Thunderstruck (11 page)

Who had it? And where had they been at this hour? She considered going back to ask the guard who’d just returned, but there was a way to get into this section with a key, near the back.

She detoured through the motor homes and didn’t even try to tell herself to stop. She headed right for Mick’s and then she stopped and stared again. Pale gold fingers of light slipped through the back blinds where before it had been completely dark. He must have just returned. In the cart? Had he somehow gotten into the garage? Nothing was impossible where Mick Churchill was involved. He could charm or
enthrall
anyone into anything. Access to the garage? Why?

Something twisted in her chest, and the only words she could hear in her head were spoken in his voice.

Con artist.

“S
TAYED OUT A LITTLE
longer than expected, huh?” Ernie squinted up at Mick from where he leaned over the wide-open hood of the eighty-two car.

“Not at all,” Mick responded. “As a matter of fact, I had my mates home and tucked in long before anybody got in any trouble.” Including him. And, man, he’d had his hands on some trouble last night.

“You look lousy.”

Mick acknowledged the insult with a quick toast of the cup of too-strong designer coffee he’d snagged at a concession stand on the way over to the garage area. “No thanks to the Daytona Beach club scene. Something woke me up in the middle of the night and I never got back to sleep.”

“That’s the hell of life on the infield,” Ernie said, straightening. “It’s convenient as all get out, but it never really gets quiet. I like room service and silence all night.”

“This was…I don’t know…” Mick sipped his coffee and frowned. “I could have sworn someone knocked on the door, and once that woke me up, I was done in.”

Ernie’s expression darkened as he regarded Mick. “That’s weird.”

“Why?”

“Just forget about it.” Shelby’s voice, from clear over in the next bay where she stood next to the fifty-three car, was as bitter as the brew Mick had just swallowed.

He looked over the rim of his cup, noticing she wore a Thunder Racing cap pulled so far down her forehead he could barely see her eyes.

“Good morning, Shelby.” He added a little Euro bow. “And how did you sleep?”

“Not well,” she mumbled, shifting her attention to the open hood of the other car, then back up at him. “Look, this is a big day for us. We’re trying to find speed any way we can. Any chance you could take your NASCAR 101 lesson somewhere else until practice is over?”

Ernie shot her a deadly look, then turned his back to her, lowering his cap and his voice at the same time. “She gets real uptight before practice and qualifying.”

Or maybe she hadn’t slept either. Maybe the same vivid imaginings were making her sheets damp and knotted, too. Would Ernie defend her so quickly if he knew that?

“She’s right, actually.” Mick tossed the coffee cup in the nearest trash. “I’ll only get in the way here. I think I’ll just mosey around the track and the garage area.”

“Don’t be too obvious poking around the other cars.”

“Obvious?”

“You’re one of us now,” Ernie told him. “You may be wearing a guest pass, but this place associates you with Thunder Racing. Nobody likes spies near their car on the morning of practice. Or any day, for that matter.”

“Gotchya.” He started to leave, then paused. “Why did you say it was weird that I was awakened this morning?”

Ernie stole a glance over his shoulder at Shelby and then eased Mick farther away with one hand. “She thinks somebody was messing around the cars last night.”

He almost choked. “Me? What? Adjusting engines while everyone sleeps?”

Ernie shook his head, no smile on his face. “Things get very competitive right now. And, like I said, she’s real testy from now till the race.”

Mick looked over the car at Shelby’s back. She had her hands locked on her hips, studying the computer, deep in conversation with an engineer. Then she turned her head just enough to look over her shoulder and catch his eye.

And hold his gaze long enough to burn.

Had
she
knocked on his door last night?

Ernie cleared his throat and pulled Mick’s attention back. “Don’t they lock this place up at night?” he asked quickly.

“Of course. But she was looking in an observation window and saw something she didn’t like.”

“What time was that?” he asked.

“She said around three-thirty or so.”

Exactly when he’d been awakened by knocking.

Mick turned toward the car, the inner workings exposed by the open hood. Of course, it all looked the same to him as it had yesterday. “Have you found anything wrong?”

Ernie shook his head, walked to the car with his arms crossed and peered in. “I think the last guy out left a little too fast, but I can’t be sure.” He set his mouth in a firm, unhappy line and Mick knew that his excuse was bogus. “We just gotta have a good practice.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Ernie walked away, and Mick glanced over at Shelby, who had turned her attention to the new driver, Clay Slater. Shelby put one hand on Slater’s arm and said something that made the other hoot with a laugh.

Then Slater put both arms around Shelby and hugged her so hard he lifted her off the ground. It was Shelby’s turn to laugh, a sweet sound that echoed like bells among the clang of tools and whine of engines. She didn’t seem too uptight to him.

“There she is!” Shelby called over Slater’s shoulder, her attention moving to a honey-haired young woman who strode into the garage fingering a pit pass around her neck. Her attention was locked on Slater, who beamed as though he’d just been told he’d won the great race of life.

“Lisa!” Shelby exclaimed. “How can I ever thank you?”

They all slipped into a private conversation punctuated by laughter and more hugs. No, she definitely wasn’t tense. But then Clay Slater signaled for him to come over and meet Lisa, and Shelby crossed her arms and raised her jaw a bit.

So she was still mad at him. So much for the theory that she’d made a midnight call for sex. Though the thought was fun while it lasted.

After he met Clayton’s girlfriend and heard the story that had already become Thunder folklore about their rather unorthodox courtship, Mick took a chance and put a gentle hand on Shelby’s shoulder.

“Could I talk to you a moment?”

Amber eyes flicked over him. “I’m really busy, Mick. Maybe this afternoon.” Dis-missed.

“Ernie told me that something happened last night.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed humorlessly. “I should know better than to assume a secret is safe in the garage.”

“Of course not. Isn’t that why you knocked on my trailer in the middle of the night?”

Color drained from her cheeks. Bingo. It
was
her. He cursed himself for sleeping through it, even if that was the safest course.

“It wasn’t a booty call,” she said quickly. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“What did you want?”

“You know, it doesn’t matter now. Where were you?”

“I was asleep.”

Everything in her expression said she didn’t believe him. “Con artist.” She nearly whispered the words.

“Excuse me?”

“Your words, not mine.” She pointed to the number eighty-two car. “Somebody messed around with that car, I just don’t know who.”

A half smile pulled at his lips. “I’m honored that you think I know enough about race cars to manage anything other than opening the window net.”

“I thought about that.”

He put his arm around her. “How did it go with Tamara last night? Finalize a new bid for the team?”

“Not yet.” She lifted his arm from her shoulder. “Did Ernie chew you out for slow dancing with me last night?”

“Not yet.” He dipped his head and put his lips near her ear. “But for future reference, I leave the door unlocked. Just walk right in next time.”

He left the garage before she could fling a smart-aleck response or a wrench at him.

T
RACK MAGIC
.

That’s what Shelby’s father called the days when pit crews moved like choreographed dancers and mechanics found the perfect balance between tight and loose. When fuel mileage miraculously lasted longer and spotters called a spinout well in advance of a major wreck and drivers simply shifted gears, turned left and kept the accelerator flat to the floor.

On days like that, Daddy would say he had nothin’ to do but point the nose at Victory Lane. During the second practice for Daytona, Thunder Racing was drunk on track magic.

“Can you believe this?” Whit pulled the mike of his headset away and beamed up at Shelby in the pit cart. “Was that fourteen seconds or am I dreaming?”

She gave him a thumbs-up and a matching grin. Fourteen point two, but still a track record for the Country Peanut Butter car pit stop. She pulled her hat lower against the sun and turned her attention back to the track as about twenty of the competitors stormed by in a three-wide pack with inches between the bumpers. Her gaze locked on the yellow-and-purple Kincaid clown as Clay Slater came around turn four. Right now that was the tenth fastest car on the track—not bad for a rookie. And Kenny Holt was second only to Austin Elliott.

A thrill of anticipation and possibility gripped her chest. Could this be the year? Could things be changing for Thunder Racing?

“Could I join you up there in the lifeguard’s seat?”

She didn’t even have to look down. Didn’t want to. Just in case a wholly different kind of thrill gripped her chest—and parts south. “It’s called a pit cart. It’s for owners and crew chiefs.”

She felt the pit cart shake as Mick bounded up into the space on her right. “Great view up here. Wow. Look at this.”

She couldn’t help laughing a little but kept her gaze on the pack. “You’re like a kid.”

He leaned over, bumping her with one of his impressive shoulders. “Look at me.”

She followed the cars around turn one and two, deliberately looking right instead of at the man to her left. “I’m working.”

“Look at me,” he said again.

The pack was moving left, so her gaze did, too. She swore softly as she saw why he was so anxious to get her attention. “Who gave you a number fifty-three uniform?”

“I’ve made a few friends on the team,” he said, grinning at her and puffing his chest so the Kincaid logo stretched a bit. “Looks good, don’t you think?”

Good
didn’t begin to describe how he looked in it. And she didn’t even want to think about how he’d look
out
of it.

Shelby squelched the thought and switched channels the instant she saw the car next to Kenny Holt’s get loose, but everyone recovered without an incident.

Mick picked up the pit cart headset and pulled it on.

“No doubt you need a lesson in working the radio,” she said.

He flipped the switch, found the channel and winked at her. “Got it covered, sweetheart.”

They watched three laps in silence.

“Kenny looks awesome today,” Mick said to her when the pack moved around turn two and into the backstretch.

“The car does,” she answered. “Set up to perfection for this track.”

“So whoever messed with it last night certainly wasn’t out to ruin the ride.” He shouted just loud enough for her to hear him over the deafening rush of the cars as they passed the start/finish line.

She’d already thought of that. “Shhh.” She held up a finger to her lips, and at his incredulous look she leaned closer and added, “Don’t mess with the track magic.”

The cars moved to the backstretch, far enough away so they could hear each other without shouting. But Mick followed orders, pulling his headset tighter and concentrating on the practice. Shelby assumed her race position—elbows on knees, chin in hands, eyes on track—making her as comfortable and relaxed as breathing.

Except there was nothing comfortable or relaxed about the closeness of Mick Churchill, the pressure of his leg against hers, the power of his upper arm grazing her shoulder.

A trickle of sweat meandered between her shoulder blades, and she took a deep, calming breath of hot rubber and octane. But it only made her dizzier. A couple of cars bumped and the yellow flag came out, so Shelby leaned back to observe the pit stops.

“Will they always take four tires?” Mick asked.

While she watched, she explained the strategy of when to take two and when to take four. “And there’s always the gas-’n’-go option near the end of a race. But then the guys behind you have fresh rubber.”

“And what’s all the business about bump drafting?”

That required a quick lesson in aerodynamics, and just as she finished it, the green flag fell. Damn it. She’d missed everyone’s pit strategy. “You’re distracting me,” she told him.

“Then we’re even.”

She cursed the little shudder that he sent through her. She closed her eyes for a second, squeezing them behind her dark glasses. This couldn’t go on for another week or more. She had to get to Ernie, present Tamara’s offer and move on. If Ernie wanted press coverage and attention, Tamara could bring some of that, too. If he wanted money, she’d beat Mick’s offer. And if that didn’t work, Shelby’d use her trump card and give Ernie the wrong impression.

Because any more time with Mick this close and it was going to be the right impression.

And, really, how awful would that be?

He nudged her. “Hey. Your boy’s in front.”

What was the matter with her? She hadn’t even seen Kenny take the lead, but another spinout brought the yellow down. She blew out a frustrated breath and slumped back on the cart.

“We’re just about done with this practice,” she said to Mick. “I’ve got to get back in the garage and go over the stats.”

A reporter with a camera hustled into the pit, and Shelby paused on the rung of the cart ladder. No one ever came into the Thunder pit for postpractice interviews. But, sure enough, the reporter cornered Whit and asked a few questions about Kenny Holt’s car—which had ended up running the fastest that day.

She paused long enough to hear Whit’s dead-on answer, including the smooth slip-in of three of the sponsors and a plug for the Kincaid car, too.

Mick hopped off the cart and gave her a hand down the last step. “The photo shoot with
Sportsworld
magazine is in an hour,” he whispered, squeezing her fingers. “Wear your leather.”

“Don’t need it. I have track magic.”

“And I’ll be right there with you.”

Even more magic. “Great.”

C
ONSIDERING THE PRACTICE
Thunder Racing just had, Ernie didn’t look pleased when Mick entered the garage area. The older man leaned against a tool chest, chewing on his lip and waiting for the cars to drive over the black-and-white tile floor.

But his attention was on Mick.

“You didn’t mention you ran into Shelby last night while you were clubbing.” The voice was pure accusation.

“You didn’t ask.” There were no secrets in the NASCAR garage. He’d heard that more often than he heard “Money buys speed” around there.

“And you two had full-body contact on the dance floor.”

Mick half laughed. “Ernie, if you didn’t want me anywhere near your granddaughter, then you probably should have thought twice before entering into this arrangement.”

“We haven’t entered into anything specific yet.” Ernie’s brown eyes hardened. “And, all the same, contingencies are in place.”

“Shelby has to agree,” Mick said.

“Yes. Because it’s half her business and I’m doing this to
protect
her.” His emphasis on the word was clear. “You wooing her into bed is not what I had in mind when we met.”

“I swear, Ernie. We danced. That’s all. I’m not wooing her anywhere.”

Ernie looked very doubtful, but the screaming-yellow clown of Clay Slater’s number fifty-three car came roaring into the garage and Shelby was right behind it.

The conversation halted, but the message hung in the air.

Mick could control his instincts. Especially if he knew Shelby was just trying to be rid of him. But the look in her eyes, the electricity between them…that was real.

And that was trouble.

When the
Sportsworld
photographer showed up, Mick decided it was best to leave her on her own and headed for his motor coach to call Sasha and check on things at home.

He was still sitting on his unmade bed, talking to his sister, when someone knocked. He signed off, dropped the phone on the bed and levered himself up just as the door opened.

“You really don’t lock it.”

His gut tightened a little at the sound of Shelby’s voice.

“Can we use your moho instead of mine for the photo shoot?” she asked when he walked into the living room. “According to the photographer, mine is too small and not visually appealing.” She made air quotes around the last two words and looked skyward.

A photographer with several cameras around his neck and a worn duffel bag schlepped in behind her, followed by the reporter, Ross Johannsen.

“I can’t stay,” Ross said after they greeted each other. “I just wanted to get Gary started and get an idea of what shots we need.”

“What exactly do you need?” Shelby asked as the photographer started setting up his equipment and taking a few test shots.

“Natural, at-home, casual, woman-behind-the-team kind of shots,” Ross said. “You know, cooking, relaxing, on the phone, reading. I just want the pictures to capture you away from the garage and the pits. Do you have anything to change into?”

She plucked at the black-and-red knit shirt of her Thunder Racing shop uniform. “This is what I wear at the track. Mostly.”

Ross glanced at Gary, rubbing his chin in thought. “I don’t want her in the same clothes for every shot. Maybe you want to go back to your coach and change into something you might wear for lounging or relaxing?” he asked Shelby.

“I don’t relax at the track,” she said with a laugh.

“Come here,” Mick said, tilting his head toward the bedroom. “We’ll find something for you while Gary sets up.”

She looked surprised but followed him to the back room, where he pulled open a dresser drawer. “Mind wearing a Manchester United shirt?” he asked.

“Mick, shouldn’t I be in my uniform?” she asked. “To promote the team name?”

“He’ll have both kinds of shots, and the team name will be all over the article. Help him make you seem like a person readers will connect with and relate to, not a corporate billboard. That’s the gist of the story.”

She capitulated with a drop of her shoulders. “Okay. Give it to me.” She popped the top snap of her shirt and gave him a expectant look as her fingers poised over her chest, ready to undo the rest. “Unless you want to see exactly how a black silk bra looks under a racing uniform, you better leave now.”

“Black silk, huh?” He held out the shirt. “I imagined you as a red-lace girl.”

She tugged one more snap. “You imagined wrong.”

He grinned. “But I
did
imagine.”

He let his gaze drop to her partially opened bodice and caught a glimpse of something black. She twisted her wrist and popped another snap with a daring look in her eye. For one long, warm moment they just stared at each other, inches apart. A tiny vein pulsed in her throat and her cheeks darkened slightly.

“And you,” he said softly as he dropped the T-shirt on the bed, “have imagined, too.”

She didn’t disagree. Instead he could have sworn he heard her sigh as he closed the door and left her to undress alone.

T
HE SILKY SHEEN OF
the Manchester United football jersey still brushed against Shelby’s skin hours later. She’d found lots of other things she had to do before going to watch the Shootout that evening, but not one of them was take off the shirt that felt so darn delicious to wear. She’d already decided she’d sleep in it.

They’d finished the photo session with some outside shots using the infield as a backdrop, and when she’d gone to return the shirt, Mick had left his motor home. And this time it was locked.

So she’d gone to her own coach, changed into jeans and left Mick’s T-shirt right where it had been all afternoon. Touching her skin, brushing her silk underwear.

As she made herself a sandwich at dinnertime, she thought about the look on his face when she’d unsnapped her shirt. She knew one thing for sure—he was fighting Ernie’s edict with everything he had.

And so was she.

Ernie. She blew out a breath. A little twinge of discomfort and guilt pinched her because she still hadn’t told him about Tamara’s offer. When she’d called Ernie after the photo shoot, he’d said he was headed off to watch the Shootout with his usual racing cronies, so she couldn’t tell him tonight, even though he’d asked her to join them. But the invitation held little enthusiasm and less appeal. She’d watch the Shootout, of course, but not with Ernie. And not with the crew or her teams.

And where would Mick be?

It didn’t matter. She knew where she’d be.

On the counter in her kitchen, her gaze moved to the white envelope that had been delivered earlier that day. For eight years that envelope had arrived at her motor home on the day of the Budweiser Shootout; at every other race, it arrived the afternoon of the NASCAR Busch Series Race. She had a standing order at every track.

“Shelby?” A swift knock at her motor home door almost obliterated the bit of English accent in the call. Almost. Not quite enough to eliminate the little buzz of excitement that danced through her every time Mick said her name.

“You want your shirt back?” she asked as she pulled open the door.

His gaze swept over her, just slow enough to make her feel as if he could see right through his shirt. And his smile said he liked what he saw. “I’m sure it’s never been happier. Keep it. I’ve got dozens.”

“Thanks. Are you going to watch the Shootout?”

He put one foot up on the step. “Are you?”

“Of course.” She managed to keep from looking at the envelope.