Thunderstruck (7 page)

She mustered up indignation. No small feat in the face of that chest. “I work here, Mick. I own the place.”

He glanced over his shoulder to the weight room behind him. “I want to talk to you privately. Where Holt won’t see us.”

“Where is he?”

“He went into the locker room.” Mick nodded toward the shop as he pulled a balled-up T-shirt out of a nylon bag and yanked it over his head to cover his chest. Too bad. She hated to see it go. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

He nudged her toward an exit to a back parking lot. The light snowfall of the night before had melted in the sun, leaving everything crisp and clean and glittery.

“What is traction control?” he asked when the door closed firmly behind them.

“Cheating.”

“Do you allow it?”

She had no trouble mustering indignation now. “Absolutely not. In testing, yes. But in a race?” She sighed with frustration. “A fine for that could knock us out for the season. Why? Did he mention it?”

“Among other things. Offset bolts. Lead pellets in the rear bumper.”

“Screwing up a qualifying car so you have to run a tricked-out backup in the race. He’s always wanted to push the envelope, and Whit just ignores it. He’d need help to run a traction-control device. He could hide it—it’s no bigger than my palm. But someone in the pits or on the crew or maybe in the stands would have to be an accomplice.” She shook her head. “Is that what you two were discussing in this so-called meeting? How to break rules?”

“I was letting him talk, Shelby. You find out a lot about people that way. What about the inspection process?”

“Very closely regulated. NASCAR has zero tolerance, and most of what you hear is folklore or the occasional slipup. No one races for very long at this level if they repeatedly bend the rules.”

“He says, ‘That’s racin’.’”

“I say, ‘That’s cheatin’.’ And, I swear to God, this is the last season with Kenny Holt in my car.”

“That’s what I told him.”

She drew back. “Excuse me? You
are not
the co-owner of this team. Did you give him the impression you were?”

“Relax. I gave him the impression that if I were, he’d be history.”

A threat that carried a lot of weight, she’d bet, when delivered by someone who could probably make good on it. Mick could attract sponsors, and they could attract bigger drivers. But, damn, she wanted another solution.

She’d lose all control of this team with him around. Maybe they would get the money that would get the drivers who could get the fans…but would they be Thunder Racing anymore? Is that what her father wanted?

She just shook her head. This must be how it felt to be in the forty-third car at the back of a wreck. Nothing but smoke and steel and flying rubber dead ahead.

“Come on,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t we have a meeting with a sponsor in a few minutes?”

She managed a wry smile. “Yeah,
we
do.”

“Think I need to change?” He indicated the T-shirt, now molded to the damp planes of his chest.

“If I’m expected to be coherent, you should.”

He lifted his lips in a half smile, green eyes glittering like the icy pine trees behind him. “Are you flirting with me, Shelby Jackson?”

“I heard that might get rid of you.”

The smile faded. “You know damn well it might.”

She plucked at the cotton right in the middle of his chest. “Then by all means come to the meeting, sit real close to me, and I’ll be sure Ernie sees that I am nothing short of breathless from the very scent of your sweat.” She shot her eyebrow up in a dare. “See how fast you lose your spot on the Daytona infield.”

She released the T-shirt and walked inside, leaving him in the cold.

M
ICK SHOWERED
,
CHANGED
into khakis and a button-down shirt and walked right by the conference room where Shelby and Ernie were meeting with Thomas Kincaid and some marketing people. Although he was completely prepared to be introduced as someone who had a potential interest in Thunder Racing, he didn’t need to step on Shelby’s toes any more today.

So she knew he’d been warned by Ernie not to act on the undeniable attraction zinging between them. And what would she do with that knowledge? Would she really make Ernie think there was something going on?

In the small corner office Ernie had given him, he closed the door and picked up the phone, dialing England. After some clicking and waiting, he heard the familiar double ring and waited for his sister to answer.

“Hello, Mick!” He could hear the smile in Sasha’s voice. Always. “How’s my best big brother?”

“Up to my eyeballs in race cars.”

“How’s it going? I haven’t seen any big announcements on the Internet about NASCAR’s newest owner.”

“I have one more hurdle to cross. How’s Mum?”

“She’s okay. Kip came over here yesterday and put her in a bad mood. He’s certain you’ll fail. He’s sure we’ll have to give up all of father’s papers or he’ll be a wanted man.”

Mick rubbed his temples. “I won’t fail, Sash.”

“We love you for trying, even if you do fail,” she said. “And, Mick, Kip’s been gambling again.”

Of course he had. His father’s DNA ran strong in Kip’s genes. He had an addiction. But maybe, just maybe, this whole thing would teach him the lesson he needed to quit. “Just keep him away from anything related to sports, Sash. I don’t care if he plays the horses or poker, but don’t let him bet on sports. It could be extremely detrimental to his health.”

Her laugh was completely without humor. “There’s an understatement, Mickey. Those guys will kill him.”

Sadly, they could. Probably wouldn’t, but there was no way to be sure. Kip had gotten in with some very unsavory characters.

“So how’s the NASCAR world? Do you like it?” she asked with an obvious effort to change the subject.

“You know something, Sash? I don’t hate this. I thought I would. I thought my foot would just ache to kick and my body would need to run and my whole self would feel incomplete without football. But I don’t.” He knew the risk he took when he made this decision. One year away from his sport—at a time when the next, younger guy was right behind him—could cost him his career. Such as it was lately.

“Then you did the right thing,” Sasha said, that smile still evident in her voice. “So what’s the hurdle?” she asked. “You said you and Ernie Jackson completely clicked. I thought it was a done deal.”

“He has a partner. And she’s not that anxious to share her team with an outsider.”

“She? That shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Mick laughed softly at the implication in her voice. “This one’s definitely a problem.” Cool to watch, hot to the touch and completely off-limits. “But I’m working on it.”

Ernie appeared in the doorway after a quick tap. “Oh, sorry, didn’t know you were on the phone.”

He covered the receiver. “I’ll be just a moment. Did you need me?”

“Meet me in Shelby’s office when you’re done.”

He nodded and spent a few more minutes with his sister, half listening to a report on Mum’s good health and Sasha’s bad love life and Kip’s latest foolhardy stunt.

He half smiled thinking of Shelby and her family speeches. She had no idea what family meant to him. And for now it was best to keep it that way.

“W
ELCOME TO
T
HE
S
HOW
, dude.” Billy Byrd held out his arm out the open window of the van at the enormous, endless, impossibly huge racetrack overshadowing the chaos in the streets around it. “Ain’t nothin’like Daytona anywhere in the world.”

Mick blew out a slow whistle, dipped his head lower to try to take in the scope of the racetrack and traffic and color all boiling under a relentless tropical sun. The van Billy had used to pick Mick up at the airport crawled through stand-still motor traffic, allowing him to absorb it all.

“Even bigger than Camp Nou, huh?” Billy asked, displaying his remarkable knowledge of European football trivia and the stadium in Barcelona.

“Nou seats about a hundred thousand spectators. This is twice that, I bet.”

“Yep. And not one of them will kill you at the end of the race.”

He laughed, drinking in some fumes from a Harley coughing next to them. “The race isn’t for ten days,” he mused. “Is it a madhouse like this the whole time?”

“Oh, man, the party hasn’t even started.” At Mick’s look, Billy held up a large, freckled hand. “’Course, there’s not much partying for us. But if you are inclined to take in the sights, hit the waves or cruise for fun, I’m sure somebody will be able to steal away from the garage to take you on a grand tour.”

The beach and fun held little appeal to him. “I’m more interested in the racetrack than the beach. Is Shelby here yet?” he asked casually.

“Oh, yeah. She’s been in the garage since the minute she got here. ’Cept for a couple of sponsor events and our press conference, I doubt Shelby’ll be more than twenty feet from the garage area or the haulers for the next ten days.”

As Billy maneuvered the team’s rental van through the maze of traffic and into a lot, he did a running commentary on the history and lore of the house that NASCAR built.

Mick half listened to the background on Daytona, his mind more on what to expect inside than how the place was born. It was Thursday and the race was in ten days. He had that long left to convince Shelby to let him stay. If he couldn’t do that, he lost.

And one thing Mick Churchill refused to do was lose.

A bet was a bet. Even if he didn’t make it but his identical twin did.

“How many of these have you been to?” Mick asked as they climbed out of the van and headed toward a building where he’d get his access credentials.

“This is my tenth. We come back in July, God willing.” Billy answered. “That’s a good race, too, but there’s nothin’ like this one. Of course, this could be our last year here.”

“You think?”

Billy gave him a hard look. “If we don’t start winnin’some races, if we don’t start smoking out some more sponsors…” His voice faded as his gaze swept the panorama of color and banners and tents and traffic. “Let me put it this way—money buys speed. And don’t believe it when Shelby tries to tell you different.”

Mick put his hand on the big guy’s arm. “That’s why I’m here, buddy.”

Billy shot him a hopeful look, then he checked out two women who clattered by on high heels and in low tops. Even in sunglasses it was obvious where Billy’s eyes were directed.

Mick glanced and caught the friendly smile of a brunette who flipped her hair and smiled at him. He gave her a halfhearted nod and continued toward the check-in area.

“Pit lizards,” Billy told him. “Watch out for them. They want a driver, but they’ll take anyone associated with a team.”

“Groupies, eh?”

Billy snorted. “They’ll be all over you once it gets out who you are.”

“I prefer that it doesn’t,” he told Billy. “At least not until I make a decision about a buyout. And if I do, that still requires Shelby’s buy-in.”

“You know, Shelby doesn’t like you,” Billy observed.

“No kidding.”

As they waited in line, Billy lowered his voice. “Shelby’s real protective, you know? She changed a lot when her dad died, from what I can understand. I was with a different team then, but I’ve heard she was a lot…nicer.”

“She’s nice. She’s just under a lot of pressure.”

“I can tell you this,” Billy said. “She sticks with her team, with Ernie, and that’s it. At these races Shelby hardly talks to anyone else. So don’t take it personally if she blows you off.”

“Do you think she’s so protective because she’s a woman in a man’s sport?”

Billy shrugged. “That’s the easy excuse. I think it’s because she doesn’t feel good enough to take over Thunder Jackson’s legacy. She’s just got this tough skin she never takes off. If you can get underneath that, more power to you, man.”

“Has anyone? Ever?”

“You mean a man?” Billy looked skyward. “Ernie’d kill him first.”

A woman behind the desk shoved paperwork at him, and before long Mick had laminated IDs hanging around his neck.

Billy directed him through a low-ceilinged tunnel about twenty degrees cooler than the sunny track. “I’ll get one of the guys to bring your luggage to your moho,” he said. “Let’s head over to the garage.”

When they emerged back into the sunshine, Mick slowed his step and blinked into the light. “Whoa.”

Every sense was assaulted. The track loomed above him at a menacing angle, taking up much of the king-size distended bowl. In the distance, the howl of engines, the hum of humanity and the smell of fried chicken, beer and burning asphalt emanated from everything.

Billy beamed with pride as he pulled a ringing cell phone from his pocket. “Wait till there are cars on this track. You’ll think you died and went to heaven. ’Sup, Shel?” He waited a beat, listening, while Mick took in the vista. “I’m right over in turn four, by the tunnel. Come and get me.”

A golf cart zipped by, followed by a pack of people calling out “Austin! Austin!” Mick peered at the driver and recognized Austin Elliott, one of the sport’s most popular drivers.

Billy flipped the phone and grinned at Mick. “I didn’t tell her you were with me.”

Mick shrugged. “I think we’ve reached a truce.”

He looked past the gaggle of fans to a small group of people gathered around a video cam large enough to be media, and another golf cart whizzed by. The infield stretched forever, already dotted with trucks, motor homes, more golf carts and packs and packs of people, almost all wearing something that bore a driver’s color scheme or number.

“Oh, my God, you’re right!” a woman’s voice pierced the din of the track.

“That’s him! I know it! Mick Churchill!”

Mick angled toward the commotion, saw the camera coming at him and a pack of people led by two women.

“You’ve been spotted, dude,” Billy said with a low laugh.

In a flash, he was surrounded, pens thrust into his hand, the camera—definitely a TV crew—right in his face.

“I told you it wasn’t a rumor,” the cameraman muttered to someone. “I heard he’d be here.”

He had?

“Mick, are you a NASCAR fan now?” one of the women asked.

“Have you given up soccer?” another demanded.

“Can I get an interview?” a third, this one wearing the heavy makeup of a television reporter, asked.

The cameraman stuck his head out from behind the lens. “Is it true you’re going to buy Thunder Racing?”

Before he opened his mouth to speak, another golf cart pulled up behind the group, stealing his attention. Shelby sat at the wheel, and under the shadow of her number fifty-three hat he could see her jaw set, but it was impossible to read her expression behind dark sunglasses.

Taking a pen, he signed his name. Once, twice. More questions were fired at him.

“I’m here as a racing fan,” he said with total noncommitment. “I have friends at Thunder Racing.” Absolutely true. “I’m taking a hiatus from soccer.” Already public knowledge.

“Are you sleeping with Shelby Jackson?”

His jaw dropped at the unexpected question, and without thinking he looked over their heads to meet her gaze. She’d taken her sunglasses off and she just stared him down.

For a moment the drama and noise and insanity melted around him. Before he answered, she pushed her sunglasses up her nose and zipped the golf cart away fast enough to make that thick mane of auburn hair swish like the tail of a galloping mare.

“Sorry,” Billy said to the reporter tugging Mick’s arm. “We’re wanted over at the garage.”

Wanted? That wasn’t exactly a look he’d call
want
on Shelby’s face.

“So much for anonymity,” Billy mumbled as they walked away.

“So much for a truce.”

S
HELBY TAPPED A BOOT
, dividing her gaze between Ray Whitaker and Kenny Holt and trying like hell to concentrate on the chassis setup the crew chief and driver discussed.

Are you sleeping with Shelby Jackson?

Where did
that
come from? The general rumor mill? A disgruntled employee? Mick?

And how had he answered it? Well, that would make her life easier. As soon as Ernie heard that, Mick would be history.

Wouldn’t he? Ernie sure had given David Kincaid the impression they might be making a major announcement soon. He seemed so certain Shelby would go along with this idea.

She puffed her cheeks and blew out a breath. Damn. She really didn’t need this during this month, this week, this race. She had two cars and had to focus on the daunting and enormous challenge of getting them in the biggest race of the season. Now she’d be up to her elbows in damage control. Or denial.

She could only imagine how Thunder would bellow at something like this ten days before a race.
Distractions screw up races,
he would say.
At the track, nothing matters but the cars and the setup.

“Don’t you think that makes sense, Shel?” Whit asked her.

Speaking of the setup…they were. And she had no clue what they were talking about.

Whit snapped his fingers in her face. “Come back to earth, Shel.”

Kenny shook his head before she answered, digging his hands into his trouser pockets. “You know what, Whit?” He always spoke to Whit and not her. “Just do whatever you think will work,” Kenny said casually, chewing his usual wad of gum. “You work it out.”

The statement smacked Shelby back to terra firma faster than Whit’s wake-up finger snap. What kind of racer in his right mind would totally defer any input into a decision as major as the chassis setup for qualifying?

No racer. A driver, maybe, but no real racer.

“I really gotta run,” he continued, glancing at his watch. “Got to be over in the media center in ten minutes.”

As if his cavalier attitude didn’t notch her already warm blood up a few degrees, the mention of media pretty much put her at boiling point.

“Who’s interviewing you?” she asked.

Kenny’s eyes narrowed at her tone. “Nobody. I just want to be a fly on the wall at Austin Elliott’s press conference.” He plastered on a fake smile and looked at Whit. “Always nice to see how the big boys do it.”

He lifted a can of diet soda—one of Austin Elliott’s sponsors—in farewell, pivoted on one foot and left, leaving Shelby with the first syllable of an obscenity in her mouth.

Without uttering it, she and Whit stared at Kenny’s back, then each other, Whit’s expression of dismay revealing that he nursed identical thoughts to hers.

He voiced them first. “That SOB’s going to a press conference and he can’t even bother to wear a Country Peanut Butter shirt?”

“Which sucks.” Ryan Magee popped out from behind a stand-up computer station, holding a printout. “Since they paid eleven million dollars for the honor.”

So much for a private conversation in the garage area with engineers and mechanics hovering and hiding.

Whit grunted in agreement, taking his cap off to wipe his brow, then tugging it back on with a jerk. “Fact is, until we got a household name plastered on the side of Kenny’s car, he’s never going to be happy.”

A household name. Like that soda Kenny drank. Not happening in the foreseeable future for Thunder Racing. She’d tried, but they just didn’t have the cachet of the big-name teams. And Kenny Holt, with his cocky bravado and beady eyes always on the lookout for something better, was the best driver they could hope to get.

Unless something changed.

Shelby stomped that thought and reached for the papers in Ryan’s hand. “How’d we do this time?”

Before he answered, she sensed the undercurrent of buzz that suddenly flowed through the garage stalls. She didn’t need to turn, she didn’t need to squint into the sunshine and see his spectacular silhouette and movie-star smile. When someone of note showed up in the garage, there was a distinct change in the atmosphere. Tools stopped clanging, engines slowed, mechanics murmured.

No doubt about it, keeping Mick Churchill a secret in Daytona was a total waste of time. The best she could do was keep her distance, let him learn the business from someone else and wait for him to go away. What was their deal? At the end of the race, all she had to do was turn and say yes or no. Until then, she’d stay as far away from him as she could.

A warm hand landed on her shoulder.

“We need to talk.”

She turned around to meet a grass-green gaze full of…what was that look? Contrition? Accusation? Hope? “I’m very busy and will be that way for the next ten days.”

Mick glanced around. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“Not in the garage area at Daytona.” She shifted her stance and notched her jaw up to look at him. “What’s up?”

“How about the hauler lounge?”

“Clay Slater is being media trained by our publicist in there right now.” She waited a beat and added, “Perhaps you’d like to go give some pointers to him.”

“You can go over to your motor home, Shel,” Whit suggested. “We’re just gonna run these tests a few more times. You guys can talk privately there.”

She tried to kill her favorite crew chief with a dirty look since there was no air gun handy.

“Excellent idea,” Mick said. “I haven’t checked out mine yet. Why don’t you take me on a tour of the D and O lot while we talk?”