Thunderstruck (13 page)

Mick stepped into the cool darkness of the transporter, approaching Kenny and Shelby.

“Damn right I wasn’t in control of that car,” Kenny said. “Because some moron did the setup.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Shelby insisted. “Your wheels spun and you didn’t do what any racer with a brain would do.”

He glowered at her.

“Because you were waiting for someone else to do it.”

Holt’s lip curled and he clenched his fists. “What are you saying, Shelby?”

“You know what I’m saying. Someone, somewhere, was supposed to slow your engine for you, maybe cut the power for just a flash.” She stuck her palm out. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

“The traction-control device you’re wearing. Give it to me.”

“Screw you.” He jerked away and caught Mick’s eye just as Shelby grabbed the fabric of his racing suit. Holt shook off her hand but looked hard at Mick. “Your girlfriend’s gone nutso, Churchill.”

Mick clenched his own fists. “Why don’t you go cool off somewhere, Holt?”

Dark, beady eyes shifted from Mick to Shelby. “Why, you two need the lounge for some private time?”

Mick glared at him. “Get out of here, mate, while you’re still in one piece.”

“You know what?” Holt pointed a finger at Mick. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“You take them from me,” Shelby said. “Now give me the traction device.”

He flicked the air dismissively. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Shelby.” He took one step toward Mick, but Shelby grabbed his arm.

“Give it to me.”

“Let him go,” Mick said, stepping aside to let him by. “It’s not worth it.”

“Listen to lover boy,” Holt said with a sideways glance to Shelby. “Maybe he can screw some sense into you.”

Mick’s fist made contact before his brain actually engaged. Holt’s jaw cracked and his teeth scraped Mick’s knuckles.

Holt lunged, but Mick easily dodged the smaller man and let him hit a metal sideboard. Tools clattered to the ground as Holt swore and whipped around. “You—”

Mick gave him a two-handed shove, and Holt stumbled backward, losing his balance. As he fell, something thunked to the floor. Holt reached for it, but Mick kicked the tiny box so hard it sailed out the back.

Goal.

“Get out of here,” Shelby ordered. “And while you’re at it, get out of this racetrack. We don’t need cheaters on our team.”

He backed away, wiping a dribble of blood from his mouth, his eyes dark with hatred. “We’ll see what Country Peanut Butter thinks about that.”

Ernie walked into the hauler, blocking the light and holding out his hand. “We’ll see what they think about this.” He pushed something under Holt’s nose. “Found this photoelectric wheel sensor on your car, Kenny. Whoever you’re working with didn’t cooperate or you wouldn’t have hit that wall.”

Holt fumed. “Somebody planted that and—” he pointed to the device that had sailed out the back “—that. I mean to find out who.”

Ernie put his hand on Kenny’s shoulder. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to figure out who since you ain’t racin’ for us this season.” He looked at Shelby. “My partner and I agree.”

“Fine,” Holt choked, stumbling out. “You’re all a bunch of losers anyway.”

S
HELBY SPENT THE REST
of the day tucked away in the lounge with Ernie, talking to the crew and Whit, meeting with NASCAR officials and, of course, appeasing the Country Peanut Butter marketing people, who were not easily appeased.

By dinnertime she felt as if she’d been lying faceup on the start/finish line of a five-hundred-mile race. When the two suits from Country finally left the hauler lounge, she dropped her head in her hands, Kenny Holt’s words still reverberating.

“Maybe we are a bunch of losers.”

“Stop that,” Ernie said. “He’s the loser.”

“We need a driver.” She looked up at him.

“That’s our next problem. We need a sub. NASCAR and Country said we can get one, so I guess we better look at who’s available from the NASCAR Busch Series lineup.”

“I did that already,” she told him. “Whit’s gone to talk to a few guys who qualify and he said he’d bring them over to talk to me tonight.” She caught herself. “I mean to talk to
us
tonight.”

Ernie smiled. “That’s all right, Shel. You gotta make the ultimate decision. I’m here for you, I’ll help with the meetings, but you really know the cars and the crew. You’re the senior partner here.”

“Not by about fifty years.”

“Forty-nine, but who’s counting?”

She reached across the table and covered his age-spotted hand with hers. “Is this too much for you?”

“This isn’t too much.” He turned his hand over and clasped hers. “I’m just tired, hon, and you are much better than I am at making snap decisions and handling a crisis.”

Not that standing in the hauler and letting Mick beat up the bad guy was exactly
handling the crisis
. “I like having you help.”

“This is it for me, Shel. I’m starin’ down the barrel of eighty and I am just so damn tired of this BS. That’s part of why I wanted you to have a partner.”

“Was that the only part?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for all your protective ‘nobody touches my Shelby’ business, what were you thinking when you plunked down a hot, single guy to work so close we have to breathe the same air just to stay alive?”

Ernie scratched his stubbly mess, and all his wrinkles deepened as he thought for a long while. “Hot?” he finally asked. “Is he?”

She laughed. “Duh.”

“Well. Is there some chemistry there?” His question sounded more curious than threatening.

Chemistry? Enough to blow up the track. “Maybe a little.”

“Hmm. I thought I detected something this morning.” He took a deep breath, his eyes wary. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

So did she. “I’m not doing anything.” Yet. “But I am looking at options. Speaking of which, are you still going to talk to Tamara Norton?”

He all but harumphed. “Let’s get through this first. Call Whit and see who he’s got for us.”

“Wait, Ernie. Wait a second.” Shelby leaned forward and pinned him with a gaze. “Are you saying it’s okay with you? That if Mick and I…you know…if we…is that okay with you?” She couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.

He squirmed a little but didn’t look away. “You don’t need my permission, Shel. You’re twenty-eight years old. I can’t tell you what to do.”

“But you told him.”

“I warned him,” he clarified. “Listen, I have a job to do whether I want it or not.”

She’d heard this speech before. “Ernie, you don’t need to be my father. And, as you just pointed out, I am twenty-eight years old. Long past the age of consent. Even my father would have thought—”

“No, he wouldn’t have. He was very protective of you. I know what he’d want me to do.”

Shelby sighed. “He tried to be a mother and a father. And now you’re trying to be a mother, father and grandfather. I appreciate that, but what I really need is—”

“A husband?”

She practically spit a shocked breath. “No. I don’t need a husband. I need a friend. You always were my friend, Ernie. Remember? I’ve never even called you Grandpa or Gramps because from the time I could walk you said, ‘Call me Ernie, Shel. Just like everybody else.’ Why did that change when Dad died?”

He blinked at her. “You still call me Ernie.”

“But you stopped being my friend and turned into a parent.”

He didn’t bother to argue. “We’re all the family we got. And I don’t want you to get hurt, Shel.”

She stood up suddenly and walked to the coffeepot, which had been drained and remade several times during the course of the long afternoon. Wordlessly she cleaned it out in the sink, the familiar motions calming her. She flipped the water on full force, leaning on the counter with her eyes closed.

Maybe she should just try telling Ernie the truth.

“You know,” she finally said, “he’s not such a bad guy. And I don’t really want some big, fat romance. And times have changed, Ernie. There’s nothing wrong with a no-strings-attached, good old-fashioned roll in the—”

The water stopped with a slam to the faucet.

“Careful, luv.” Mick stood right behind her. “You’ve lost your privacy.”

She spun around with a quick gasp and a rush of heat to her face. “Oh! I didn’t even hear you come in.” She shot Ernie a deadly glance. Why didn’t he warn her that the water had masked the sound of the door opening?

But Ernie wore the widest, happiest grin on his face she’d ever seen as he stared at the door. Leaning to the left to see around Mick, she followed Ernie’s delighted gaze.

She instantly recognized the hooded eyelids, square jaw and scruffy, handsome face.

“Scottie Bronson!” she exclaimed. “What brings you out of hiding and back to the racetrack?”

“You have to ask?” Ernie said with a laugh. “I know.”

She looked up to see the victorious, proud gleam in Mick’s green eyes. “Meet your new driver, Shelby. Scottie’s ready to go in the backup eighty-two car.”

Scott Bronson would be driving a Thunder Racing car?

“We were just talking to the people from Country Peanut Butter,” Mick added. “They’re okay with it.”

Okay? They should be over the moon. She blinked at him, speechless.

He reached out to tap her chin and gently close her mouth. “Are you okay with it?”

She inched to the left again, slowly, to make sure she hadn’t dreamed up Scottie Bronson. “Yeah, I’m okay.” She reached out a hand and beamed at Scott. “Welcome to the team,” she said.

Then she looked up at Mick, who’d done more for Thunder Racing in two days than she’d been able to pull off in the last two years. Top-quality press coverage, one of the best drivers in the world and he’d ground Kenny Holt out of their life with a sucker punch and a kick.

What if he was the answer to their prayers? What if Ernie was right?

I don’t want you to get hurt, Shel.

What if Ernie was right about that, too? Was she willing to take that chance?

Scott moved into the lounge, followed by Whit and a couple of other crew members, who hooted and shouted loud enough to shake the transporter.

Mick reached around her to turn the coffee on, brushing her body with his, electrifying her with the contact. Oh, yeah. She was willing to take that chance. Willing, able and so ready she had to fight the urge to…oh,
hell
.

She threw her arms around him, pulled his face into hers and kissed him right on the mouth. The hauler went silent except for the smack of their lips, leaving Mick looking as surprised as everyone else.

“Thank you,” she said with a grin.

“My pleasure.” The glitter in his eyes sent an unambiguous message.

His door would be unlocked tonight.

F
OR A GUY FAMOUS FOR
being tall, dark and broodingly quiet, Scott Bronson could talk. By ten o’clock that night Mick was seriously concerned that the guy would talk so long and so late that he’d have to crash in Mick’s motor coach after they shared a few brews there. The crew had hung around for a while, too, and probably would have stayed since the next day was considered a break for most teams.

But not for Thunder Racing. Now that they had a new driver and were relegated to a backup car, they had work to do. So Mick was able to clear everyone out by ten, except Scott. When he finally stood and said he’d get a cab outside the track to his hotel, Mick almost kissed the guy.

“Hey, listen, Scott,” he said. “Thanks again for jumping in like this. You can tell this means a lot to the team.”

“They’re good guys,” Scott said. “I’ve always liked the Thunder team, always thought they ran with a lot of heart, even if they didn’t always run in the front.”

“Hopefully that’ll change.”

Scott picked up his jacket thoughtfully, then dropped back on the sofa.

Oh, man. Come on.
Mick bit back his impatience, mostly because of the look in Scott’s dark eyes.

“How’d you do it?” Scott suddenly asked. Mick must have looked perplexed, because Scott continued. “How did you walk away from the sport? Did it hurt? I mean, was it hard? Do you feel like, you know, you’re not
you
anymore?”

Mick recognized the face of indecision and doubt. He’d looked at it in the mirror a lot the past year. “I had a lousy last season,” he said. “I couldn’t kick to save my life.”

“Is that why you’re doing this?”

The question slammed him in the gut. He was doing this for Kip, wasn’t he? To win that ultimate bet and save his brother? This wasn’t for Mick, was it?

“I like racing,” he said vaguely. “And, you know, I don’t feel like I’m nothing without football. I thought I might, but…”

“I did,” Scott offered. “I felt like nothing without racing. You don’t want that to happen, man. You want to be a person, not a sport. You know?”

He knew.

“And you landed with a team with a great history,” Scott said. “Thunder Jackson was flat-out awesome on the track. I loved to watch that guy race. I wish I had run against him, even once.”

“That’s why I picked this team, because of his reputation.”

“Really?” Scott leaned one arm against the wall, maddeningly settled in for more discussion. “I heard it was on a dare or a bet.”

Mick flinched at the word. “Where’d you hear that?”

He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Just the general sports rumor mill. Not true?”

“Not exactly.” Mick reached out a hand to say goodbye, hoping Scott would drop the subject and get the hint that it was past time to leave. “Anyway, thanks again. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Scott shook his hand and thankfully didn’t pursue the line anymore. But when the door closed behind him, more dread squeezed at Mick’s gut.

Was the truth—or some version of it—out there? What if Shelby heard? How would she feel if she knew why and how this had come about? Would she understand?

Ernie knew, of course. He’d been there when Kip had pretended to be him and made a bet he couldn’t get out of. But would Shelby ever understand what was at stake? She’d say,
Hey, it’s a piece of paper. Tell your brother to fight his own battles. Get off my track.

He slid two fingers between the blinds, separating them, and looked out into the night. It was almost eleven, but he knew. He knew what she’d told him with that public kiss.

He knew she was coming to him tonight.

But if he slept with her and didn’t tell her his plans, and the “general sports rumor mill” got to her first…

No. He couldn’t take that chance. One thing Mick didn’t do was take chances unless he was forced into it. But if he told her, she might never walk through that door and live up to the promise he’d seen in her eyes.

He had to tell her. Had to. He reached for the doorknob just as it turned.

And opened.

And there she was, wearing a hooded sweatshirt zipped all the way up. Loose hair, moist lips, smoky eyes.

Not a woman who’d arrived to talk business, rumors or racing. Not a woman who’d arrived to talk at all.

“I thought you might stop by.”

A little smile tipped her mouth. “You thought right.”

She took one step up, still not inside but close enough to give him a whiff of musky perfume and threaten his stability.

“Your new racer just left,” he told her.

She plucked at the zipper near her throat. “Good.” The teeth opened one inch and she took one step inside.

“So you’re not looking for him?”

“No.” Two more inches. A swatch of white fabric appeared under the sweatshirt as she invaded his motor home and every one of his senses.

“I need to tell you something.”

The zipper teeth ground. “Tell me later.”

Great minds—and bodies—definitely thought alike. “Is that my jersey?”

“Yes.” She reached back and pulled the door closed, then gave him a meaningful look.

“Let me just ask this one more time,” Mick said. “You do know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

She shed the sleeves, and the fleece hit the ground with a whispered whoosh. “Yes.”

They were no more than four inches apart, close enough for him to feel the heat emanating from her. His gaze dropped over her face, lingering over her parted lips and that lovely little pulse dancing at the base of her throat. And just below that, his jersey grazing the curves of her body.

Her fingers toyed with the hem, lifting it slowly. He corralled every brain cell he had, but they refused to respond. Refused to give him the words to confess to the wager. To clear the air. To…

She revealed her waist, flat and satin-smooth peeking out of hip-hugging jeans. He touched the skin with one fingertip. Her eyelids fluttered as he managed to whisper her name.

He brushed her flesh with a knuckle, then flattened his palm against her rib cage. “I have to tell you something.”

Never taking her eyes from him, she lifted the jersey higher. And higher. The first hint of black silk and lace and a profoundly feminine curve appeared under the fabric. “You want your shirt back? Is that it?”

It should be so easy to just say yes.

“Take it, Mick.”

With a soft moan he skimmed the shirt over her head, then pulled her face to his, burying one hand in her hair and sliding the other right up her body.