What He Didn't Say (10 page)

“You want to air this in front of your friends, then fine.” Holt dropped the plastic-wrapped packages on the nearest table with a resounding thud.

Not the result Emma-Lee had expected.
Steady, girl.
She drew in a deep breath and smelled the intoxicating scent of rain, leather and male. Not helping the nerves. She exhaled.

He gave the Tarts a nod. “Excuse me, ladies.” Then he looked at her with a naked expression that jolted her. It was as if all barriers he'd erected against the world had been stripped away and there was only the two of them.

“You think I used you.”

“Let me think.” Since her natural impulse was to touch, to connect, she clasped her hands behind her. “All the while I was letting you view Double S's operations, you were planning to sponsor your friend's new racing team. Of course you were using me.”

Exasperation flashed across his face. “You parachuted into my lap, remember? You were the one who invited me to the Richmond race.”

Emma-Lee bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “You should have said something then.”

“I'd only met you. I was attracted to you. I saw your offer as a way of killing two birds with one stone. Get a closer look at
stock car racing before investing in it while keeping company with a beautiful, charming woman.”

She didn't think her heart could hurt anymore. “It was just business to you.” She turned her head so he couldn't see her pain.

He simply put a hand under her chin, lifted it until their eyes met. “Learning about racing, yes. Becoming involved with you, no.”

Holt looked so intent, so sincere that everything around her faded.

“The moment I realized that I couldn't separate the two anymore and you could be hurt, I told Preston that I couldn't be a sponsor.”

Everything inside her stilled. “When?”

“At Darlington. That's the conversation you interrupted. I was telling him then that it wouldn't work. In fact, I told him that he's not suited for the world of NASCAR and he should give up the idea. He doesn't have the dedication and passion for the sport.”

“What about the Sizemores? You used them, too.”

He rubbed his thumb along her jawline. “I met with them and apologized. We've come to an understanding. I've offered to redesign some of their software programs.

“Honey.” He dropped his hand only to wrap an arm around her waist and slowly drag her against his body to the hoots of the Tarts. Desperate to maintain some space between them, she splayed her hands against his chest and shoved, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

“Not only did I make peace with the Sizemores, I made peace with my father.”

“What?”

He nodded at the table covered with packages. “One of those is the game cartridge for your friend Phillip. The other is an autographed copy of Dad's book for you.”

“You saw your father?” She could scarcely breath. Had they finally bridged the gap left in their lives by Amanda Forrester's death? Hope fluttered to life once more inside her.

“We talked about Mom—cleared the air.” Holt hitched a shoulder. “I knew I had to make peace with the past in order to move into the future.”

“Emma-Lee.” He stroked a strand of hair away from her face. “I'm sorry.”

“Holt, I'm glad that you apologized to the Sizemores and reconnected with your dad, but that won't change things between us. We're both too wary in our own ways to take a chance on a relationship.”

With a smile he shook his head. “I disagree. I think we're both made a turn in our lives. I know I have and it brought me to you.” His arm tightened around her.

“Emma-Lee, what do you want to do with your life? Forget about your family or anyone else's expectations, what career will bring you fulfillment?”

The blaze in his eyes consumed her. She swallowed. “Charity coordinator. I want to be Double S's charity coordinator.”

He pressed a featherlight kiss on the tip of her nose. “You'll be perfect as the charity coordinator. I can't imagine anyone more born for the role than you.”

Holt raised his head only a fraction. His warm breath fanned her face. “Emma-Lee Dalton, you've always been a risk-taker. Does that big heart of yours have enough room to save me from spending the rest of my life in isolated darkness?”

The packages on the table were more than a game and a book. They represented the connections to people he had made and the changes he had made in his life, changes that could mean a place for their relationship. A man who could walk away from a business deal, a man who could reconnect with
his father, a man who could fight in front of a crowd—this was a man who she could trust with her heart.

She raised trembling hands and framed his face. “I love you, Holt.”

He wrapped his arms around her, hauling her up. “It took nearly losing you for me to figure it out, but I love you, too, Emma-Lee.”

As he kissed her, all the pieces of her life coalesced into stunning clarity. Dimly, she heard the shouts of the Tarts. Then there was only Holt.

 

E
XCITEMENT VIBRATED
in the air at the speedway. Last-minute preparations continued at breakneck speed as race time drew near. Holt watched the teams line up and place their caps over their hearts while a local military guard played the national anthem. As the announcer told the crowd to look up, a plane flew overhead and several forms jumped out.

At first there were only bright splashes of color against the deep translucent blue of the twilight sky. Then as the parachutist fell closer to the ground, he made out the instructor he'd contracted strapped to another carrying the snapping American flag. Pride swelled in Holt's chest as chutes blossomed and the stand erupted into cheers.

Beside him Jeffrey Colton cleared his throat. Holt could feel a knot in his throat forming as he could now see the beaming grin on Sandy Colton's face as the instructor maneuvered the pair toward the circle that had been painted on the infield. Emma-Lee landed beside them.

Photographers and reporters raced forward as Emma-Lee made a bull's-eye landing. Several men grabbed the chutes while others helped the divers from the harnesses. In the glow of the spotlights and to the roar of the crowd, Sandy, wearing a red, white and blue scarf, waved the flag in triumph. The cheers grew louder as Jeff raced forward to kiss his wife.

He walked up to Emma-Lee and, laughing with the sheer joy of life that was unique to her, she threw her arms around his neck.

“Oh, Holt, I can't thank you enough for setting this all up! For the few moments we were free-falling, Sandy yelled that she was flying.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the other couple still locked arm in arm as they faced reporters. “This meant the world to her and me.”

Holt tightened his hold, drawing her closer. “And you brought me back into the world, Emma-Lee Dalton. Business may be business, but in this life, my true bottom line is love.”

He lowered his head and kissed her, sealing the deal.

Maggie Price

To Al and Merline Lovelace—true blue friends and the best travel companions in the entire world.

R
AFAEL
O'B
RYAN LEANED
forward in the chair across from his boss's expansive mahogany desk. “My sponsor wants me to do what?”

“Get with the program,” Gil Sizemore replied.

“Meaning?”

“Acer Carpenter, the CEO of National Steel Buildings, called me last night. He and certain board members are concerned they're not getting a substantial return on the investment they've made in you and your team. One concern is your uneven race finishes so far this year.”

Rafael set his jaw. He couldn't exactly object. He'd won at Daytona in February. It was now June, and his finishes in the succeeding NASCAR Sprint Cup Series races had been inconsistent. His team was new this year, still working to get its rhythm. Even so, that was no excuse. NSB had sponsored the team expecting impressive performances.
He
was the one who climbed into the driver's seat on race days. Ultimately his actions mattered most.

“You said Carpenter and the NSB board have concerns. Plural. What are the others?”

“There's just one more, but it's major.” As he spoke, Gil raked his fingers through his dark hair. “You don't exactly welcome media attention.”

Here we go,
Rafael thought. He'd heard much the same comment from sponsors of other teams he'd driven for. He'd had no choice but to handle those situations to suit his own
needs. He would deal with this one the same way. “I never turn down requests for pre-or post-race interviews.”

“Those interviews always focus on that day's race and your driving.”

“Which is what my fans want to hear about.”

“Not according to your sponsor. NSB believes your fans want to know more than just what strategy you used on the track during a specific race. They want to learn about what you do in your off time. Get a look into your home life. Find out about the women you date. Bottom line, they want to know what makes Rafael O'Bryan tick.”

“That's why I write a monthly e-mail newsletter for my fans.” It contained only the information about himself that he wanted known. Some of it was true. Same thing went for the personal data listed in his official bio.

“I've seen the newsletter.” Gil settled back in his dark leather chair. Dressed in a team polo shirt and khaki pants, the owner of Double S Racing in no way resembled a scion of Charleston blue bloods. But that was exactly what he was.

Rafael gave thanks daily that Gil was the Sizemore family's maverick whose keen interest in NASCAR had prompted him to relocate to North Carolina in order to establish Double S Racing. Other drivers and teams also operated under the Double S banner, but Gil freely admitted he'd put a team together for Rafael specifically to give him a shot at the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series championship that had so far eluded him.

For that reason, Rafael felt a huge sense of loyalty toward his boss. But it tugged and tangled against the commitment he'd made to others years ago when he left his native Brazil.

“Maybe NSB's CEO and board members haven't seen my fan newsletter. I'll make sure they're on the distribution list.”

“Won't hurt,” Gil said. “But that's not going to solve your problem. You participate in a sport that demands its athletes step into the spotlight. NASCAR fans are loyal, they buy the products their favorite drivers represent. NSB hasn't seen the big bump in sales they anticipated after they took on sponsorship of you and your team. That doesn't make them happy.”

Rafael frowned. “During negotiations, you told them I wouldn't do televised commercial spots to hawk their products. Acer Carpenter agreed to the stipulation.”

“That hasn't changed.”

“All right.” Rafael eased out a breath. He knew there was no way a NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver could totally avoid the limelight. Knew, too, that on any given race day his image might be televised worldwide. But so were pictures of numerous other drivers, and for that reason, he felt safe enough that he blended into the crowd.

What he didn't want was for his face to show up day after day in a commercial that might be broadcast on Brazilian TV. Granted, his appearance had changed greatly over the years. The chance was minute that he might be identified by the man whose presence he'd spent very little time in when he was a scruffy-looking teenager. Still, others were in harm's way and it was a chance Rafael wasn't willing to take.

“What exactly does NSB want me to do?”

“Let a reporter follow you around for the majority of the month of June.”

“A month?”

Gil nodded. “A sort of ‘a month in the life of a Sprint Cup Series driver.' A profile that will encompass the next three races, and come out soon after the race in New Hampshire.”

“Come out in what? A newspaper?”

“No,
Sports Scene
magazine.”

Rafael shook his head.
Sports Scene
had international distribution. “I can't agree to that.”

“You already did. Emma-Lee hit you up about doing an interview with the magazine,” Gil countered, referring to his personal assistant. “But when she tried to get you to commit to a firm date, you blew her off. That won't work this time.”

Gil paused, then shook his head. “Look, I know you took a lot of ribbing from the team after
People
magazine ran your picture and dubbed you ‘the heartthrob of NASCAR.' But that was the season before last when you were a hair away from winning the Sprint Cup Series championship. Water under the bridge. And articles in
Sports Scene
tend to focus on an athlete's abilities, not his or her looks, so history isn't likely to repeat itself.” The
heartthrob
moniker had barely fazed him, Rafael thought. The ribbing he'd taken over it had been a minor annoyance. What
had
bothered him was seeing his photo plastered across an entire page of the magazine, leaving no chance that his image would blend in with pictures of other drivers. He'd held his breath that a copy of the magazine wouldn't wind up in the wrong hands. After two years, he figured he'd dodged that bullet. Now, he apparently had another one to avoid.

“I still don't like the idea of a reporter shadowing me for a month.”

Gil leaned forward slowly, his gaze narrowed. “Carpenter and the board love this idea. If you want NSB to remain your sponsor, you're going to have to agree to this. It's midseason. There's no way I could arrange another sponsor for you at this point. So if you want to keep driving for Double S Racing, you'll go along with NSB's wishes. This is nonnegotiable.”

Hands fisted, Rafael rose, strode across the second-floor office to the waist-to-ceiling wall of glass that looked down on the garage. As always, the work center was spotless, the
floor immaculate. Mechanics and other crew members were preparing the gleaming black No. 499 car for Sunday's race at Pocono. The car would be loaded into the hauler and leave for the track the following day.

Gazing at the NSB decal that stretched across the hood, Rafael couldn't imagine not being able to climb behind the wheel. Driving was more than just a job. It was his passion. Out on a race track, sitting in the driver's seat, was the only place where he could shut down the pretense, shift mentally into race mode and be who he really was.

He needed that sense of freedom. Not to mention his earnings. He wasn't the only person dependent on them. Without a sponsor, he couldn't race. There would be no money coming in to continue the shipments.

“Rafael, NSB has a valid point. If you held back on the race track the way you do where PR is concerned, you and I would have an insurmountable problem.”

Rafael turned from the window. Gil had left his chair and was now leaning against the front of the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “I would never hold back on the track. You know that.”

“Yes, I do. That's one reason you're driving for my company. You and your team are new to Double S Racing. I understand that everyone is still working to get in stride with each other. If that happens soon, you'll have a good shot at winning this year's championship. But all bets are off if NSB walks away.”

“I understand.”

“So, cooperate.
Sports Scene
magazine contacted Emma-Lee again. They're sending George Grant to write the profile. He's got an appointment with me this afternoon to get an overview of Double S. Then he'll hook up with you this evening at NSB's employee health fair where you're scheduled
to sign autographs. Grant's covered NASCAR for years, so I imagine he's interviewed you before.”

Rafael pictured the tall silver-haired reporter. A couple of times Grant had snagged him for short interviews before and after races. “A time or two.”

“Then you know from experience he has the reputation as a straight shooter. All you have to do is let George follow you around for a couple of weeks while you tell him about your past and present. You do that, everybody will be happy.”

And a few people might wind up dead,
Rafael thought.

Gil pushed away from the desk. “What do you say? Do I tell Acer Carpenter that you'll go along with this?”

Rafael glanced across his shoulder at the gleaming black car. Driving wasn't his only skill. He also knew what it took to survive. He had proven that while living on the crime-infested streets of São Paulo where life could come to a sudden, violent end at any time. Only two other people knew about that dark and murky part of his past.

And that Rafael O'Bryan wasn't his given name.

He had legally changed his name when he moved to the States, and he would do whatever else it took to guard his secrets and keep the people he loved safe.

He looked back at his boss. “Relax, Gil. You can count on me to give George Grant the exact information he needs to write the profile.”

 

Y
OU CAN PULL THIS OFF
, Caitlin Dempsey told herself as she wheeled her rental car into a parking spot in front of Double S Racing's headquarters building.
After all, you've written about hundreds of sports figures. This is just one more to add to the list.

Admittedly most of those athletes had been involved in some sort of scandal. Which was the type of meaty, dig-for-the-truth-no-matter-what-it-took story Caitlin preferred to
tackle. But circumstances in the form of a fellow journalist's family medical emergency had sent this assignment her way, so here she was, about to embark on a month-long interview of an athlete whose sport she'd never covered and knew little about.

After turning off the engine, she stared through the windshield at the three-story brick building with windows tinted a smoky gray. Well-maintained beds of flowering shrubs and colorful annuals bordered the front, looking as bright as gems in the noonday sun.

The knot of nerves in her stomach served as a reminder that she had never before walked into an interview without having a solid understanding of the sport in which a celebrity athlete participated. And, dammit, she hated that feeling. Hated knowing that when it came to NASCAR, the only research she'd had time to conduct was a fast read of the information in the bulging file folder George Grant had shoved into her hands early that morning. She'd met George at the hospital where his only daughter had been taken after a car broadsided hers, leaving her seriously injured.

Understandably, the veteran reporter had been in no condition to answer any specific questions about NASCAR. So Caitlin had used the flight time from New York to Charlotte to start boning up on stock car racing. In truth, she felt like an errant college student who'd ditched class all semester, and was now desperately cramming for the final.

To make matters more complicated, not only was she flying blind about all things NASCAR, but about Rafael O'Bryan, too.

Grabbing her leather portfolio off the seat beside her, she slid out of the car, then smoothed a hand over her pencil-slim black skirt. Her high heels clicked sharply along the flower-bordered sidewalk that led to the building's entrance.

She had studied O'Bryan's picture on the flight for so long
that his image was now branded into her brain. Just under six feet tall, he looked hard edged and physical in a way that suggested solid gym time. His olive skin, thick black hair and Viking-blue eyes evidenced the mixed Latino and Irish heritage background mentioned in his official bio. She would definitely make note of those striking looks when she wrote the profile on him.

Striking looks,
she thought, and rolled her eyes.
Gorgeous
had been the first thought that popped into her brain the instant she saw his picture. The reporter for
People
magazine who'd dubbed O'Bryan
the heartthrob of NASCAR
had scored a direct hit.

Which was neither here nor there, Caitlin reminded herself as she started up the steps leading to the building's entrance. Sometimes it seemed to her the sports world was overloaded with good-looking males. She had interviewed an uncountable number of them. Rafael O'Bryan might be one of the hottest-looking race car drivers on the circuit, but his looks made no difference. She would sink her teeth into this project by learning all she could about the man's past and present, then sprinkle those facts throughout the profile. After that, she would move on to the next project her editor assigned to her.

She'd resolved a long time ago that moving on was the safest way to live her life. On those rare times when she crossed paths with a man whom she sensed might be a little hard to distance herself from, she forced herself to take a hard look at the scars she'd earned to remind herself how life really worked. That was all it took for her to move on, both physically and emotionally.

She had just reached for one of the building's heavy glass entry doors when it swung outward, jolting her arm. The unexpected blow sent her skittering back, one of her spiked heels catching between a seam in the concrete. She swore
aloud as she stumbled awkwardly, hampered by the narrow skirt that ended just above her knees. The only thing that saved her from going down were the hands that latched on to her upper arms.