Speed Dating (15 page)

She walked through the quiet house, peeking into all the doors down the hall on her way back to the great room. There were four bedrooms in all. Dylan’s bedroom had a soaring ceiling, an enormous bed and a
bathroom that reminded her of an upscale spa. The other bedrooms were set up as guest rooms with a simple white duvet and pine furniture. Each, she noted, had its own bathroom. It made her think the rooms were designed more with guests in mind than family.

There was also a fully equipped office with a couple of top-of-the-line computers, a wall of filing cabinets, a bar fridge and a round conference table in one corner. There were a couple of racing posters on the wall. Interesting. It was the only room in the house that held any hint of its owner’s profession.

When she returned to the great room, she heard the dull roar of an engine and glanced outside to see a yellow tractor rolling by, with a familiar-looking driver in a navy ball cap.

In his absence, she checked out the kitchen. The cupboards were stocked, the fridge contained fresh milk, cheese and eggs, yogurt and fruit—which must be for her benefit—and some cold cuts and beer for Dylan’s. There was also wine and juice, meat in the freezer section and bread in the bread bin. They weren’t going to starve out here, and she wasn’t going to have to run to the grocery store in town.

Within an hour, she’d unpacked, ironed a few things, showered off the grime of the day and changed into khaki shorts and a bright teal cotton sleeveless shirt.

Then she walked out to the kitchen and paused there. She had no idea what his plans were, and this was his turf. A low, rumbling sound like a roadway construction crew came to her ears. She strode to the big picture window and looked out to find the yellow tractor zooming by again. If a tractor could speed, this one was
going to break records. She shook her head. The man was a nutcase and she couldn’t stand around here waiting for his lordship to gallop by on his tractor and remember she was here.

Shoving on one of the caps she found on pegs by the kitchen door, she let herself out and hiked off in the direction of the speeding tractor. The sun felt warm on her skin, the earth springy and fertile, and she’d take it any day over the speedways, though wherever Dylan went it seemed the sound of engines went with him. The tractor rumbled along, grumbling at the unnecessary speed, and getting louder as she approached. Dylan didn’t seem to be doing anything more useful than riding around, but then she caught sight of him and realized he was surveying his land. There was a look of pride on his face and a sort of awe, as though he couldn’t believe this was his.

Maybe that was it, she thought. He was comparing this place to the speedways, too. This was everything the racing series wasn’t. Quiet, bucolic, slow of pace, with horses outnumbering motorized vehicles. As she walked over a grassy hill, she saw a large pond sparkling in the sunshine and a hawk swooped over it, trailing its shadow across the water’s surface.

She felt an urge to run down the other side of the hill, and, because there was nobody but a crazy race car driver to see her do it, she let herself go. She laughed aloud as her feet pounded down the grass, almost but not quite losing control. When she slowed she found Dylan was watching her, a big grin on his face. She knew his expression mirrored her own.

He gestured for her to join him. She hiked back up
the grassy hill and when she came abreast of the tractor he held out a hand and she jumped up beside him.

She’d never ridden any kind of farm equipment before and was surprised at how comfy it was. The seat was leather and she felt high off the ground as she surveyed the land through the dusty window.

“What do you think?”

“It’s absolutely beautiful,” she said.

“I like it.”

“I know.”

“You here for the official tour?”

“No. I’m here to ask if you want me to cook dinner tonight?”

Some of the light went out of his face. “No. We’ll eat with my folks. They’re expecting us.”

She forced a smile, refusing to let his unhappiness at the dinner plan mar her mood. “Okay. Is there anything special I should wear for dinner?”

“You look great like you are. I’ll put this thing away and we’ll head out. You’ll see the house where I grew up.”

“I can’t wait.”

He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Later, I’ll remind you that you said that.”

S
HE DECIDED
to change. She needed a meet-the-parents outfit. She chose a demure white cotton dress that left her arms bare, summer sandals and low-key jewelry. Kendall followed the paint-by-numbers face for day wear and toned it down a little more.

When she emerged from her room, she found Dylan in the living area pacing. She was glad she had changed. He wore a pale gray suit with a conservative silk tie, white shirt and polished black loafers. His hair was neatly brushed and he was freshly shaven. She’d become so used to him dressing in casual clothes and his racing uniform that she was momentarily startled by the transformation. The man looked gorgeous, though the suit didn’t really tame the wildness she’d seen in him from the beginning. If anything, his tame outerwear only made her more aware of the wildness he carried with him everywhere. His scar seemed more visible than usual, the planes of his face more rugged.

When he caught her staring at him, he said, “What?” He put a hand to his chest. “Is my tie crooked?”

She blinked at him in surprise. “You’re nervous.”

“Don’t be crazy.”

But the impression wouldn’t leave her. “I’ve watched
you race a car at one hundred and eighty miles an hour, seen you handle media scrums and get mobbed by fans, and you were as cool as a cucumber. Now, you go for dinner at your parents’ house and you’re nervous.”

“I’m irritable at the big waste of time, that’s all. But, you wanted to meet the folks, so you’ll meet the folks.”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“No. You drive like a girl.” This from the guy who’d promised he wouldn’t criticize her driving.

“That’s funny. Usually, I drive like a sixteen-year-old boy who just got his license,” she said sweetly, wishing he’d calm down since she was picking up on his discomfort and beginning to share it. What was wrong with these people who had given birth to him?

As she sat beside him in the car, she wondered why she’d made such a big deal about meeting the family. This wasn’t her business, it wasn’t her world. Dylan and she as a couple were an accident of fate. He liked her. Sometimes he was amused by her, happy that a few kisses were keeping the fans enthralled and Ashlee at bay. None of that gave her any right to barge into his personal life or intrude on his family. Yet on some level, she knew she had to do this, if not for them, then for him.

So she squelched the nerves dancing in her stomach and looked forward to meeting the people who had helped make Dylan the man he was.

The house was a huge mansion. When they drove up the circular drive shadowed by ancient oaks she whispered, “You grew up here?”

“Yep.” He didn’t sound thrilled about it. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. A trailer park? No. If she’d
pictured Dylan’s home at all, she’d imagined a middle-class home in a decent area, something like what she’d had as a child.

He pulled the car to a halt and to her immense surprise hooked her with an arm and kissed her. This wasn’t the racetrack and she wasn’t prepared. She was so surprised she forgot to be careful, so that when his lips touched hers, she sighed and melted against him. He raised his head, studied her face and said, “I need some luck before I go in there.”

He didn’t release her and she didn’t move, so they sat staring at each other. She heard her own heart beating, felt his breath on her face. His eyes were serious, and in that moment she felt something shift. Some awareness she hadn’t felt before. She could barely breathe.

“You’re so sweet,” he said softly. Then kissed her again, deeper, longer, and she tasted sadness, frustration, pain. She wanted to comfort him, tell him everything would be okay. It was a stupid idea, this dinner, drive on.

He pulled away slowly and the spell broke. She jerked in a breath.

“Don’t let them intimidate you,” he warned, and then got out of the car while she dug frantically into her purse for her new lip gloss and touched up her lips so she was as close to perfect-looking as she could be when Dylan helped her out of the car.

A uniformed servant greeted them at the door to the mansion, opening it almost as soon as Dylan had knocked.

She entered a hushed hall furnished with antiques that fit so perfectly she wondered if they’d been purchased new when the house was built a century and a
half ago. A gorgeous, huge flower arrangement on a highly polished drum table reminded her of those in five-star hotel lobbies. There was a scent of lemon furniture polish in the air.

The maid led them to an imposing reception room, she supposed you’d call it, where a couple sat on gold furniture drinking something out of heavy crystal glasses.

“Good evening, Dylan,” said a gaunt woman in a navy Chanel suit, navy pumps and a string of fat pearls. Her blond hair gleamed with highlights from platinum to deep gold. Her eyes were cold and blue, and her face so unlined and serene that she could advertise Botox. Good evening, Dylan? The woman was his mother and hadn’t seen him in months, yet she greeted him like a remote and formal acquaintance.

The man in the room was the perfect bookend to his wife. Imposing, silver-haired and large, he looked prosperous, snobby and well-pleased with himself. From him, Dylan had inherited the hazel eyes and the chin. “Son,” he said with a nod.

Dylan placed a hand on her lower back, possibly to stop her from bolting. “Mother, Father, I’d like you to meet Kendall Clarke.”

“Good evening, Miss Clarke,” said his mother with a tiny movement of her lips.

“Good evening. Thank you for inviting me.”

Something about the way Dylan’s mother looked her over reminded her that her dress wasn’t particularly expensive and that no designer would admit to having a hand in its creation.

She felt dowdy and out of place in the house that reminded her more of a museum than a family home.

When invited to sit, she perched at the edge of a chair whose upholstery seemed too expensive to sit on. How did anyone relax in a place like this? Then she glanced around and realized no one in the room was relaxed, least of all Dylan, who sat in a gilded chair she thought might be Louis XV and wore the expression she recognized as the same one he assumed when a fan got too personal. It was his remote, don’t-take-one-step-closer expression and she liked him least when he wore it.

Her arms felt chilled and she knew gooseflesh was rising in a most unattractive manner. The Hargreaves had obviously cranked up the AC.

As if the atmosphere wasn’t chilly enough.

“Your sister will be a little late,” Mrs. Hargreave informed them with another of those tiny lip movements that constituted a smile. Kendall was aware of an insane impulse to tell raucous jokes simply to see what would happen to her face if she ever laughed. “Mary Beth, Dylan’s sister, is an attorney.”

A pause ensued. “Are you an attorney also, sir?” she asked Mr. Hargreave.

His wife answered, her nostrils flaring slightly as though her dry sherry might be the wrong vintage. “Dylan’s father is a judge. The men of his family have served as judges for over a century.”

“Until I came along,” Dylan said, speaking for the first time since he’d introduced her. “I am the black sheep of the family. The skeleton in the Hargreave closet.”

No one corrected him. This man who received so much adulation she didn’t think it was good for his ego was admitting to being a disappointment to his family,
and his family wasn’t saying a word. She couldn’t stand it.

“You’re not the first skeleton though, are you? I believe I heard that your grandfather took part in the very first race at Daytona.”

Dylan shot her a glance that had some of his usual devilry in it. But if she’d managed to make him feel better for a minute, she’d done herself no favors with his parents.

“That is a part of our family history we prefer not to discuss,” Dylan’s dad said. For a second she wondered if this whole setup was some bizarre practical joke, as if Dylan had hired the town’s museum and a couple of actors to play his parents. Who wouldn’t love to have a stock car pioneer in their past? Or a NASCAR hero for a son? This was the most ridiculous evening she’d ever spent five minutes in. And yet something about Dylan’s face told her this wasn’t a joke. He’d actually grown up with these cold snobs.

Wow.

“Would you like a cocktail?” Mr. Hargreave asked.

“Thank you. White wine?”

“Dylan? Scotch?”

“Sure.”

She blinked. She’d never seen him drink anything but his sponsor’s beer and little enough of that.

While Mr. Hargreave poured drinks, his wife filled them in on local goings-on. It was a neutral subject, and so she let herself relax. But not for long.

“As you know, Dylan, I’m on the board of directors of the hospital foundation. We’re raising funds for a new preemie wing.”

Dylan made a sound of assent. Kendall waited for his mother to thank him for his donation, or perhaps ask him for one so that he could tell her he’d already contributed, but what she said was, “Ashlee serves on the committee, as well.”

Kendall received her glass of wine and took a deep swallow.

There was silence in the room.

“Don’t you want to know how your wife is?”

“Ex-wife, Mom, and I know how she is. She’s fine. Kendall and I were at her wedding.”

His mother shifted her pearls a quarter of an inch to the left. “You two made a lovely couple.”

“Yeah, well, she and Harrison make a lovely couple, too.”

“They’re in town, so I invited them for dinner tonight—”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Mom.”

“Nonsense. We’re old family friends. In any case, they weren’t able to make it. But she sends her regards.” She sighed, her hair glinting like the gilt on the Louis XV furniture. “I miss having Ashlee in the family.”

“She hated racing, Mother. She hated my whole lifestyle.”

“Of course she did. You were destined for the law. Everyone knew it, including Ashlee.”

“Everyone knew it but me,” Dylan said.

“If you had any idea how much you’ve let everyone down—”

“Have you ever seen Dylan race?” Kendall interrupted. She couldn’t stand this. Dylan could muscle his way past the fastest, the meanest and the sneaki
est of NASCAR, but here he was getting pulverized by his mother.

“I think I hear Mary Beth arriving,” Mr. Hargreave said.

They all turned to the door as though to an empty stage, waiting for the star to appear.

Mary Beth Hargreave didn’t disappoint. She walked in exactly as a diva should, with a model’s walk, a business tycoon’s power suit and a feminine version of Dylan’s face. She had her mother’s slim build and a pair of heels that smote Kendall with envy.

The evening went down another notch.

“Move over, bro,” she said, walking toward Dylan and sitting beside him. “The favorite child has returned.”

Kendall blinked, then looked at Dylan, ready to haul him out of there, but he looked happier than he had all evening. His sister kissed him on the cheek.

“Mary Beth, dear. Not in front of guests.”

But Mary Beth pretty much ignored her mother and came toward Kendall with her hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Mary Beth.”

“Kendall Clarke.”

Sharp hazel eyes surveyed her. “Hey, Dy, is this one an exotic dancer, too?”

“Mary Beth, please.”

Too stunned to speak, she glanced over at Dylan to find his mouth had kicked up on one side. At least somebody was finding pleasure in this hideous situation.

He didn’t answer and, after almost squeezing the feeling out of her fingers, Mary Beth let her hand go. “The
last woman Dylan brought home for dinner was a stripper.”

“No, I’m—”

“She wasn’t a stripper,” Dylan said. “She was a teacher.”

“She taught pole dancing.”

“Really?” Kendall was amazed that he’d dare bring any woman home who wasn’t a gentle Southern belle.

“Yep. Before that he brought home a country singer we’d never heard of and will never hear of. She chewed gum nonstop and called us all sugar.” Mary Beth sank down gracefully. “She had very nice hair, though. Big, you know?”

“Would you like a cocktail, dear?”

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll have a Scotch.” She eased back. “Let’s see, was the short-order cook the one before the country singer? Or was it that waitress whose big claim to fame was that she was Miss April in the mid-nineties?”

“Dylan never goes out with any respectable women,” his mother agreed, not seeming to speak to anyone in particular. “Not since Ashlee. If only you’d—”

Kendall had been around Dylan—and, even better, the NASCAR wives and girlfriends, who could be as gossipy as any other bunch of women—long enough to know that he didn’t date women like that. Interesting. He only brought big-haired, gum-chewing, nude-posing, pole-dancing women home to his family.

But his family didn’t appreciate or understand him. They’d wanted a judge and they’d ended up with a race car driver. Instead of being proud of Dylan’s accomplishments, they looked down on him. Of course, Dylan
being Dylan, he would play up to the image they had of him as a wild man.

For the first time since she’d entered this house, she smiled. He was an emotional teenager acting out. A lot of things started to make sense. She was so glad she’d made him bring her here.