Thunderstruck

  All around the hauler, Thunder employees worked. In their matching short-sleeved uniforms, her crew hustled between their garage bay and their side-by-side transporters. Pete Sherwood, just inside the hauler, beckoned Shelby to the computer screen, and Mick followed.

  “Look at these shock dyno numbers, Shel.” He tapped the keyboard and the screen flashed. “Good, huh?”

  Mick squinted at the columns of numbers, and although they didn’t make sense to him, he could see the pattern that emerged.

  “Those are great, Pete,” she said encouragingly. “You got forty-eight hours to get them better.”

  The crew chief gave her a toothy grin and a quick thumbs-up. “Of course we can.”

  She tapped Pete’s arm. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Saturday is qualifying?” Mick asked.

  “Practice,” Pete said. “Tomorrow’s the Shootout, but we didn’t make that show. Sunday we qualify.”

  “It’s a complex system of qualifying at this race,” Shelby said. “Great for fans because there’s lots of racing, but the process is intricate. I’ll explain it to you later. Is Clay still in the lounge with Avery?” she asked Pete.

  “Yeah, some other guy’s in there, too. I think it’s an interview.”

  “Really?” She cringed. “Who is it?”

  “That guy from Sportsworld magazine,” Pete said. “Johan…something.”

  “Ross.” She looked up at Mick, surprise in her eyes. “He’s never printed ten words about Thunder Racing, and what he has was less than flattering.”

  “Ross Johannsen?” Mick asked. “I know that guy.”

  The lounge doors opened, and Mick immediately saw the hole in the field he’d been looking for. The only thing in his way was a pretty blond PR girl who was closing up the meeting in progress. When she stepped to the side, Mick grinned at Ross Johannsen.

  “No freaking way!” the reporter exclaimed, moving right by the young woman. “Is that you, Mick?”

  “Ross!” Mick said, hand extended. “Great to see you, man.” The two men exchanged a friendly guylike shake and shoulder pat.

  “What the hell are you doing in Daytona?” Ross asked, throwing a slightly accusing glance at the PR person as though she’d intentionally held back The Big Story.

  Mick deflected the question with a media-trained smile. “Who’d be anywhere else in February?” Then he turned to Shelby. “You know the co-owner of Thunder Racing, Shelby Jackson?”

  Her look of dismay said everything. How had this happened? He was introducing her to the media in the Thunder hauler? Perfect.

  “I don’t think we’ve ever had the pleasure,” Ross said, shaking her hand. “I’ve met your grandfather a few times. And—” his voice dropped with reverence “—I was a fan of your father’s.”

  Pride made her eyes beam, but Ross looked away to Mick, then back at Shelby. “Oh. Now this makes sense.” He nodded as if some mysterious lightbulb had just gone off in his head. “Now I’m putting two and two together and getting…” He smiled. “A story.”

  If Mick could do anything, he could steer a story in the direction he wanted it to go. Smooth as a hook shot. “Why don’t we sit down in the lounge for a few minutes?” he suggested. “So we can talk.”

  Without waiting for the obviously concerned PR person to step in, Mick guided Ross into the lounge and cocked his head to Shelby to join them. She glanced at the young woman holding a clipboard.

  “Avery?” Mick asked. When she nodded, he put an authoritative hand on her shoulder. “I know we haven’t officially met yet, but you can trust me with this guy. I go way back with Mr. Johannsen and Sportsworld magazine. No worries, I assure you.”

  “That’s for sure,” Ross called from the lounge. “You’ve been on the cover seven times, Mick. Maybe we can make it eight, huh?”

  Shelby’s eyes popped wide. “Seven times?”

  He grinned at Shelby and whispered, “And Thunder Racing? How many covers?”

  “How many column inches is a better question,” Avery said, keeping her voice low. “We’ve never had a feature story in that magazine, and he didn’t seem too inclined to do one now. He was on his way to Austin Elliott’s press conference.”

  Mick looked from Shelby to Avery. “I’ll keep him here.” He put a hand on Shelby’s back and led her toward the lounge door. “But I need you for this story.”

  She hesitated. “What story?”

  “Trust me,” he whispered with a wink. “We’re on the same team.” And he was about to prove that.

  MICK SPRAWLED comfortably on the sofa across from where Shelby sat facing Ross Johannsen at the small conference table. How could he be so comfortable? His hands locked behind his head, one foot hooked onto the leather arm, his impressive body and undeniable presence filling up the entire room, Mick was the embodiment of ease.

  Shelby took a slow, deep breath, digging for that same level of relaxation. Would he break the story of his interest in the team? And would they tell the reporter she had to consent to the deal? Okay, that wasn’t the end of the world, but it might really irritate the sponsors and worry the team.

  “So,” Ross said, flipping a reporter’s notebook to a fresh page. “Is the move from soccer to racing official?”

  Mick didn’t move a muscle, but his gaze slid easily to the notebook, then back to Ross’s face. “How ’bout we do that part off the record?”

  The reporter looked dubious. “Mick, you know I can’t do that.”

  Mick dropped his arms, sat up and leaned forward. “All right. For the record, I’m taking a leave of absence.”

  “I ran that story already. Are you retiring for good?”

  “I’m looking at other opportunities.”

  “In NASCAR?”

  He scratched the back of his head and thought for a minute. “Maybe.”

  Ross glanced at Shelby as though she could help him, then back at Mick. “I’ve heard some rumors, but until I saw you here I dismissed them. Can you confirm them?”

  Mick looked at him for a minute. “You know what I love about the stories you do, Ross?”

  Ross lifted an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  “The human touch. Like that feature you did on the kid from Vegas who walked on to the Yankees and ended up starting?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ross nodded. “Got a lot of mail on that.”

  “You know why? Because you captured his heart. And, oh—” Mick sat up straighter, his voice excited. “That cover story on the Nevada Snake Eyes pitcher.”

  “Deuce Monroe?”

  “Brilliant stuff about his return to his hometown and the girl who loved him since she was five years old. Just brilliant. Full of emotion, the kind that twists your gut and makes readers understand what makes an athlete tick.”

  Ross beamed at the ego stroke. “Picked up about ten thousand female readers on that one.”

  “Of course you did. Because it had heart. Listen to me, Ross.” Mick lowered his voice and leaned closer, ready to hand out that secret to life on a silver platter again. Exactly as he had with Rocco DiLorenzi from Raleigh.

  “The best story in Daytona, the one that in your capable hands will read like a bestselling family saga, is right here.” With one hand he indicated Shelby. “In this room with you.”

  She bit her lip to keep from sucking in a breath, her heart sliding around helplessly as Ross turned his questioning gaze on her. What story was Mick talking about?

  “There is no other female owner in NASCAR,” Mick said. That was true. At the moment anyway. “There is no other that has a legend’s blood in her veins or the willingness to shed it in the process of fighting—and I mean fighting—to keep this sport rich with the history and lore that means so much to her.”

  Ross nodded, then scribbled something on his pad. No doubt stealing Mick’s words for a lead paragraph. “Could be an interesting feature,” he mumbled.

  A feature story? On Thunder Racing?

  She looked at Mick, and—w
hat a surprise—he winked at her. So that’s what the net felt like when a soccer ball hit it full force.

  “You know what the really amazing thing is?” Mick asked when Ross stopped writing.

  The amazing thing was where the man could take an interview.

  “There is nothing, absolutely no single element about the sport of racing that this woman doesn’t understand,” he said to Ross. “She’s the real deal—a racer. Living testament that the new cars that NASCAR introduced this year will help owners of smaller teams like Thunder compete effectively in a sport that could easily become the playing field of engineers. Just ask her.”

  Shelby actually felt her jaw drop. He’d been listening to that diatribe about the new car design?

  Ross looked up from his notebook at Shelby. “I understand you were the force behind getting Kincaid Toys to sponsor a car and hiring Clayton Slater to drive it.”

  She cleared her throat, realizing that she hadn’t spoken a single word since they’d started the interview. Mick had handled it all. Like a master.

  “My father’s dream was to have two cars and two drivers.”

  “And what’s your dream?” Ross asked.

  Shelby wet her lips and considered that. Her dream was Thunder’s dream. “Just to keep racing the best cars we can, every week, at Cup level. Not to buckle under the pressures of the changes in the sport. To remain true to the roots and history of stock-car racing.”

  “How can you do that?” he asked quickly. “This is the new NFL. This is not your father’s NASCAR.”

  No kidding.

  “Shelby represents the best of the old and the new,” Mick said. “That’s what’s so attractive about her team. And her.” He paused, his mouth kicking up in the sly smile. “Especially her.”

  Why did that make her stomach flip?

  “Are you going to buy this business and these teams?” Ross asked him.

  Mick bit his lower lip, considering his response. “You know, Ross, that’s not the story here. When that announcement’s made—or not—everyone will have that story. What you will have is what makes your magazine in general—and Ross Johannsen’s work in particular—worth reading every week. You’ll have the human story.”

  Mick propped his knees on his elbows, his eyes so wickedly mesmerizing that Shelby could practically cry. “Shelby Jackson runs her team with the one element that you might find missing at the bigger shops. Sure, the big guns have dynos galore and seventeen backup cars with engines customized for every track. But this team has soul. You can’t buy that. You can buy speed, but you can’t buy soul.”

  Dynos galore? Seventeen backups? Soul? Yeah, she might cry.

  The story and reporter forgotten, she regarded the man who’d taken over her interview, her lounge, her team. Her head. He’d listened to her and he got it.

  Once again, the question reverberated. Was Ernie right? And if he was, what was she going to do about it? Maybe Mick wouldn’t be the worst partner in the history of joint ownerships. Except that she’d spend her days with an achy longing to get closer to him. To kiss him again. To touch and have him. That might make her workday difficult. Interesting but difficult. Especially once she’d been discarded faster than a set of worn tires after forty laps at Bristol.

  “Is that true, Shelby?” Ross asked her.

  She blinked at Mick. Great. Here was the interview of her dreams and she was worrying about being discarded. Before she’d even had the chance to be used.

  “Oh, it’s true,” he answered for her. “And that’s why her sponsors and team are loyal. They won’t leave for the bigger teams. They’re in this sport because they are racers. Real racers. With soul.”

  Ross nodded as he scratched a few more notes. “Soul,” he whispered to himself. Then he glanced at his watch. “Oh, damn, I missed Austin’s press conference.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Mick said.

  Ross shrugged. “I’ve written plenty about that whole family. Shelby, can I bring a photographer over here later this week? Maybe we could do something a little personal? Something that would go with the tone of the piece?”

  “That’d be fine,” she said. The piece would have a tone?

  “How about in your motor home? Something that lets us see ‘the soul of a woman inside racing’?” His air quotes gave her the distinct impression he had a headline in mind.

  “Well, I’d prefer you concentrate on the racing and the teams,” she said. “I don’t spend much time in the motor home. I live in the garage while I’m at Daytona. And the story here is the Thunder Racing teams.”

  “I think the story will have multiple angles, and maybe we can convince my editor to run it in the special issue that comes out a week from Sunday.”

  Shelby set her chin in her palm, if only to keep it from hitting the table. The Daytona issue? Was she dreaming?

  She looked at Mick, who had resumed his relaxed position, hands locked behind head, golden locks casually falling near his bedroom eyes, those kissable lips curled in a smile of pure victory. A dream man.

  A dream man who made dream media happen.

  “Excuse me?” Avery McShane eased open the door and inched her head in, looking around. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here who wants to talk to Shelby and says it’s important.”

  Shelby stood up. “Duty calls,” she said to Ross. “Thank you so much.”

  “Thank you, Shelby.” He stood to shake her hand. “It was great to finally get to know you.”

  Mick made no move to leave. Part of her didn’t want to leave him alone with the reporter. That would be the stupid part. He obviously had this media thing well in hand.

  She gave Mick a nod of goodbye and mouthed thanks and stepped into the hallway of the transporter, resisting the urge to do a little jig.

  “Avery,” she whispered, “you are not going to believe what just happened.”

  Avery’s pale blue eyes widened. “I was worried about you in there. That’s why I came in. To give you an escape.”

  Shelby laughed. “Ever the PR genius.”

  “I would have liked to have been in there. Was everything okay?”

  “It was brilliant.” Brilliant. Oh, God, she was starting to sound like him now. “They’re bringing a photographer and doing a feature story on Thunder Racing.”

  Avery jerked back. “No way!”

  “Way.” Shelby glanced back at the door. “Mick was really something. You would have loved how he put a spin on the story. So you didn’t have to make up an excuse to save me after all.”

  “Actually, I didn’t make it up. There’s a woman who’s been hanging around the hauler since you walked in. She says she knows you and wants to talk to you. Her name’s Tamara Norton.”

  Shelby frowned. “The Tamara Norton who used to be married to Bobbie Norton? I heard they got divorced after he was banned from NASCAR for multiple rule infractions.”

  “No clue,” Avery said. “I can tell you she’s gorgeous. Shampoo-commercial hair and an outfit that cost what I made last month.”

  “And what a surprise,” Shelby said with a humorless smile. “She’s waiting at the hauler ever since she saw Mick Churchill.” That’s what life would be like with a man like that. Women crawling out of the woodwork to get a piece. “Let her wait. I’m sure he’ll oblige her with a smile and an autograph.” And a wink.

  “She asked for you,” Avery said, reaching into the file folder she carried. “And asked me to give you this.”

  Shelby took the business card. TNC Racing Enterprises. On the other side, a handwritten message.

  Talk to me before you make any decisions. TN

  Decisions? About what? “I’ll talk to her on my way back to the garage,” Shelby said, slipping the card into her back pocket. What decisions could the ex-wife of a bad racer care about?

  “She mentioned something about an investor.” Avery gave her a pointed look.

  “An investor?” Shelby looked at her in surprise. “Really? I’ll talk
to her.”

  As she walked through the hauler to the sunlight in the back, she could hear her father’s voice in her head.

  As long as the checkered flag hasn’t dropped, you’ve still got a prayer, Thunder would say, squinting into the sun or staring at the empty track. Anything can happen on that oval. Cars wreck. Engines die. Tires blow. Anything could happen to take you to the front. That’s racin’, Shelby girl. That’s the very best part of racin’.

  With the sound of her father’s voice in her ears, she headed directly toward the breathtakingly beautiful woman waiting in the shade of the next team’s tent.

  Anything could happen.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHELBY REMEMBERED Tamara Norton the minute she saw her. Shampoo-commercial hair, indeed. Black, thick and stick-straight. Along with cheekbones you could eat off, legs as long as the straightaway at Darlington and a body that had been toned and pampered to perfection. What in God’s name did she want from Shelby?

  Duh. Access to Mick Churchill.

  Yeah, right, an investor. Smart enticement, though. She’d give the woman an A for creativity.

  Tamara reached out both hands and embraced Shelby as though they were long-lost friends. “Shelby Jackson! You look gorgeous, as always.”

  Shelby returned a halfhearted hug. “Hey, Tamara. I haven’t seen you in ages.” Not since her sleazebucket of an ex-husband was officially kicked out of the sport for tricking up his car with improperly enlarged carburetor openings. Six times. “How are you?”

  “Fantastic, absolutely fantastic,” she said, squeezing Shelby’s arms with perfectly manicured French nails and leveling a dark-eyed gaze through pale pink designer sunglasses. “It is so great to be back at the track.”

  “Yeah, I understand you and Bobbie…” Shelby pointed her thumbs in opposite directions. “Splitsville.”

  “Oh, God, honey, what a disaster. You can’t imagine the hell of that divorce.” Tamara still hadn’t let go of Shelby’s arm, but instead slid her fingers tighter around and guided them away from a group of mechanics and crew nearby. “We have to talk. I have so much to tell you.”