing?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“Thunder Racing is not technically for sale,” Shelby said, choosing each word carefully.

“I happen to know differently.” Tamara raised her cleft chin a bit and did the perfect imitation of someone looking down her nose. “I happen to know that your grandfather is selling his half of Thunder Racing and you have a very interested party. Whatever—and I mean
whatever
—he is offering, I’ll beat.”

Shelby stared at her. “Why?” But why would this attractive, wealthy woman want to buy half a race team?

“Because I love racing.”

She did? Her only memory of Tamara at a race involved seeing the woman in hospitality suites wearing open-toed high heels that were not permitted in the garage area or pits. “Since when?”

“Since I used to be at the track with Bobbie. In the old days.”

The “old days” were about three years ago in Tamara Norton’s terms. Shelby let out a soft, surprised laugh. “I had no idea you were into the sport, Tamara. I thought you were a…a…”

“Gold digger.”

“Fan,” Shelby covered quickly. “A wife. You know, someone who married into the life and got quite a few perks for your thirty-some weekends a year. Why would you want to buy half a race team and take on the headaches that it entails?”

Tamara tapped an acrylic nail that wouldn’t last five minutes in a race shop. “I don’t want the headaches, Shelby. You run the show, top to bottom. Think of me as an angel investor. Have you heard of those?”

“No.”

“Money from heaven, hon. All I want is a ringside seat in the thick of the races and a chance to be around the sport in the most legitimate way possible. Not as a trophy wife. As an owner.” Something in Tamara’s determined gaze underscored the truth of that. “I want to belong here again. I want access. And if I have to buy my way in, so be it. I can afford it.”

On some level, Shelby got it. Women weren’t exactly embraced—yet—in the sport. They weren’t shunned, they weren’t excluded, they just weren’t prevalent other than as wives of drivers and owners and, of course, the ever-present pit lizards and groupies.

Tamara leaned forward as if she could seize Shelby’s hesitation. “Let me guess. You’re looking for press coverage and more sponsors, better drivers and higher visibility.”

“Of course I am,” Shelby acknowledged. “But I am not trying to grow Thunder Racing into another megateam. I want to keep it all in the family. I don’t want four hundred employees and six corporate jets.”

Tamara arched a dubious eyebrow.

“Okay, one jet would be nice,” Shelby admitted.

Tamara pulled her glasses down and looked hard at Shelby. “If you partnered with me, that would certainly get press coverage, don’t you think?”

A NASCAR team owned by two women? “Absolutely.”

“Press coverage that could attract a cosmetic or fashion sponsor that is dying to tap into the millions of female fans and their purchasing power.”

Who knew Tamara was such a marketing maven? “It might.”

Tamara shrugged, smug and satisfied. “Everyone wins.”

Everyone but Mick Churchill. “Let me ask you something, Tamara.”

“Anything.”

“You know what a restrictor plate is?”

Tamara let out a ladylike snort. “Is that a joke?”

“An intake manifold?”

She looked bewildered. “I’ve seen one. I know generally where it resides in the engine and what its purpose is. Why? Is your co-owner expected to build engines?”

“How about the rules? How do you feel about them?”

Her fair skin paled slightly. “I expected you’d ask that.” She took a deep breath and sighed long and slow. “Listen, Shelby, I’m mortified that I married a man who felt rules were made to be broken. And I know how you feel about them, everyone in NASCAR does.” She paused and lowered her eyes, her long lashes sweeping like black-tipped brooms. “I didn’t know what decisions my ex-husband made in the garage, Shelby. I hope you don’t find me guilty by association.”

Had she totally misjudged Tamara Norton? “To be honest, I don’t know how to find you,” Shelby said. “Right now I just have to think about things. This is getting complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Tamara insisted. “Lawyers make it easy. I’ll have mine draw up a formal offer and send it to your office as soon as possible.”

Shelby held up both hands. “Whoa. Hit the brakes a second. Can’t we wait until after Daytona? Or, better yet, after the season? I don’t see the rush on this.”

“With Mick Churchill waiting in the wings?” Tamara shot back. “Please. He’s practically wearing a Thunder Racing uniform already.”

“He’s been in Daytona for half a day.”

“And at your shop for almost a week.”

“Who told you that?”

“Oh, come on, Shelby,” Tamara said, a generous amount of condescension in her voice. “This is a very, very small den of thieves, full of guys who leave the garages and drink beer and talk. I know your grandfather and that soccer star are tight.”

How did she know that?

“But I’m offering an alternative. That’s all. A better alternative.” Her gaze drifted over Shelby’s shoulder. “Not that it would be easy to say no to
that
.”

Shelby had no doubt what snagged Tamara’s attention as the woman’s coy expression suddenly turned predatory.

“Hello, there,” Tamara said, baring zillion-dollar porcelain veneers.

Shelby glanced down at her own clipped nails, her knit shirt, her scuffed work boots. A Thunder Racing-issued uniform was no match for Versace.

“There you are.” Mick sat right beside Shelby on the bench, leaning one mighty shoulder into hers, then reached a hand across the table. “I’m Mick.”

Shelby watched the color darken Tamara’s complexion as her eyes glittered behind her pink shades. “I’m Tamara.” They shook hands, no last names exchanged. “A pleasure to meet you, Mick.”

“Am I interrupting girl talk?” he asked, dipping slightly into her side again in a move that was both friendly and intimate.

Shelby rolled her eyes. “Oh, of course, we were just sitting here chatting about makeup and clothes.”

“Brilliant,” he said lightly. “I’m a sucker for women in one and out of the other.”

“I heard that about you.” Tamara leaned her elbows on the table, never taking her eyes from him. “I liked that ad you did for Ralph Lauren last year. Very sexy.”

“Thanks.” He nudged Shelby again. “The story’s a go.”

She shoved the image of him in chaps and designer duds out of her head. Forget the ads. He did a great job in interviews and deserved his props for it.

“Nice work, Mick.” She held up her knuckles and he met them with his own. “Thanks.”

“Nice work on what?” Tamara asked, inching closer to the table.

“Mick finessed a feature story on Thunder Racing.” She glanced at him again. “You definitely passed the quiz.”

He pumped his arm. “Yessss.”

She couldn’t help laughing at his enthusiasm. And noticing that Tamara looked far less enthused. “I gotta get back to the garage. I’ll call you, Tamara.”

“Use my cell number on the card I gave you,” she said. “Oh, here, Mick.” Tamara reached into a tiny bag and pulled out a business card. “For your files.”

He nodded thanks without looking at it. “I’ll go back with you, Shel. I need to give you the details of the photo shoot.”

“Glad we talked, Shelby,” Tamara said, an edge in her voice. “I’ll get things started on my end. Then we can go over the specifics in a day or two.”

“I’ll call you,” Shelby said pointedly. Everything was happening too fast, and while that normally suited her just fine, today felt as though life was rapidly getting loose and spinning right out of her control. “But I really need to get back to the garage.” Where she could pick up a tool and
control
it.

Before she’d taken four steps in that direction, Mick was beside her. “Who’s the viper?”

“Tamara?” She couldn’t help smiling. “What makes you think she’s a viper?”

“I barely escaped alive.”

“She used to be married to a driver and I knew her a long time ago.”

He kept stride with her, although she power walked across the asphalt. “She doesn’t strike me as your type.”

“My type of what?”

“Friend.”

She did a double take at him. “How do you know what’s my type of friend?”

“I’m a good judge of character,” he said easily. “Didn’t I prove that with Ross Johannsen?”

“You did. And I really appreciate it.”

But she had another option now, viper or not.

W
HEN THE LAST OF THE
cars left the track after Shootout practice on Friday night, Shelby let herself into the cool, dark motor home and dropped her keys and clipboard on the first available surface. She kept the blinds closed tight and the AC on high just for moments like this.

Both crews had watched practice, even though Thunder Racing didn’t have a car in the Budweiser Shootout scheduled for the next night. But watching Friday night’s Shootout practice was a tradition—a much-needed break from the work in the garage and a chance to see how the toughest drivers on the track were racing.

Garrett Langley had been fastest, but all of the competition looked tough and ready. And they’d be even tougher by next Sunday when they ran the race.

She would have called Ernie, but he’d gone to some dinner for the “old-timers,” as he called his racing cronies. If he hadn’t, she would have gone somewhere quiet with him and had a heart-to-heart about their options, now that they had more than one.

But not tonight. Instead she dropped on the sofa, reached down to unlace her boots and considered the rest of the evening looming ahead. When she’d left the garage, most of the crew was there, talking about the practice they’d just watched, goofing around. Some might leave for the evening, but the diehards would be over there.

Sometimes being the only woman around was a lonely thing. She toyed with her phone and thought about calling Janie for some girl talk but dialed Whit’s cell instead. Maybe they were still hanging around the garage.

She could hear laughter when he answered. “Hey, Shel, we were just about to call you.”

“You were? I can be right over.”

“No, I’m at the hotel. A bunch of us are going out to eat. What’s the name of that place, Billy? Oh, Down Under. Want to meet us there?”

Did she? She rubbed her temples and glanced toward the back of the motor coach. A hot bath, a good book and a long night’s sleep was what she needed. Or someone to talk to. And not about pit strategy.

“I don’t know. I’d have to get a cab.”

“Well, I’d tell you to ride over with Mick in the van, but he’s here at the hotel with Billy already.”

Oh, great. Now he was going out to dinner with her crew. Male bonding at Down Under. She’d been to that joint. They could all hoot and holler and ring the cowbell every time a waitress got tipped.

“You could get there easy, Shel. Tell a cabbie it’s right under the Dunlawton Bridge.”