Читать книгу Race To The Altar - Patricia Hagan - Страница 9

Liz Mallory knew high heels and a business suit were not appropriate attire for a racetrack. But she couldn’t help it. On her way from New York to Daytona she had missed a connecting flight, and her luggage hadn’t made it. She had planned to change into neat slacks and a blouse once she got to her hotel. Instead, there was no time to even stop by a mall and buy anything, because the plane was late, and she’d had to come directly to the track.

So here she was, feeling as out of place as a Christmas tree on the Fourth of July.

She drove the rental car through the tunnel and into the infield, which reminded her of a huge circus, sprawling in all directions. Flags and balloons were flying, thousands of people were milling about, and it wasn’t even race day.

But that’s how it was at Daytona in February during Speed Weeks. She had learned that much, at least, during the brief time she’d had to study up on the sport since being given her new assignment.

Never in her wildest dreams had she thought she would find herself involved in the world of stock car racing. She knew absolutely zilch about it.

When she had said as much to Jeff Strohm, her boss at Star Media Enterprises, an advertising and public relations agency, he had told her she had better learn fast. Star had obtained the contract to represent Big Boy’s Pizza in their sponsorship for up-and-coming rookie driver Rick Castles, and Liz had been assigned as PR person only a week before the season opener at Daytona.

She had bought every book and magazine she could find on racing though hadn’t had time to read them all. But she wasn’t too worried about it. It was her job to market Rick Castles and get as much exposure as possible for his sponsor. It was PR plain and simple, and she knew how to do that.

She followed the map she had been given to the press parking lot, which had a chain link fence around it.

An attendant wearing an orange vest over his T-shirt held up a hand, and she promptly stopped and rolled down her window.

Sorry, lady.” He pointed to a sign that read Media Only.

“Well, that’s me,” she said cheerily, holding up the pass she had been given when she checked in at the speedway’s PR department.

The man shook his head. “That gets you into the pits. A parking decal gets you in here.”

“Maybe I’ve got one. They gave me so much stuff back there.” She fumbled through the big white envelope, then triumphantly held up the red-and-white decal.

“Lick it and put it on your windshield so I won’t have to stop you next time.”

“I sure will, and I’m sorry I didn’t know to do that. This is my first time, and—”

Behind her, a horn sounded impatiently.

She wet her finger, then rubbed it over the back of the decal and affixed it to the glass.

Satisfied, the attendant motioned her in.

It had been raining earlier in the day, and there were muddy places where the grass was worn down. She stepped out of the car and into a puddle, groaning as her heel sank to her ankle. She was going to have to pick her way along carefully and opted to leave her heavy briefcase behind.

Pausing beside the car, Liz gazed up at the crystal-blue sky and marveled at what a beautiful day it was. Not a cloud in sight, and a balmy breeze was blowing in from the ocean, just a few miles to the east.

Despite her trepidation over her new assignment, she was grateful for the tropical respite from the cold chill of New York in February.

According to the schedule she had been given in her credentials packet, it was the day before trial runs, and several cars were out on the track taking practice laps. Now and then a roar from the grandstand would herald a favorite driver pulling onto the track.

Elsewhere in the infield, campers and trucks were parked. She could also see that a lot of tents had been erected.

The air was thick with the smell of food sizzling on charcoal grills, and seagulls circled overhead, drawn to the picnics going on below.

There were concrete buildings for toilets and showers. First-aid stations were dotted about. Concession booths sold souvenirs—mostly T-shirts and jackets emblazoned with different photos of drivers and their race cars.

It was, Liz thought, like a small city. Fans actually lived at the track almost the entire month of February, and the local economy welcomed them with open arms.

She found her way to the concrete retaining wall behind the area where cars made their pit stops for gas and new tires. According to the speedway map, by walking alongside it, she would eventually reach the garage area, where she hoped to find her driver.

Liz had no idea what Rick Castles looked like. There were not, as yet, any publicity photos, but she planned to take care of that right away. She was glad she had tossed the caps imprinted with the sponsor in her carry-on bag instead of packing them in her checked luggage. Otherwise, she couldn’t have had the photos taken today, because Rick and all his crew needed to be wearing them to give Big Boy’s exposure. And she could not afford a delay. His press kit had to be made available as soon as possible.

At the garage gate, a separate pass had to be issued. While the guard was making it out, she asked if he could tell her where she could find Rick Castles.

“Well, let’s see…” He pulled a clipboard from under the counter and scanned it. “Castles is car number sixty, and he’s got stall fifty-five.”

She thanked him, pinned the garage pass to her badge, took a deep breath and entered her new world.

The first thing she did was trip over a lug nut someone had dropped.

She almost fell, but a man in a greasy jumpsuit grabbed her arm and brusquely warned, “Lady, you better watch it in those shoes. This is a dangerous place.”

She gave a nervous little laugh. “Oh, I agree. And thank you. I’ll know better next time, believe me—”

He grabbed her again, this time to keep her from being run over by a car whipping off the pit road to enter the garage area. “You’re gonna get yourself killed if you aren’t careful. What are you doing here, anyway?”

Liz pulled herself up to her full height of five foot four and tried to look self-confident, which wasn’t easy when she had just been rescued twice. “I’m the new public relations representative for driver Rick Castles. Could you tell me where I can find stall fifty-five? That’s his garage space.”

He glanced about thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see. Castles is a rookie, so he won’t be with the hot dogs, that’s for sure. Fifty-five should be back that way.” He pointed, then started to walk away but paused to repeat his warning for her to be careful. “If you don’t keep an eye out around this place, you won’t make it. Trust me.”

Liz was puzzled. She didn’t see any concession stands inside the garage and wondered what difference it made if Rick were a rookie as to whether his garage space was near them. Maybe being located near the food stands was some kind of privilege older drivers got that newer ones didn’t.

Someone whistled as she continued walking.

Again she wished she could have changed. Ordinarily she would have traveled in leisure clothes, but Jeff had insisted she join him and the rest of the staff for brunch to say goodbye before going to the airport. So she’d had to dress for that.

Spotting a young man with several cameras hanging from straps around his neck, she waved and called, “Hi there. Are you a freelance photographer?”

“That I am,” he said with a tip of his ball cap. “The name’s Pete Barnett, and I’m the best in the business. What do you need and when?”

“Publicity shots of Rick Castles. I’m Liz Mallory, PR rep for his new sponsor—Big Boy’s Pizza. And I’d like them done this afternoon and possibly delivered tomorrow.” She held her breath hoping he wouldn’t laugh in her face for such a quick deadline.

She was relieved when he said, “Not a problem. I’m going to do a shoot right now. Where will you be in about an hour?”

“Space fifty-five in the garage. That’s where his car is.”

He laughed. “Not with the hot dogs, eh? Ah, the curse of being a rookie.”

Again Liz wondered about that and continued on her way.

The garage was noisy, crowded and chaotic. Race cars drove in and out on the way to and from the track for practice. Air wrenches roared and engines revved as the track loudspeakers tried to break through the din.

Spotting numbers on the concrete, she began to count. When she reached number fifty-five, she was relieved to see a car with the logo for Big Boy’s Pizza on the hood, top and sides. Painted blue and yellow, the Monte Carlo had dozens of little decals around the fenders, and a big 6-0 on the doors.

No one was around, and Liz thought that odd when everywhere else crews were working like mad on their cars. Maybe Rick and his crew had gone to eat.

Then she glanced at her watch. Four o’clock. Too late for lunch and too early for supper.

So where were they the day before the all-important twin-qualifying races?

The stalls on either side were empty, cars no doubt on the track with crews watching behind the retaining wall.

Liz’s annoyance was growing with each passing moment, because things had gotten off to a terrible start, and she was determined not to fail in her career…again.

She was not worried about failing in her personal life, because she did not intend to have one. After all, being deceived by not one man, but two, had sent her plunging to the bottom rung of her career ladder.

She had been on the very top and probably still would be if not for having been so naive…and, yes, stupid.

Liz had begun her career in her native California, where she had worked her way up from PR rep to account executive, making top wages. Then she made the mistake of falling in love with Craig Hatcher, who happened to be employed by a rival company.

They became engaged, and Liz believed him when he said they could keep their work separate even though their agencies were competitive. But, too late, she discovered he was only using her to further his career and had accessed her files. By the time she found out what a lying, two-timing worm he was, he had succeeded in taking her top three accounts away from her agency.

Not only had he broken her heart, but his deviousness made her lose her job, as well.

Forced to start over with a new company, Liz foolishly made the mistake of rebounding into another relationship with Mike Lowry, a co-worker. That didn’t last long. There was too much job conflict between them. When it ended, she decided not only to change jobs but to move to New York and make a whole new life.

Twice burned, twice shy, she promised herself that never again would a man best her, nor would she become involved with anyone she worked with.

Depressed by her bitter musings, Liz began to circle the race car slowly, trying to get her mind on something else, like familiarizing herself with the car.

She noted there were no windows, just net coverings, and only one seat for the driver.

The inside of the car was completely gutted, and she knew the tubed frames were called roll bars, to keep the car from being crushed if, God forbid, it turned over.

Fascinated by all she was seeing and learning, Liz did not notice the feet sticking out from the under the car. She tripped, screamed and was barely able to grab a window frame to keep from tumbling to the ground.

Beneath the car, Rick Castles jerked his head up to painfully bump it. “Ouch. Damn it, who’s the nitwit that can’t see where they’re going?”

Lying on a roller board, he angrily swung himself out from under the car, ready to lambaste the person responsible. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?”

He found himself gazing up a skirt framing a very shapely pair of legs.

But only for an instant.

Embarrassed and red faced, the woman connected to the legs quickly stepped back.

“I…I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see your feet down there. I didn’t know anybody was under the car.”

He stood, taking in the rest of her as he did so and, despite his annoyance, liked what he saw. Her legs weren’t the only thing about her that was shapely. Long, thick lashes framed very apologetic green eyes that sparkled with little flecks of gold. Her turned-up nose gave her a saucy, playful look.

But there was nothing playful about her full, sensuous lips.

They begged to be kissed, and, with a warm rush, Rick was reminded how long it had been since he’d had a woman.

“If you can’t see feet as big as mine, lady, then you need glasses.”

Liz automatically looked at his feet and saw that, indeed, they were large. Then, unable to help it, she thought of a dirty joke she’d heard once about the size of a man’s feet being indicative of the size of his—

She blushed, all the way to the roots of her flame-red hair, and turned away lest he be able to tell what she was thinking. “I…I’m truly sorry,” she stammered. “I was just mesmerized by the car, I guess. I’ve never seen a race car up close.”

Rick bit his lip to keep from laughing. He knew the joke about women comparing the size of a man’s foot to the size of something else.

Her red hair was pulled up in a knot on the top of her head, and she looked quite dignified in her gray linen suit and matching heels. But he also did not miss how her breasts strained against the white silk blouse, nor how her skirt hugged, then cupped, her high, tight buttocks. She was a knockout, all right, but he was still irritated.

“I’ve got work to do,” he said grouchily. “Why don’t you move along? The garage is no place for women, especially wearing stupid shoes like that.” He pointed accusingly at her heels. “It still amazes me how they’ll give just about anybody a garage pass.”

Liz felt rancor quickly rise. She could have told him she had every right to be there by introducing herself, but she wasn’t about to. Whoever he was, she didn’t like his attitude. After all, she hadn’t stepped on his feet on purpose. Still, she couldn’t help noticing how his broad shoulders and chest filled out the tight, grease-stained T-shirt, or how his jeans molded his muscular thighs so deliciously. And despite his oil-streaked face, she found him ruggedly good-looking, his sleepy, mocha-colored eyes complemented by his thick, black hair.

She had feared there might be some leftover macho types who would resent a woman working in what was considered a man’s sport. This one was obviously a member of Rick’s pit crew, and she decided it best to try to make friends. After all, it was important she get along with all the guys. The fact his nearness sent her heart into overdrive had nothing to do with it.

“Actually,” she said, “I’m looking for Rick Castles. I take it you are a member of his crew.”

Rick wasn’t about to reveal himself, instead stringing her along in hopes of getting rid of her. Cute or not, he wasn’t about to take up time with another groupie. “Yeah, you might say that. What do you want with him?”

“I just want to meet him.”

“So you’re a fan,” he said, unimpressed as he noted her media badge. “What are you doing wearing that?”

“Somebody gave it to me,” she replied, which wasn’t a lie. “And, yes, I’m a big fan, but I haven’t been for long. Rick is my favorite driver, though,” she added with a confident grin, then pointed at the logo. “New sponsor?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Just think. We get free pizza for painting that all over the car.”

Liz stiffened. Even if this guy was just a part-timer, hanging around to get into the races free, he was going to have to learn how to act around people. What he should have said in response was that yes, Big Boy’s was the new sponsor, and Rick and all the guys were grateful. Not act as though it was no big deal because all they were getting out of it was free pizza, for heaven’s sake. Besides, for the kind of money the sponsor was shelling out to try to make the car competitive, even a part-timer should be appreciative.

Rick was watching her out of the corner of his eye, thinking again how good-looking she was and wishing all the more she’d disappear. He had no use for females hanging around the pits. Or anywhere else around a racetrack for that matter. They were nothing but trouble and got in the way. “Look, I don’t know when Rick will be back, so you might as well go on—”

“But where is he?” She had seen the schedule in the office, knew that this was the last practice session before tomorrow’s race. “How come he’s not here to try the car out?”

“He practiced this morning. He’s at the beach this afternoon. Sunbathing. Now you really should get out of here. The garage area is a dangerous place.”

“I’ve heard that before.” She was almost petulant, fighting to hold her temper all the while. Obviously Rick Castles was not taking himself, or his career, seriously. Otherwise, he would be at the track and not the beach. And even if he weren’t planning on practicing anymore he should be around to greet fans.

There was also another problem with his absence. She had the photographer lined up to take his publicity photos.

She suddenly remembered the blackboard she had seen on the wall of the booth where she’d gotten her garage pass. “There’s a drivers’ meeting at five o’clock. Won’t he have to go to that?”

“Yeah, probably.” Rick wondered if he was going to be able to get rid of her, after all.

“Then I’ll wait.” Before he could protest, she pointed to the smooth tires on the car and, figuring she might as well spend her time learning something, innocently asked, “How come there’s no tread?”

“They’re old tires. All worn-out. Can’t afford new ones.” He felt no guilt at the lie. He had no intention of being her racing tutor, for Pete’s sake. Let her go bother somebody else.

He lowered himself to the board again. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Oh, don’t mind me.” Her eyes went to his thighs, and a tremor ripped through her tummy. His jeans fit like they were molded to him, and she couldn’t help noticing the manly bulge, and…

She told herself to get a grip. Even if she was interested in men—which she wasn’t—she would never get involved with this one, because he obviously had an attitude.

“Keep hanging around, and you’re liable to get embarrassed,” he warned, rolling himself out of sight. “Sometimes guys cuss around the garage.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll ignore it.”

“But you have no business here,” he said again, this time with gritted teeth. “And Rick Castles has got a girlfriend,” he said, adding another lie. “So you’re wasting your time.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, her teeth also grinding. “Just because I want to meet the man, talk to him, I want to go to bed with him.”

He rolled back out, barely missing her as she quickly jumped out of his way. “Now did I say anything about thinking you want to go to bed with him? Jeez, what’s wrong with you? I just wanted to let you know if you had any notions about flirting with him, he’s not interested.”

“And I’m not interested in him that way.” She was so tempted then and there to introduce herself and then say, By the way, you’re fired. The team no longer needs to swap work for race passes. They can afford to hire good help. Instead, she reminded herself he wasn’t worth getting all steamed up over.

She had not moved far enough away, and, once more, he could see up her skirt. Quite an eyeful, too, and he forced himself to roll back under, lest she see his heat show.

Just who was she, and what did she want with him? He was tempted to end the charade but was too mad—with her, but, most of all, with himself. After all, he had learned his lesson about women in racing. They either couldn’t stand the stress and got hysterical every time he spun out, afterward tearfully begging him to give it up, or they found somebody else while he was traveling all over the country.

He thought of Maggie and twisted the wrench too hard. It slipped and flew back to pinch his finger, and he swore.

Liz heard and teased, “Hey, you were right. I do hear somebody cursing.”

He ignored her and continued to allow memories of Maggie to wash over him, to bathe him in rationale as to why he was not about to let the cute redhead get to him. Maggie had sworn she loved him, sworn she wanted to share his racing life with him. He’d loved her, too, and so they had married.

Then a year later she left him for a guy with a steady job who came home for dinner every night.

After that, Rick promised himself that never again, while he was involved in racing, would he have a serious relationship with a woman. Those he went with just for sex knew that, but lately those times were getting further and further apart. Casual lovemaking had begun to leave him feeling empty and cheated. So instead he worked all the harder, trying to make his dream of becoming a competitive driver on the NASCAR circuit a reality.

Liz leaned in the car window on the driver’s side to examine the seat. “How come there’s a hole in the bottom?”

Rick did feel a teeny bit guilty when he brazenly asked, “Well, where do you think a driver goes to the bathroom when he’s on the track four, maybe five, hours at a time?”

Once again Liz felt her cheeks flame. “I…I hadn’t thought about that,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, they say NASA is interested in using the same type of toilet for the astronauts.”

“Well, that’s great.” She saw there was no ignition for a key to turn. “What starts the car?”

“See that button?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when the signal is given for the race to start, the driver pushes the button. That signals the control room, and another button is pushed there that starts the engine.”

That sounded strange, even to a novice like Liz. “Why go to all that trouble? Why not just turn a key like in regular cars?”

“Well, the officials want to make sure all cars start at exactly the same time so everybody gets a fair chance.”

Liz wondered if he was jerking her around. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. That’s what I’m under here doing now—making sure the wires to the button are hooked up like they’re supposed to be.”

Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had time to eat lunch. “Where do the rookie drivers eat since they aren’t given garage stalls near the concessions stands?”

Rick blinked, sure he hadn’t heard her right. “Excuse me?”

“When I was asking where Rick’s garage area was, someone said he wouldn’t be near the hot dogs, because he’s a rookie. So I was wondering where there is to eat around here? I’m awfully hungry.”

He choked back a laugh. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to walk back up front, because they told you right. Rookies don’t get space near the hot dogs. That has to be earned.”

Though he was silently laughing at how gullible she was, he began to feel mean. Besides, he couldn’t help thinking about those long, shapely legs and where they had ended the last time he accidentally got a glance up her skirt. But he couldn’t let her get to him. Not that way. The best thing to do was really get her hackles up so she’d leave. “You’re stubborn, aren’t you? I told you—Rick has a girlfriend. You’re wasting your time.”

“Well, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not some bimbo groupie chasing after him.”

“Then what do you want with him?”

“That’s between him and me.” Just then she saw the photographer she’d hired approaching and quickly ran to meet him lest he give her away. “The driver isn’t here, and I don’t know whether or not he will be. We may have to postpone this till tomorrow.”

He looked as disappointed as Liz felt. “Can’t do it then. I’ve got three shoots lined up before the first qualifying race. Everybody is wanting photos the first race of the season. There’s a drivers’ meeting pretty soon. Maybe he’ll show for that.”

She had forgotten about the meeting in her annoyance with the smart-mouthed mechanic. “Good idea. I’ll see if I can find him there.”

“Okay. I’ll hang around outside and look for you. Good luck.”

She returned to the car, planning to ask the mechanic to tell Rick Castles if he did return that she was looking for him. “Excuse me?”

From beneath, Rick saw her shoes and groaned. Whatever she wanted, he wasn’t interested. Maybe she was good-looking, but after his marriage had broken up because his wife couldn’t handle racing, he wasn’t looking for girlfriends at race tracks.

Just then someone called, and Liz turned to see several men, all dressed alike in blue pants and red T-shirts, rolling tires along as they came toward her.

Rick had not heard them and did not know anyone else was around as he came sliding out from under the car, face cold with fury. “You’re getting on my nerves, lady.”

He fell silent to see his crew chief, Mack Pressley. “See if you can get rid of her,” he snapped and disappeared under the car. “I’m sure as hell not having any luck.”

“Hi,” Mack held his hand out to Liz. “I’m the crew chief—Mack Pressley. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I—” She was about to introduce herself when she saw the tires they were rolling had no tread left, just like the ones already on the car. “What are you going to do with those?”

Mack exchanged grins with the other crew members, who, like himself, were intrigued by the pretty young woman wearing a media badge. “Well, you can be sure we aren’t going to tie them to a rope and swing from a tree. We just bought them, and we’re going to put them on the car.”

She was stunned. “But they’re no better than the ones already on there.”

Mack blinked, equally bewildered. “They certainly are. The others are almost ready to blow. That’s why Rick hasn’t taken the car out to practice. We had to go get these. We’ve got a new sponsor, and we just got the money from them today to buy the right kind of tires for qualifying.”

Beneath the car, Rick grimaced. If Mack kept talking to her, being nice to her, she’d never leave, damn it. And if she didn’t, she’d find out he’d been putting her on.

Liz continued to stare, not understanding about the tires.

Mack set the tire down and pulled a rag from his hip pocket to wipe his hands. “Like I said, I’m Mack, the crew chief.” He gestured to the others. “Bobby, Weyland and Jake. We’ve got to get these tires on, but if you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them. We’re just so pleased for this sponsorship we’ve got with Big Boy’s Pizza, and it’d be nice if you could work their name into your article.

“Who are you with, by the way?” he asked over his shoulder as he bent down next to the car.

“Well, I’m not a reporter, I’m—”

She was drowned out by the noise of the jack lifting the car, followed by the whine of air wrenches removing the tire’s lug nuts.

“Sorry,” Mack said when it was quiet again. “Go ahead. What paper did you say you’re with?”

“I’m not with a paper. I’m Liz Mallory, the PR representative for Big Boy’s Pizza, and—”

That was all she had time to say before Rick came careening out from under the car, and this time, he did knock her down.

She fell right on top of him, her bottom landing on his stomach.

Reacting in time to grab her and keep her from cracking her head on the concrete, he cried, “The heck you say. Tell me this is a joke.”

“No, you’re the joke,” Liz cried, struggling to get up, but he held her tight, her breasts brushing his cheek as he tried to sit up with her still on top of him. “And you’re out of here, mister. With your attitude you’re not the kind of person my agency wants identified with the Rick Castles racing team. So you can go elsewhere and wheedle your freebie race passes.”

Rick and Liz locked furious eyes while the rest of the crew burst into raucous laughter.

Liz turned to glare. “I’d like to know what’s so funny. You don’t realize how this man behaved…how he talked to me. He even had the nerve to intimate that all the new sponsorship meant was free pizzas. You think I’m going to put up with having someone like that around this team?”

Mack, still laughing, walked over to take her arms and pull her to her feet. “Well, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

The mechanic was greasy, and thanks to falling on him, she was, too. She yanked the rag from Mack’s hands and began swiping at the black streaks on her skirt, but it only made matters worse. Then she suddenly realized what Mack had just said. “What did you mean by that?” she demanded, eyes narrowed.

“I mean,” he said, grinning, “that you’re going to have to put up with him, because this is our driver.

“Liz Mallory,” he said with relish, obviously enjoying the moment, “meet Rick Castles.”