Full Throttle (10 page)

“The guys aren't a problem for me. Nobody notices me, do they?”

“You're twisting—”

“Oh, but then I get noticed when people need tires or shocks or a wedge adjustment or their pistons rotated.”

Pistons rotated?

She was really upset if she was rotating the wrong car parts. Each chassis, engine and roll bar was like her baby.

This wasn't coming out right. Yes, he'd thought she'd get more attention with Cheryl, but only because he'd pictured Lexie in jeans and a T-shirt—her uniform ninety-nine percent of the time. To him she was always stunning, but he considered himself a connoisseur of Lexie. No one saw her as he did. Other men didn't recognize her subtleties.

And he liked it that way.

He grabbed her hands and pulled her against him, then ducked around the corner of the building. The valets and arriving customers gave them curious looks.

She jerked her hands from his. “Go home.”

He wanted to grow closer to Lexie, not further apart. For their roles as driver and car chief, communication was critical. For any personal relationship they might have, it was even more important. The problem was separating the two. Which relationship meant more to him? Which one couldn't he sacrifice? Did he want his Lexie as a car chief or as a woman?

He wanted both. But he wanted the woman more.

“Have dinner with me,” he said, stepping close but not touching her.

“Dinner?” She angled her head. “We have the team dinner and RC car race Thursday night.”

“Not with the team. Just us.”

A yearning sparked in her eyes, then she dropped her gaze to the ground. “That's not a good idea.”

He'd taken her for granted once, and she didn't trust him not to repeat that mistake. He'd played into her worries by resisting commitment beyond seduction. He'd planned to get her out of his system and move on.

What would happen if they actually had a serious relationship again? Was he simply afraid they'd fail? Or was he afraid he would never measure up to her standards?

And how would it affect the people in their lives? If they had a serious relationship, his father wouldn't be happy. Then what if it fell apart again? Harry wouldn't be happy.

What if they made themselves happy? What if he concentrated on her—instead of everybody else?

She wasn't a woman who slept with men indiscriminately, just for the hell of it. Like he would. His “one night” offer had been a cop-out. She possessed loyalty and subtlety and deep-seated love and passion. She didn't go for the moment; she held out for the future. For a man who would treasure her.

He desperately wanted to be that man. He just wasn't sure he could be.

But he knew one thing for certain. If he wanted Lexie, he had to be prepared to commit to her. He could no longer tell himself—or her—they were just going for physical indulgence, without all those messy emotions getting in the way.

Maybe he wouldn't measure up to Lexie's standards, the way he never had with his father. But he was through standing back and pretending she didn't matter to him.

Relationships were messy. Especially the ones that counted the most.

“I know I haven't been doing this right, but that's going to change.” He drew a deep breath. “I'm not going to give up on us again. I know the timing's lousy, and I know your dad, my dad, the team and anybody else we asked would probably tell us to cool it. But I don't want to. I can't.”

Her gaze softened as she met his. The struggle he felt was just as evident on her face. “I don't know, Kane. We're so close to the championship.”

“It'll always be there.” He reached for her hand, but she stepped back. “Have dinner with me.”

“Like a date.”

“Exactly like a date. I'll come to your door and pick you up and bring flowers.” He gave her a mock leer. “I suggest you wear exactly what you have on.”

She brushed her hand down the front of the dress. “You like it?”

“I do. But then, I always think you're beautiful.”

“Since when?”

Ouch
. Had he really been that lax with compliments? “Since always.”

“You seem more into blondes these days.”

He was going to shoot James. “James set up lunch with that woman. I didn't even know she was coming.”

“You seemed happy enough she had, though.”

Jealousy? He bit his tongue to keep from smiling. He was damn tired of being the only one turning green every five minutes. Somehow, though, he didn't think his happiness would go over well with Lexie. She looked as if she'd rather punch him than go out with him at the moment.

“I'm not interested in her,” he said, leaning close. “I'm interested in you.”

She drew in a swift breath. “I can't think with you standing so close.” She tried to step back again, but she'd already retreated so far, she met the alleyway's brick wall.

While he knew he had to start thinking with his brain rather than more-southern regions, he had no intention of forgetting Lexie wanted him physically, even if her conscience was resisting. He had to work every advantage possible.

He leaned over her, bracing his arms on the wall on either side of her head but not touching her. Heat sprang to life between them. His heartbeat picked up speed.

Her eyes widened with alarm, plus a touch of desire. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Reminding you.”

“Of what?”

“Good times we had. It wasn't all arguments and breakups.”

She licked her lips, nervously it seemed. “I never said it was.”

“Remember the races where we sneaked out behind the garage?”

“With James playing watchdog.”

He still remembered the taste of her on his lips. She used to coat them in bubble-gum-flavored gloss, and he did his best to lick it off every chance he got.

“That was a long time ago,” she said.

“We could make new memories.”

“Maybe we could,” she said slowly, her gaze searching his. “But not tonight. I was having fun.”

The
until you showed up
was left mercifully unspoken.

“Let me go back—alone—and I'll think about dinner.”

No way,
was his first thought. Not back into the pool of smiling, flirting sharks. He tamped down the impulse to grab her and hold her against him where she belonged. She wasn't a vulnerable teenager anymore. She was a grown woman, one who'd tapped into her feminine power and wasn't about to let him call all the shots.

He had to learn to let her set the pace, learn to be a partner not a director. Or he was going to lose her again.

Like a gentleman from another age, he bowed. “As you wish, m'lady.”

That, at least, earned him a grin. “I'll see you tomorrow,” she said, ducking under his arm and scooting around him.

“Yes, you most definitely will.”

“T
HANKS FOR COMING
,
” Kane said as he slid his signed photo across the table toward a waiting fan.

“Good luck tomorrow night,” the guy said, grinning proudly beneath his red and yellow Sonomic Oil ball cap.

Kane smiled back. “Thanks, man. We'll do our best.”

Even though it was Friday night and the rest of the world was just now getting off work, the NASCAR world had been cranked up for the weekend since Wednesday when the garage had opened. Kane had practiced and qualified, then been sent to his sponsor's hospitality tent, where he'd answered questions, shaken the hands of executives and signed autographs.

Part of him would rather be relaxing in his motor coach or working on his plan to get Lexie to go out with him—she hadn't mentioned his dinner invitation since Tuesday night. But he never forgot the people who put him in a NASCAR NEXTEL Cup driver's seat. He never forgot who bought tickets to the races, or his hats, T-shirts and collectibles.

The fans bought his sponsors' products. They allowed him to do what he loved. They supported him—win or lose.

“Hi, who should I—” He stopped when he glanced up into the cleavage of a well-endowed fan. “Uh, make this out to,” he finished lamely.

She leaned over, and he swallowed. They were in real danger of this family event becoming R-rated in just another inch or two.

“I'm Ashley,” she said in a breathy voice.

Kane didn't ask her for the spelling. He needed to get her moving before the seams of her skin-tight tank top popped under the pressure.

“I think you're
amazing,
” she continued.

“Oh, ah, thanks.” He signed a photo, then handed it back with a vague smile. “Here you go.”

She smiled slyly. “Anytime you want to party in Richmond, call me.”

“Thanks again,” he said, wondering if he'd have to hail down James for help.

Ashley-the-Buxom slid a card across the table. The sponsor rep assisting Kane immediately snapped it up. Obviously, James and his protective army of helpers had noticed something off about the exchange with this fan. “Thanks so much for coming,” the sponsor rep said nicely but firmly.

As the next person in line came forward, Kane winked over his shoulder at his savior. With her brown hair, confident smile and professional navy suit jacket, she reminded him of Lexie.

But then, he hardly drew a breath these days without thinking of Lexie.

As usual, she'd ducked out of the sponsor function early. She was probably at the hotel, hovering over her laptop.

He also couldn't help thinking about Ashley—and women he'd known like her. There were times he and James had collected cards and phone numbers. Recently, even before he'd kissed Lexie and unbalanced his universe, the whole idea of women he didn't know who came on to him made him uncomfortable. What did these women really want from him? What did he want from them? Didn't he want more from his relationships?

Not that he didn't like to look at beautiful women, but some of them were just plain
scary
.

He guessed his feelings for Lexie were scary in their own way, but in a good way, like anticipating a wild race while he was running the pace laps. He might crash out, but there was a chance he might win the whole thing.

Thankfully, no more scary fans stopped by, and he concentrated on meeting his fans, taking pictures and seeing the wide variety of items they brought for him to autograph.

He was signing a collectible car when a chorus of murmurs rolled through the crowd. He heard a few gasps and a woman who asked in awe,
“Is it really him?”

There were only a few drivers and people in the garage who warranted that kind of reaction, but he had no idea what any of them would be doing at his sponsor event.

The crowd in front of him parted, and his father stepped through the opening.

Wearing a light-blue polo, navy slacks, a dentist's dream of a smile and rock-star sunglasses, he still looked every inch the Super Bowl-winning quarterback. While many of his former teammates had taken to indulging in lush meals, spending weekends lounging at the beach house and occasionally playing golf, Anton Jackson still worked out five days a week and adhered to a strict low-fat, low-carb diet.

Kane felt a simultaneous pang of jealousy and burst of pride. Surely
some
of those superior genes had been passed on to him.

Since most everyone in the crowd was holding replica cars, hats or T-shirts with Kane's name and/or picture on them, the fans seemed stunned that a bigger fish had just flopped into their little pond.

“Quite a crowd, son,” he said when he reached Kane.

Not sure of the motivation or purpose behind this surprise appearance, Kane rose slowly to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

“Get Mr. Jackson a chair,” he heard the woman who'd saved him earlier say from behind him.

James strode up and shook his father's hand. Notebooks, programs and scraps of paper were thrust at the legend as he moved around the table. People all over the tent craned their necks to stare at the commotion.

Kane stood in the middle with his heart pounding. Did anyone even realize he was still there?

He traveled back to the days when he was a kid, when women gave him fake smiles and men patted him on the head, all in an effort to get to the bigger, better man beside him.

I'm tired of being second best in your life,
Lexie had said to him years ago when they broke up.

Her words were applicable to his relationship with his father. And they felt especially right at the moment.

He clenched his hands into fists and felt like an idiot for falling back into childhood insecurities and resentments he thought he'd buried long ago.

“I think you'd better scoot over,” his father said to him with a grin.

“Sure,” Kane said and moved his chair down the table to make room.

They signed side by side for a while before James announced that Kane had another commitment and needed to wrap things up.

Now that he really was exhausted, he was beyond grateful for his buddy's quick thinking, especially since he was pretty sure the only commitment he had was with a two-inch sirloin cooked on his motor coach grill while they watched that night's race on TV.

Amid waves and cheers, Kane, his dad and James jumped into Kane's golf cart and headed toward the drivers' compound. He'd planned on a relaxing dinner just hanging out with James, not entertaining his dad, and the closer he got to his rolling home-away-from-home, the more tense he became.

His dad didn't come to an event without a purpose—even if autographs and adulation were promised. After all, he got that everywhere he went, anyway. Kane had no idea when the true intentions would come out, but it had to be soon. His dad didn't like wasting time. And Kane sincerely doubted he'd put in an appearance just to demonstrate his support.

But, to be fair, he also didn't purposely intend to overshadow his son. He hadn't come to the hospitality tent to be the star. He just always was. The spotlight was as intimate a part of him as his skin.

When they stepped inside, Kane looked around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. Sometimes his fortune washed over him, taking him back to his first year on the Cup circuit five years ago, when he'd walked into his brand-new motor coach as a rookie, amazed at the level he'd risen to, awed by the influence he now possessed. He'd wanted a place to relax and hang out with his friends and teammates. Nothing too garish or overly commercial. No sponsor logos on the floor mats or oil-can-shaped faucets. He loved the beach—the Hollisters owned a house in Kauai they offered to him on the rare break from the track—and he didn't want lots of stripes or flowers. He'd given these directions to the decorator, and she'd created an amazing retreat.

She'd decked out the furniture in neutral colors with a slight Asian influence—bamboo shades and place mats and simple, black-framed prints of his racing wins. His bedroom sported several shades of blue and reminded him of the ocean, plus it was a nice contrast to the red and yellow uniforms he wore all the time.

“How about a beer?” his dad asked, dropping onto the sofa.

“Sure,” Kane said as he headed to the fridge. He could use one himself.

James got his own beer, then slid outside to fire up the grill. Kane carried his bottle and one for his dad over to the sofa. “What's up?”

His dad smiled. “Up?”

“With this surprise visit.” He settled onto the other end of the sofa. “Is anything wrong?”

“Can't I show support for my son?”

“Sure.”
You just don't do it that often.

“I wanted to cheer you on. It's a big weekend.”

“Yeah, it is.”
And the Cowboys have Sunday off, so he doesn't have a broadcast to do.
“You're staying for the race?”

He nodded and sipped his beer. “I even convinced your mother to come up tomorrow afternoon.”

Kane raised his eyebrows and hoped his dad had the sense to find her a luxury suite to relax in. The temperature was supposed to be in the high eighties at race time. His mom was a delicate Southern lady who considered sweating only half a step above mud wrestling.

“You know she doesn't like the noise and crowds, but she realizes how important this race is to you.”

“Mmm.”

“Why are you staring at me like I've grown two heads? I had the weekend off and decided to spend it with my son. I know you've been under a lot of pressure lately, and I wanted you to realize I'm behind you. I surprised you because I had a previous commitment that I've been trying to get out of for weeks. I didn't want to tell you I would come, then disappoint you. Would you rather I leave?”

Embarrassed by his suspicion, Kane shook his head. His dad had never been enthusiastic about his driving, but he'd followed his career closely and always assured him he had other options if racing ever lost its allure. Kane had usually taken that as criticism, but many drivers only knew racing. If their career bit the dust, they had nothing else. Thanks to his dad's talent and sacrifices, Kane had enjoyed a privileged childhood and the freedom to pursue whatever dreams he chose.

Even a few weeks ago when his dad had questioned whether the team could get in the top ten, he'd offered to find Kane a better team. Instead of being critical, maybe he'd been trying to help, to let him know he deserved the best.

Kane stared at the floor. “Sorry, Dad, I'm just on edge.”

His dad patted his leg. “Easy to understand. Everything's on the line tomorrow night.”

Knowing he was one of the few people who could relate to the pressure, Kane nodded. “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.”

The door swung open, and James walked inside. He took in the scene quickly. “How much male bonding do we actually have to do? I'm starving.”

As they laughed, the tension fled. James always had that effect on people. He knew how to read a room of sponsors, drivers or mechanics. He also knew how to read a woman and a balance sheet. He was the only person Kane trusted unconditionally.

The three of them had a great time watching the NASCAR Busch Series race and sharing old football stories during commercials. The night reminded Kane how great a storyteller his dad was. He wasn't a has-been-wishing-for-the-good-ol'-days guy. He talked about the past with a been-there-done-that nonchalance and humility that never failed to impress his audience.

Including his son.

After football, they even discussed tomorrow's race when his dad asked him about strategy and goals. He wanted to understand the track and the importance of breaks, why the turns were so difficult and the allure of night racing.

It was the longest Kane could ever remember talking to his dad about racing in one sitting. And without judgments or skepticism about the operation or his decisions.

Even after his dad left for his hotel, Kane and James talked about his sudden interest in their sport.

“Man, that was just plain weird,” James said as he closed the door behind Kane's dad.

“You're not kidding.”

“The Cowboys are off this weekend?”

“Yep.”

“There's no doubt the man can read a defensive line and pick out penalties for the TV audience, but interest in tire compounds and brake rotors? What's up with that?”

“I have no idea.”

James turned his head briefly toward the TV, where a reporter was interviewing the race winner, then he sat on the sofa. “You think he's finally coming around?”

“Still have no idea.”

Kane was optimistic and skeptical. Was that even possible? He needed some sleep. Maybe he was getting punchy from the pressure.

“Fans loved him at the autograph session,” James commented.