Читать книгу Race To The Altar - Patricia Hagan - Страница 11

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.”

“Well, I don’t intend to do that,” Liz defended. “I don’t want them to get in your way, either. So I’ll remedy the situation by keeping them a good distance away, and I will answer their questions.”

“You?” Rick scoffed.

“Sure.”

“You don’t know beans about racing, Liz.”

Mack groaned. “Here we go again. I thought you two called a truce.”

“We have,” Liz said sweetly. “We’re just talking, Mack. We aren’t arguing.”

“Well, you’ve got a week,” Rick said smugly. “Maybe you can learn enough to carry on an intelligent conversation, or fake it, at least.”

A waiter came and took their orders. Liz emphasized they should all have whatever they wanted, regardless of the cost.

After he left, she turned to Rick. “I won’t have to fake it. And I don’t have to take a crash course. I know enough about your car to explain it to them.”

“Yeah? Well, let’s hear it.” Rick leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do anything to humiliate her. He would let her do it herself.

Liz wriggled in her seat, as though eager to show off her knowledge. Then, propping her chin on coyly laced fingers, she began. “Well, I know that the toilet facilities in race cars are being studied by NASA, because they’re thinking about using the same system for the astronauts.”

Benny choked on a bite of roll.

Two of the other crew members, having just sipped their beers, sprayed the table.

Mack cried, “Liz, no—”

She ignored him. “I also know about that little button on the dash that sends a signal to a big computer somewhere to make it fair for everybody to start their cars at the same time.”

“Oh, man.” Benny reached for his water glass, still coughing and choking.

The others reached for their beer, struggling with the hilarity of it all.

Mack grabbed Liz’s wrist. “Hey, you’re just clowning around, right? You don’t really believe all that?”

Making her eyes wide with innocence, Liz replied, “Why, of course I do. I had a very good teacher.”

Mack looked accusingly at Rick, who had been listening stone-faced and silent. “Did you tell her all that crap? I heard about the tires. Jeez, Rick…”

Liz had wasted no time once she got to her motel room unpacking the books she had bought on racing. Scolding herself for not finding the time to do so earlier, she had located information on the construction of race cars and devoured every word.

She relished the astonished look that came over Rick’s face with each word she spoke. “The typical Winston Cup car weighs thirty-four hundred pounds and has a seven- to seven-hundred-fifty-horsepower engine that drives the rear wheels through a four-speed transmission. Top speed is 220 miles an hour. The roll cage inside the car is made of 150 feet of steel tubing to protect the driver. There are no doors, no passenger seat, and no speedometer. The tires have an extra layer of rubber to try to guard against a flat. They’re fortified by a belt network that was designed to keep their shape under extreme stress.”

She paused to sip her wine, reveling in the moment, then continued. “There are two eleven-gallon rubber gas tanks encased in steel for safety, but fuel economy would be a nightmare for the ordinary street car. Race cars only get five miles to the gallon, and, of course, they use a special kind of fuel that is much more expensive than regular gas.”

A hush had fallen over the table.

Rick was the first to break it, not about to let her get the best of him, merely because she’d managed to speed-read some technical stuff before dinner. “Well, now, Liz, that’s real impressive. Maybe with all that information to share, you can keep the bigwigs out of my way.”

“I intend to. But I’m sure they’d like to hear about the toilet facilities. I thought maybe you could explain that to them.”

Mack shook his head. “What in heck did you tell her, Rick?”

The waiter appeared with stuffed shrimp appetizers for everyone. Rick helped himself before flippantly responding. “She can’t take a joke. Or maybe she doesn’t know enough about what’s going on to realize it’s a joke. She asked about that hole in the seat. I made up a story about how it’s the way drivers use the bathroom during a race.”

“When actually,” Liz corrected, “it’s where the driver’s shoulder harness connects. You were just teasing, I know.” She flashed her sweetest smile at Rick, but her eyes were cold. “But enough funny stuff. From now on I would appreciate it if you would tell me the truth when I ask you a technical question, okay?”

Rick gave a curt nod of assent and bristled to think how she might have won the lap but would never finish the race.

Not if he could help it.

Mack breezed into the motel’s coffee shop and went to where Liz was waiting in a booth.

“Is Rick coming?” she asked. She had scheduled a breakfast meeting to go over a few things, and, since the night before, she had arranged for Rick to be a guest on a popular local talk show for that evening.

Mack signaled the waitress for coffee. “He’s taking a shower. He said he’d skip breakfast and head to the track. He wants to get started checking the car out before the races today.”

“Well, I need to tell him about a radio show I’ve got him scheduled to be on tonight.”

Mack’s eyes widened. “The one called Pit Stop?”

She nodded.

“Oh, man, that’s great. During Speed Weeks, it’s broadcast from one of the hottest nightclubs on the beach. He’ll get a lot of exposure.”

“I know. So will you please call him on a house phone and tell him I need to meet with him now?”

Mack frowned. “Liz, he said he’d rather me deal with you, so I’ll tell him about it when I get to the track. I’m sorry, but that’s just how he is.”

“Well, it’s not how I am, and he’s got plenty of time. It’s only seven o’clock. He can be at the track by eight. Now if you don’t want to call him, Mack, I will.”

She started to get up, but Mack waved her to stay seated. “I’ll do it. But I can’t understand why you and I can’t handle everything and leave him out of it.”

“That’s just the point. He is everything. He is the focus of my job. I’ve also arranged an interview for him with an Atlanta journalist. Big Boy’s has sixteen restaurants in the Atlanta area. They’ll be thrilled to see a story about Rick in the paper. I need to tell him what time to meet the writer and where.

“Your job, Mack,” she politely reminded, “is to take care of the car. I plan to ease a lot of your burdens over managing the team to give you more time to do that. Now please get Rick down here so we can discuss all this and get it over with so you can do your job, and I can do mine. Okay?”

Mack made the call and returned to say Rick was on his way. “He’s grumbling, but he’ll be okay.”

Liz couldn’t care less.

About ten minutes later, Rick all but threw himself into the other side of the booth next to Mack. “All right, what’s so important it can’t wait?”

Liz handed him a schedule for the week that she had prepared. “I just wanted a quiet moment to go over all this with the two of you.”

Mack, reading over Rick’s shoulder, said, “This is all PR stuff—appearances at the mall to sign autographs, stuff like that. What has it got to do with me?”

She explained how she needed Mack to know Rick’s schedule so he wouldn’t have him practicing or working on the car at those times. “I’ve checked the track schedule, and I’ve made sure there won’t be any conflicts as far as what he needs to do there. I want you to coordinate with me.”

“Great. No problem.” Mack looked up to see Benny waving from the door. “Gotta go. See you guys later.”

“We’ll have dinner again later in the week,” Liz said.

“Afraid not. My wife’s driving in from Charlotte today and bringing the kids. We’ve got an efficiency, so she’ll be doing some cooking.”

“Well, maybe she can join us,” Liz said. “I’d like to meet her. In fact, I’d like to meet the families of the entire crew. I want us to be like a family, all working together to win and make Rick a star.”

Mack gave her a little salute and left them.

Rick reached for the coffee Mack hadn’t had time to drink. “I knew he was going to duck out and leave me with all this.”

“All what?” Liz said, troubled that he continued to resent her at every turn. “I just want to make sure you understand about the show tonight, what time you need to be there, and—”

“The show,” he scoffed, staring down at the schedule. “Now I know some drivers who aren’t rookies that haven’t been able to get on there. Pit Stop features the biggies, not the little guys like me. But—” he paused to give his most mocking grin “—I guess that’s an advantage to having a female PR person, right?”

“Wrong.” Liz was fast getting her dander up. She knew what he was implying and didn’t like it.

“Then how did you arrange it? Tell me. I’d like to hear. Exactly how did you manage within twenty-four hours of arriving in Daytona to get me on that show tonight?”

“I met Jimmy Barnes, the host, at a party last night.”

“A party. After you left us at the restaurant, you went to a party.”

“That’s right. The invitation was in my press package. I was introduced to Jimmy, and I told him about you and the new sponsorship, and he said great, he’d like to have you on his show tonight. Simple as that.”

Rick knew it wasn’t that simple at all. Jimmy Barnes had been turned on by Liz like any normal man would be, and he’d let her wheedle him into putting him on the show. Maybe some drivers would consider that an advantage—having a sexy female pave the way for them—but not Rick.

Still, he knew better than to gripe about it. He did need the exposure. And he wanted it badly. That’s how other sponsors became interested in a driver.

“Well, that’s nice, Liz. I’ll look forward to it.”

Something in his voice raised suspicion that he wasn’t all that pleased, but not about the show. He probably thought she had flirted with Jimmy Barnes to get him on there. But she hadn’t.

One of the things Liz adhered to was her personal rule that she would not use womanly guile to open doors. Yes, she would try to dress nicely, but she would be all business. If anyone got any ideas, she set them straight. And that was how she intended to conduct herself in the racing world.

Liz ordered breakfast, even though she wasn’t hungry. In fact, she never ate breakfast, just grabbed a quick cup of coffee on the run.

She told herself the only reason she was eating this morning was because it was going to be a long day. She needed her energy. She would not even remotely consider it was to prolong her time with Rick because he was being friendly. Still distant. Still reserved. But it was an improvement over his previous demeanor.

He was wearing a T-shirt again. It reminded her of Clint Eastwood in Bridges of Madison County. The man might be pushing seventy, but in a T-shirt he was a sex symbol nonpareil.

Liz munched on a piece of toast she didn’t want and wondered what size shirt Rick wore. She seized on an excuse to ask. “I should be receiving the new T-shirts today that Big Boy’s had made up to sell at the concession stands. I’ll take out a few for you guys. What size do you wear?”

“Extra-large.”

She should have known.

“And how big are you?”

“Thirty-four, C cup,” she blurted without thinking and wanted to die then and there. What was wrong with her? She gulped and corrected, “I meant medium.”

“I can’t believe you’re blushing.”

“Am I?” She took a big swallow of orange juice, hoping it would cool her cheeks.

“Yeah, you are. And that’s kind of nice. I didn’t know women blushed anymore.”

“I just got too much sun yesterday.” Maybe it had been a big mistake to prolong the meeting. But she had dared to think she had her emotions under control. Last night she had lain awake for hours lecturing herself that she was a fool to be even remotely attracted to him.

The waitress brought the check. Liz reached for it, but Rick got it first.

She protested, “I’m on an expense account.”

He leaned across the table so those around would not hear. “Then next time make arrangements to pay the tab before it’s put on the table.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I don’t know where you come from, Liz, or how they do things there. But I hail from a small town in Georgia, which makes me, I guess, a country boy, with old-fashioned ways, and one of them happens to be the man pays the bill when he’s dining with a lady.”

“I paid it last night.”

“It wasn’t just the two of us.”

She argued, “I’m not paying for it. The sponsor is.”

He countered, “Others don’t know that.”

“I don’t see why we should care what others think.”

“Hey, aren’t you the one who was giving me a lecture on public relations just yesterday? Well, we’re in public, and we’re having relations—social, anyway. So that means I have to be aware of what others think. Am I right?”

“You’re stretching it a bit,” she said stiffly.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal. And I don’t have time to debate the issue, anyway. I need to get to the track. I’ll let you know tomorrow how the show went tonight. Or maybe you’ll listen to it.”

He rose, and so did she to quickly inform him, “Not only will I listen, I will be there. In fact, I’d like for us to drive together, if you don’t mind. It will look good for you to walk in with your PR rep.”

Rick did not like that picture, at all. After the dream he’d had last night, he wanted to avoid Liz like the plague. He hadn’t had a dream like that since high school, for crying out loud, which only reminded him all the more how long it had been since he’d slept with a woman. And he needed one badly. But not Liz.

She fell into step beside him. “I’m going to the track, too. In case you do really well in the qualifying races, I’ll need to be around to put a spin on it.”

She had been up since dawn, doing more studying and now understood the twin qualifying races. At other tracks on the circuit, drivers just went out individually for time trials. The starting lineup was set according to the average speed they ran for two laps. It was different at Daytona, where two 125-mile races were held, and the way drivers finished was how they would start the race on Sunday.

Liz realized Rick had stopped walking and had come to an abrupt halt. She whirled around to see that he was staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What?”

“This isn’t politics.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to hang around me putting a spin on things.”

She felt totally frustrated. Was everything that came out of her mouth that day going to sound all wrong? “What I meant was—I’ll be around to drum up as much coverage from the media as I can. Brag about how you did and point them in your direction.”

“I guess that’s okay.” He started walking again.

As he caught up with her, his bare arm brushed against hers, and he cursed himself for the rush. She was wearing slacks. Tight white slacks. And a pale green blouse of some kind of cool, clingy material that emphasized her nice breasts.

No doubt about it, he thought on a sigh. He had to make her want to quit…and fast.

Liz heard Rick sigh and mistook it for annoyance at the trio of girls standing in the lobby.

“Rick Castles, it’s really you,” one of them squealed. She was poured into her jeans, which cut below her navel. Her braless bosom was about to tumble out of her halter top as she bounced up and down on the toes of her platform slides.

“Can we have your autograph?” asked another girl, dressed almost identically, as she rushed up to Rick.

“Yeah, sure,” Rick said pleasantly. He suspected Liz thought it was for her benefit that he was being so nice about it, but the truth was he didn’t mind when the girls weren’t at the track. “Got a pen?” he asked Liz.

“Who’s she?” one of the girls asked, scowling jealously at Liz.

“My PR rep.” He took the pen Liz handed him and signed the piece of paper the girl thrust at him.

He did the same for another, but the third girl, who had been hanging back, moved in and said, “I want something else autographed.” She indicated her arm.

Liz held her breath to see how Rick would react.

“Sorry. No body parts.”

His smile could have melted an icicle. In fact, it kept the girl from having her feelings hurt, because she was practically swooning before it. “Then…then just sign this,” she stammered, overcome by his nearness, and handed him a souvenir race program.

Outside in the parking lot, Liz offered him a ride to the track. “You could come back with one of the guys.”

He shook his head, not about to be cozied up with her in a car. Too intimate. “No, I’ve got some stuff in mine I’ll need, and it’d take too long to switch.”

“Well, okay.” She tried not to sound disappointed. It was for the best, anyway. She knew she didn’t need to be alone with him any more than absolutely necessary. “By the way, you were really nice to those girls back there.”

“Of course, I was. They weren’t bugging me at the track when I’m doing something. Besides, to them I’m just another driver.”

Liz watched him walk to his car, wickedly observing that he looked just as good going as he did coming.

But he was wrong about thinking he was just another driver to those girls.

Like Liz, they knew a hunk when they saw one.

Rick was in the second qualifying race, and he and Mack and the crew used the extra time till then to keep working. Still Liz managed to get the whole crew lined up beside the car for more photos.

It did not take much to get caught up in all the excitement, and she felt so proud to walk with the crew as they rolled the car onto the track to line up for the start of the race.

The grandstands were packed. Bands were playing. All around fans were cheering for their favorite driver.

Liz wondered where she should watch the race. She didn’t want to be in the way in the pits but wanted to keep up with what was going on. Then she noticed some PR guys she’d met at the party last night heading for the press tower in the infield. She fell in step behind them, figuring she couldn’t go wrong following her peers.

The tower was floor-to-ceiling glass on all sides, and Liz thrilled to be able to see the entire track. It was deliciously air-conditioned, and there was plenty to eat and drink.

As writers worked on laptops, other PR reps passed out freebies like caps, T-shirts and other items with their drivers’ logos. Liz hoped her own supplies would come in. As soon as the race was over and she knew where Rick would be in Sunday’s lineup, she was off to work on his press kit.

“There’re off,” somebody shouted.

Liz found a chair and sat down to watch. The cars had taken the pace laps. The pace car had pulled in, and the green flag was waving.

Her eyes stayed on Rick’s car, and, for a while, things went smoothly. Then there was a four-car pileup right in front of him. She clenched her fists and bit down on her lower lip—hard—to keep from screaming. It looked as though he was going to plow right into the middle of the melee. Instead, he went high, and then she feared he’d hit the wall.

“Hey, look at how slick car sixty got around all that,” a writer yelled. “Who’s the driver?”

“Rick Castles,” Liz said loudly and proudly. “Sponsored by Big Boy’s Pizza.”

“He’s a rookie,” somebody else said. “Quite a feat. He’s gonna bear watching this season.”

“Right.” Liz was beside herself. “I’ll have his press kits in a few days. Meanwhile, if anybody needs to line up an interview, I’ll take care of it. The name’s Liz Mallory, and I’m his PR rep.”

She turned back to the race, thrilling to every second as Rick kept up with the pack. When he moved into fifth place, she heard more murmurs from the press as to his driving ability.

When he passed for third, and it looked like he might give a run for victory…actually had a chance to win, Liz could contain herself no longer. She was jumping up and down and clapping her hands and so were a lot of the writers, eager to pull for an underdog.

But he never made it closer than third. Still, cheers went up for a rookie who had done so well.

Suddenly Liz found herself surrounded by journalists clamoring to set up interviews. Rick Castles’s finish was worthy of a feature story.

“Say, why don’t you call down on your radio and get him up here for an interview?” someone suggested. Others agreed.

Liz felt stupid not to have her own headset and radio. She’d seen how a lot of other PR reps had them to keep in touch with the crew chief, but that was something she just hadn’t thought about. Boy, did she have her homework cut out for her.

“Radio wasn’t working,” she said with an exaggerated shrug. “I’ll just go get him.” She passed the food tables, laden with sandwiches and fried chicken. “He’ll probably be hungry, anyway, since his garage space is far away from the food like the rest of the rookies.”

A writer helping himself to cake squares gave her a strange look. “What are you talking about?”

“The rookies. They aren’t near the food. They have to earn it, you know.”

Others, overhearing, turned to stare.

“The rookies,” she repeated lamely, wondering what was wrong. “They aren’t near the food like the top drivers.”

“Would you please explain that?” the one with the heaping plate of cake squares asked, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I mean, what does being a rookie have to do with being near food?”

Stiffly, defensively, Liz said, “That’s what I was told by the garage guard my first day when I asked where I’d find my driver. He said he’d be in the back, not up front with the hot dogs. I asked somebody what that meant, and they said rookies weren’t near the food stands, and—”

As the room exploded with laughter, Liz slapped her forehead and groaned to remember just who that somebody was.

The mechanic under the car.

Also known as Rick Castles.

And once again he’d made her look like a fool.