Thunderstruck (5 page)

“So have you met the great and powerful Mick Churchill yet?” she asked.

Janie’s whole face lit up. “Oh, my God, Shelby, he came over to the travel department yesterday and Sam was here after school and he talked to him for like twenty minutes about soccer and signed his posters and gave him a soccer ball and taught him this cool kick and…what’s the matter?”

Shelby shook her head. “Never mind. I need someone who is a little less starstruck.”

Janie set her cup on the table and gave Shelby a worried look. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t want to lie, but somehow saying it out loud would make it too real. Plus, they certainly didn’t want employees to know that Ernie was thinking about selling his half of the business. At least not until she had time to figure out another solution.

“What was he doing here all day yesterday anyway?” Janie asked when Shelby hesitated.

“He’s sort of immersing himself in NASCAR.” That was true. “He’s thinking about buying a team.” Also true. “And Ernie said he could more or less shadow me and learn the business.” There. Not a lie had been spoken.

“Shadow you? Some people have all the luck.”

At Janie’s tone, Shelby blinked at her. “What is so lucky about that?”

“Hel-
lo,
have you looked at him?” Janie gave an exaggerated little shudder. “The guy is a freaking hunk of holy hotness.”

Shelby snorted over her coffee but didn’t confirm or deny.

“Shelby? Are you blind? Did you see his eyes? That smile? Those shoulders?”

That chest. “I didn’t really notice.”

Janie tapped her arm playfully. “Is that why your eyes are brown? ’Cause you’re full of it?”

“Okay, you’re right. He’s cute. But he’s a pain in the neck. Every time I turn around, he’s there. Asking questions like ‘Is it Pit Row or Pit Road?’”

Janie giggled at the fake English accent. “Sorry, but he doesn’t sound anything like that. More like…” She sighed. “Buttah.”

“Oh, brother.” Shelby rolled her eyes and swallowed more vile coffee.

Janie moved closer and whispered, “Did you know he went out with Tammi MacPherson, the Victoria’s Secret model?”

Why did that make her stomach tighten? “He’s dated every kitty on the catwalk, according to my research.”

“Oh?” Janie gave her a sneaky smile. “You’re doing research on him now?”

“Just a little…” Shelby stopped talking as RayWhitaker and Pete Sherwood walked into the break room and locked both their gazes on her. Pete’s expression was blank, but then, she really didn’t know this new crew chief who’d be running the number fifty-three team in the Kincaid car. But she knew Whit. And those familiar hazel eyes didn’t look happy. “What’s up, guys?”

“You tell us,” Whit said. “There’s a rumor goin’ through the shop.”

There was only one rumor it could be. “What’s that?” she asked.

“Mick Churchill’s buyin’ Thunder Racing.”

Next to her, Janie sucked in a little air.

“Not true,” Shelby insisted. “And we got real problems to worry about, so we don’t have to manufacture any.”

Whit looked dubious. “This seems to be based in some amount of fact, Shel. We deserve to know the truth.”

Yes they did. “He’s looking to buy a team, that’s true.”

“And you’re selling?” Pete asked, his blank stare turning a little darker. Of course, he’d just signed on—with her and Ernie as owners, not some hotshot “footballer,” as he was known in the UK.

“No, I am not,” she assured him. “And if we win some races in the very near future, we won’t even have to entertain discussions like this one.”

“I think it’s great,” one of the mechanics said from behind the refrigerator door. He straightened and shrugged at Shelby’s look. “Well, I mean, he’s a big deal everywhere but America. He could bring us fans from all over Europe.”

“We need fans from all over
America
,” Shelby countered. Then she turned to Whit because, after Ernie, he was her most trusted advisor. “If this kind of talk is going to distract everyone from getting ready for Daytona, I’ll have him leave.”

Not that she could do that. After all, she’d made a deal. And sealed it with a kiss. A
French
kiss, which probably made it even more binding.

“He has an
office
, Shel,” Whit said, accusation in his voice.

“Ernie and I are letting him spend time with the team until Daytona. He’s checking out our business for opportunities.”

“Opportunities with us?” Pete asked.

“That remains to be seen.”

A few crew members who’d come into the room looked at each other.

“Cool,” one said.

“Dumb,” the other one answered.

God, was this going to start World War Three in her shop?

Whit gave her a look that said he thought the same thing. “Did you hear about the engine dyno?” he asked, pointedly changing the subject. “It’s actin’ up again.”

“We need a new one,” Pete added.

Oh, great. Where would they get the money for that? “Why don’t we go take a look at it right now, Whit?” Shelby asked. “Before my nine o’clock meeting.” With a newspaper reporter. Could her day get any better?

She watched the men all leave the room, then glanced down at Janie, who still sat on the leather sofa sipping her coffee with a sparkle in her eyes. “Dyno’s busted? Hmm. My mama always said God’ll get you for lying.”

“Or the
Raleigh News
will.” Shelby deadpanned. “And, I swear, Janie, I didn’t lie. Nothing’s set in concrete. Nothing’s done. Nothing’s changed.”

Janie rolled her eyes, then stood to put a friendly arm around Shelby. “I’m your best buddy around here. You owe me the truth. Are you telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“All except for the part where I kissed him last night.”

Janie’s mouth was still wide open when Shelby hurried out of the room.

F
ROM THE STOOL WHERE
he perched in the work bay, Mick watched Shelby cross the shop with the crew chief, Ray Whitaker. She had her long auburn hair pulled into a high ponytail and wore an ancient number fifty-three hat pulled low over her eyes.

His gaze naturally slid over her body, taking in the way her blue T-shirt clung to feminine curves, the fit of her threadbare jeans and, of course, the adorable brown work boots she wore. But his attention was pulled back to her lovely face.

Ernie made the rules, and as difficult as it might be, Mick wouldn’t break them. There was too much at stake to give in to temptation. Although…He lingered a minute too long on those jeans again. That was one serious temptation.

Was it the brim of her father’s hat that caused the dark shadows under her eyes—or had he stolen her sleep? He had no problem assuring Ernie that he could be a perfect gentleman with Shelby. He could. Except for one little kiss. They’d had to get that out of the way, that’s all. Otherwise they’d both be thinking about it constantly.

They still might think about it constantly anyway.

“Man, you can’t believe what just went down in the break room.” Billy Byrd, a six-foot-five-inch mechanical wizard held a coffee cup out to Mick and grinned a loopy smile that had obviously earned him the nickname Big Byrd.

Mick took the coffee and muttered thanks. Billy was a massive soccer fan but not the least bit intimidated by Mick’s fame. And, best of all, he was a fountain of information about the business, the company and the cars.

After Billy told Mick the story, he understood why Shelby had been walking as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Speculation as to why he was there, why he’d been given an office and the chance to attend crew meetings and ask questions was bound to lead to the truth.

“So,” Billy asked as he dug through a tool chest and set to work on the body of the car—the skin, Mick learned—that they’d just attached to the chassis. “Is it true?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

Billy chose a set of calipers and scooted under the nose, looking up through the empty engine hole at Mick. “That’d be a big change around here.”

“I don’t plan on changing anything except to help bring in more sponsors and money.”

Billy worked on a part for a moment, then lifted his body up enough to see to where Shelby stood deep in conversation with Ray Whitaker.

“She don’t like change,” he said.

“I’ve heard that.”

“No, I mean she really can’t stand it.” Billy pointed to the front of the car with his calipers. “Took five of us to convince her that the new Monte Carlo grille helped downforce. If it were up to Shelby, we’d still be racin’ Mercury Cyclones with strut suspension.” Billy worked silently for a few minutes, then said, “We could use some, though.”

“Strut suspension?”

“Change.”

Mick considered that. “The second car is a big change,” he offered.

“Yeah, a step in the right direction. But I’m not the only one who’s been getting calls from other teams. We’re out here in Greensboro and most of the action is in Mooresville. But, trust me, for enough money, people’d move.”

“Loyalty to Thunder Racing isn’t enough to keep them here?”

Billy just shook his head. “Loyalty don’t pay the bills.”

Mick nodded and stole a glance at Shelby again, just at the very instant she did the same. He held her gaze until she finally looked away first.

Score one for Soccer Boy.

Smiling, he counted the rhythmic taps of her little boot on the concrete floor, the beat of her fingers drumming against her long, lean thigh. Something was working on Shelby Jackson this morning.

“So what’s going on over there?” he asked Billy.

The mechanic followed his gaze. “Oh, the dyno’s all whacked out.”

The dyno again. “What exactly is a dyno?” No time like the present to start learning his next foreign language.

“The engine dynamometer,” Billy explained. “That’s a machine used for resistance testing of an engine. It measures the engine’s power. How much horsepower and torque it can produce while it’s revved. Ours has been fritzy lately and we might need a new one.”

“How’s it work?” Mick asked.

Billy’s tutorial was right on the money, explaining just enough to arm Mick with some good intelligence. When he finished, Mick pushed himself off the stool.

“Thanks, man,” Mick said. “I’m going to check that out.”

The large metal machine was located in its own bay, with enough warnings posted in the area for Mick to approach cautiously. But at the moment no engine was being tested, and Shelby was on her hands and knees peering underneath a large metal tabletop.

“The biggest issue is adjusting for temperature, and it’s gonna be warm down there in Florida,” Whit said. “A couple of degrees can change everything.”

Shelby pulled herself out and stood, brushing her hands on her jeans. “How many engines have we tested?” she asked Whit.

“Everything that’s built. But Pete’s gonna want to test a few more for the Kincaid car.”

“What’s the problem?” Mick asked as he ambled over.

Even half hidden by the brim of a cap, he could see Shelby’s eyes close in disgust. “A little more complicated than how much air is in your soccer ball,” she said, glancing at the machine. “It’s all about power and—”

“Torque,” he finished. “We actually compute it all the time in soccer. Has to do with how much curve you can expect the ball to take across the field.”

She inched back and looked at Whit, then back at him. “But we use computers, not feet.”

“So what’s the problem?” he repeated, ignoring the dig.

“The actuator isn’t feeding the right data into the system, so we’re not able to simulate the RPM or loads of a particular racetrack or account for track temperature.” She gave him a cocky smile. “You probably don’t know why that’s a problem, but it is—”

“Because the ignition and carburetor settings that produced all eight hundred horses on a cool Carolina morning will be all different on a warm afternoon in Florida.”

She acknowledged his correct answer with a shrug. “Yeah.”

“And repeatability of tests is the key to getting the engine right.” It was his turn to smile.

Whit slapped him on the arm. “Better be careful, Mick. You’ll be a gearhead before too long.”

Mick just winked at Shelby and waited for the color to rise on her creamy cheeks. It took exactly as long as it took him to banana-kick a ball from midfield. And score.

A young woman came into the bay and approached Shelby. “Your media interview is here.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Who is it?” Whit asked Shelby.

“That clown from the new daily newspaper in Raleigh.”

Whit made a face. “That DiLorenzi guy? Careful, he has it in for us.”

She tightened the ponytail that hung through the back of her cap. “I can handle him.”

When she left, Whit gave Mick a hard, assessing look. “You really want to know about this?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

“All right. Stick around, we’re going to test an engine.”

As much as Mick longed to follow Shelby and watch her handle the media, he stayed with Whit and watched him hook up the dyno.

Either way, it would be a lesson in power and torque.

R
OCCO
D
I
L
ORENZI KNEW
his racing and he knew it very, very well. There wasn’t a nuance of the sport he didn’t understand, as he’d been covering the North Carolina racing scene for years, moving from a weekly rag up to a brand-new daily newspaper that was hungry and competitive. Rocco prided himself on never doing a puff piece, instead going the extra mile to keep anything remotely flattering out of his stories.

All of which kept Shelby wound very tight from the minute she stepped into the reception area to greet him.

Shelby knew Rocco was building a name for himself on the ever-growing fan sites on the Internet and had decided long ago that exposés of teams and drivers would be his ticket to a million hits a day. She braced herself not to give him a thing he could use against Thunder Racing.

“Hello, Rocco,” Shelby said, plastering on her media grin and holding out a hand to welcome her guest. “I have a surprise for you.”

He raised one thick black eyebrow as he shook her hand. “It better be Clayton Slater, because I want to interview him before Daytona.”

Of course he wanted to get his claws in their new, young driver. “He’s testing a new car today, I’m afraid. Will you be in Daytona? I’d be happy to arrange an interview for you there.”

He nodded, patting his wide girth for a reporter’s notebook, which he produced from one of his jacket pockets. “I really wanted him for some pre-Daytona coverage. I’m doing a story on NASCAR NEXTEL Cup Series rookies.”

“Can I arrange a phone interview later this week?” That would give her PR person some time to draft up some key speaking points for Clay and assure that he could have them in front of him so he didn’t say the wrong thing. Which could be just about anything to a reporter like Rocco.

She purely hated this part of the business.

“Yeah, sure. So what’s the surprise?” Rocco pushed his wire frames up his nose and leveled his black-olive gaze at her. His expression said what he didn’t: it better be good.

“You can be the very first non-Thunder Racing person to see the new fifty-three car.” She gave him her brightest smile. “It’s gorgeous.”

He shrugged as if the new paint job was a big yawn but followed her into the shop. She led him through the various areas quickly, taking him into the paint-and-body shop where she’d first seen the prototype skin of the Kincaid Toys Monte Carlo yesterday.

And where she’d first met Mick. Oh, Lord, she hoped he didn’t pop in here and share his plans with Rocco DiLorenzi. That would be all she needed.

The body was still poised in the paint bay, where the temperature was a bit cooler to assure the paint bonded to the body. The thrill of seeing the number fifty-three—dormant since the day her daddy died—danced through her again, and she beamed at her guest.

“Isn’t it breathtaking?”

But he simply stared at the hood, then burst out laughing. “A clown? You’re taking a clown to Daytona?”

Shelby slid her hands in the front pockets of her jeans and took a deep breath. “The Kincaid Toys logo is recognized by millions of kids and parents around the country, and after this season it’ll be recognized by millions more.”

He snorted and closed in on the car.

“Don’t touch yet,” she warned.

“Can I take a picture?”

The PR team would kill her. They had some kind of rollout planned to introduce the new paint job in Daytona, but she didn’t want to irritate DiLorenzi. “Maybe after we talk.” The picture could be a bargaining chip she needed later—if the interview went south.

He scratched his head and frowned at the logo. “There sure isn’t another paint job like it in NASCAR NEXTEL Cup racing.”

“We’re very proud of the sponsorship and think the Kincaid car will spend plenty of time in the winner’s circle.” There. The PR people would love that. If he would only write it down.

“Got your hands full with Slater, don’t you?” he said, surprising her with the change of subject as he circled the car.

Clayton Slater’s reputation as a bad boy was only one of the reasons she almost didn’t hire him. But last Christmas he convinced her he had the goods in the most untraditional way. She smiled thinking of how he’d pretended to be happily married just to impress David Kincaid. The truth came out, but not before Shelby had recognized a kindred spirit willing to take risks to win.

But she wasn’t going into all that with this nosy reporter. “He’s ready to race at Cup level, I have no doubt. His record in the NASCAR Busch Series was impressive and we’re confident he has an excellent shot at a top-ten finish in his rookie year.”

Rocco wrote something in his little notebook, but Shelby couldn’t make out the scratching.

“Oh, he’s a helluva racer, I’ll give you that,” he said, dividing his attention between the car and the notebook. “But his personal life’s a mess.”

“Not anymore.” She could have kicked herself the minute she said it because the reporter looked at her with interest. Always looking for dirt. “I’ll let him tell you about it,” she added.

“So what are you doing differently this year, Shelby, to improve that lousy finish you had last year?”

What did they call that question in media training? A trick, no-win trap.
Like how long ago did you stop beating your wife?

She smiled. “Why don’t you come into my office, Rocco, so I can tell you all about it?”

He nodded, and she took him the back way to keep him out of the shop. And away from Mick, a face he’d no doubt recognize instantly.

In the safety of her office, she buzzed her assistant, who brought them coffee, and settled into her chair with a quick, secret squeeze of the torn leather seat.

C’mon, Daddy. Help me out here.

Rocco flipped through the last pages of his notes and formulated his next question.

“So where’s Ernie?” he asked far too casually.

She had no idea. “He’s not in today.”

Rocco gave her a surprised look. “A week before you leave for Daytona? The team owner isn’t here?”

“Co-owner,” she corrected. “And we both have many, many responsibilities away from the shop.” But where was Ernie? He was never around anymore.

“Guess he’s getting kind of old for a business that keeps you on the road thirty-six weeks a year.”

“He doesn’t need to make every race,” she answered. “I’m there. And he’s always watching and consulting by phone. It’s not like he’s not involved with the team.”

She cursed the defensiveness in her voice. There was no story here.

“Ever think about selling?” he asked suddenly.

Or maybe there was. “No.”

“Does Ernie?”

“I can’t speak for Ernie’s every thought, Rocco. I’ll be happy to arrange an interview.” Not.

He held up one hand. “No need to get testy, Shelby.”

Screw him. “Do you want to talk about our cars, drivers and strategy for winning or are you looking to do some sort of behind-the-scenes look at the inner workings of one of the last family-owned teams in NASCAR? If it’s the latter, I’ll be glad to have my PR team arrange for you to spend a few days with us during the off-season. But this close to Daytona, I’m afraid I’m not prepared to invest that much time.”

He scratched something on the paper.

“That’s not for attribution.”

He looked at her over the glasses. “I don’t believe in ‘off the record’ and you know it.”

She swallowed a retort and let him continue to write, seconds crawling by as he looked at his notes and prepared his next question.

“All righty then,” he said, leaning back. “Are you and Ernie fifty-fifty owners or does one of you own a larger percentage?”

Shelby swore silently. What the hell did this have to do with how they were preparing for Daytona? This kind of coverage would demoralize the team and wouldn’t make the sponsors feel too great either. How could she get him off this track?

“I bet I could get Clay Slater in here tomorrow for an interview,” she said. “He hasn’t done too many since he signed on to drive the Kincaid car. I’m sure we could get you something exclusive.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m hearing rumors, Shelby.”

Outside of her shop? “What kind of rumors?”

“That your grandfather is looking to back out of racing.”

“So what if he is?” she shot back. “I could buy his half of the business.”

“Oh, so you are fifty-fifty partners.”

Another trick she’d played right into. “No comment.”

He gave her a get-real look, but then his attention was suddenly diverted by a noise in the hallway. The familiar
thwack-bump-thwack
could only mean one thing.

Rocco DiLorenzi’s smile confirmed it. He looked at Shelby, then the hall, then back at Shelby. “Is that who I think it is?”

Shelby rolled forward to look and her chair whined loudly. “I don’t know. Who do you think it is?”

His dark eyes bulged. “Mick Churchill. I heard he was here.”

Just her luck he’d know soccer as well as racing. There was a double
thwack-bump.

“That’s me.” Uninvited, Mick suddenly filled her undersize office. His hair fell over one eye, his T-shirt du jour just as formfitting as yesterday’s. And, if it was humanly possible, he looked better in khakis than in jeans.

He held out his hand as Rocco stood, staring.

“It’s great to meet you, Mr. Churchill. What are you doing in Greensboro, North Carolina?”

He buried Shelby in the sexiest smile she’d ever seen that wasn’t on a toothpaste commercial. “Just visiting some friends.”

Rocco looked carefully from one to the other. “Really? I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“The world of professional sports is very small,” Mick assured him. “And I love nothing better than stopping by my friend’s race shop to see the incredible changes. This place just gets better every year.”

Another minute and she have to lift her feet to avoid the BS piling up on the floor. But Rocco was buying it. And most definitely on another track. Only this one might be more dangerous.

“How long have you followed racing, Mr. Churchill?” Rocco asked.

Mick sat down in the other guest chair as if he’d been invited. “Long enough to know that this team is about to blow the socks off the competition.”

“How’s that?” Rocco’s pen was poised, his eyes drawn to his new subject. “I mean, a team this small isn’t even guaranteed a spot, let alone two, in a race like Daytona.”

Shelby leaned back and the chair grunted softly.
Oh, I know, Daddy
. He couldn’t even possibly understand the arcane rules that dictated qualifying races at Daytona or the fact that owner points helped set the race order. But she’d let Mick take a pass at Rocco. Who would no doubt roll over him like a fresh set of Goodyears.

“All you have to do is spend a day with the guys out there and you’ll know.” Mick pointed toward the shop and Rocco scratched in his book. “They’re warriors. They want to be consistent, they want to be aggressive and they want to be in the front. This year, with two cars on the track, Thunder Racing is the team to watch.”

He hadn’t really said anything, but Rocco was madly scribbling every word.

“What’s the difference this year?” he asked.

How could Mick possibly answer that?

“You’ve got some of the best crew chiefs and mechanics in the business out there. And you’ve got a brand-new driver who wants to win and a seasoned driver who knows how. Not to mention the legacy of Thunder Jackson in the air.”

Don’t squeak over that, Daddy.
Shelby placed her chin on her knuckles, just for the pleasure of watching Mick hand out platitudes that she couldn’t have sold to Rocco DiLorenzi ten minutes ago. And Rocco sucked them up and wrote them down and evidently forgot he’d had a story angle when he’d walked in the place.

Mick spared her a quick glance as Rocco wrote. Then, of course, he winked, and her throat went bone-dry. Surely it wasn’t one little eye twitch that could make her feel so…tight. It had to be his use of terms like
elite
and
fearless
and
competitive
and, her favorite,
dominant in the field of play.

Frankly it was amazing. Not one
word
about racing. Not a single NASCAR acronym. Not one hint that he knew a drop about fuel strategy, pit times or shock absorbers.

“There are two teams out there, Rocco,” Mick said, lowering his voice and leaning closer as if he was about to deliver the secret recipe for a happy life, “who live to race and race to win. You watch. They’re going to do it.”

She didn’t know whether to stand up and applaud or roll her eyes. But she did know that Rocco wrote down every word Mick said, and even he couldn’t mess up a quote that powerful. Kincaid Toys and Country Peanut Butter would like it. The employees would like it. NASCAR would like it. Hell,
she
liked it.

Before long, Mick ushered him out and promised to spend more time with him at Daytona. He was gone before he remembered he wanted a picture of the new car. Even the PR people would be happy.

When they closed the front door on Rocco, Mick turned to her and gave her a serious look. “Nice guy.”

Shelby held up her knuckles for some skin. “Nice work.”

He tapped her back. “Told you to give me a chance.”

“You really fended off a mess with him.”

A spark lit his green eyes. “You know, on my planet we have a very specific way of saying thank you.”

She looked up, a smile threatening. “On ours we just say it.
Thank you
.”

“Not good enough,” he said, tapping her chin lightly. “Why don’t you go home at a decent hour and change into shoes that don’t have a single metal rivet, and I’ll pick you up at seven for a proper dinner.”

Dinner. Date. Bad idea. Unless Ernie was around to witness her undoing. “I really can’t—”

“By the way, the dyno’s fixed.”

She didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. Instead she touched the spot on her chin where his finger had left a trail of warmth. Plus, if Ernie even heard about it, it might make him less enthused about Mighty Mick. It didn’t mean she was giving in or accepting him or consenting to the deal. It was
dinner,
for crying out loud.