What He Didn't Say (12 page)

“After I met with your boss today, he turned me over to his assistant. Emma-Lee Dalton told me that NASCAR Sprint Cup Series drivers and teams spend nearly nine months a year on the road during the racing season. And on any given day a driver can have some sort of activity booked every hour on his schedule.”

Rafael saw the same intensity in her green eyes that he heard in her voice. “Your point?”

“Sounds to me like you don't have a lot of time to call your own. And that the majority of your life is centered around NASCAR, which happens to be a very public sport whose participants are expected to stand in a spotlight or anywhere else his major sponsor tells him to.”

He took a step forward, dipped his head. “I'll do my best to give you information, Caitlin. What I won't do is fabricate facts about myself just so you can flesh out the profile you're writing.”

Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

“You seem to be suspicious because I lack relatives for you to interview. The fact is, my parents were both an only child, so I had no aunts, uncles or cousins. It was just my parents and me.” He kept to himself that the mother and father he had no
memory of died in an accident when he was barely two years old, leaving him without a single blood relative. To reveal that could link him to the orphanage where he grew up. And put those he most loved in danger.

Rafael glimpsed the man behind the counter in the shooting booth gesturing a tattooed arm. “Hey, buddy, how about buying your lady a couple of chances to hit a target and win a prize?”

Another distraction. Perfect timing. Rafael shifted his gaze back to Caitlin. “Are you game?”

“I've never held a gun.”

He raised a brow.
“Never?”

She shrugged. “My dad doesn't hunt. I have four sisters, we used to play tea party, not cops and robbers.”

“Well, you're in luck because I do know how to shoot. I can give you tips.”

“Where did you learn to shoot?”

“Brazil has many areas in which to hunt.” He left off that he had learned to shoot out of necessity because he'd been considered a vicious man's prey. “This gives you something for your profile that links back to my native country.”

“And since those links are apparently rare, I'd better not pass up this opportunity.”

He grinned at the sardonic tone in her voice. “My thoughts, exactly.” He snagged her wrist, easing her through the crowd. Pulling a few bills out of his pocket, he handed them to the man behind the counter. “How many shots will that buy?”

“Five.”

Blowing out a breath, Caitlin accepted the rifle from the vendor. “All right, Wyatt Earp, I'm ready for your tips.”

“Don't aim.”

She blinked. “I thought the object was to hit the target.”

“True. The thing is, most people are accurate in pointing at
something, but when they try to aim a weapon the mechanics of doing so somehow interfere with that natural ability.”

“Just point? Don't aim?”

“You got it.”

She raised the rifle, rested its butt against one shoulder, then jerked the trigger.

“Missed the entire target!” the man behind the counter announced.

Caitlin sent Rafael a withering look. “Some teacher you are. Maybe you'd better stick to driving a race car.”

“Like everything, shooting takes practice.” He stepped behind her, put his hands on her shoulders. Her blouse was sleeveless, so his palms settled against bare skin.
Creamy, bare skin that stirred his blood.

She instantly stiffened and whipped her head around. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you another tip. In racing, I don't drive the car using just the steering wheel. I use my entire body. The same thing applies to firing a weapon.” He slid his arms around her, closed his hands over hers where they lay against the rifle. Instantly, electricity coursed from her fingers straight to his gut. If she felt it, too, he couldn't tell. Surely this hunger that was crawling around inside him wasn't all one-sided.

In his peripheral vision, Rafael saw that a handful of people had stopped to watch them. The photographer moved around, shooting pictures from different angles.

Refocusing his attention, Rafael made a few minute adjustments in her grip. “Lean against me,” he urged. “Just relax.”

“Relax?” Was it his imagination, or had her voice gone hoarse? With the noise from the crowd and the rides, he couldn't be sure.

“Relax,” he repeated, shifting his body against hers to assume the correct stance. Her spine remained stiff while
her seductive scent pulsed off her warm flesh in little waves, clogging his lungs.

“Don't jerk the trigger,” he murmured against her cheek. Without thinking, without being able to think, he tightened his arms around her and battled the urge to keep from burying his face in all that flame-red hair. “Just squeeze. Gently.”

The instant the rifle fired, she surged from his hold.

“You hit the target this time, missy.”

“I'm done,” Caitlin said, almost shoving the rifle into the vendor's hands.

“Your gentleman friend paid for three more tries.” The man swept a tattooed arm in the direction of the stuffed animals hanging over the targets. “You get lucky, you could go home with a prize.”

“No, thanks.” She turned to Rafael. Her face was flushed, her eyes glittering. Her pulse tripped wildly in the hollow of her throat. Oh, yeah, he'd gotten to her.

“I have enough info for tonight.” As she spoke, she gestured for the photographer. “I'll see you tomorrow,” she added before she and the photographer strode off together.

Rafael tracked her until she disappeared into the crowd. To his disgust, he realized he was anticipating seeing her again far more than any man should whose very life might depend on keeping the secrets that she was trying to uncover hidden.

 

T
HE
C
HASE
for the NASCAR Sprint Cup. Pole position. Banking. Drafting. Tight versus loose.
When it came to NASCAR, there were a kazillion terms to learn, Caitlin thought three days later while easing into a corner of one of the garage bays at the Pennsylvania race track.

It was Saturday, and the final hour of practice was about to begin.

Centered in the bay beneath a row of fluorescent lights
was the gleaming black No. 499 car. The real one this time, with massive red and white National Steel Buildings decals on the back, sides and top of the hood. The hood was raised while several members of the garage crew wearing team polo shirts and dark pants peered at the engine. Another—the
tire specialist
—was squatted down, conducting an intense examination of the car's right front tire.

On the far side of the car, crew chief Denton Moss stood with several team members. All of them except for Rafael wore similar Double S Racing apparel.

O Tubarão—The Shark—had suited up in his black uniform covered in sponsorship logos, his dark hair mussed from wearing a helmet during the day's practice sessions. Standing amid his teammates, Rafael looked like a prime example of raw male power. Adding to the drool factor was the way the snug fit of his uniform emphasized the contours of his strong shoulders and flat belly.

Even now, Caitlin couldn't think about their session at the shooting booth without feeling a little flutter in her belly. The way he'd wrapped his arms around her, steadying the rifle she held while he whispered target-shooting tips in that tantalizing deep, accented voice had turned her insides upside down.

Just thinking about that reaction had her gritting her teeth. She was not proud of it. Determined not to repeat it. An investigative reporter did
not
get weak in the knees over an interviewee. Which was all Mr. Rafael O'Bryan was. Emotionally, she was not in trouble. Period.

It had become crystal clear at the health fair that he did not intend for her to learn anything more about him than he wanted her to know. Which left no doubt that if she didn't change her tactics, she would have scant information on what personal issues defined the man by the time the assignment wrapped up. Which was why, the following day, she had ap
proached him as someone he could tutor, not as a reporter intent on laying open his past.

Since then, Rafael had answered every question she had lobbed at him about NASCAR. It wasn't her imagination that he was getting more comfortable around her. Less wary.

Soon, she would again focus her questions on his personal life. In the meantime, she was enjoying learning about the sport that only days before had been a blank slate in her mind.

“I love this smell.”

Caitlin glanced at the woman who walked up beside her. “You mean car exhaust and smoking tires?”

“You got it,” Emma-Lee Dalton said with a grin. Like Caitlin, Gil Sizemore's blonde, blue-eyed assistant was dressed in a long-sleeved blouse and slim jeans, security credentials dangling from a lanyard around her neck. “Comes from growing up with parents who are huge NASCAR fans. They toted my sisters and me to almost every race each season.”

Caitlin had taken an instant liking to Emma-Lee. Which was a good thing, since a reservation glitch had landed them in the same room in a nearby hotel that was filled to the max.

“I guess those particular smells take getting used to,” Caitlin commented.

“Guess so.” Emma-Lee cocked her head. “How are your interviews with members of Rafael's team going?”

“Like a well-rehearsed play.” Caitlin heard the frustration in her voice that had been building inside her for days. Since she'd switched the focus to NASCAR when she was with Rafael, she had planned to learn personal aspects about him from interviews with his teammates. Things were not going as expected.

“Are some of the team members not cooperating?”

“Just the opposite.” Caitlin raised her voice to be heard over the high-pitched whir of an air wrench. “Every person
I've asked about Rafael has given me the same basic information.”

“Such as?”

“‘O'Bryan's a scary good driver. He represents a constant threat to his competitors. He makes a point to treat his team with respect.'” Caitlin eased out a breath. “Everyone seems willing to talk my ear off about what type of driver Rafael is. But when it comes to the in-depth what-makes-this-guy-tick type of information, I get zilch.”

“Rafael's one of those guys who likes his privacy.”

Both women took an instant step back to avoid a team member darting past them.

“There aren't many people close to him,” Emma-Lee added.

“Our readers—and NSB—aren't going to be happy if the profile I turn in only touches the surface of who he is. I imagine he also likes having a sponsor.”

“I see what you mean.” Emma-Lee tapped a finger against her pursed lips. “Two years ago, Rafael drove for another racing team. I heard about him helping one of his teammates who was also from South America. I think a member of the guy's family had some sort of medical problem.”

“How did Rafael help?”

“Used his influence to cut through red tape. I think. Like I said, it was two years ago and I'm vague on the details.”

“Do you know who the man is that Rafael helped?”

“No, but I can find out from Rue.”

“Rue?”

“Rue Larrabee, owner of the Cut 'N' Chat Beauty Salon. The wife of the guy Rafael helped is…or was one of Rue's clients.”

Caitlin smiled. At last she might be getting somewhere.

“In fact,” Emma-Lee continued, “why don't you plan to go with me to the Tuesday Tarts. I'll introduce you to Rue.”

“Tuesday Tarts?”

“It's a group of gals who get together on Tuesday nights to schmooze and gossip. The membership is loose-knit, so we never know who's going to show up. But whoever's there might be able to add some information about Rafael that doesn't have to do with his driving.” Emma-Lee tapped a few buttons on her cell phone, checked the display. “I can't make the next meeting, but I'll be at the following one.”

“I'll join you. Where do you meet?”

“The back room of Maudie's Down Home Diner. You've been there, right?”

“No.”

“You've got to make time to go to Maudie's. It's like a small-town café for the racing community. We can all kick back and relax and just be ourselves. Rafael goes there a lot. He could take you.” Emma-Lee glanced at her watch. “I have to track down my boss and make sure he knows what's on his schedule for this evening. I'll call you when I get the guy's name from Rue.”

“Thanks.” Caitlin shifted her attention back to the activity in the garage. The car's hood was now closed and the tire specialist was out of sight.

Denton Moss, the headset he would use to communicate when the noise level turned deafening hanging half on and half off one side of his head, stood near the driver's door, talking to Rafael. His expression serious, Rafael said a few words, then turned toward the car. For a split second, his gaze met Caitlin's…then lowered to focus on her lips. Raw emotion glinted in his eyes.

Longings, needs she'd thought she'd finished with years ago, sprang out fresh and strong. Something deep inside her wanted to give way to them and feel again. Just feel.

In the next heartbeat, Rafael shifted his gaze, then climbed through the window of his car.

Hoping her unsteady legs would continue to support her, Caitlin turned away. Then squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, Lord, she was in trouble.

The car's starter chugged, then the boom of all eight pistons roared through the garage. She wasn't sure which was louder—the engine or the pounding of her heart.

Big. Trouble.

O
N THE
M
ONDAY EVENING
after the Pennsylvania race, the air inside Maudie's Down Home Diner was ripe with its usual delicious smells. Every chrome-trimmed red-vinyl-covered stool along the length of the counter was occupied. As were most of the red-vinyl-upholstered booths that jutted out from each wall and the tables crowding the black-and-white-checkered floor.

Rafael strode toward the rear of the diner past framed photographs of NASCAR drivers, both present and past. He considered himself lucky when he claimed the last vacant booth.

He checked his watch, noting
he
was on time. But there was no sign of the woman who'd called and asked him to meet her there.

Caitlin Dempsey.
At the Pocono track, he'd been acutely aware of her, hovering in the periphery of the garage, then the pit stall. But qualifying, practice and several sponsor commitments had kept him so busy he'd barely had time to speak to her. He'd thought about her, though. Too much. Then there was the dream in which he'd returned to his motor home late at night and found her waiting for him in the moonlight. The dream had quickly turned erotic when he'd tugged her inside and ravaged her mouth with his own. He'd jolted awake to an empty bed. The furious frustration pulsing through his system had kept him awake the remainder of the night. And dogged him the day of the race.

He stabbed his fingers through his hair. Never before had he allowed thoughts of a woman to interfere with his racing. If his crew chief, Denton Moss, found out his mind hadn't been entirely in the game that past weekend, he would skin him alive.

What, Rafael wondered, was it about this one particular woman that pulled at him? It wasn't just physical, he was sure of that. There was some emotion in the mix. But, what?

No answer was forthcoming. Not even when he spotted Caitlin threading her way between the tables and that instant magnetism tightened his gut.

His gaze swept down her, then up. She was wearing snug jeans and a vibrant green blouse that hugged her lean body. He took an instant to appreciate her walk that gave an elegant sort of swing to her denim-clad hips. But his attention riveted on the way her long hair draped across her shoulders like skeins of copper silk.

How many times had he imagined himself unplaiting the braid she perpetually wore? Now, here she was with that mass of hair long and free and about to be within touching distance. All he wanted was to bury his face in it.

“Sorry I'm late.”

He shut down his thoughts with a silent curse as she scooted in opposite him. She posed a danger to what he held most dear, and the main thought in his brain was getting his hands on her. Not smart. “No problem. I've been here only a few minutes.”

She looked around, her mouth curving. “So, this is Maudie's. Emma-Lee said it was the equivalent of a 1950s small-town café where everyone connected to racing comes to kick back and relax.” Caitlin remet his gaze. “She said you eat here a lot.”

“Food's good.” He could smell her perfume now, dark and tempting. “The atmosphere's secondary.”

A slender young waitress with short black hair appeared with glasses of water and menus sheathed in plastic. “Welcome back, Mr. O'Bryan.”

“Good to be back. Mellie, this is Caitlin Dempsey. It's her first time at Maudie's.”

The pretty young waitress grinned. “After you taste the food, it won't be the last.”

“That's what I hear,” Caitlin commented.

“Has the diner been this busy all night?” Rafael asked.

“Yes, and we're short on help. I bet by the time I crawl into bed, I'll hear my feet crying.”

“No doubt,” he agreed. “How's your little one?”

“Wonderful. Lily's upstairs in my apartment with Al's wife. Speaking of Al, his meat loaf is tonight's special. We've had a run on it and there's only one pan left.”

Caitlin handed her menu back to Mellie. “I'm sold.”

“Make it two.”

“I must be losing my perspective,” Caitlin commented after Mellie moved off.

“Why's that?”

“Mellie doesn't look old enough to have a baby.”

“I thought the same thing the first time she had Lily down here on one of her breaks. Lily's two years old, so I guess Mellie got an early start on motherhood.”

“Is she raising her on her own? That must be hard.”

“As far as I know. But Mellie is a hard worker, and seeing her with Lily is amazing.” Rafael shifted against the upholstered bench, refocused his thoughts on the green-eyed woman sitting opposite him. It hadn't been lost on him that, after the health fair, she'd kept the focus of her questions on NASCAR. Its rules. Terms. The tactics he used on the track. He had no idea why she'd changed her strategy, but the less personal questions she lobbed his way, the better. To his surprise, he'd found he enjoyed sharing his knowledge with a woman who
seemed to be developing a genuine enthusiasm for the sport he loved.

It was time now to find out why she had called him to meet her here. “On the phone you said you have more questions. About racing?”

“
Related
to it. At Pocono, I noticed several drivers doing things that benefit certain charities. Some even have established their own foundations. I checked, and couldn't find anything about you having an official connection to either.”

“I don't.” He'd taken steps to ensure that no one could track what he did with the majority of his winnings. Tension coiled through his spine at the thought she had stumbled onto something. “That isn't a requirement.”

“No, it's not.” Caitlin paused only long enough for Mellie to deliver plates of piping-hot meat loaf and vegetables, then hurry off to take another order. “What is it with you, O'Bryan?”

He picked up his fork. “What do you mean?”

“You did something that would give your fans a glimpse of the man behind the sneaky good driver, but you kept it quiet.”

“You think I'm a sneaky good driver?”

She gave him a withering look. “Does the name Hector Jonas ring a bell?”

“Sure. He's a jackman on a team I used to drive for.”

“He's also the guy whose baby niece in Ecuador needed open-heart surgery to save her life. He's got a wife and three kids of his own, and didn't have extra money to send home to chip in for the operation. He told me that when you heard about his niece, you contacted the doctor in Ecuador and arranged to pay for everything. Even flew Hector and his family there.”

“He's a good man.” Rafael jerked a shoulder. “Loyal.”

“Very. At first, Hector hemmed and hawed when I tried to get him to talk about what you did for his family.”

“Amazing, isn't it, how some people just don't want their personal business made public.” Rafael sipped the iced tea he'd ordered with his meal. Since there was nothing to connect what he'd done for the Jonas family to his activities in Brazil, the tightness in his shoulders had begun to ease. He was actually starting to enjoy himself. “So, what did you do to force Hector to talk? Use some sort of reporter torture technique?”

“I was just about to pull out my whip when his wife showed up,” Caitlin answered, her voice mirroring his sardonic tone. “She was more than willing to chat about your generosity. To hear her talk, you should be made a saint.”

“A little girl needed help. I was in the position to give it, that's all.”

“
All?
What you did was huge.” Caitlin wagged her fork at him before she scooped up another bite of meat loaf. “Look, I understand you feel that what you do when you're not on the race track is solely your business.”

“It is.”

“I'm not here to debate that. Hector's story is going in the profile. I thought you might want to verify the details. Give me a quote or two. At the very least, we could discuss your philanthropy.”

“We just did. Nothing more to say.”

She laid her fork aside, frustration written all over her face. “Maybe I should use my whip on you.”

He hooked a brow. “This conversation has suddenly turned very interesting.”

While she rolled her eyes, he glanced toward the front of the diner. Half the stools at the counter were now vacant, and only a few customers lingered in the booths and tables. Movement at the front door caught his eye in time for him
to see Bart Branch, a NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver for PDQ Racing, step inside.

“Want to meet the winner of yesterday's race?”

Caitlin's gaze followed his. “His last name is Branch, right?”

“Right. That's Bart. His twin, Will, is also a driver.”

“I overheard some team members at the race track talking about a man named Hilton Branch. Something about embezzling money. Any relation?”

“Bart and Will's father. He was a banker who owned the race team his sons drove for. Money got tight, so he embezzled from his bank, then went on the run when things started falling apart. He's in prison now.”

Rafael waved Mellie over and asked her to invite Bart to join them. Seconds later, the tall, blond-haired driver with the cocky grin stood beside the booth. After introducing him to Caitlin, Bart shook her hand while she congratulated him on his first-place finish the previous day.

“Thanks.” Bart met Rafael's gaze. “Too bad about your engine trouble.”

“Yeah,” Rafael agreed. It had slowed him in the opening phase of the race. The needed carburetor adjustment had cost him precious laps and put him at the end of the pack. By the close of the race, he'd run out of time to maneuver his way farther forward than ninth place. “I plan to do better in Michigan.”

“Not if I can help it.” Grinning, Bart angled his head toward the front of the diner. “I've got a stool and a hot cup of coffee waiting for me at the counter. Nice to meet you, Caitlin.”

“Same here,” she said, her gaze tracking the driver as he strolled off. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“Bart's got a stool reserved at the counter, which is where Mellie spends a fair amount of time, dropping off order slips,
then picking up food. He kept glancing at her while he chatted with us. Think maybe there's some chemistry going on there?”

“Could be.” Rafael narrowed his gaze. “Do you ever just get off the clock? Stop trying to figure out what's going on in other people's lives?”

“Delving into what makes certain people tick isn't a nine-to-five job.” She shrugged. The movement waterfalled her thick hair over her shoulders. “I sometimes learn a lot more from watching what people do than listening to their words.”

“Because some of the words are lies?”

“Oftentimes. But actions usually always tell the truth.”

This, he thought, was a reminder of just how perceptive she was. And how careful he needed to be around her. “Any more questions for me tonight?”

“No,” Caitlin answered. “I'm going back to the hotel to polish my notes on the interview with Hector Jonas and his wife. This is your last chance to expand your comments on what you did for that family.”

“I'll pass. Speaking of family, at the health fair you mentioned your four sisters. Where do you fit in?”

“I'm the oldest.”

“The mature one.”

“So I'd like to think.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Oklahoma City.”

“Do you still live there?”

“My family does. I relocated to New York City when I went to work for the magazine.” She paused, then scowled. “And now you know more about me than I do about you. That's plain sad.”

Grinning, he swept the check off the table just as she reached for it. “Actually, it's very interesting.”

“I invited you here, I should pay,” Caitlin said as they
walked toward the front counter where Bart Branch was settled on a stool, chatting with the dark-haired waitress.

“So, Mellie,” Bart said, “you haven't told me where you and Lily are from.”

Mellie opened her mouth to reply, but closed it when a woman who Rafael recognized as the cook's wife stepped out of the swinging door that led to the kitchen. In her arms she held a bright-eyed, dark-haired little girl who squealed when she spotted him.

“Rafaaaeel!”

“There's my girl.” He looked at Mellie. “Okay if I hold Lily for a minute?”

Something close to relief flickered in Mellie's eyes. “I doubt she'll let you leave unless you do.”

The toddler was already reaching for him when he swung her into his arms. Her tiny hands gripping his shirt collar, she bounced in the crook of his elbow, her pretty, rosy-cheeked face alight with joy.

He'd grown up in the orphanage, often taking care of the younger kids. Now, being around children was as natural for him as breathing.

Though he could decipher only half her chatter, he gave Lily a solemn nod as she continued to bounce in his arms.

When a cell phone chimed, Caitlin dug in her purse. She glanced at her phone's display. “My editor,” she said, then moved off to answer the call.

“Editor?” Mellie asked. “Is Caitlin a writer?”

“Reporter,” Rafael said while softly pinching Lily's cheek. She squealed in delight, her grasp on his shirt tightening.

“A reporter?”

“
Investigative
reporter for
Sports Scene
magazine,” Rafael added.

When Mellie continued to stare at Caitlin, Bart placed
a forearm on the counter and leaned in. “Mellie, are you okay?”

“Yes. Yes.” She turned, lifted a coffeepot off the warmer and refilled Bart's cup. “I… At one time I thought I might want to be a reporter.”

“Glad that didn't happen,” Bart said. “Otherwise, you wouldn't have wound up here at Maudie's.”

Watching the exchange, Rafael had to agree that Caitlin was right. He could almost see the chemistry in the air surrounding the waitress and the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver.