Thunderstruck (19 page)

“If you’re expecting words of wisdom from him, you need to know that he’s usually very uptight the night before a race and he only wants to talk strategy. Nothing heavy or personal.”

His shoulders straightened and he lifted his head, but he didn’t move.

“Are you okay?” she asked as she reached him.

He turned red-rimmed eyes and an ashen face toward her. “Not exactly.”

“What’s wrong?” Her legs folded as she crouched down to his level, instantly reaching for him. “What’s the matter, Mick?”

“Kip’s back in jail.”

She sucked in a breath. “Oh, Mick.”

“My sister called while you were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He just shook his head and stared at the track. “It’s worse. He was busted for running numbers on the United.” He looked at her, pain on his face. “
My
team. My football team.”

She took his hands. “You’ll rise above that.”

He let out a half laugh. “I don’t care, I can weather some bad press. It’s just that…” He shook his head and his voice faded. “I wanted to make this decision on my own, not have him make it for me.”

“What decision?” She knew but wanted to hear him say it.

He turned to her, his green eyes as full of emotion and doubt as she’d ever seen them. “I lied to you, Shelby.” As she reacted, he reached out. “Don’t take it personally. I lied to myself, too. The business with Kip, it was all a lot easier to walk away from my football career because, well, I haven’t exactly been playing up to par.”

She frowned at him. “Athletes retire, Mick.”

“But I didn’t want to retire. I’m only thirty-five. I could keep playing. But I have this thing about…”

“Quitting.”

He gave her a tight smile. “Never, never, never.”

She knew. “Funny, I have this thing about change.”

He flashed her a look. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

God, yes. They were. Couldn’t he see that?

“So,” she said as casually as she could muster because his answer mattered so much it actually squeezed her chest. “Without Kip as a reason to stay, what are you going to do?”

He tightened his grip on her hand. “I guess I’m still waiting for you to say yes or no.”

“Oh.” The sound came as a strangled sigh. “Mick.”

He pulled her close. “I know this is crazy, I know this doesn’t make sense, but I’m in love with you. And I don’t think that’s going to change.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, gently at first, then like a kiss that could last forever. “Good. I hate change.”

Then he pulled her onto his lap, and the whole row of seats creaked in unison.

H
E
’
D PLAYED IN
Barcelona’s Nou stadium before a hundred thousand certifiably insane football fans. He’d won the World Cup with a tiebraking left-footed kick in San Siro. He made the final goal ever scored in the historic pitch of Waldstadion before the famous walls of that Frankfurt stadium were flattened for all time.

But nothing, no international sporting event in any country, on any continent, prepared Mick for Daytona.

The size and intensity and deafening rush of noise and machinery and color and thousands and thousands of spectators all poured into a bowl to burn under dizzying, blinding, unrelenting sunshine.

Hundreds of people lined the pit road, in packs of matching fire suits and visored helmets, NASCAR officials peppered in the bunch, and everyone wired together on invisible microphones. Nerves, excitement and adrenaline vibrated the air.

A pastor prayed. A celebrity sang the “Star-Spangled Banner.” A squadron of fighter jets screamed overhead. And then the whole world shook with…
thunder.

Settling into his seat in the pit cart, Mick reached for Shelby’s hand. She was listening to the static and chatter in a headset but pulled down her sunglasses to meet his gaze.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

He grinned. “Yeah, I’d say.” He pulled out the magazine he had rolled up in his back pocket. “See this yet?”

She glanced at it.
“Sportsworld?”
She shook her head and tapped her headset. “I’ll read it later.”

“Read it now,” he yelled as the pack rolled by, led by the pace car.

She scowled at him. “I’m a little busy now.”

He slapped the magazine faceup on her lap so she could see her own beautiful smile and twinkling brown eyes. “Oh!” She pulled her sunglasses off. “We really got the cover.”

“Open it. Page nine.”

Forty-three race cars rumbled by in a pack. She fluttered the pages and flipped to the feature article. More pictures of her in the garage, with the crew chiefs, with Clay Slater. A sidebar on the Kincaid Toys sponsorship with a large color picture of their clown.

“Wow. Awesome. The sponsor’s going to love this.” She squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Mick. Now watch the race.”

“Turn the page.”

She glanced at the racetrack with a pained expression. “Oookay,” she mouthed slowly with a warning look.

She flipped to the page, and he watched her eyes fall on the sidebar story with a picture of him. And another of her wearing his Manchester United T-shirt. She tapped the headline:
Romance Rumors Circle the Track.

She laughed softly. “Well, for once the rumors are right. And,” she added with a wink, “you look hot. Can I watch the race now?”

“Not until you read the last paragraph.”

She barely suppressed a sigh. He watched her finger slide down the page and studied her face as she read the words he’d memorized.

Of all the rumors swirling about, the most surprising one is that Mick Churchill plans to ask Shelby Jackson to marry him, keeping Thunder Racing the family-owned team it has always been. He confirmed this late last week. “I’ve told her from the day we met that I’m going to sit next to her at Daytona and ask her to give me the ultimate answer—yes or no.”

She looked up at him. “Typical media. They took that whole quote out of context.”

“No they didn’t.”

As he said it, the entire racetrack rocked with a tidal wave of deafening sound. Everyone stood and screamed, and about thirty-five thousand horses of raw power surged into a blur of color.

But she didn’t look at the track. She just stared at him.

“They didn’t?”

He shook his head very slowly.

Her mouth opened in a little O shape, but no sound came out.

“Yes or no, Shelby Jackson?” He mouthed the words.

The pack rolled by, so loud he couldn’t have heard her if she screamed. But she didn’t have to. The answer was in her eyes.
Yes.

Instead she held her finger to her lips and smiled. “Shhh. Don’t mess with the track magic.”

ISBN: 978-1-55254-854-7

THUNDERSTRUCK

Copyright © 2007 by Harlequin Books S.A.

Roxanne St. Claire is acknowledged as the author of this work.

NASCAR® and the NASCAR Library Collection are registered trademarks of the National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing, Inc.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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