What He Didn't Say (11 page)

“Steady.”

She looked up into a pair of bright blue eyes, and everything inside her went still.
That face.
It was the one that had seared into her brain during her flight. Yet it was different from what had been captured by the magazine's photographer. In person, there was a toughness about Rafael O'Bryan's face, a hardness that had to do with more than tanned skin tight over bones. It wasn't a kind one, she thought. There was too much living in it, too much knowledge, for kindness. And in the depths of those laser-blue eyes, she saw secrets.

People with secrets posed a distinct challenge for the reporter in her.

“Sorry. Are you okay?”

His mouth held no softness whatsoever, but his voice was smooth and warm like a fine brandy, almost seductive, a little concerned. The rich Portuguese accent made her knees weak.

“Fine,” she managed to say. “I'm fine. No harm done.”

“Glad to hear it.” For a second, maybe two, he stood staring down at her, his hands still gripping her arms. The touch of his flesh against hers was inconsequential. Except for the sudden burst of heat.

Whoa. Her fingers clenched on the handle of her portfolio. Where did
that
come from?

Something flickered in his eyes then was gone, making her wonder if he'd felt it, too. His hands slid down her arms, grazing her fingers as he released her.

She took a step back. He wore a starched white shirt that was open at the collar, the cuffs rolled up on strong, tanned
forearms. The shirt was paired with pressed black jeans that molded his powerful legs.

She felt a sudden vulnerability that she hadn't felt in years—and had sworn to never feel again. Straightening her spine, she did a mental shake of her head. She was back on her feet physically. Time to get the inner balance she worked so hard to maintain under control.

“Mr. O'Bryan, I'm Caitlin Dempsey,
Sports Scene
magazine.” As she spoke, she pulled a business card out of the side pocket of her portfolio. “I understand we'll be working together on a profile for the next month.”

His dark brows rose as he accepted the card. “And I understood I'd be working with George Grant. Are you his assistant?”

“Replacement. I happened to be in our editor's office when George called to say his daughter had been injured in a car wreck. I'd just wrapped up my latest assignment, so I got tagged to replace George.” She angled her chin. “My editor said he would have his secretary phone Double S Racing to let your boss know about the change. Sounds like that didn't happen.”

“It didn't.” Rafael glanced at her card, studied it for a long moment, then those electric-blue eyes remet hers. Good Lord, if there was ever a man who looked like the kind of fantasy a woman didn't want to wake up from, this guy was it.

“Are you as much an expert on NASCAR as your colleague?” he asked.

She struggled to steady her heartbeat. It was hard to believe—even harder to accept—that a man's physical appearance could jangle her nerves. Which was totally ridiculous. She was
not
some teenager in the throes of her first wave of hormones.

“No one tops George when it comes to knowing the ins and
outs of your sport,” she replied. “I'm a quick study, so it won't take me long to get up to speed on NASCAR, so to speak.”

Keeping his gaze on hers, he slid her card into the pocket of his shirt. “I'll be happy to tutor you privately on all aspects of NASCAR, if that will help.”

Her lungs were backing up. She took a careful breath to clear them. She might not know the ins and out of stock car racing, but she was aware that some NASCAR drivers were rumored to have gigantic egos. O'Bryan apparently fell into that category.

“Thanks, but I prefer to use a number of sources when I research a topic.” She glanced at her watch. “I don't want to be late for the meeting George scheduled with your boss. After that, I'm off to touch base with your sponsor.”

Rafael gave her a thin smile. “Then I'll see you this evening at NSB's employee health fair.”

“That's the plan.”

He reached for the door, holding it open. “Gil Sizemore's office is on the second floor.”

“Thanks.” It took a blast of internal strength, but her unsteady legs managed to carry her into the building.

She paused, watching through the glass until he strode out of sight.

“Holy cow,” she muttered. She didn't know what it was about him that put her hormones on full alert, but she was going to have to get over it. Control it. It would take more than a handsome face and killer blue eyes to make her forget her purpose for being here, which was to dig into and report on every aspect of Rafael O'Bryan's life.

Caitlin gave her pulse another minute to settle before she turned and headed toward the reception desk and the bank of elevators beyond it.

T
HE HOT
J
UNE DAY
had turned into a soft, balmy evening, perfect weather for National Steel Buildings' annual employee health fair and family picnic. The line of people waiting for Rafael's autograph had initially fanned from the table where he sat, snaking between a gazebo illuminated with white twinkle lights and the booths assigned to representatives of various health insurance companies. Located beyond those booths were food kiosks, carnival rides and other entertainment that had been brought in to keep those in attendance amused. As was the gleaming black No. 499 National Steel Buildings stock car parked near the table.

Now, two hours after Rafael had signed his first autograph on a glossy publicity photo, only five people remained lined up in front of him. He'd be the first to admit that his attention wasn't directed at those five fans.

It was the auburn-haired reporter standing a few feet away chatting with Acer Carpenter, NSB's CEO, who held his interest.

It was impossible not to notice that Caitlin Dempsey's lightly tanned skin carried a blush of rose in the evening light. And that her cat-green eyes seemed animated. She'd changed from the sexy black suit and mile-high heels she'd worn earlier into a pair of narrow, aqua cropped pants and a matching sleeveless blouse. Her hair was still gathered back in an intricate French braid.

For an instant, Rafael found himself wondering how many
pins anchored that thick braid. And how long it would take him to loosen them, sending those fire-colored tresses streaming over her shoulders.

He narrowed his eyes at the thought. Not a smart thing to be wondering, considering the sensation that had hit him when he'd barged out the door of Double S Racing and nearly sent her sprawling onto the pavement. For a second, maybe two, while he'd gripped her bare arms to steady her, a sudden burst of heat had sizzled beneath his palms then exploded through his entire body. Bright, hot, sexual heat.

He had felt that same physical desire for other women. But considering his need for secrecy, he would have expected his reaction to have muted the instant Caitlin handed him her business card that identified her as an
investigative
reporter.

It hadn't. So, he'd spent the hours since their encounter cautioning himself that the last thing he needed was to feel any type of physical pull to a woman who'd been hired to dig into his past. A past that he'd spent a great deal of time and effort burying.

Shifting his attention, he signed autographs for the remaining people in line, aware that the freelance photographer
Sports Scene
magazine had hired hovered nearby, snapping photos. When Rafael rose from the table, Acer Carpenter waved him over and extended his hand.

“You're a big hit here tonight, son,” declared the middle-aged man who sported a gingery mustache and wire-rim glasses. “I'm calling your boss's office in the morning and have Emma-Lee schedule you to make an appearance at NSB's Christmas party.”

“Sounds good.” As with every driver on the circuit, Rafael's schedule away from the race track was pretty much at the whim of his major sponsor.

The CEO checked his watch. “Dancing's going to start soon. I'm headed over to the gazebo to make sure our band's
got everything they need. I told Caitlin you'd have time now to answer questions.” Carpenter delivered a hearty slap to Rafael's shoulder. “I've briefed her on what the board would love to see in the profile, but it's her article. Rafael, I'm counting on you to make sure she gets all the information she needs.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Caitlin, he's all yours.”

As she stepped closer, Rafael caught the faint whiff of a spice-and-flower-scented perfume, and felt his insides tighten. Apparently, his knowing that she was about to spend an inordinate amount of time poking her nose into his business was not enough to blunt his physical reaction to the woman. Just one more complication he didn't need.

“You've been sitting at that table signing autographs for two hours,” she said. “How about we walk around while we talk so you can stretch your legs?”

“Works for me.” She truly wasn't up to speed on NASCAR if she thought sitting for a couple of hours bothered him. Try spending an entire afternoon strapped and harnessed into his race car's HANS Device.

Her left hand touched a small microphone clipped to the strap of her purse that hung over one shoulder. “I'm going to record our conversation. In a setting like this, it's much easier than trying to jot stuff down.”

“Fine,” he said, noting that her long, narrow fingers were ringless.

“Do you do this often?” she asked as they strolled by the black-as-pitch No. 499 car.

“Do what?”

“Take your race car to events and sign autographs.”

“That isn't my race car.”

She craned her neck across her shoulder in the vehicle's direction. “It looks exactly like the one I saw today at Double S Racing.”

“True, it does.” Rafael noticed the photographer trailing alongside them, snapping an occasional photo. “It isn't even a show car, which is usually a retired race car. This one is an impostor. You're looking at a vehicle painted to exactly resemble the real thing.”

“Did you drive it here?”

“No, but I could have because it's street legal. There's no 400-horsepower performance V-8 engine under the hood.”

“I spent hours today interviewing your boss, then your crew chief and some of your other team members,” she commented as they passed by the gazebo where Acer Carpenter was huddled with the musicians. “They gave me tons of information about the business of racing and NASCAR. No one mentioned impostor cars.” She shrugged. “Guess they just scratched the surface.”

“There's a lot to learn. And for your information, as far as my schedule is concerned, this gathering isn't an ‘event.'”

“In NASCAR lingo, you mean?”

“Exactly. It's a prearranged sponsor appearance, to which National Steel Buildings has invited its employees and some VIP clients.”

“Got it. I'll add that to the growing list of things I've learned today. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” He'd been cornered by reporters who'd pretended to be expert on all things NASCAR, and some of their questions had been inane. He found Caitlin's honesty about how little she knew refreshing.

They strolled into the area that had been cordoned off for entertainment. A group of people gathered at the Wheel of Fortune, plopping down a dollar for a chance to win more. At another booth, several teenage boys hurled softballs at stacked bottles. From a kiosk around the corner, muffled pops sounded from rifles aimed at a row of moving targets. At the far end
of the area, people stood in line to ride the brightly lit Ferris wheel.

The smell of popcorn, grilling meat and cotton candy hung in the air. “Want a lemonade?” Rafael asked when they neared one of the drink booths.

“Yes, thanks.”

He made the same offer to the photographer, who declined.

Rafael paid the vendor then handed Caitlin her cup, his fingers brushing hers. Again, he felt it, that jolt. Magnetism.
Heat.
Under the booth's bright lights, she looked gorgeous and appealing. He skimmed his gaze down to her mouth while wondering if she was as elementally aware of him as he was of her.

Either way, that was something he couldn't allow to matter. He had no choice but to deal with her, and he was determined to keep their association on his own terms. Meaning he needed to keep her talking about anything other than himself the majority of the time.

He took a sip of cold, tart lemonade. “My offer to tutor you about NASCAR is still open.”

“I might not need those lessons.”

“You think you learned everything there is in one afternoon?”

“Hardly. But our readers—and Mr. Carpenter—want this profile to focus on
you
. Racing and NASCAR will probably stay in the background.”

“Don't you think
Sports Scene
magazine's readers will be disappointed if you don't give NASCAR equal time?”

Caitlin shook her head. “I think everyone will be disappointed if information about your job overshadows the personal aspects of the profile.”

“You should understand that for me, racing is not a job. It's my passion. A part of who I am.”

While she studied him over the rim of her cup, her eyes seemed to cool and something settled in their green depths. He realized he was getting his first glimpse of the reporter at work.

“All right, Mr. O'Bryan, let's talk about who you are.”

“Since we're going to be together for a number of weeks, I suggest we try something less formal. Call me Rafael. Caitlin's an unusual name.” He found he liked the way it sounded when he said it. Soft and feminine and old-fashioned. “Were you named after someone?”

“My grandmother.”

His gaze returned to her hair that shined like wet fire under the lights. “Did she have all that flame-colored hair, too?”

Frown lines formed between her brows. “Here's the deal,
Rafael.
I'm the interviewer, not the interviewee. That means I ask the questions.”

He shrugged. “Just curious.”

“As am I. You were born thirty-four years ago in São Paulo, Brazil, right?”

“Yes.” He turned and they began retracing their steps.

“You started racing go-karts in your teens. You were such a natural at the sport you earned the nickname O Tubarão— The Shark—because of the methodical way you went after the competition. Your success in go-karting brought you to the United States when you were barely twenty.”

All true. The events that had occurred before he first laid eyes on the go-kart track in São Paulo were what he'd buried deep. “Sounds like you already know all you need to about me.”

“Just verifying the information on file. Who taught you to speak English so fluently?”

“A friend.”

“In Brazil?”

“Yes.”

“How did he or she know English?”

“Her mother was from the States. Texas, I believe.”

“Can you give me her name? I'd like to interview some people who knew Rafael O'Bryan back when.”

“Her family moved away after she got married. I have no idea what her name is now.”

“I'm sure you have other friends in Brazil who would be willing to talk about their famous pal, the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver.”

“It has been many years since I was in my native country. I've lost contact with people.”

“Surely there's some special friend in your past or present whose name you can give me.”

“Special friend, meaning lover?”

“You're a sharp guy, Rafael.”

He paused, turned to face her. “So sharp that I would never offend a past, present—” He let his voice drift off when the light breeze teased wispy strands of her hair from its fancy braid. Without conscious thought, he reached to tuck the strands back, skimming his fingers over her cheek.
So soft.
He watched emotion glint in her eyes. “—or future lover by giving the media her name,” he finished softly.

“What about—” Caitlin cleared her throat “—your own family?”

Just then, a towheaded boy raced up, his right arm covered in a cast from wrist to elbow. He wore baggy shorts and a striped shirt, and clutched a marking pen in his fingers. “Mr. O'Bryan, will you autograph my cast?”

“Sure.” Rafael handed Caitlin his cup, then crouched to put himself eye to eye with the boy. He couldn't have timed the interruption better. “What's your name?”

“Bobby. Bobby Watson.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“My dumb sister jumped in front of my skateboard. I had to dive off to keep from running over her.”

“Sounds like you opted for the best course of action.” Out of the corner of his eye, Rafael saw Caitlin gesture to the photographer, who began snapping photos of himself and the boy. “Nevertheless, looks like you had a rough landing.”

“Yeah,” Bobby agreed, staring wide-eyed at Rafael. “I saw you race once at Homestead.”

Rafael raised a brow as he autographed the cast. “How'd I do?”

“You finished second in points for the Chase. Dean Grosso won the championship.”

“I seem to remember that.” In the final race of the season, he and Grosso had battled it out to the very last lap. Grosso won the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series championship by a hair-raising photo finish.

“Gee, thanks!” the boy exclaimed as he admired the signature.

“You're welcome,” Rafael said, returning the marker.

“I gotta go show your autograph to my dumb sister.”

Chuckling, Rafael rose as the boy sprinted off.

“Sounds like you've got a big fan,” Caitlin commented while handing over his lemonade.

“Not just any fan, but one who knows the lingo. Impressive kid.”

They continued retracing their steps, the voices of the people and attractions around them ebbing and fading on the warm air. “Before Bobby showed up, we were talking about your family.”

“Were we?”

“I'd like to hear about your parents. Are they in Brazil?”

“Both are deceased.”

“Any siblings?”

“No.”

“Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”

He tossed his cup in a trash can they passed. “No.”

“You have no family?”

“None to speak of.”

She paused, looked up at him. “You really want me to believe you have no friends in Brazil that I can contact?”

“What do you want me to say? It's the truth. Which is how I've answered all your questions. Truthfully.”

Sending him a skeptical look, she disposed of her empty cup.

“I'm a man who values his privacy, Caitlin. I've always felt that what I do on my own time is my business.”