Patricia Hagan - Race To The Altar

“And you don’t want Rick to sit in?”

“Not this time. Let’s you and I talk first. I’d really like to go over the budget with you, too, because while I’m sure the sponsors appreciate you cutting corners to stretch the money, there are some things I’m sure they won’t like you skimping on.”

Liz was unaware she could be heard by the crew working on the car next to Rick’s. Not that they were purposely eavesdropping. They were just enjoying a little eye candy in the garage. Like Rick, they could not help but notice and appreciate the way her suit hugged her generous curves.

Concerned over what she had just said, Mack demanded, “Like what? Show me where I’ve skimped on anything.”

“Those tires.” She pointed. “Maybe they aren’t about to blow like you said the old ones were, but I still say they don’t look any better. The tread is completely gone, and—”

Liz was drowned out by a sudden explosion of laughter.

For a few seconds, Mack laughed, too, then, seeing the look on Liz’s face, took her arm and led her away.

“What…what was that all about?” she stammered when they were out of earshot of the others. “What did I say that was so funny?”

“Liz, I need to explain about the tires. They don’t have any tread, because NASCAR doesn’t race in the rain.”

“You mean they never have tread?”

“No. But you couldn’t be expected to know that. And don’t pay any attention to those hyenas laughing about it. You’re a rookie when it comes to racing. But I’ll try to help you learn along the way. Just ask me anything you want to know.”

“Like I asked Rick?” she countered tightly.

“What do you mean?”

“I asked him why the tires on his car didn’t have any tread, and he said it was because they were worn-out.”

She could tell Mack was biting back a grin, which made her all the madder.

“Damn him,” she cursed between clenched teeth. “He knew I’d make a fool of myself with that.”

“No. In all fairness, I doubt he planned it that way. Remember. He didn’t know who you were then. He was just annoyed you were there so he was being a smart aleck.”

Liz supposed that was true but still felt deeply humiliated and vowed to find a way to get him back.

“Here he comes,” Mack said. “Raise hell with him later if you want to, but let’s get these photos over with so he can get to the meeting.”

“By all means,” she said sweetly, turning in the direction of the drivers’ lounge.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Rick was probably the best-looking thing she’d seen since her last Mel Gibson movie. There was only one word to describe him—hunk.

The uniform was formfitting. And what a form he had, she mused, swallowing a sigh. He had not zipped the suit all the way, and dark hairs on his superb chest were provocatively revealed. His narrow waist emphasized great buns, and his relaxed stride was like that of a jungle animal, lazy after feeding yet ready to spring at any moment.

He reached Liz and Mack, his hair still damp from the shower. Liz clenched her fists against the ache to touch it, run her fingers through it. Her gaze dropped to his partially exposed chest, and she felt a stirring of desire to explore there, as well.

“Well, are we ready?”

He spoke curtly, impatiently, which dissipated the spellbound moment for Liz. “Yes, let’s get on with it.”

She turned and walked toward Pete, wishing all the while the sponsor had chosen a married driver…or, at least, one who didn’t heat her blood every time she got near him.

The restaurant was located right on the beach. Liz tipped the maître d’ to give them a window table for a sweeping view of the ocean.

“Wow, this sure beats that greasy spoon we’re used to,” Benny Dyson, a crew member said. “The food was good, but choice seats there looked out on the swamp and the alligators.”

Rick’s jaw knotted. “Buckeye Joe’s has the best steaks in Daytona, and you know it, Benny.” Liz was in the ladies’ room, and he seized the chance to grouse. “We’ll be lucky to get anything besides caviar and roast duck at a place like this.”

Mack was scanning the menu. “I don’t know about that. They’ve got a sixteen-ounce T-bone that sounds good if she doesn’t mind me ordering something that costs almost thirty bucks.”

“Caviar is good,” Benny said innocently. “I think you ought to lighten up on the babe, Rick. She seems nice, and footing the bill to feed us is even nicer.”

“Let me tell you something.” Rick picked up his fork and shook it at him. “She’s not the one paying. The sponsor is. And I’d rather see thirty bucks spent on the race car.”

“Rick, I agree with Benny,” Mack said. “Lighten up. Buying us dinner is part of the package. Enjoy it.” He turned to Benny. “And if I were you, I’d strike the word babe from my vocabulary. She’s got a name. She expects you to use it.”

“Yeah, all right. I’ll watch it. Say, Rick, how come you don’t like her?”

Mack reached for a hot roll a waiter had set on the table, along with a pat of honey butter. “Ah, you know how he feels about women in racing. They get on his nerves.”

“They’re bad luck,” Rick said, not about to divulge his real feelings. “Big Boy’s could just as easily have sent a man to do the PR.”

“But they didn’t,” Mack pointed out. “They sent Liz. And like I’ve been telling you all evening, forget how you two rubbed each other the wrong way. We’ve got a qualifying race to run tomorrow, and you need to focus.”

Oh, he was focusing, all right, Rick thought furiously as he watched Liz approach.

But not on the race.

Mack had told him how humiliated she had been about the tires, and he figured on embarrassing her again. Hopefully she would then have second thoughts.

Maybe, he brooded, he wouldn’t be so opposed to having her around if she weren’t so good-looking. She had gone to her motel from the track, meeting them at the restaurant. She’d happily shared the news her lost luggage had been found and delivered. So she had changed from her business suit into a blue and white pants outfit. The top was scooped low enough to be sexy but still in good taste, and her tiny waist emphasized the rest of her.

She was not wearing her hair in the austere bun; instead it hung softly around her face.

He was glad she had put Mack between them. That made it easier to ignore her…or try to, anyway.

Mack leaped up to pull out her chair. “We were just saying what a nice place this is, Liz. Be sure to tell the VIPs at Big Boy’s we appreciate it.”

She gave everyone at the table a sweeping smile, even Rick. “You can tell them yourselves next Sunday. I had a message waiting at the motel saying Gary Staley, the CEO, is flying a crowd in for the race.”

“So we get to meet them in person,” Mack said. “We’ve only talked on the phone.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve got to make reservations somewhere special for dinner Saturday night, and—”

Benny laughingly interrupted to remark, “Well, how much nicer can it get than this?”

“You’ll see,” she said with a wink, then continued, “I’ll also arrange garage passes for them before the race, and—”

“Hold it.”

All eyes turned on Rick.

“The last thing we need right before a race is a bunch of people getting in the way and asking stupid questions.”

Mack cried, “Hey, wait a minute, Rick. We’re talking about the people footing the bill for you to try to win the rookie title.”

“Which won’t happen if I’ve got to worry with them,” Rick argued. “PR reps for other teams handle the VIPs themselves. They don’t bring them around the driver right before a race.”