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.”
CONSIDERING 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.
THE 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.
“Where will you be?”
“You should go on top of the garage area,” she told him. “It’s a great view. Or from a pit stall. I’m sure Billy or Whit will be happy to be your tour guide.”
He took the step and entered her coach. “I didn’t ask where they would be. I asked where you would be. I’d like to watch the race with you.”
“I watch on my own,” she said.
He lifted one eyebrow, no question necessary.
“You wouldn’t like it,” she assured him. “Not a place where the team owners watch. Or potential team owners. You’re better off on a pit cart.”
He frowned. “So why do you go?”
“’Cause I hate change,” she said with a smile. “And it’s where I always watched the Busch Clash and the Bud Shootout as a kid. Some years, when my dad didn’t make the event for whatever reason, he came with me and…”
“Is there room for two?” he asked.
She picked up the envelope and tapped it against the countertop, regarding him. Only Ernie knew where she went to watch this race and, at other tracks, the Busch race. Only Ernie knew why. And even if she’d been seen, no one knew why the seat next to her was always empty.
“As a matter of fact…” She peeked into the envelope. Of course, she should say no. She should send him to the garage or the pits and go have her little night race with nothing but the memory of the past next to her. She should, but…
She looked up and held his warm green gaze. “I have an extra ticket.”
His expression softened as though he understood what she’d just shared with him. “I’d be honored if you’d take me along.”
She studied him for a moment, barely aware that she held her breath. “Okay. Let me grab a jacket.”
And just to be sure she made herself good and warm, she left his jersey on, where it could slide against her skin all evening.
“It’s a long walk,” she told him. “But I don’t take a tram or cart. I always walk.”
“Don’t tell me. Tradition.”
She grinned at him. “You’re catching on, Churchill.”
They started out toward the outer bands of the bowl to circle almost the whole track, and she took a deep breath, blinking into the purplish-blue of the evening sky. “When it’s dark and the lights are on, you won’t believe how beautiful it is,” she told him. “Night races are simply the best.”
“Why’s that?” Mick fell into step with her, and the second time a throng of people separated them, he took her hand. Just like the jersey she wore, it felt too good to let go.
“Everything is intensified by the lights,” she told him. “The colors of the cars, the fiery sparks from the engines, the people, the track. It’s like watching the sport in four dimensions. You’ll see.”
Strong, sure, long fingers threaded hers. “But this race doesn’t count, right?”
“Trust me, that doesn’t make it any less exciting. Anyway, to a racer, there is no such thing as a race that doesn’t count,” she said. “True, there are no points in this race. And it’s only last year’s pole sitters, the champions who might not have made the pole and—”
“Drivers who have won the event before.”
She slowed her step and looked up at him. “You really have been paying attention.”
“I told you—”
“I know.” She held up their joined hands to stop him, laughing. “You’re a quick study. Here, this way’s faster.”
He followed her down a separate corridor with less traffic. “You sure know your way around here.”
“I know my way around every track. Remember, I was raised on them. In fact, if we’re going to do this right—” she slowed her step at a concession stand “—we should stop here for the beer and popcorn. They use more butter at this one.”
He just shook his head, laughing. “And buttery popcorn is…”
“Tradition.” They said it at the same time, making her laugh and slip closer to him.
In the back of the line, he slid his arm around her, their hands still joined. As if they were on a date. Lovers. A couple. Not business partners and certainly not adversaries.
He leaned closer to her. “There’s a difference, you know.”
Could he read her thoughts? “Between what?”
“Between liking tradition and hating change. I don’t think you hate change as much as you like the comfort of what is familiar to you.”
She considered that. And how damn good it felt to lean into the powerful torso of this man. How wonderful it was to be lost in the cavernous tunnel of the speedway, rich with scents of a night race, packed with numbers and logos and colors and brand names she’d grown up knowing and loving, in the arms of someone she liked. A lot.
“The only thing I know,” she admitted quietly, “is that every time something changed in my life, I lost someone. My mother, my father. Someone. I just like to hold on to everything, to every moment, because I know…” Her voice trailed off at the admission and at the intent way he looked at her.
“Yes?”
“Things change even when you don’t want them to,” she finished.
He pulled her just a little closer. “I’m not trying to change anything, Shelby. Just make it better. Trust me.”
Without warning, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers.
“Uh, here’s you’re beer, sir.”
He lifted his head and held her gaze with one full of promise and desire and the certainty of change. Then he handed her a foaming draft beer and a bag of popcorn. He held up his beer toward hers. “To tradition and the beautiful racer girl who’s letting me horn in on hers.”
She toasted him, their plastic cups making no noise.
He sipped, but she just shook her head.
“What?” he asked, wiping some foam from his upper lip.
“Life sure would be a lot simpler if I could just go on hating you.”
He grinned behind his cup and winked. “I’ll work on that.”
When they stepped through the entry to turn two, Shelby stopped and held him back. “Talk about things that don’t change.” She stared at the track. “Just look. This view is a constant.”
The track was always updated, the seats replaced with newer models, the railings painted, the billboards revised. The dinged aluminum steps were fixed and upgraded, and even the Daytona logo had evolved over the years to something that fit the twenty-first century.
But the view of turn two remained the same.
Shelby stood at the top of the stairs, looking out over the high bank and blacktop of the track, the entire scene bathed in blinding, shocking spotlights.
Watching her face, Mick smiled. “You like it this far from the action?”
“Oh, we’re not far,” she assured him as they descended the stairs to the front row of the section. “We’re far from the garages and pits and the start/finish, but, trust me, this is where the action is.”
“Is that what brought you all the way out here?” He indicated the colorful crowd around them. “Or to mingle with the average race fan?”
She didn’t answer because the loudspeak
er crackled and the crowd roared and the pace car was already on its way into the first turn.
“This is where my dad liked to watch the races the night before a Cup race,” she told him when the thunder had rumbled down to the opposite corner of the track.
“And he brought you.”
“Always. Since my mother passed away.”
His eyes looked sympathetic. “So was this tradition just here in Daytona?”
“Oh, no.” She took a sip of beer and set it gingerly on the ground in front of her. “We have seats like this in every track.”
“Excuse me, did you say have or had?”
She gave him a defiant gaze. “Have.”
He tapped the armrest of the plastic stadium-style chair. “And this seat is always empty.”
She swallowed. Hard. “No.”
“Well, who…sits…?” His voice faded. “Oh.”
She closed her eyes, waiting for the laugh. The tease. The put-down or, worse, the pity. But when he said nothing, she looked at him. He stared straight ahead, his hands on the armrests, as though…as though he understood.
Something twisted and turned and threatened to pop right out of her chest. Yes, that would be her heart. She didn’t trust her voice but cleared her throat instead. “Yep. That’s my Daddy’s seat.”
He half smiled. “You sure?”
She tapped the metal armrest. “Move.”
“You want me to get up?”
“Move around in your seat. Give it a good shove in any direction.”
Gripping the armrest, he used his body weight to push back, then side to side. The plastic chair squeaked in objection.
She gave him a smug, victorious smile and glanced at the chair. “Told you.”
Mick moved again. It squeaked. Again, and it creaked, barely loud enough to be heard in the deafening roar of the prerace. Laughing, he tapped the armrests, but then the grandstands exploded as the green flag dropped and thousands of people leaped to their feet. The rumble vibrated right down to her toes.