Right Before His Eyes (3 page)

She'd forgotten how nice it could be to lose her breath. “Despite my stringent work ethic, I do have a sense of humor.”

“I know. I've seen you laughing with your customers. Not me, of course. But plenty of other ones.”

“If you wouldn't antagonize me…”

“Me?” His eyes widened. “All I do is ask you to dinner. Beg, even.”

“You can hardly expect me to take your invitations seriously when you're so free with them.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“You seem to be on a mission to date every busty blonde in the city.”

“Only because you wouldn't go out with me.”

A warm glow spread through her veins. “You dated them only because I wouldn't?”

He struggled with his answer for a moment. “Yes.”

“No kidding?”

She was flirting. She was actually flirting with a man. Apparently it was one of those things that came back with a little focus. Up until now she wasn't sure she'd remembered how.

Before she could recall what to do next, the waiter arrived with their salads.

She appreciated the way Gil addressed him by name, and the obvious gratitude he had for his work. The restaurant business was tough, and nobody suffered more than the waitstaff whenever a difficult customer walked in or something went wrong in the kitchen.

And suddenly her plan of one simple date, after which they parted friends, realizing they had nothing in common, was thrown completely out of whack. She wasn't just attracted to him; she
liked
him.

“Speaking of dinner invitations…what finally turned the tide in my favor?”

“Mellie,” she said quietly. “Nobody else seems to realize how different she is lately. She's always been quiet, but she used to tell
me
everything, and now I can barely get a yes or no to a direct question. Then there's this weird tension between her and Bart Branch.”

“Sorry, I don't have any insight there. We're trying to kick his butt on the track every week. If he's miserable, then…yippee.”

Sheila rolled her eyes. “Does everything have to be about racing?”

“I assume that's a rhetorical question.”

G
IL COULD BARELY BELIEVE
the abrupt change in Sheila.

Usually, she found a way to put him off, disagree with him or downright ignore him.
This
was the woman he'd known existed under her tough, stubborn exterior.

Why couldn't Mellie have been on the verge of a breakdown months ago?

Ah, well, that probably wasn't too compassionate. A thought he should keep to himself rather than share with Sheila.

He cleared his throat. “Hang in there. You'll get through to Mellie eventually.”

“You're sweet to be so supportive. And, trust me, I'm not the type to give up.”

Something else they had in common. “I'm sweet now, huh?”

Shrugging, she said, “I always figured you were a great guy, but I don't trust easily. Nothing personal.”

She's struggled and fought,
Rafael had wisely told him. Gil wasn't an elitist. He knew few people had been raised in the luxury he had. Yet, she seemed to have come out the other side of her problems, free, stronger, in control of her life and future, while he still had to battle for every decision, every moment of peace. His mother, in particular, was constantly nagging him to
stop working so hard, come home to Charleston and settle down.

He envied Sheila's resiliency.

The waiter brought their entrées of manicotti and lasagna, and the homemade marinara sauce was as fresh and amazing as ever.

He accepted Sheila's compliments about his choices with a nod, and they enjoyed the meal in a few moments of silence before he turned back to the important issue at hand. “Who made you so suspicious?”

She stared at her plate. “It's not important.”

“It is to me.”

“I don't want to spoil the night.” She glanced at him, wariness evident in her eyes. “Some other time?”

“How about on our second date?”

“What second date?”

“The one we'll have this weekend. Come with me to Texas.”

She blinked. “Go away with you for the weekend?”

“Yes. The race is there, so we'll be spending a lot of time at the track, but you know most of my guys anyway from the diner. I'll take you to this great steak house for dinner, and—”

She held up her hand. “You want me to go away with you for the weekend?”

Noting the hard expression on her face, he realized he'd impulsively pushed in the wrong direction. “Whoa. Separate hotel rooms. I'll get you your own rental car, if you want. You can come and go as you please.” He covered her hand with his. “I just want to be with you, and my weekends are complicated.”

The tension left her body, and he was grateful he'd learned enough about her to be able to head off a conflict.
He didn't want her thinking he was only interested in getting her in his bed, which he most definitely wanted, but her body wasn't the only part of her he was attracted to.

“I don't sleep around,” she said, her expression fierce.

He went still. “I never believed you did.”

“Just because I'm not some high-society debutante doesn't mean I don't have standards.”

“I know.” And she clearly had no idea how many debutantes didn't. “I didn't mean to push you. Or insult you.”

Mr. Blue Blood and Ms. Blue Collar.
Geez.
He owed Rafael again.

He'd already told her he didn't care about their beginnings. It seemed with Sheila he'd have to not just say, but prove.

“I just want to spend time with you. That's all. And, yes, I used to prefer blondes, but I suddenly have an irresistible thing for redheads.” He cupped her cheek in his hand. “One in particular.”

Her eyes widened; her breathing quickened. “I like you, too. But my weekends are complicated, too. I have a diner to run.”

“What about Mellie? Can she run things for a couple of days? Al is there for backup.”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“You'll ask her?”

“I'll think about asking her.”

He brushed his thumb against her lips. “Okay. That's enough. For now.”

“Okay.” She offered a small smile. “You definitely have good taste in restaurants.”

As they finished the meal, he enjoyed watching her. She was beyond lovely with her hair loosely curled around her face instead of pulled back in her usual ponytail. And her body was amazing in that black dress. Her legs alone could inspire a man to poetry and serious emotional commitment.

He also liked seeing her open and relaxed. Though he had no illusions about her being a happy-go-lucky girl anytime soon, he knew they'd taken the first step to building, well…something.

After dinner, he drove her back to her apartment. Not because he wanted to necessarily, but with her trust issues, he figured it was unwise to push. Besides, they might have the weekend to look forward to.

If she could see how mixed everything was in the racing world—people from all economic, social and academic backgrounds working together to achieve common goals and dreams—she'd fall head over heels for him.

Hey, as long as he had dreams, they might as well be big.

He unlocked her front door, then accepted her invitation to come inside, where he stood awkwardly in the small foyer.

“You want some coffee?” she asked.

“No. I mean, I shouldn't.” When he saw the disappointment on her face, he sighed. He hadn't been this unsure and off balance since he'd tried to kiss Missy Williams behind the bleachers at the sixth-grade dance.

“I'd like to stay for coffee, but I know you have a long day tomorrow.”

“Okay. Well, thanks for dinner. I had a nice time.”

Then he remembered he'd succeeded pretty well at kissing Amelia behind the bleachers.

“Nice, huh?” he asked, sliding his arm around her waist. “I thought I might rate a little bit higher.”

She laid her hands against his chest as she looked up at him. “Dinner was wonderful.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed it.” His pulse picked up speed as her gaze dropped to his lips. “I was hoping to impress you.”

“You did,” she whispered.

When he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers, he heard her breath catch, and it was the sweetest, most amazing thing he'd ever felt. Holding her against him, absorbing her essence and energy intoxicated him.

The fire that beat so surely in her heart drew him in.

His passion had always been for business, for proving to his family that he could make his own way, have his own life. This was something entirely different.

The chemistry between him and Sheila was as powerful. Not just an empty flirtation—one like so many others.

Now a new spark had been lit.

And he wanted, more than anything, to coax it into a flame.

Suddenly, she stepped back. “Stop.”

Caught in the moment, he reached for her until he got a glimpse of her face. The resolve, the concern. His heart racing, he held up his hands. “Okay.”

“I can't do this. I—” She turned away. “We don't belong together.”

“Why not?”

“I drive a used sedan and live in a sparsely furnished
apartment,” she said, looking back. “You have a mansion on the lake. I barely finished high school. You went to elite private schools and graduated from college with honors. I was raised in a trailer park. You were raised in, what?” Her mouth twisted harshly. “Oh, yeah. Yet another mansion.”

His heart pounded against his chest for an entirely different reason. Fear. Fear that he was already losing her. “I don't care about any of that.”

“I do! Do you know how many of the people who saw us tonight are talking about how ridiculous we are together?”

Her defeatist attitude was stirring his own anger. This wasn't a woman who gave up on what she wanted. “I definitely don't care about that.”

“Yeah? Well, how 'bout this…my father ran out on my mother when he found out she was pregnant with me, and I haven't fared much better with my choices in men.”

He knew she'd hate his pity, so he pushed it aside. “Hey, better choice, standing right here.”

“I can't lead you on.”

“You're not.” Taking a deep breath, he laid his hands on her shoulders. “Was it the kiss? I didn't mean to get so carried away. I just…”

Never experienced anything that incredible.

Shaking her head, she stepped back, even though heat lingered in her eyes.

“Come with me to Texas, then see how you feel.”

“I can't.”

“Fine.” He whirled and strode to the door, closing it behind him with a quiet click.

No, Sheila didn't give up what she wanted. Which must mean she didn't want him much at all.

 

“O
KAY, SPILL IT.”

In the process of making a fresh pot of coffee, Sheila glanced at Rue Larrabee, one of her closest friends and bombshell owner of Cut 'N' Chat, the hair salon a few doors down from the diner. “What would be the point of making it now if I'm just going to spill it later?”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

Sheila held up the empty coffeepot before sliding it beneath the dispenser. “Fresh, hot beverages. What are you talking about?” Though she unfortunately knew.

Rue waggled her finger. “Don't be cute. You know why I'm here.”

“Cute is my middle name.”

“Ha!” Her hair, currently dyed a shade of red a bit brighter than Sheila's, swung as she leaned against the counter. “
Clam
is more like it. You had dinner last night with hot and delicious Gil Sizemore.”

Sheila had known the crowded restaurant would send her incognito plan straight to the Dumpster, but she hadn't expected to be ambushed before 10:00 a.m. “Let's go in the back and talk.”

The back room behind the storage room was the clubhouse of the Tuesday Tarts, a group of women who met each week to share triumphs and troubles along with coffee, dessert, wine and, in Sheila's case, the occasional glass of whiskey.

Rue settled onto the sofa. “Spill it.”

Sheila stood with her arms crossed over her chest. She wasn't about to get comfortable, since she didn't plan on this taking long. “We had dinner. It was nice.”

Looking as if she was planning to hang out all day, Rue leaned back into the cushions and examined her manicure. “Any particular reason you wanted to keep your little rendezvous from your closest friends?”

Sheila raised her eyebrows. “Rendezvous? You're making way too much out of this.”

“He's been chasing you for six months, then you—out of the blue, I might add—take him up on his offer, lie to your friends about where you're going, then pretend the whole thing was no big deal.” She laid her hand on her chest. “Pardon me if I'm a bit confused.”

“It was dinner,” Sheila insisted. “That's all.”

“Uh-huh. You and Gil, alone together—finally, I might add—for hours and all you did was eat?”

As Sheila felt a blush rise up her neck, she tamped down her emotions. “Yes.”

“Bull hockey.”

All she needed was for Rue to get wind of the hot, mushy feelings she had, stronger than ever, for Gil. “Look, I'm sorry I lied. I just didn't want you guys giving me the third degree about one date. I needed a night off. I accepted Gil's offer to get him to back off. End of story.”

“At the risk of repeating myself, bull hockey.” Rue rose slowly, her determined gaze pinning Sheila in place.

“You're as flushed as a redhead's Fourth of July trip to Myrtle Beach.” She smiled slowly. “Guilt or Gil's work?”

Frustration didn't even begin to cover the moment. While Sheila had shared more with the Tarts than she had anybody, they didn't know everything. They didn't know the worst. They didn't know how often she'd lied. How could she explain her reluctance to make the same
old mistakes when Rue didn't even know about the missteps in the first place? “Why are you here?” she asked, somewhat desperately.

Rue laid her arm around Sheila's shoulders. “Didn't the Tarts get me a good man? It's time to return the favor.”

“You and Andrew are perfect for each other. Gil and I are all wrong.”

“You mean 'cause his family goes back to the Civil War and yours started in a trailer park?”

Sheila tried to work up a smile. “It's the Revolutionary War actually.”

“No kidding?” Rue's brown eyes turned speculative.

“I wonder how much money and power really does fill the family coffers?”

“Rue…”

Her friend waved her hand casually as if the entire basis for Sheila's reluctance to get involved with Gil—the past—could be dismissed like a fly. “It hardly matters. Gil earned his own fortune, after all.”

“Years of successful companies, NASCAR sponsorships and marketing brilliance do tend to add up to a positive bank balance.”

“Brilliance, huh? He
did
make quite an impression, I guess.”

“Rue…”

“Look at it this way,” she added, undaunted. “Racing is expensive, right? If he doesn't win the championship, maybe he'll lose everything.”

The woman had lost her mind. “I seriously doubt his financial situation is that precarious.”

“Probably not.” And she had the nerve to look briefly disappointed. “So tell me this…are the rumors about
conflict with his family true? I've heard they didn't want him to sell his megasuccessful businesses to go into the car-racing business.”

“They're true.” And Sheila didn't think she was telling anything Gil wouldn't say himself. He was proud of his rebellion. A quality that only added to his attractiveness. Maybe she
was
crazy to push him away.

Though nearly every man in her life had been a thief, a con or a downright creep, Gil was none of those things.

But then the problem wasn't just the faults of the men she'd dated. There were her own transgressions. Ones Gil would never understand and certainly wouldn't want to be associated with.